“I must apologize again,” Amina said, abashed. “Jenne doesn’t mean to be rude. But you know how Qareen are. This one has been with my family for ages.”
A Qareen. That explained things. Well, somewhat. True Qareen were said to be personal djinn tied to individuals: a type of lifelong companion or shadow, even perhaps one’s spirit double. This particular type of djinn, however, did far more—attaching to whole lineages, like living heirlooms that passed themselves down through time. While they were popularly referred to as Qareen, the Ministry officially listed them among the unclassifiable djinn. As a rule they could be troublesome, flighty, or fiercely protective of those they bonded with—one never knew.
“I’ve been eyeing that man over there in the silk clothes,” Amina said. Her chin motioned to the figure in question. “An advisor and consort of the late Chinese empress dowager. Rumor claims he’s actually of dragon blood, and over a hundred years old.”
“Two hundred,” Fatma corrected.
The woman’s eyes widened. “We have dragons in my country. Temperamental beasts who will drink up rivers if given the chance. Are they very different in China?”
“No one’s actually seen a Chinese dragon,” Fatma related. “People claiming their blood, yes. But actual dragons remain elusive.”
“Well,” the woman murmured, eyeing the advisor with interest. “I’d like to know what a man with dragon blood is like. Are you one of the dignitaries?”
“I’m with the Egyptian government.”
“A local. I thought by the suit you were English. Do you know many people here?”
“I’m not that high in the government. Just with a particular agency.”
“Agent Fatma, then. I haven’t yet met many Egyptians, sequestered as we are at Abdeen Palace. Odd housing us in the very place al-Jahiz bored into the Kaf—as if to make certain we understand Egypt’s place in the world.”
Fatma didn’t doubt the intent. It was said that Abdeen Palace still bore the residue of the formidable magic al-Jahiz had wrought—and that it could be felt, like a shiver on your soul.
The woman assessed her, pursing a set of full lips. “You don’t look like a bureaucrat. They don’t dress near as well.” She plucked a glass from a passing boilerplate eunuch, offering another to Fatma—who declined. The Qareen took two, and downed them in one gulp. “I’ve often wondered, with your modern city, why you don’t just put these machine-men in charge? I’d give anything for a handful, over the men who govern us.”
“Boilerplate eunuchs generally don’t have much in the way of thought,” Fatma explained.
The woman chuckled. “And how is that different from men?”
That actually made Fatma smile. But she wasn’t here to socialize. She was set to excuse herself when several new figures stepped up to join them.
One was an older man with white whiskers on a ruddy face, and fitted into a double-breasted suit that looked stretched to its capacity. The second was short, in a plain black suit and in his middling years. His expression was serene, his mouth all but buried within a peppered beard. The third was taller, wearing a blue imperial uniform with gold about the collar and broad cuffs of his coat. His trimmed moustache swept across his upper lip, and he regarded them all with the eyes of someone accustomed to giving commands.
“Let the people replace us with automatons,” the ruddy-faced man huffed in English, “and the rascals will be calling to overthrow them within the year!”
Amina turned to him, arching an eyebrow. “You think they will do any worse?”
The man snorted. “We at least share with the commoners the consanguinity of tissue, bone, heart, blood, and passion. Not the cold unfeeling will of a machine.”
“And yet here we stand,” Amina mused. “Set to decide whether we will be sending those people into war—to shed their tissue, bone, heart, and blood. Perhaps we could use less passion, and more cold unfeeling will.”
The man raised bushy eyebrows, addressing his companions. “Did I not say the fairer sex will soon overtake us in politics and philosophy? Mark my words, our days are numbered!” He turned back good-naturedly. “My apologies, my lady, we overheard your commentary and wished to engage on the matter.” He regarded the Qareen uneasily before returning to Amina. “Pray tell, are you not the princess of Tukulor?”
“There is no more Tukulor,” Amina answered. “But I am a granddaughter of the empire.”
Fatma’s eyes widened. Princess of Tukulor! This was the granddaughter of al-Hajj Umar Tal, the wandering West African mystic who prophesied al-Jahiz’s coming! He had returned to conquer his homeland in a self-proclaimed jihad, until nearby states united to stop him. Tukulor hadn’t survived its founder. What remained knitted into a confederation of caliphates, which together with Sokoto and the help of djinn repelled Europe’s armies. Umar Tal’s legacy was complicated, to put it lightly. Though his descendants, like Amina, were all but revered.
“Allow me to make introductions,” the Englishman said. “I am Lord Attenborough, a representative of His Majesty. This is President Poincaré of France.” He indicated the short man in the plain suit. “And the big brooding fellow is General Zhilinsky, representing His Excellency of all the Russias.”
“May I inquire, madame,” Poincaré asked genially, “the purpose of your presence here? Surely the West Soudanic caliphates would not become involved in any conflict that might take place in far-off Europe.”
Amina returned a diplomatic smile. “Conflicts have a habit of spreading—like fires in the brush. The caliphates would not want any … stray embers tossed our way.”
Fatma parsed her words. Both England and France had been routed in their attempts on her homeland. Now the French were struggling with the Algerian territories, and it was no secret the caliphates openly supported the independence movements. If war came, it would extend to those colonies. Stray embers indeed.
“Let us hope, then,” Zhilinsky spoke, “to find a way to resolve our differences without taking to the field. I do not relish sending cavalry to help our French friends fend against
