The king seized the moment to reassert himself. “He is a fraud. A charlatan. He claims to be who he cannot. Nothing he says is worth listening to.”
“Pardon, Your Excellency. But perhaps we should be the judge of that.” This time it was the French president who spoke. He bowed but kept his eyes on the imposter.
The king frowned. “I assure you. Whoever this charlatan claims to be, he speaks lies.”
“And who is it you claim to be?” Wilhelm asked.
The imposter stood straighter, his eyes burning. “I am al-Jahiz. Returned.”
Gasps went up all around. Rumors were one thing. To hear it spoken, another. Some gaped. Others looked uncertain what to think. One voice rose to speak over them.
“You are not al-Jahiz.” It was the unnaturally handsome djinn, the king’s advisor. He pressed forward from the crowd, taller than the humans about him, black eyes smoldering against milk-white skin. “You are not fit for his shadow. A pretender who dares to wear the title—”
“Silence,” the imposter commanded, waving his hand.
To Fatma’s shock, the djinn’s head jerked back as if struck. His mouth snapped shut, the sound of his teeth meeting reverberating with a crack. He stood confused, gripping and pulling hard at his chin. But his jaws would not open, as if they’d been welded and sealed. His dark eyes quavered, and he stepped back, a look of horror marring his perfect face.
The crowd grew silent at sight of the cowed djinn. Beside her, Fatma heard Amina mouth a prayer as her Qareen flowed to stand before her protectively. Even the king went quiet, staring as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes. His guards stood their ground. But their faces showed uncertainty. The imposter paid none of them any mind, his gaze fixing on Fatma. No. Not her. The leaders and dignitaries about her.
“You are as remarkable as the rumors claimed,” Wilhelm voiced in the quiet. He sounded both impressed and cautious. His attention went momentarily to Amina. “What do you say, Frau? Your grandfather prophesied the coming of the Soudanese mystic. Is this truly him returned in the flesh?”
Amina stared out from behind Jenne at the imposter, still shaken. She composed herself, however, and addressed the German kaiser. “As I must often remind others, I am not my grandfather. You will have to make that assessment yourself.”
Wilhelm chortled, running fingers over his upturned moustache. “I suppose power doesn’t flow in the blood.” He turned back to the imposter. “So then, what words do you need to speak?”
“I must ask the same,” the French president added, eyes inquisitive. “What words are so important that you make yourself an uninvited guest and risk your certain capture?”
The imposter spread long arms, letting his gaze wander over them. “Why are all of you here? Why has the king of Egypt sought this audience?”
“To bring about a lasting peace,” Lord Attenborough answered succinctly.
“Peace.” The imposter repeated the word as if it were a curious fruit he’d plucked. “You think Egypt can bring you peace when it cannot bring peace to itself. When its people cry out against its own injustices. When its corruption and decadence devour it from within.”
“Let nations govern their personal affairs,” Wilhelm retorted. “I am not here to judge how a sovereign rules his people. If you have come to persuade me on such matters, you are wasting your time.” He gave a gracious nod to the king, who replied in kind.
“But Egypt is not concerned with just its own affairs,” the imposter countered. “Egypt has involved itself in all of your affairs. It believes itself now a great power, who meddles far beyond its borders. Certainly, the sultan knows this.”
All heads turned to a man who stood among the kaiser’s entourage. He wore a Turkish suit with a red tarboosh, and his lightly bearded face was pensive. The Ottoman sultan. Fatma hadn’t recognized him, behaving more like an attendant to the German emperor than his equal.
“The once magnificent Ottoman Empire,” the imposter said. “Now beset by rebellions on all sides. Unable to gain back territories lost and losing more by the day. It sits weak and humbled, waiting to be picked apart by its foes.” The imposter gestured to Lord Attenborough, the French president, and the Russian general Zhilinsky. “Does Egypt come to its aid? Does Egypt help mend these wounds? No, it only plunges the dagger deeper.”
“This is outrageous!” the king bellowed. “Egypt has attempted at every turn to maintain the integrity of the Ottoman Empire. We have sought amenable solutions to all sides.”
True as that was, the Ottoman Empire was in trouble. The return of djinn hadn’t bestowed upon them the same gifts as Egypt. They were stretched too thin across too many continents, with subjects who held no abiding loyalty to the sultan. Nationalists rose up in every corner, making claims to sovereignty, drawing on magical traditions of their own. Meanwhile, Britain and France refused to return territories forcibly ceded near a century ago. The Russians openly encouraged independence movements in the East. Maintaining the empire was untenable; but no one wanted to see an utter collapse. Egypt had been working to avoid complete chaos.
“Was forcing you to grant Armenian independence one such amenable solution?” the imposter asked the sultan. “What has been the result? More of the empire, believing they can do the same? Believing that if they fight, Egypt will arrive to provide an … amenable solution?”
The sultan’s face grew dark, and he turned to the king. “You did promise us that granting independence would alleviate grievances. Show that the empire could be reasonable. Now every nationalist clamors for a state, and my people whisper of my weakness.” A bold admission—though nothing anyone here didn’t know. The reputed plots and coups against the sultan were common knowledge. “Yet when we call you for aid in the Balkans, you say you cannot come. You say it is not a matter for Egypt.”
The kaiser clapped his hands together. “Now things have become interesting!”
At her side, Fatma felt
