“We’re looking into the death of Lord Alistair Worthington,” Fatma said. “We understand that you knew him?”
The djinn blinked as Fatma moved to set her cup down. She fumbled, almost dropping it as she missed the edge of the table. Had the thing grown smaller?
“The papers say it was a terrible tragedy,” he answered. “But I did not know the English Basha, not personally.”
“You did do business with him. Through an intermediary—Archibald Portendorf?”
“Yes. The Wazir and I did business together.”
Fatma took note to better phrase her words. Djinn weren’t inherently deceptive. But they were at times direct, answering only precisely what you asked.
“This business. It was for the Hermetic Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz?”
Siwa blinked again. His smile wavered, lips trembling before going still. Fatma took note of that, breaking her concentration as her eyes flickered to the dark wood walls. She’d already noticed the mural that hung behind the djinn, displaying more camels on a gold background. Seemed to be a theme. Only now the camels that had been running right appeared to be running left. Her eyes went to her cup. What was in that tea?
“Yes,” Siwa answered finally. “My business was with the organization founded by Lord Alistair Worthington.”
“You helped them procure items.”
“Such was I was tasked, by the Wazir. We did good business together.”
“Why do you call him that?” Hadia asked. “The Wazir?”
“The members of the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz often held titles. Lord Alistair Worthington was known as the Grand Master. Archibald, the Wazir, his second.”
That explained the journal. “Were you a member of the Brotherhood?” Fatma asked.
Siwa’s smile broadened, and he chuckled. “No djinn belonged to Lord Alistair’s Brotherhood. Not that he didn’t try.”
“He tried to recruit you?”
Siwa’s smile wavered. Fatma glanced to make sure Hadia was writing this all down, but found her contemplating the teapot—which had oddly become brass instead of bronze.
“He made the attempt,” the djinn said. “But I declined. Such intimacy in mortal affairs can bring … problems.” For the first time his smile shrank to nothing, and his eyes took on an inward look, before his pleasant demeanor returned.
“How do you know so much about the Brotherhood, then?”
Siwa shrugged. “The Wazir was nervous around djinn. I would try to settle him with tea, and he would chatter on—I believe to cover his discomfort.”
“The things you procured for the Brotherhood,” Hadia asked. “They came from a list? Were they authentic? Because you were paid a lot for them.”
The djinn’s smile remained, but his answer was stiff. “I only deal in authentic items. My list is sound. My word is my reputation.”
“Of course,” Fatma jumped in. Djinn were sensitive to the insinuation of lying—even when they were. “You know, then, that Archibald died alongside Alistair Worthington.”
“Again, a terrible tragedy. May God show them His mercy.”
“You might have been one of the last people to see him, outside of the Brotherhood. He came to collect a sword from you, for £50,000. What kind of sword was that?”
“A blade that once belonged to the man you call al-Jahiz,” Siwa replied. “Forged by a djinn. A black blade that sings.”
So that explained how the imposter had gotten it. “Where did it come from?”
Siwa sighed regretfully. “Forgive me. But such secrets of my trade, I cannot divulge.”
She’d expected as much. “One last thing. Archibald claimed the night he came to get the sword there was an argument over money.” The djinn’s lips did that trembling thing again, and he blinked rapidly. “It seems someone else had already wired you £50,000 from Worthington’s account, two weeks prior, for unknown services. Someone with the initials AW.”
Siwa emitted a strangled noise. His lips compressed tight, as if holding something back, before he bellowed: “Ethiope! A cursed land indeed! The blackamoors from there are in his keep! Broad in the nose they are and flat in ear! Fifty thousand and more in his company!” The djinn clapped a clawed hand over his mouth, shaking his horned head.
Fatma, startled, looked to Hadia and back to the djinn. “Are you well?” When he didn’t answer, she tried again. “I only wanted to know about the second wire of money. What was it for? And who made it? The initials AW—was it Alexander Worthington?”
She’d barely finished speaking before Siwa let out a howl. No, not a howl, a stream of words without end. “Have the bards who preceded me left any theme unsung? What, therefore, shall be my subject? When the gods deal defeat to a person, they first take his mind away, so that he sees things wrongly! Nothing can be revoked or said in vain nor unfulfilled if I should nod my head!” Then without warning, the world rippled.
Fatma jumped to her feet.
“What just happened?” Hadia stood as well.
Before she could answer, the world rippled again. Not Hadia, not herself. But the djinn and the entire room shifted about, undulating like the swirl patterns on the djinn’s skin. She thought she might guess what was happening, when Siwa gave a gurgling scream. His mouth opened wide, unhinging until his jaw gaped, and a dark blue tongue lolled out—so long it fell to the middle of his chest. He pulled something from his kaftan: a long knife with a serrated blade. Fatma reached for her pistol. But the djinn put the sharp end to his tongue. With a fevered look in his eyes, he began to cut.
Fatma heard Hadia gag as blood spurted. Without another word, the two hurriedly backed out of the room, watching the apartment heave in sporadic spasms as the djinn’s screams filled their ears. They didn’t stop until they’d gotten out the front door, down the stairs, and past the three tentmakers—who still worked studiously at their stitching. Only when they reached the sidewalk did they speak.
“Ya Satter ya Rabb!” Hadia gasped. “What was that?”
Fatma had no answer. A djinn cutting out his own tongue was a first. “Didn’t the journal say something about him turning erratic when asked
