“Did you hear, Yakov … from over here I think…”
Fatma shouted once more, not even words now because that was too hard. Abigail joined her, the two making as much noise as possible—until a blessed voice called down.
“We hear you! How many?”
“Three,” Fatma croaked. Praise God!
“One moment, Frau!” The voices pulled away. She could only make out one. A man. He spoke English, mostly, with a heavy accent. “Achtung! Careful which stone you pick! Nein! Not that one! Better! Come now, lift! Put your back into it, Yakov! Are you a Russian bear or a little yapping dog? That’s it!”
There was a grating and the debris about Fatma shifted. Bits of rock were pulled from above, and wonderful cool air rushed over her face. She blinked, realizing she was looking up at the night sky through a haze of dust. She could see the palace, half of which still stood amid a field of rubble. Hands reached to haul her up before depositing her again. She was free! Her eyes tried to make out her rescuers, and she found herself staring at an unexpectedly familiar face—a man with a bold nose and a thick upturned moustache.
“He! Frau!” the German kaiser Wilhelm II grinned. “Yakov, look who it is. From the other night!”
Fatma shifted to the other man—the Russian general. He stood bent over, panting heavily. Both looked disheveled, in only untucked long shirts and trousers with unslung suspenders.
“Stay put!” Wilhelm said. “We’ll see to your friends. Yakov!”
Fatma wanted to tell him first off she wasn’t in any shape to go anywhere. Second, one of the women in the rubble was decidedly not her friend. In fact, maybe they could leave her in there. But she never got the words out, as she was thrown into darkness. There was an accompanying whoosh of wind and an ear-splitting shriek.
It took a moment to comprehend the darkness was the shadow of something flying high above. A small airship? But it had wings of an absurd length. Not an airship. A rukh!
The great bird swooped past, in a flurry of blue feathers. It was followed by another, and another. Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! Four in all. With talons large enough to snatch up an automobile, and hooked golden beaks that could tear apart an elephant. The wind they kicked up buffeted Fatma, clearing some of the dust. She watched as they banked in formation, tilting so that she could make out figures on their backs. Djinn! Riding atop the backs of rukh! Fighting to sit up, she followed their flight into the distance—and gaped.
Nine Ifrit Lords walked the streets of Cairo.
They had descended from the heavens—giants that dwarfed even buildings. All about them smaller figures swarmed. More djinn. This was a battle.
Fatma watched as the rukhs dived into the melee. Marid atop their backs hurled what might have been spears or tridents of lightning that flashed across the black sky. One of the Ifrit Lords sliced a forked glowing blade at them, scattering the formation. A second swung a whip of liquid fire; it cracked through the air, clipping a screeching rukh that trailed smoke in its retreat.
“Magnificent,” someone murmured. Abigail. They’d gotten her out. She was a mess, her once well-coiffed hair in disarray—not to mention missing a hand. Her eyes were rapt on the battle. “Do you know what I could have wrought with such fine beasts?”
Fatma was set to tell again her to be quiet, when she saw the two men bearing a still form between them. They laid Siti down, grunting with the effort. Shielding them from the building’s collapse had taken its toll. Crimson gashes marred her skin, and one of her wings bent at an angle. Fatma scrambled over, taking Siti’s head into her hands.
“Come, Yakov, stop gawking,” Wilhelm chided. “Let us find the healer!”
Fatma barely watched them go, eyes on Siti, forgetting momentarily even the mayhem about her. All she wanted now was for the woman to wake up. To open her eyes and say something witty. Or wholly inappropriate. Her lips whispering a prayer that came more as a plea. “God the most Beneficent, the most Merciful. Not this one. Not this one.”
“Remember often death, the destroyer of all pleasures,” a woman’s voice sounded. “But it is not that day for this one.”
Fatma looked up to find the two men returned, with a woman between them. It took a moment to place her, dressed as she was in a simple black gallabiyah, her face framed by a white hijab.
“Amina,” she said in surprise.
“Agent Fatma,” the granddaughter of al-Hajj Umar Tal greeted. “Good to see you alive!”
“How are you here? Didn’t they evacuate the palace?”
“Ja.” Wilhelm nodded. “Packed us into carriages. Did not get far before a wave of maddened djinn struck us.”
“Most of us got out and away,” Amina said, her fingers probing Siti. “We three took shelter nearby. When the palace came down, I convinced them to come back with me—to look for survivors.”
“How could I refuse the lady?” the kaiser asked. “I am much like Siegfried.”
Fatma now noticed the goblin yet perched on his shoulder. It wasn’t sleeping but instead was turned about, observing the battle in the distance. Fatma looked back to Amina.
“You’re a healer?”
“Mmm,” the woman replied, concentrating. “My grandfather’s talent passed to me.”
“Then she’ll live?”
“God willing. But I’ll need more. Jenne!” At her call, a tall shadow filled with intoxicating scents loomed up behind her. No, not a shadow. A figure with a stark chalk-white face whose silver eyes stared down impassively. Amina said something, and her Qareen flicked out a curled black tongue—bearing a smooth marbled stone at the tip. Amina plucked it like a piece of fruit before prying open Siti’s mouth, and stuffing the stone inside.
“A gris-gris,” she explained, massaging Siti’s throat. “Much like a bezoar.
