“I grew up here,” Layla said. She took a white apron embroidered with colorful flowers from someone, wrapping it about her dress. “There was a woman who took care of one of the tombs. It was not her family but the family her own had worked for. I thought her a fool. Taking care of the dead of someone who had likely treated her family as servants for generations? But every day after Friday prayer, she would come around and give all of us children loaves of bread and cheese. I later learned she was taking what monies the tomb owner’s family gave her and using it on us. It was a lesson not to pass judgment so quickly. She’s gone now, but I carry on her tradition.”
Fatma stayed quiet. If the woman wanted to claim her band of lady thieves were actually philanthropists stealing from the wealthy to feed the poor, she wouldn’t argue. But she doubted anyone else in this slum could afford fancy aprons. And the red ruby that extended from the woman’s necklace—the size of a hen’s egg—could probably feed all these children for a year.
“You’ll need aprons as well,” Layla remarked. “And ladles.”
Someone stepped forward to offer both.
“I don’t think you understand why we came,” Fatma began. “We don’t have the time—”
“You had time to come in here and disrupt these children’s lives,” Layla countered sharply. “Some of their parents are still in jail. Others saw their brothers or family beaten by police. I think you have time, agents. Unless your apologies are just words.”
Fatma looked at the children. None paid her much mind in their chatter. But she felt the guilt all the same and slipped on the apron without further protest. Hadia joined her. In short order, the two were serving rounds of baladi bread along with bowls of chicken and mulukhiya—the latter filling the air with the fragrant scent of fried garlic and coriander. Sometime in the middle of this, Layla spoke.
“I am at times contracted by a djinn named Siwa.”
Well, that was one confirmation. “To break into the vault of the angels,” Fatma said.
“That is where he sends us.” Layla paused to scold two children fighting over some bread. “It pays well. Though not as thrilling as my girls hoped.”
Fatma exchanged a look with Hadia. “Oh? How’s that?”
Layla shrugged. “One would expect breaking into the vault of angels would carry more danger. Or greater difficulty. Not to say it was easy. But…”
“It seemed just dangerous enough to navigate for your girls,” Fatma guessed. “Just difficult enough for them to overcome. And tended to work out in their favor. Without fail.”
The older woman paused, inspecting them with hard eyes. “Odd, that, don’t you think?” She turned back to her work. “When Usta Khalid told me you wanted to ask questions about my contract for Siwa, I agreed. Because something has been troubling me these past few weeks. The last time he hired us, it was to steal two items. Said it was very important that I go myself. I did.” Seeing their surprised looks, she frowned. “Don’t let these old bones fool you. I’m quite agile. I retrieved the items with the information he provided—telling me precisely where to find it in the angels’ vault. But a strange thing. I recall stealing a sword—a blade dark as midnight that sings. The other item, however.” She frowned deeper. “When I try to remember what else I stole—”
“—you can’t,” Fatma finished.
Confusion creased the Leopardess’s sharp eyes. “I can’t remember anything from that night other than retrieving the sword. Like a hole in my memory. I don’t know what else I came out with from that vault. But then this man in the gold mask appears on Cairo’s streets. Wielding that very black blade. Claiming to be al-Jahiz. Riding on the back of an Ifrit!” She shook her head at the implausibility. “We were paid handsomely. But I cannot help but feel I played a hand in the wrongness that has gripped the city. And every night since coming out of that vault, I dream ill omens. Something terrible is coming.” She paused. “I’m telling you this because I believe you are trying to stop that.”
“We are,” Fatma assured. “You’ve been a great help. Now we have to visit—”
“All well and good,” the older woman cut in. “Once you finish here.” She gestured pointedly to an empty bowl. A small girl with a bit of dirt on her nose sat behind it, looking up expectantly. “Now keep spooning out food. These children are hungry.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Fatma and Hadia arrived at the Street of the Tentmakers in early afternoon, heading directly to the Gamal Brothers shop. With business slow, the three proprietors sat about drinking tea. Two played a board game while a third watched, the gramophone sounding a scratchy recording of horns and darbukas. She and Hadia flashed badges, and the men absently directed them toward the narrow stairs. Reaching the top, they rapped on the door. Siwa opened with a warm smile—which evaporated upon seeing them. The Illusion djinn moved to shut the door but Fatma rammed her cane between.
“We know you’re involved with this imposter. So you can talk now. Or we can have the Ministry bring you in with every agent I can round up. What’s it going to be?”
The djinn glared with those swirling yellow-green eyes, looking the part of a menacing Marid. Then, realizing she wouldn’t back down, the fight seemed to go out of him. He slumped and let them inside.
“You can also stop with the illusions,” Fatma said, gesturing at the opulent space.
The djinn made a face, waving a hand in the air as if cleaning it. Instantly, the illusion vanished. They stood in a small room with faded walls lined by worn
