“I usually spend Friday with my cousins,” Hadia was saying. “But I’m glad you rang.”
Fatma realized she hadn’t asked Hadia to come in—just sort of demanded it. That was rude. But it spoke to how rattled she was. She’d made up her mind to come in this morning. She’d even opted for a sensible suit—blue with a maroon tie and sturdy brown shoes. Playing the dandy would have to wait. Well, except for the gold tie pin and matching cuff links. Not to mention the bowler and cane. Did the violet pin-striped shirt count as dandy?
Anyway, she was going to be serious. It was hard to admit, but Ahmad was right. She should have followed up on this masked man. Instead, she’d pushed the case into the background, waiting on Aasim. Part of that was Siti—whose return affected her in more ways than she cared to admit. But just because she took time off, didn’t mean this city did.
“Stay prepared,” she said as they reached the elevator. “Best advice I can give you as an agent.” Hadia wore her Ministry coat, with the long dark skirts, a bag slung over a shoulder. Her hijab however was a dark forest green. Was she trying to match Fatma’s past suit? “But thanks for coming in. There’s been a development in our case.”
“Of course. Although I’m curious to know what kind of development happened between last night and this morning?” The doors to the elevator parted, and they stepped inside.
“More than you’d guess,” Fatma answered. “Basement.”
The elevator began to descend, and she turned to find Hadia waiting expectantly. Choosing her words, she recounted the previous night—leaving out Siti, of course, and referring to Ahmad as an “informant.” As she spoke she let a hand fall at her side. Siti had carried her home, bandaged the wound, then curled around her in bed, humming a song that brought on a deep sleep. When she awoke, the woman was gone, of course. So was the pain. Nothing now but a dull sting. Odd. Maybe she hadn’t cracked a rib as feared—just taken a glancing blow. When she finally finished, Hadia breathed out, as if she’d been the one talking.
“Your night was definitely more exciting than mine. Al-Jahiz! Returned!”
“Stop elevator,” Fatma commanded, and they halted with a lurch. She fixed her eyes on Hadia, voice stern. “This figure in black. Whoever he is, he may be involved in a mass murder. He may be a criminal. But he’s not al-Jahiz. A lot of our work deals with peeling back illusion. Don’t get caught up in it.”
Hadia accomplished a wincing nod. “You’re right. Of course.”
Fatma ordered the elevator to resume.
“But you’re thinking there’s a connection,” Hadia reasoned. “A man about the city claiming to be al-Jahiz leaving fiery calling cards. Members of a brotherhood dedicated to him found burned alive.”
“And someone fitting his description identified at the scene of the crime,” Fatma added.
“But why did this … imposter … attack you?”
Fatma had pondered that, and still didn’t have a good answer. “Maybe I stood out.”
“What about the Ifrit? Did you see one?”
“Not exactly. Saw fire that moved oddly, but that’s all.”
Hadia looked confused. “Then why are we going to the basement?”
“Because that’s where the library is located.”
“Right. And we’re going to the library because…?”
Fatma fixed her best blank look. “Because it has all the books.” The elevator doors parted, and she stepped out, leaving Hadia with a baffled expression that soon turned to awe.
The Ministry housed one of the largest libraries in the city. It took up much of the lower parts of the building—two whole floors of books and manuscripts that spanned centuries, from all over the world. As she understood, a few weren’t from this world at all. They sat in wall shelves, extending almost to the high ceiling—reached by ladders that slid along railings. Other shelves were stacked neatly on either end. A second level in the center held rarer works. At the back of the room, an enormous pendulum swung back and forth, made up of an iron cable ending in a giant gold sun disc inscribed with geometric patterns. At the top of the antique clock was a half-moon dial that gave time with signs of the zodiac.
“Ayou!” Hadia gawped.
“You haven’t even seen the vault.” Fatma smirked, walking off.
Hadia hurried to follow. “Wait? There’s a vault? What’s in the vault?”
Fatma didn’t answer. Some things a new recruit just had to learn for themselves. She took them to a space in the center of the floor, where long tables with runners were arranged for reading. Standing before one was the library’s only occupant.
Zagros was the Ministry’s librarian: a Marid the size of a rhinoceros, if it stood up on two legs. And you dressed it in long-sleeved indigo blue robes embroidered with lilacs: what she thought was a khalat. Unlike a rhinoceros, the djinn had skin of pale lavender, and four golden twisting ram horns striped in amethyst. But his disposition was similar to a rhinoceros. He guarded the library zealously and was infamous for banishing agents for the slightest infraction. Most complained he was fussy, unlikable, and easily irritated. Fatma knew better. The truth was, the djinn was just an incredible snob.
Affirming her assessment, it took three calls of his name before he deigned to look down at them. His half-lidded gaze behind a pair of silver spectacles held a mix of boredom and annoyance. “Library’s closed,” he bellowed lazily. “Come back during regular hours.” He lifted a manicured clawed hand adorned in rings, waving them away like children.
“The library isn’t closed on Fridays,” Fatma replied.
The djinn’s pointed ears twitched as he muttered in Farsi before returning to Arabic. “Well, look at you knowing things. Good for you! I’m busy, however, so all the same.”
