The three of them sat there—a Ministry agent, a half-djinn, and a cat (likely), staring out past the balcony to the sleeping city they somehow had to find a way to save.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Abyssinian coffee shop was fairly empty for ten in the morning on a Thursday. But that wasn’t too surprising. The city was beset with fresh new fears once word got out about the peace summit. Cairo’s rumor mill was working overtime: al-Jahiz had descended in a fireball, slaying everyone with his sword; no, he’d soared in on the back of an Ifrit, raining fire; the king had fled the country, and would return with an English army; no, it was the king that slew al-Jahiz with his own sword, and now the Jahiziin sought vengeance.
Fatma read over the morning papers as a boilerplate eunuch delivered coffee, setting down a white porcelain cup with a mechanical “Buna tetu.” The Amharic phrase, literally “Drink coffee,” had joined the lingua franca of Cairo as Ethiopian brews grew more popular. It was now a polite comment and even a greeting among the more modish that frequented coffee shops. A few of that sort were here now, in their telltale black coats and black tarbooshes—the women with stylish black dresses and bright white hijabs. They threw around words like “post Neo-Pharaonic” and “epistemologies of alchemic modernity,” eyes veiled behind dark glasses and lips pulling leisurely at thin cigarettes—perhaps meant to show their defiance to the panic gripping the city.
Or they were just being weird. Good for them either way, Fatma decided.
She turned back to the papers. The summit was still on. Despite last night’s debacle, none of the delegates or leaders had departed—each playing a game of one-upmanship and bravado. The king would have his hands full. Well, that was his problem. She had enough to deal with.
The door opened, and Hadia walked in, taking a seat across from her. They greeted each other good morning and called the boilerplate eunuch over for another order. When the machine-man walked away, Hadia looked Fatma over with a scrutinizing gaze.
“You going to tell me what happened to your neck?”
“No,” Fatma replied, sipping her coffee. She’d not bothered with a scarf, opting for a striped blue shirt with a high collar. But it couldn’t hide everything.
Hadia scowled like a disapproving grandmother. “You look rested. So that’s good.” She squinted. “Even your neck looks better. I can barely see the bruises. How’s that possible?”
Fatma shrugged, a hand rubbing where the soreness had mostly vanished. No way to properly explain having a half-djinn lover. She’d slept soundly too, waking to find her weariness gone and her mind alert. For once, Siti had been there, curled up and asleep on the chair. Sharing a bed right now was awkward. But neither had wanted to spend the night alone.
“After you wandered off,” Hadia continued. Was there a reprimand in her tone? “I didn’t expect to see you this morning. Why’d you leave a message to meet here and not the office?” She took a cup offered by the boilerplate eunuch, tasting it and wrinkling her face before scooping in more sugar.
“We still have a case to solve,” Fatma reminded. “After last night, brass is throwing every resource at hunting down the imposter.”
“So I’ve gathered. There are new agents all over the office. Requesting our files—well, demanding them, really. I spent the last two hours recounting everything we have. Though I think they’d prefer to talk to you.”
“Bet they would,” Fatma grumbled. Likely agents flown in from Alexandria, here to muscle her off her own case. “That’s why we’re not meeting at the office. I have information that I don’t want to share just yet.” She leaned forward, and in a low voice told what she knew. Hadia’s eyebrows climbed with each revelation.
“He can control djinn? How is that even possible?”
“Don’t know,” Fatma answered.
Hadia shook her head in wonder. “And I thought when you explained this Clock of Worlds, that was going to be the worst of it. So an Ifrit as tame as a horse. Zagros trying to kill you. The king’s advisor having his mouth welded shut. All of it, the imposter controlling djinn. How did you even figure this out?”
“Can’t say.” She’d omitted references to Siti, of course. “It’s … complicated.”
Hadia studied her again, those calculating brown eyes shifting to her neck and narrowing.
“Let it go,” Fatma said. “We need to focus. And we’re mostly on our own.”
“You’re thinking if the Ministry gets wind of this, it might cause a panic.”
“I know and it will. Word hits the streets that this imposter can control djinn, and the city will explode. I also know how brass works. They’re spooked as it is and embarrassed about last night. They’d push to have djinn rounded up—claim it was for public safety.”
Hadia looked horrified. “That’s a bad idea! There are thousands of djinn living in the city. Dozens more passing through at any given moment. Not to mention, most are Egyptian citizens. They have rights. They’re not going to take being rounded up quietly.”
Fatma knew that for certain. “We had to take in a Jann once—an earth elemental. Evacuated a city block to be on the safe side. Contracted two Marid to help us. Got him in the end. But half the block was reduced to rubble. Government tries rounding up a few thousand djinn, and we won’t have to worry about this imposter destroying Cairo. We’ll have done it for him.” She set down her cup. “One other thing…”
“Nine Lords?” Hadia asked incredulous when Fatma finished. “Who burn away souls?” She slapped her palms to her cheeks, shaking her head. “Do you ever have good news?”
She did actually. “Last night when I broke the imposter’s mask, I saw his face.”
“How is that good news? We’ve seen his face. Soudanese. A bit fanatic.”
“Yes, but this time, it rippled.”
Hadia frowned before understanding played out on her face. “An illusion!”
Fatma smiled triumphantly. The moment she’d seen that ripple, she’d
