“This is ridiculous!” Fatma snapped, losing her patience. “I know you didn’t try to kill me. I know that the imposter can somehow control djinn. Why are you set on letting everyone think you’re a traitor? Why don’t you exonerate yourself?”
There was a long stretch of silence before he uttered in a rumbling whisper, “I cannot.”
“What do you mean you can’t? Are you protecting someone?”
“I cannot.” The words were still a whisper, but more insistent.
“Or are you just ashamed to admit what happened to you?”
“I cannot!” His voice came strained.
“That’s not good enough!”
Zagros turned, and when she saw his face, she started. It had gone a pale lavender—coursing with sweat and contorted in pain. His lips worked, fighting to squeeze out the smallest sounds.
“He can’t answer you!” Hadia said, recoiling. “Don’t you see? He’s choking! Make him know he doesn’t have to answer!”
She was right! The muscles in the djinn’s neck bulged, and his golden eyes rolled back as he sputtered. Fatma jumped to her feet. “I’m not asking you anymore! Stop!”
Zagros let out a lengthy wheeze, clutching his throat. He heaved in great ragged bellows, before his shoulders slumped and his breathing returned to normal. Fatma looked in bewilderment to Hadia, who just shook her head. What in all the worlds was that?
“You work so hard,” Zagros’s voice came quietly. “To perfect yourself. To cultivate an impeccable air. And in the end, it can all be taken away from you. In an instant.” His gold eyes rolled up to look at them. “Do you know that I am, in truth, a half-djinn?”
Fatma’s eyebrows rose. Another half-djinn? She took in his massive size. “Half of what?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.
“My mother was a daeva,” he intoned.
Ah. That she could see. Daeva were distant cousins of djinn from Persia and its neighboring regions—though some djinn balked at claims of kinship. Highly reclusive, what little the Ministry knew of daeva came from Zoroastrian writings and oral folklore. One thing the sources all agreed upon, was that as a class of beings they were highly disagreeable. And that was putting it lightly.
“I grew up with all the stereotypes of being half-daeva,” Zagros continued. “That our daeva blood made us quick-tempered. That we were wild, untamed—prone to violence and destruction. My father’s family warned him my mother might tear him limb from limb on their wedding night. In truth she only tried to do so once. Perhaps twice.”
Right, Fatma thought. Definitely disagreeable.
“I worked hard to counteract that bias. I became the most dignified of djinn. I carried myself with grace. So that none could cast aspersions on my lineage. All of that taken from me now—at last reduced to the half-civilized daeva prone to murderous rage.” He released a weary sigh. “It is a terrible thing, this politics of being perceived as respectable. To be forced to view your frailties through the eyes of others. A terrible thing.”
Fatma wondered at that. She hadn’t asked Siti how djinn treated those of partial blood. But from what she knew of immortals, they could be as foolish on such matters as humans.
“Then let us help you,” she urged. “Let us clear your name!”
Zagros opened his mouth only to have it snap shut again, seemingly against his will. He hung his horned head, shaking it in submission. Fatma realized it was futile to ask again. This wasn’t obstinance. There was magic at work here. He was being prevented from talking.
“Just like Siwa,” Hadia whispered, sharing her unspoken thoughts.
Fatma ground her teeth in frustration. Someone was throwing roadblocks in their way, whenever they got close. At this rate this case would never be solved. She motioned to Hadia that they should go. There was nothing to be gotten here. They’d made it to the door when Zagros called out.
“Have you ever read One Thousand and One Nights?”
Both women turned back to him.
“A very influential set of tales,” he went on, gaze still on the wall. “The Ministry library has several bound versions. But don’t bother with any of those. There’s a bookseller. Rami. In Soor al-Azbakeya. He’s the one to buy from.” He paused, as if choosing his words delicately. “Ask him to show you what you cannot see.”
Fatma exchanged a curious glance with Hadia. “Thank you,” she said uncertainly. Though confused at his advice she decided to push further. “One other thing. Have you ever heard of the Nine Lords?”
Zagros turned to her now. She thought there might actually be surprise in those eyes. “Where did you hear this?”
“The imposter. He sang a song. ‘The Nine Lords are sleeping. Do we want to wake them? Look into their eyes and they’ll burn your soul away.’”
The librarian looked at her with bewilderment before answering. “An old djinn lullaby. My father sang it to me. It tells of nine ancient Ifrit. There’s a fuller rendition: ‘The Nine Lords are sleeping. In their halls of fire. Do we want to wake them? No, we dare not wake them! Look into their eyes and they’ll burn your soul away! Go to sleep, my children, or they’ll burn your soul away!’”
“The imposter has an Ifrit,” Fatma said. “Could that be one of these Nine Lords?”
Zagros shook his head. “The Nine Lords are great djinn. Some of the first formed of smokeless fire. A few blasphemously and boldly claim to have created themselves, pulling their fiery forms from the void. Any Ifrit you have encountered would be as children to them. These Nine Lords were once masters of djinn.”
“Like the stories of djinn rulers and kingdoms?” Hadia asked.
“They were our enslavers,” Zagros growled. “Djinn were held as thralls to their power. Forced to proclaim them our Great Lords. To fight in their ceaseless wars. To raise up
