The small crowd that had gathered watched her expectantly. A big-nosed man in a white turban leaned so close over her shoulder she could smell the soot that covered him—an ironworker by the stink of it. He shushed a companion, which only made others grumble. From the corner of her eye, she caught Khalid giving both men a withering glare—his broad face drawing tight. Never a good idea to upset the bookie.
Like most, they’d probably wagered on her opponent, who sat across the octagonal table. All of seventeen, she guessed, with a face even more boyish than her own. But he had already bested men twice his age. More important, he was a he, which still held weight even in Cairo’s flaunted modernity—which explained the smile on his dark lips.
Some more traditional ahwa still didn’t cater to women, especially where hookahs were smoked, which was most. But this seedy den, tucked into a disreputable back alley, didn’t care who it served. Still, Fatma could count the women on one hand. Most left gambling to the men. Three sitting at a far-off table in the dim room were unmistakably Forty Leopards, in garish bright red kaftans and hijabs, with blue Turkish trousers. From their disdainful looks, you’d think them wealthy socialites—not the most notorious thieving gang in the city.
Fatma filtered everyone out—gambling men, smug boys, and haughty lady thieves alike—fixing on the water bubbling in the hookah’s bulbous vase. She imagined it a flowing river, real enough to wet her fingertips as she inhaled its scent. Taking a long pull from the wooden pipe, she let the enchanted maassel work through her, before exhaling a thick column.
It didn’t look like regular smoke—more silver than gray. Didn’t move like smoke either, knitting together instead of dissipating. It took some seconds to coalesce, but when it did, Fatma couldn’t help feeling a bit of triumph. A vaporous river snaked across the air as a felucca sailed its surface, the triangular lateen sail stretched taut, and leaving ripples its wake.
Every eye in the coffee shop followed the ethereal vessel. Even the Forty Leopards looked on in wonder. Across the table, her challenger’s smile gave way to open-mouthed astonishment. When the magic was spent and the smoke cleared, he shook his head, setting down the tube of his water pipe in defeat. The crowd roared.
Fatma sat back to praises as Khalid stood to collect up his money. Enchanted maassel was a banned substance: a slapdash of sorcery and alchemical compounds that mimicked a drug. The addicted traded away their lives chasing the next great conjuration. Luckily, a milder form had been popular back at the women’s college at Luxor. And as a student, she’d taken part in a duel or two. Or three. Maybe more.
“Ya salam!” the kid called. “Shadia, you’re as good as the Usta claimed.”
Al-Usta was Khalid’s nickname. The old Turkish title was addressed to drivers, laborers, mechanics, or craftsmen—anyone really who was very good at what they did. She was sure Khalid had never done an honest day’s work in his life. But when it came to handling bets, there was none better.
“One of the best, I tell you,” the bookie added, sitting to count through a wad of bills.
Khalid had come up with that name, Shadia. The big man was her guide into this seedier side of Cairo, where Fatma el-Sha’arawi, special investigator with the Egyptian Ministry of Alchemy, Enchantments, and Supernatural Entities, would draw unwanted attention.
“Wallahi!” the kid exclaimed. “Never seen a conjuring so real. What’s your secret, eh?”
The “secret” was what any first year picked up in lessons on mental elemental manipulation—choose real experiences over imagined ones. Hers had been an uncle’s boat she’d sailed dozens of times.
“As Khalid—the Usta—said, I’m one of the best.”
The kid snorted. “Wouldn’t have figured it.” He tilted a chin at her suit—an all-white number with a matching vest that looked sublime on her russet-brown skin. Fatma ran fingers down the length of a gold tie, certain to show off the glittering cuff links on her dark blue shirt.
“Jealous?”
The kid snorted again, folding arms across a tanned kaftan. Definitely jealous.
“How about you give me what I came for, and I’ll send you to my tailor.”
“Gamal,” Khalid said. “Let’s get on with business. Shadia’s been patient enough.”
More than patient. That trait wasn’t her strong suit. But undercover work demanded it. Thieves were inherently distrustful, and only some penchant for their vices ever put them at ease. She checked a golden pocket watch fashioned like an antique asturlab. Half past ten.
“Night’s not getting any younger.”
The kid cocked his head. “What do you say, Saeed? Shadia look like a business partner?”
Gamal’s companion, who sat beside him, stopped chewing his nails long enough to mutter, “Let’s be done with it, okay?” The lanky youth looked even younger than Gamal, with jutting ears and a halo of coiled hair. His eyes never met Fatma’s, and she hoped it was because of the persona she worked to project: a young socialite willing to pay heavily for pilfered goods.
“Then let’s go somewhere private,” Khalid offered. He gestured to a back room and rose to go. Fatma smoothed back her mop of cropped black curls before putting on a black bowler, preparing to stand. She stopped halfway, noticing neither young man had moved.
“No,” Gamal said. Saeed looked as perplexed as they did.
“No?” The way the big man stretched out the word should have cowed anyone. But not the kid.
“Wander off to secret places and you give people ideas. Maybe come up on one of us on our way out and try to find what that secret is. We can conduct our business right here. What’s the big deal? Wallahi, no one’s even paying us any mind.”
Fatma was certain everyone was paying them every bit of
