“Agent Fatma!” he huffed.
“Agent Onsi. You’re in another wagon, with Agent Hamed.”
“Yes! And my thanks again for including me on this mission. I hope—”
“You don’t have to thank me, Onsi.” Admittedly, he wasn’t the first person she had in mind for the field. But he’d been handy during the ghul attack. “Is there something else?”
Onsi nodded vigorously. “I wanted to tell you, I read over the book you gave me!”
Fatma blinked. “You read The Tale of Lady Dhāt al-Himma in the past few hours?” Normally, she’d have taken it to Zagros. But the djinn hadn’t been released yet, even after what she’d told Amir. Not with the ring still being unaccounted for. Onsi was the next natural choice. But this had to be some kind of record.
“I picked up speed-reading at university,” he said. “It doesn’t allow for detailed understanding, but I’ve found you can gain a fairly good summary. Why, once I finished the complete thirteenth-century volumes of the Timbuktu esoteric philosophies in—”
“Onsi,” Fatma gestured to the wagon. “We’re in the middle of something?”
“Ah! The book! A fascinating read. One I hadn’t come across, though I hear it’s very popular in the kingdoms of Western Sahara. It tells of Lady Fatma Dhāt al-Himma.”
“So we share a name. Could that be what Siwa wanted me to know?”
“That’s hardly the most remarkable thing. In the literature she’s a princess who becomes a warrior-queen. Some uncomfortable events occur with her husband, and she bears him a son with black skin. This alarms the father, who refuses to grant the child legitimacy—though physicians confirm the boy is his. Quite a scandal.”
“I’m certain,” Fatma replied impatiently. “Is there more?”
“Oh yes!” He pushed up his spectacles. “Lady Dhāt al-Himma is forced to become her son’s sole parent. She takes him under her wing and teaches him the art of a knight. To test her son, she would often dress as a man and attack him. He grows to be a great warrior, but also arrogant. In one story, when his mother warns him off entering into battle with the Byzantines, he rebukes her—tells her to go back to spinning with the women and leave it to him to fight.”
“That’s ungrateful,” Fatma noted.
“Quite. Lady Dhāt al-Himma takes her vengeance by masquerading as a Byzantine knight and defeating her son in front of whole armies, before pulling back her veil to reveal who she was—a woman, and his mother.”
“Sounds like something my mother would do. What’s the point?”
“It’s what Lady Dhāt al-Himma says to her son after lifting her veil: ‘So you did not care for full-bosomed companions? How does it suit you to be tested by the lion of the forest?’ Those are the same words spoken by this Illusion djinn. Perhaps you can find meaning in them?”
Fatma looked at him for a long while. At last she said, “You’re a treasure, Onsi.” His round face beamed as if she had pinned a medal on his chest.
The sun slunk low by the time their caravan rumbled down the road to the Worthington estate. The sky began to fade from blue to a hazy shade of yellow, and Fatma could make out the pyramids standing their ceaseless watch. They had been joined by Giza police, swelling to almost as large as the company that entered the Cemetery. She hoped this wasn’t a repeat of that disaster.
Hadia sat beside her, forced to endure Aasim recounting stories of his strong will—inherited, he believed, from his grandfather. He sat close to two other men in police uniforms. The one in the middle Fatma glanced to every now and again. He returned her stares, with black eyes as unreadable as his set face.
In reality, she wasn’t paying much attention to him. Or to Aasim’s bragging. Siwa’s parting words lingered, and she mouthed them like some mantra. How does it suit you to be tested by the lion of the forest? She twisted the strands of the pale gold lock between her fingers, probing them with the proficiency of a seer.
Hearing her name pulled her from contemplation. Hadia was gesturing to the wagon door—where Aasim and the others were already making their exit. She hadn’t even noticed they’d stopped.
“Are you alright?” Hadia asked, face showing concern. “You didn’t talk the entire way.”
“Aasim talked enough for everyone. Did he compare you to his daughter yet?”
“Inspector Moustache? About three times.” She dropped her voice. “But really, what’s going on? I thought you’d be ecstatic. We’re about to arrest our imposter.”
“Just some things on my mind.” Fatma looked down to the lock of hair, then drew out her pocket watch, holding it up. “My father gave me this when I came to Cairo. Made it like an old asturlab. Said to look to it whenever I feel lost, so I can find my way.”
“You feel lost now?”
Fatma met Hadia’s eyes. “Do you trust me?”
She seemed taken aback but nodded with certainty. “Yes.”
Fatma tucked the watch back into her jacket. “When we get in there, follow my lead. I can’t explain. Still working through things. But just bear with me. No matter how crazy it looks.”
Hadia raised a curious eyebrow. “Crazy comes with this job.”
They stepped out of the wagon, joining Aasim. He stood in front of the Worthington estate, giving orders. “I’m stationing most of my people around the estate. In case the Englishman tries to find another way out.” He touched a whistle hanging from his neck. “One blow, and they’ll swarm the house. If that Ifrit shows up…”
“Let’s not let it get to that,” she told him. “But don’t try putting on the cuffs until I give the go-ahead.”
Aasim regarded her quizzically. “Fine, as long as he doesn’t do one of those villain rants—they love hearing themselves talk.”
In the end,
