“What was he yelling? It sounded like literature or—?”
“—poetry,” Fatma finished. “I didn’t know the first bit. But the second, it was Antar.”
“The medieval poet? So am I crazy? Or was that apartment … jumping about?”
“You’re not crazy,” Fatma answered. “He’s an Illusion djinn.”
Hadia blinked, then widened her eyes in understanding. Fatma should have caught it right away: an apartment too big on the inside; items changing one moment to the next. All djinn were gifted with illusion. The strongest ones in stories made entire cities appear in the desert and could fool each of your senses.
“But I felt like I walked a whole way to that sitting room,” Hadia insisted.
“That’s what makes Illusion djinn so good at what they do.”
“Did we even see the real Siwa? Did I really drink mint tea?”
“I doubt his apartment is as opulent as it seems. I also have a guess where his money’s been going. Did you notice all the camels? Almost always running?”
Hadia frowned quizzically, but Fatma let her work it out. “We won’t support his habit!” she said, catching on. “From the journal. He’s a gambler! Camel races!”
Fatma nodded. Camel racing had always been more popular out in the eastern desert, or back home near Luxor. Anywhere with flat wide spaces, which were hard to come by in Cairo. That was, until the djinn created their mechanical steam-powered camels, which could reach breakneck speeds. A track sat outside the city, and the high bets on riders and their clockwork mounts were notorious. Nothing emptied pockets faster.
“That explains why he needs so much money,” Hadia deduced. “But why rip out his own tongue? Unless that was an illusion too.”
“That felt too real,” Fatma said. “He seemed genuinely upset. Every time we asked him anything that came close to touching on the Brotherhood, his illusion slipped. When we asked about that night with Archibald, the argument over the money, it started falling apart.”
“Not just the money,” Hadia noted, frowning. “It was when you mentioned Alexander that things got bad. He really didn’t want to talk about that.”
Or couldn’t. Fatma gazed back up to the tentmaker’s shop. She’d heard of spells that could stop someone from revealing secrets, rendering a person unable to form words, sealing their lips tight. A spell that could reduce a djinn—a Marid no less—to spouting random lines of literature and force him to cut out his own tongue was strong magic.
“One more question,” Hadia said. “Is it darker out than usual?”
Fatma broke from her contemplations to follow Hadia’s gaze. The sky was darkening, the blue obscured by a growing yellowish haze. A warm strong wind picked up, buffeting them and fluttering the awning above. All along the street, canvases were tossed about in the growing gale—a few becoming unmoored and flapping wildly. The bread seller they’d seen earlier sped by, still holding loaves atop his head. He shouted as he went: “Sandstorm! Sandstorm!”
Sandstorm? This time of year? But as Fatma watched, signs of a brewing storm mounted, as sunlight dimmed and the wind intensified. People hustled to get indoors, closing shops and pulling down barricades. She could already feel the dust in her nose, making it hard to breathe.
“We need to make it back!” she told Hadia. Holding her bowler tight and putting her shoulder against the wind, she set out, hoping to beat the storm before it arrived.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Fatma sat in the automated carriage, stringing pieces together in her head. First, Alistair Worthington and his brotherhood were all killed by a man claiming to be al-Jahiz. That same night, it appeared his own son wired money to a djinn behind his back. Now some sorcery was preventing that djinn from revealing more. Alexander had, at best, a troubled relationship with his father and bore no love for the Brotherhood. With both gone, he was free to inherit the Worthington name and scrub it of his father’s influence. People murdered for far less.
Still, none of this explained the magic this imposter wielded. Certainly not the Ifrit. Could this false al-Jahiz be someone hired by Alexander? The man seemed to hold disdain for anything related to sorcery. Yet here he was transferring large sums of money to a djinn with a penchant for gambling. She’d have to do some digging on counter-spells, see if there was some way to get Siwa talking. Something in her gut told her the answers were there. What is hidden is still greater, her mother often said.
“That’s strange.”
Fatma looked up to find Hadia staring out the window. But she didn’t appear to be looking at anything. Instead her head was cocked—more so like she was listening. The storm had worsened, making it hard to see. It howled over the city like an angry child. “What’s strange?”
“I can’t tell the direction of the storm. We get sandstorms in Alexandria. They blow from one direction. You can’t tell by seeing it, but you can certainly feel it in the wind. This one though sounds like it’s blowing from, well, every direction.”
Fatma frowned. “This is an odd time of year for sandstorms.” And they hadn’t gotten any of the usual warnings. Was it even hot enough for a sandstorm?
“I might have something odder,” Hadia choked. “Is that the Ministry?”
Fatma squinted to where the woman indicated—a dark shape in the distance. No, that couldn’t be the Ministry. She squinted harder, tracing the shape’s rectangular outline. It was the Ministry! Only shrouded in a thick yellow haze that swirled about the building.
“No wonder we couldn’t tell the storm’s direction,” Hadia said. “It’s centered on the Ministry!”
Looking to the sky, Fatma made out veins of blowing sand, all streaking toward the Ministry building. They merged with the churning cloud as if eager to join a dance, growing thicker by the moment. This didn’t look good.
“You have your sidearm?” she asked.
Hadia’s dark brown eyes showed alarm, but she nodded, pressing at a place beneath her coat. “You think it’s that bad?”
Fatma checked her own pistol.
