In an explosion of movement the kid flipped the table over. Khalid went sprawling, his chair tipped out from under him. Fatma caught herself before falling, stumbling back. Gamal stood with the bottle in one hand and a small knife in the other. So much for not making a scene.
“Now I make the deals! Let us out of here! Or I break this seal and see what happens!”
“Gamal!” Saeed protested. “We can just go! We don’t have—”
“Don’t be stupid! She’s not going to let us go! They’ll take us in and our families will never hear from us again! Experiment on us! Or feed us to ghuls!”
Fatma frowned. People had very strange ideas about what went on at the Ministry. “You don’t know what you’re doing. And you’re not leaving here. Not with that. Now hand it over. Last time I’m going to ask.”
Something on Gamal’s face snapped. Snarling through clenched teeth, he drew the blade across the wax seal, which broke and fell away.
There was a moment of stillness. The entire ahwa had turned to stare at the commotion. But their eyes were no longer on the small woman in a white Westerner suit, the big man they knew to be a local bookie picking himself up off the floor, or the two young men standing behind an overturned table.
Instead, they stared open-mouthed at what one of the young men held—an old antique bottle pouring out bright green smoke. Like enchanted maassel, but in greater amounts. It formed something that looked more solid than any illusion. When the vapor vanished, a living, breathing giant was left in its wake: with skin covered in emerald scales and a head crowned by smooth ivory horns that curved up to brush the ceiling. He wore nothing but billowy white trousers held up by a broad gold belt. His massive chest swelled and retracted as he took deep breaths, before opening his three eyes—each burning like small, bright stars.
Even in the world left behind by al-Jahiz, it wasn’t every day you saw a Marid djinn simply … appear. The exact scenario Fatma had tried so hard to prevent was now playing out right before her. She allowed a momentary wave of panic, before finding her resolve again.
“Don’t move. Let me talk—”
“No!” Gamal shouted. “He’s ours! You can’t have him!”
“He doesn’t belong to—!”
But the kid was already brandishing the emptied bottle at the djinn. “You! Look at me! I’m the one who freed you!” The Marid, who had been silently gazing across the room, turned his fiery gaze. That should have been enough to make anyone cower. But the kid—quite stupidly—stood his ground. “That’s right! We freed you! Saeed and me! You owe us now! Three wishes!”
The Marid stared at the two, then uttered one word that rumbled and echoed: “Free.” He formed the word again between lips surrounded by a curling white beard. “Free. Free. Free.” Then he laughed, a low bellowing that set Fatma’s teeth on edge.
“It has been ages since I have needed to utter this mortal tongue. But I remember what ‘Free’ means. To be unbound. To be not fastened or confined.” His face contorted into something terrible. “But I was not bound, or fastened, or confined. No one imprisoned me. I slumbered, at my own choosing. And you woke me, unbidden, unasked, undesired—so that I would grant you wishes. Very well. I will grant you only one wish. You must choose. Choose how you will die.”
That was enough. People jumped up from chairs and tables and made hasty runs to the exit. Even the serving staff joined the stampede. The ahwa’s owner disappeared into a closet, locking the door behind him. In moments the place had emptied, leaving behind Fatma, Khalid, two young men, and one very ill-tempered Marid.
Gamal looked staggered—Saeed ready to faint. Fatma shook her head. This was precisely why you didn’t go around opening up mystical bottles. Why was that so hard for people to understand? Well, time to earn her pay.
“O Great One!” she called out. “I would petition for these two who have wronged you!”
The Marid turned his horned head, that fiery gaze scrutinizing. “You have been in the company of other djinn.” His sharp nose inhaled and wrinkled in distaste. “Among other creatures. Are you a mortal enchantress?”
“Not an enchantress. Dealing with magic is just in my line of work.”
The Marid seemed to accept that answer. Or he didn’t care. “You seek parley on behalf of these two”—a clawed hand waved at Gamal and Saeed—“fools?”
Fatma bit back a smile. “Yes, Old One. The two fools.” She spared a direct glance at Gamal. “Surely you are magnanimous enough to look past any slight two stupid children could offer one so powerful and wise.”
The Marid ground his sharp teeth. “The dissembling flattery of mortals. That, I also remember. Do you know why I bound myself to slumber, not-enchantress? Because I grew tired of your kind. Greedy. Selfish. Ever seeking to satisfy your wants. I could no longer stomach the sight of you. The stink of you. Your ugly little faces. I slept to escape you all. In the hopes that when I next awakened, you would be gone. Struck down by a blessed illness. Or slaughtered in one of your endless wars. Then I wouldn’t have to hear your monkey-like chatter. Or need speak your inarticulate tongues ever again. But here I am. And you are still here.”
Fatma blinked at the tirade. Of all the djinn these two had to go and wake up, it had to be a bigot. “Right. You can go back to sleep, Old One. You can sleep for as long as you like. I’ll even see that your vessel is sent somewhere far away. Where you’ll be undisturbed.” Maybe the heart of a volcano, she thought idly.
The Marid inspected her the way a butcher might a goat bleating out a proposal to stay the knife. “And why, not-enchantress, should I deign to make
