That was going to be harder than the woman realized. So many here were looking for a reason to be at one another’s throats.
Before the king could offer a rebuttal, the French president spoke. “I admit we found the calling of this peace summit odd, given Egypt’s current support for the upheavals in Constantine and Algiers. You may not send troops or weapons, but your djinn are there. They and local djinn offer support to the rebels and Egypt does nothing to curtail them.”
The king looked exasperated at this line of questioning, and the queen stepped in for him. “Surely, President Poincaré,” she said with a stately grace that belied her common roots, “you do not think we must answer for every djinn in Egypt. Many do not recognize borders drawn on human maps, when they have walked these lands for centuries.”
Poincaré bowed deep. “Your Highness knows the ways of djinn better than I.” He paused, looking back up. “Yet how is it Egypt believes she can be an arbiter of peace among nations, if she cannot contain her own citizens?”
The imposter watched silently—like an assassin who had plunged his knife into a weak spot, and waited for blood to flow. Fatma never took her eyes from him.
“I, for one,” Wilhelm mused, “find it a curious thing that Egypt can be so magnanimous in providing a path to peace, yet so miserly with its wonders.” There were new grumblings among the foreign dignitaries in the crowd. “Germany had to forge its own way. While Egypt refused to share its secrets. Well, that isn’t true, is it? Some nations are more deserving than others, it seems. Yakov! How are those new gas lines getting along? And soon I hear an airship construction yard?”
Zhilinsky returned a stare. “It is no business of yours what we do and with whom.”
“Those are developmental programs,” the Egyptian prime minister explained, loud enough so that all could hear. “They don’t include any machinery that could offer a nation an advantage over the other. Egypt is committed to its neutrality.”
“And what of the work you are doing in Armenia?” the sultan pressed.
“More of the same, Imperial Majesty,” the prime minister answered. “I assure you.”
“Assurances,” Wilhelm repeated, smoothing his whiskers. “I would not want to look up one day to find a fleet of heavy air cruisers decorated in pretty Russian designs flying over the Balkans, come to help their Slavic cousins.” His tone turned sharp, like a blade drawn slightly from the scabbard. “It would be unfortunate if Germany had to help our friend the Sultan shoot such a fleet down. Even a very pretty one.”
Zhilinsky glared. “Only if you want a million Russian soldiers on their way to Berlin to avenge their mother country!”
A sudden movement caught Fatma’s eyes. The goblin on the kaiser’s shoulder was stirring awake. It opened dull yellow eyes and yawned wide to show sharp teeth. Settling, it turned to the Russian general and spoke in a croaking voice: “The Goblin Court would not stand by and allow such an invasion. Doubtless it would include filthy rusalki and bagiennik, and lowly peasant magic. We would consider that an act of war.” It swiveled a baleful gaze to the French president. “Do not think us unaware of the overtures you have made to the disgusting Fae. We would be forced to act against any provocative alliance with such treacherous creatures.”
Poincaré’s face turned crimson. “You dare threaten us? Wretched beast!”
Everything erupted after that.
What had been bared teeth turned to shouting. A nearby French diplomat shoved his German counterpart, and a scuffle ensued. The king’s guards pulled him back, even as he pleaded for order. Wilhelm and Poincaré traded insults only feet from one another, while Zhilinsky looked ready to brawl.
In the midst of it all, Fatma struggled to keep track of the imposter. She hadn’t looked away, even as the exchanges grew heated. But now there were tangles of people. Some grappling with one another. Others trying to separate them. Amina was loudly calling for calm, though Jenne looked ready to sweep her away if need be. Fatma pushed people out of the way that blocked her view, to find the place where the imposter stood—empty.
She cursed, spinning about and searching. He couldn’t have just disappeared. He had to be here! Her desperate eyes caught sight of him, and she stared in disbelief. The imposter stood clear across the garden, surveying the scene like a spectator. How did he get there so fast? It was impossible! His eyes locked with hers across the distance, before he turned and walked away.
Fatma was off, squeezing past people, knocking others aside. When she finally broke free, she took off in a sprint. The gardens about the palace were immense. The night’s festivities were only being held in one portion, and she had seen him moving into the unlit portion—where palm trees and topiaries formed a small dense forest. She was halfway there when someone pulled up alongside.
“I figure wherever you’re going,” Siti called, “must be the right place!”
Fatma glanced the woman over—running while holding up the hem of that white dress. She’d hoped for Hamed or Hadia or some of the other agents. But Siti was never the wrong person to have on your side in a fight.
“He went that way!” Fatma huffed, gesturing with her cane.
They reached the trees, stepping into shadow and looking about. Siti inhaled, as if testing the air. Then pointed with her chin. “This way.” Fatma didn’t argue, knowing by now to trust the woman’s oddities. They ran, passing topiaries of beasts set up like a maze, turning this way and that before finally sighting their quarry.
“Stop!” Fatma shouted.
The imposter never broke his stride, hurrying for the shelter of some trees. Pointing her gun into the air, she pulled the trigger. The gunshot would send guards and soldiers descending
