Fatma knew the recitation. But the woman’s words sounded rehearsed. And she was still fidgeting. “I’ve dealt with them before, so let me do most of the talking. Keep the note ready. If I start straying or looking confused, make me read it.”
“I can do that,” Hadia assured. “I hope they have a way of removing this thing.” She motioned a hand about her head at the unseen spell. Fatma hoped so too. It was impossible getting anything done like this. Arriving at the top of the stairs, they stopped to stare at the structure looming before them.
The citadel. It had been built in the twelfth century and had since seen numerous additions, the last under Muhammad Ali Basha, the Great. It was one of the oldest medieval buildings in Cairo, joined to several masjid—including one named for the basha. That had been its greatest claim to fame, until the angels arrived. They’d established their leadership here immediately, in Al-Gawhara Palace. No one had objected. One rarely did when angels were concerned. Since their arrival sometime after the djinn, they’d commandeered numerous such historical buildings, often paying the government large sums for their lease.
Al-Gawhara had been built by Muhammad Ali, on the same avenue where he’d invited several hundred Mamluke leaders to a feast—only to slaughter them all. It was widely believed the basha’s secret djinn advisor played a decisive role in this consolidation of power, rendering the Mamlukes’ weapons to sand in their very hands. It was an odd choice for the supposed angels to make their sanctum, but who ever knew their reasoning. The palace was rebuilt yet again to house them, refitted with floors that towered near as high as the masjid named for Muhammad Ali, and several rounded domes that took up most of the southern enclosure.
Two big men in white robes and turbans stood guarding an entrance. Each held long lances ending in a gold crescent and Star of David crowned by a pointed cross. Angels liked to cover all their bases. The men inspected Fatma and Hadia with dazed expressions on their beefy faces.
Fatma handed over their invitation to one of them. He took it, letting out a sigh of wonder at the scripted fiery holy tongue that moved and writhed about. Returning it, he stepped aside, opening the door to let them pass through.
The inside of the onetime palace had been transformed into a place of angels. One or two very small ones—no bigger than children—flitted through the air on mechanical wings to the accompaniment of music: Gregorian chants, lilting nasheeds, and odes to whirling dervishes. Beneath, human and djinn workers in all white went about their businesses of maintaining the domicile. All shared the same dazed expression as the guards.
Fatma looked to Hadia, who wasn’t that far off. She was staring at an angel walking the hallway. He was more like the ones she was used to—a giant in a clockwork construction resembling a man, with four long arms and great wings of jade and cobalt. His true ethereal body was ensconced within the machine framework and glowed like light become flesh.
“Are you going to be alright, Hadia? Hadia!”
The woman turned sharply at her name, looking unsettled.
“Do you remember why we’re here?” Fatma asked. Now she had a confused look on her face, which didn’t disappear until shown the note.
“Sorry,” Hadia said, color tinging her cheeks. “I just hadn’t realized they were so … I mean they’re not real angels, but…” She glanced about. “Aheeh! This place. It’s just a bit overwhelming. So massive. Bigger on the inside. Another illusion? Like Siwa’s apartment?”
Fatma shook her head, taking in the towering columns and high vaulted ceilings. “Angels don’t do illusions. This is magic of the very high kind. The Ministry believes the inside of the building functions as extra-dimensional exponential space. Technically, we may not even be in Cairo right now.”
“Technically, agent, you aren’t,” someone confirmed.
They turned to find a djinn with ridged ochre horns striding toward them. She wore a slender white gown and a pleasant silver smile on her ebony face. “Good morning, Agents Fatma and Hadia. I’m Azmuri, your escort to the Council.”
They returned the greeting. “I didn’t know we needed an escort,” Fatma said.
“We’ve found this space confounding to mortals,” Azmuri explained. “We’ve had, ah, incidents, where some have become lost for days. Sometimes weeks. You have your letter of summons?”
Fatma held up the invite. So she’d been right about that.
“Excellent,” the djinn pronounced. “If you could spare a moment, there are the necessary forms.” She motioned to another figure they hadn’t even noticed—a short man with that same dazed look on his face. He held a stack of papers in one hand and a set of pens. Fatma grimaced.
Angels were notorious for their bureaucracy. They required every little thing be recorded, signed, stamped, and reviewed—often in triplicate. Cairenes joked that they must have invented paperwork. Taking a pen, she looked over the first form, getting almost dizzy at the printed blocks of legalese before scribbling her name in five places. Eight more forms followed. By the time it was done, her hand was cramping.
“I hope I’m not signing away my free will or fondest memories,” Hadia muttered.
“Oh no,” Azmuri replied. “Those forms are much longer.” Hadia stopped her signing midway at the remark, before seeing the smirk on the djinn’s lips. A joke. At least, Fatma hoped so. When they’d finished, Azmuri dismissed the man and turned back to them.
“Now that’s out of the way I’ll take you to the Council. Follow me, please.”
They set out, the djinn leading them through the cavernous hall and down one of the many corridors. As they walked, Fatma noted the large open rooms—where people performed odd labors. One was filled entirely with veiled women, seated at desks in orderly rows and using brushes to scrawl out fiery holy tongue onto parchment. As they passed, one of the women began
