“This claimed al-Jahiz.” He gripped the cigarette between pointed teeth as he spoke. “I’ve seen the … trouble you’ve had since our first encounter.”
That was one way to put it. “We’re doing what we can, but we still haven’t got a motive.”
He shrugged, flicking the scarab lighter and moving to his second Nefertari. “It matters?”
“Aywa. When twenty-four people are burned to death, it matters.”
Ahmad grunted. “What the papers are saying about Nephthys. How they are painting her.” Anger trembled his voice.
Fatma could understand. The penny presses had gone overboard, doing extensive write-ups of Ester Sedarous. They hounded her family, called her a witch, some even implying she had something to do with the murders. One tabloid named her “the Madame of Death.”
“Her parents buried her yesterday,” Ahmad continued. “I was told not to attend.”
“I’m sorry. How are your people? I know things have gotten … bad.”
The outing of the temples was another casualty. People who had practiced in secret now found their names splashed across the front of dailies. There were threats against establishments or meeting places suspected to house them. In the worst ugliness, a reputed “idolater” had been chased from his home by angry neighbors. Seeing someone else’s problems makes your own problems seem smaller, her mother’s voice intoned.
“The House of Sobek is strong,” Ahmad declared. Then, more measured: “How is Siti?”
“She’s well.” Fatma was still surprised even as she said it. Siti had refused to be taken to the hospital—insisting that she depended only on the blessings of the entombed goddess. Whether by a goddess or some other magic, a day later there was nothing but a scar where she’d been run through. She spent her time at Merira’s now, watching over the fortune-teller’s shop.
“I can be of help,” Ahmad said, taking a drag. “I’m not Siti, but I have contacts.”
Fatma shook her head. “This man, whoever he is, he’s dangerous. He can do things that I can’t explain. You or your people get in his way, and you could be killed. There are enough dead to deal with. Let the Ministry and the police handle it.”
Ahmad appeared skeptical. “The police’s hands appear full at the moment.”
He was talking about the protests. Most of those arrested in el-Arafa were just locals who’d gotten overzealous. People didn’t like police running about their homes. One had been a prize, however. The alleged Bearer of Witness who’d introduced the imposter. His name was Moustafa. He’d actually been in the employ of one of the members of Lord Worthington’s Brotherhood—a Wesley Dalton, who, from what they’d discerned, was none other than the corpse with its head twisted about. This Moustafa had worked odd jobs for Dalton—a mix of a manservant, bodyguard, and guide. He’d also been a witness to the murders. Told them as much openly—that al-Jahiz appeared and slew the Englishmen. It had impressed him enough to become an acolyte. Claimed al-Jahiz spared him to go out and bear witness to what he’d seen. Since Monday, crowds gathered every morning outside the police station, demanding his release. She shook her head. What a mess.
“We’ve got enough hands. Let it alone, Ahmad. I mean it. And stop skulking about!”
“It’s creepy?” he asked, a cigarette perched on his lips.
“Yeah. A little bit. Creepy.” She took in his strange face again. “Are you okay?”
“Never felt better. Go in peace, Agent Fatma.”
“Go in peace, Ahmad,” she said, watching him disappear down the alley—a cloud of smoke hovering. It was telling that he was probably the least strange thing she’d deal with today.
Fatma quickened her pace, reaching the Ministry. She made her usual glance up to the spinning mechanical gears of the building’s brain and tipped her bowler in a silent good morning. She gave another to the guard on duty, in that too-big uniform. He really could use a tailor. An empty elevator was already waiting, and she hopped in ready to call out the fourth floor—but hesitated. She still felt like hitting something. To clear her head. She knew just the remedy.
“Top floor.” The elevator closed, taking a lurch before ascending.
Fatma began undoing the buttons on her jacket. By the time the elevator stopped, she was down to a black silk waistcoat stitched with Persian buta motifs. Stepping out, she loosened her tie along the way until coming to a set of doors.
The Ministry had its own gymnasium. But that was for men. She’d petitioned to get in when first arriving. But while brass wanted to boast of hiring its first woman agent in the Cairo office, they didn’t want a full-blown scandal. So they’d built an entirely separate gymnasium for women. It was smaller and not as well equipped. But it had the basic needs and amenities, including a bath. Best of all, she mostly had it to herself.
At least, she usually did.
There was surprise at opening the door to Hadia. She wore a white shirt with bulky, loose-fitting gym trousers. In a gloved hand she wielded a wooden practice sword, swinging it at a mechanical training eunuch. The machine-man only had a torso that extended from a pole in the floor. But it twisted its body this way and that, to wield a wooden blade held in one arm.
At seeing Fatma, Hadia straightened, calling the training eunuch to a stop. She tucked a stray curly strand back into her hijab. “Good morning, Agent Fatma.”
“Agent Hadia,” she returned, stepping inside. Since Sunday night, they’d been formal in their interactions. And the woman seemed sullen. “Didn’t know you were in here.”
“Just came to practice. I’ll bathe and leave the room to you.”
“You don’t have to go. Room’s big enough for both of us.”
“Yes, well, you’d think so. But I wouldn’t want to get in your way.”
Oh yes, definitely sullen. “I think you
