“What’s this?” a voice broke in. “Yakov, are you going on about your cavalry again?”
A man strode into their midst, wearing an all-white military suit with white epaulets and festooned with medals and emblems. If there was a competition for such things tonight, he was the clear winner. He stood shorter than the other men. But his brashness more than made up for it.
None of that gave Fatma pause. Not even the man’s moustache, brown like his trimmed hair but turned up at the ends in a way that reminded her of her uncles. Nor the small group of men trailing him like dutiful attendants. What startled her was the creature perched on his shoulder: short and squat, with dark green skin, a pencil nose, and long pointed ears. Dressed to mimic the man—down to the medals—it looked like an ugly doll. The name of the thing came to her then. A goblin. Beside them, the Qareen gave a low hiss.
The man looked them all over, his blue eyes taking in everything in one sweep, before turning to address Amina. “Are these men boring you with their talk, Frau? They can go on so.” His English bore a German accent, unsurprising given the goblin. At the moment the eyes on the creature’s wrinkled little face were shut tight. From what Fatma recalled, they spent most of their time in this realm sleeping.
The French president’s face tightened at the gibe, and the Russian general’s turned to stone. Only Attenborough seemed unfazed. He bowed to the German. “Madame Amina, may I introduce His Excellency, Kaiser Wilhelm II of the German Empire and Prussia.”
Now the goblin made sense. It was Germany that had called a conference of European nations in 1884—two years after the routing of the British at Tell El Kebir. They met in Berlin and decided colonization was the only way to confront “the menace of magic,” lest another Egypt take root. That mission proved harder than expected. A German-Italian force sent to take Ethiopia was wiped out utterly at Adwa in 1896. In 1898, the British were again spectacularly defeated at Omdurman. Maxim guns, it turned out, were no match for what al-Jahiz had released back upon the world.
Germany learned its lessons from those humiliations. While other European nations balked at magic, the new kaiser embraced it. German folktales were collected and scoured for any practical use. Djinn were not native to the country, but there were other creatures—chief among them goblins. Unlike his predecessor, Wilhelm II made open overtures and entreaties to the Goblin Court, allowing Germany to rapidly grow in its magical and industrial expertise—perhaps Egypt’s only true rival in that regard. That bargain required the German leader to keep a goblin advisor. Though Fatma hadn’t known the agreement demanded so literal a reading.
“When I saw this gathering,” Wilhelm remarked, “I knew it would be the liveliest in the place. Yakov! I see Nicholas has sent you in his stead.” He leaned in to Amina, feigning a whisper. “I hear the tsar can barely leave the country, with all the uprisings and peasants in the streets.” He turned jovially to the French president. “Always good to see you, Poincaré. How are things with the colonies?” Leaning in again, he added: “Another beating like the one you gave them, and I don’t know that they’ll have much of an empire left.”
Amina only sipped from her cup, making eye contact with Fatma. She didn’t need to speak to be understood. Men. They could be such children.
“Why does everyone look like someone died?” Wilhelm demanded.
A set of shouts suddenly rose up—followed by a scream. Every head turned.
“Maybe someone has died,” he concluded.
Fatma went on alert, scanning the crowd to see what the matter could be. People were scrambling back, their faces stunned. She struggled for a glimpse, bracing for what might come. Several dignitaries stumbled away, finally clearing a path. Her heart skipped. There, in dark robes, stood a figure in a gold mask.
The imposter was here.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Fatma watched as the man in the gold mask walked the palace garden with a casual air, hands behind his back. A silence followed in his wake. He stopped once, turning to look at someone. Abigail Worthington. She stood rooted to the spot, eyes gone round. When their gazes met, her body went limp—just managing to be caught by the young Abyssinian heir. Fainted. At least she hadn’t landed on her hand again.
Fatma hadn’t a clue how the imposter got past all the security, but he’d made a mistake. There were enough agents and police to take him. No riot would save him this time. She already had her pistol drawn, prepared to hold him until help arrived, when a new commotion came. Someone else pushing through the crowd, which parted a second time. The king, followed by his guards—the queen and prime minister hurrying behind.
“This man is a terrorist and a murderer!” he shouted. “Place him under arrest!”
The imposter didn’t flinch as royal guards surrounded him, rifles raised. Instead he glanced over their heads, addressing the crowd. “I come to you tonight with no weapon in hand. All I have are words. Does the king of all Egypt fear a man and his words?”
The question was a challenge. And Fatma could see eyes shifting to the king. Before he could answer someone else spoke.
“I have no fear of words.” Wilhelm shrugged, managing not to unseat the sleeping goblin. “Your Excellency, you have invited us to your country and kept us well secluded in your palaces and gardens. Yet we all know what has been happening in the streets of your city. It is on every tongue, even if others are too polite to make mention. Now the man himself has come. I would like to know why.”
The imposter turned to the kaiser. “To bring truths that others may keep from you.”
This elicited murmurs that rose through the garden in a low hum.
Amina scoffed. “What truths can a man hiding behind a
