Fatma could hear the ire in his voice. Djinn didn’t appear too fond of these past kings. “What happened to them?”
“These are only stories,” Zagros rumbled. “But it is said that djinn rose up, fought for our freedom, trapping the Nine Lords into an endless sleep and burying them deep within the Kaf. They exist now only in lullabies sung to unruly djinn children as a warning. Be good, heed your elders, or the Nine Lords will awaken—and come for you!” He shrugged heavy shoulders. “But again, these are only stories.”
“You know what the imposter stole,” Fatma said. “The secrets to the Clock of Worlds. Could he be trying to awaken these Nine Lords?”
Zagros raised a bushy eyebrow at her. “How can one awaken a story?”
With those last words he went silent and spoke no more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Soor al-Azbakeya sat in the very heart of Cairo. Books were what was sold here—piled on tables, stacked in stalls, sometimes assembled on the street itself. The best places to explore were the shops dotting the buildings—some so small, only their owners could fit inside to grab out what you wanted. More enterprising vendors took up several floors and housed everything from medieval manuscripts on alchemical mathematics to manuals for barometric steam mechanics—not to mention the new rage for trashy western romance novels.
Rami’s Books & Assorted Ephemera was a medium-sized affair. Bigger than the small shops, yet only taking up the second floor of a building—its sign visible from the street below. Fatma and Hadia crossed toward it, pushing through yelling vendors all looking to attract buyers. Being there were few of those, they were especially forceful—thrusting books right under your nose and promising good prices. Fatma almost rapped one man with her cane to get him to step aside. There was only one book she was interested in right now, and one seller.
She and Hadia had stopped to eat, reviewing Zagros’s cryptic remarks over a plate of kofta atop fragrant arugula. Neither had the first idea where to start seeking these Nine Ifrit Lords. But they’d both read The One Thousand and One Nights.
The stories had been popular in Egypt for centuries. With the return of the djinn, they were now treatises for academics to pore over, trying to separate possible truths from fancy. What those tales had to do with all of this, however, was hard to imagine. But they couldn’t afford to turn up their noses at possible leads. Reaching the building, they climbed the stairs to Rami’s.
True to its name, the shop was filled with books. Most were old, bound in worn leather whose scent hung in the air. Gilded brass lamps descended from the ceiling to provide illumination, joined by tallow candles in bronze holders. A surprising extent of antique clocks lined the walls, all synced to the same time. Altogether, the place carried a rustic feel detached from Cairo’s modernity.
Fatma surveyed the shop and caught sight of a small man perched on a ladder and stuffing books onto an upper shelf. Seeing them, he ambled down and walked over, baggy trousers swishing.
“Welcome to Rami’s Books and Assorted Ephemera,” he greeted warmly, the white curling hair on his face moving in time with his speech. “Is there a text you are looking for that I can help find?”
“The One Thousand and One Nights,” Fatma answered, her eyes roaming. There was one other person in the shop—an old woman, Abyssinian by the look of her, not to mention the white woven dress and colorful sash about her waist. She sat bent over a large tome, turning pages gingerly before inspecting them with a magnifying glass.
“I have many of those!” the bookseller beamed “Most are in Arabic and include the over one thousand stories. I have others in the original Persian or Sanskrit, though the stories are fewer.”
“How about the ones that might interest a Persian djinn who goes by the name Zagros?” Fatma displayed her Ministry badge. Hadia followed.
The bookseller’s smile slid away, and his aging face furrowed. He licked his lips for a moment, reaching up to scratch his head and pulling back at remembering he wore a tarboosh. “Zagros sent you?”
“Big djinn. Purple skin. Ivory tusks. Something of a snob.”
The small man chuckled. “That’s certainly Zagros. Is there a particular reason he asked you to come to me? To find that book?”
“He said you could show us what we can’t see,” Hadia answered.
The bookseller straightened, his face turning eager—as if he’d been waiting for just this moment. “Well, then. We’d better have a talk.” He turned, calling out to the Abyssinian woman. “Tsega! Brew some tea while I close up the shop. We’re having company!”
Sometime later, Fatma sat with Hadia at a small table. Above hung a brass lamp that poured down light that glinted off a banner with a gold Star of David. The old woman was setting down small cups of tea in front of them, while the bookseller inspected the spine of a bound volume. Both spoke as they worked.
“I was alone in the shop after my first wife, Magda, died,” Rami related. His short fingers ran along the book’s covering as if they could suss out its contents. “Then about ten years ago Tsega wandered in and promptly started an argument over how I’d arranged some Sassanid texts. I knew right away I had to marry her.”
Tsega sniffed, pushing back her braided hair. “I worked at the royal library at Addis Ababa,” she said proudly, sitting down and taking up her tea. “His arrangement was all nonsense. It took me this long to get it right. Only reason I stayed and agreed to marry him.”
The bookseller offered a sly wink. “As you see, I’m a very fortunate man. A practicing Egyptian Karaite marrying a Haymanot from Abyssinia. And both unabashed bibliophiles. Where else but Cairo could such love take root and bloom?”
“How do you know Zagros?” Hadia asked, smiling, seeming to
