The two made their way through the mass. Most people were too occupied to get in their way. The few that did were pushed aside until the agents reached the mausoleum. The only way up was to scale the scaffolding built up along its side. As they climbed, Fatma caught a glimpse of a shadowy form moving up an opposite row of scaffolding. Reaching the top placed them on the narrow walkway of the mausoleum’s square base. They ran, turning a corner, and—
The imposter stood with arms behind his back, staring down contemplatively. “Glory be to God,” he intoned. “It is an amazing thing, how words can so move men.”
Fatma pulled up short, stopping Hadia. “Charlatans have a way of twisting people’s heads,” she retorted.
The imposter looked up, his gold mask alive with shifting patterns. And those eyes!
“Still an unbeliever. Even after what you have seen.”
“When you’re in my line of work, tricks aren’t so impressive.”
“Is that what I am? A trick? Of the eyes? Of the senses?”
“Don’t know and don’t care. I’m here to arrest you. Let the courts handle the rest.”
“Where I would, no doubt, get a fair trial,” he mocked. “In these courts of men.”
“You murdered more than twenty people. Burned them alive. You expecting a parade?”
“They might give me one.” He gestured below. “The people do not judge me so harshly. They understand why I carried out my deed. To save this land from traitors and—”
“Right,” Fatma cut in. “Nice conspiracy you’ve concocted. You’re still a murderer!”
“I will be a hero by dawn. My name on a thousand tongues. Do you not hear them now?”
Fatma’s jaw tightened. “Your name will be remembered for sowing discord and dissent.”
The man cocked his head. “You think I’ve sown this strife on my own? Look at how people live, in squalor and ruin. The world moves swift in its boasted modernity, forgetting those it leaves behind, or grinds beneath the gearwheels of progress. This is greater than me. The fitna that comes, has been long in the making.”
“Fitna?” Hadia asked, perplexed. “Fitna is just a word. A feeling of disorder or unrest, facing difficulties, differences of opinion, learning something that compromises your thinking. What does it have to do with whatever you’ve concocted here?”
“Ah.” The imposter held up a finger. “The great philosopher Ibn al-A’raabi also described fitna as a testing, a trial, to burn with fire. I see it similar to the ways of alchemy. To melt to such a heat as to separate the elements, much as one distinguishes the oppressor from the oppressed. That is what I bring to this city, to expose what ugliness lurks beneath this age of wonders. So that all with eyes and heart may see. And what will be left, once the adulterations and pollutions are cast away, will be clean and pure.”
Hadia grasped for words. “You’re twisting things around!”
“Or perhaps I am giving them meaning.”
“Thought you said you weren’t a shaykh,” Fatma spat.
The imposter shrugged. “I reveal truth in whatever language is needed.”
“Well, save the lectures for your trial. There, you can play the learned philosopher or revolutionary all you want.” She lifted her cane, sliding the sword free.
“Is this what I will face? A woman with a sword and another with a police stick?”
“You’re forgetting the third one.” Fatma relished the confusion in those eyes. Even as she spoke, a form detached from the shadows on the other side of the imposter, catching his attention—a woman garbed in black.
“Hey, Uncle,” Siti greeted, waving gloved fingers tipped with silver claws. She sauntered over, leaning against the mausoleum wall. Her eyes—the only features visible on her wrapped face—narrowed. “You’re looking good for … what? A hundred? Getting in a lot of exercise? Drinking plenty of water?”
The imposter took her in. “The idolater from the other night.”
“We have to stop meeting like this. Sekhmet sends her regards.”
A gasp from behind said Hadia just figured things out. Fatma had arranged for Siti to be here, but to only get involved if her plan went bad. It had gone bad.
“So are you going to come with us?” Siti asked, extending fingers to nonchalantly eye her claws. “Or do you plan to make things interesting?”
The imposter looked over the three, before reaching his right hand into the air—where a sword suddenly materialized out of nothing. It was long, with a slightly curving blade, and made of a black metal that rendered it almost invisible against the night. A quiet humming emanated from it, like a song.
“I’m going to take that as a no,” Siti growled, and ran forward, claws bared.
He raised his sword to meet her attack, and the sound of metal striking metal rang out. The blade released that odd humming as he wielded it with one hand. Where it met claws, sparks flickered like fireflies. Siti slashed in wide punishing arcs, grinning in barely restrained delight. Fatma took that as her cue and rushed in from the other side, hoping to overwhelm the man’s unprotected flank. She’d had her blade specially made, with the lion pommel balanced for her weight. It had one sharp edge to inflict cuts that, if not fatal, forced an opponent to surrender—or bleed out. She planted her feet and aimed for a slashing maneuver.
But the man whipped his sword about in a blur, the twists and flicks of his wrist almost imperceptible. He turned aside her thinner blade with ease and flowed back, readying for either of their attacks. They all stopped, assessing. Siti went down to her haunches, balancing on her toes like a cat, dark eyes reflective.
“This sword,” the imposter said, almost touching the humming blade to his mask. “It was forged by a djinn. They say when it takes a life, the last thing the dying hear is its song.”
“You always this chatty?” Siti asked. “Or is it my perfume?”
“I only wanted you to know. So when you hear singing in your ears, you will know why.”
Siti narrowed her eyes and bounded at
