The Red Road was dotted with buildings, monuments, and masjid dating to the Fatimids and as recent as the Ottomans. The famed artisan district was a labyrinth of winding alleys lined with endless shops, where craftspeople preserved techniques passed down through the ages.
Fatma and Hadia hurried past thread-dyeing houses where women huddled over large stone baths, drawing out bundles of cotton from the black ink. Elsewhere, apprentices painstakingly stitched together tasfir under the watchful eye of a master bookbinder. Al Darb al-Ahmar was one of the few places in modern Cairo where steam or gas-powered machines were rare, its artisans preferring tradition to mechanized production. It meant slower going, but there were people who paid handsomely for such handcrafted creations.
They turned a corner to the Street of the Tentmakers, facing the old Bab Zuweila, with its impressive twin minarets. They’d had the carriage drop them at the newly reestablished Al-Azhar University, where they queried two students who sat drinking coffee. The women weren’t familiar with a djinn named Siwa, but suggested a carpet-maker they claimed knew every part of the district. It turned out he was indeed the person to ask. As he and his eldest daughter sat at an old-fashioned vertical loom weaving silk into prayer rugs, he related precisely where to find Siwa—down to the façade on the building.
“We’re lucky he’s the only djinn archivist in Al Darb al-Ahmar that goes by the name Siwa,” Fatma said, eyeing the print on a set of tents. The Street of the Tentmakers was aptly named, where artisans stitched by hand colorful geometric styles from local architecture across massive cloth canvases. Every shop belonged to a tentmaker, and they advertised with banners promising even more tantalizing craftsmanship inside their stores.
“I’ll never get used to that,” Hadia said, stepping aside as a flatbread seller pedaled past on a three-wheeled velocipede, a basket of rounded aish baladi stacked on his head. “How do djinn even tell one another apart?”
Fatma shook her head. Given that djinn called themselves mostly by geographical spaces, it was inevitable many ended up sharing the same name. She’d come across a dozen Qenas and scores of Helwans. How they distinguished one another by name was a mystery. They just … did.
“Here it is.” She motioned to a sign that read The Gamal Brothers, just above a drawing of three men stitching. The four-story building was made of brown stone broken by red swaths and windows framed in green. Like most of the block, an awning stretched from its roof to across the street—a tan canvas with mahogany stripes—shading all beneath.
Inside, they found Gamal—a man with curling gray whiskers—and his equally graying brothers. The three worked on a majestic tent of red, blue, and yellow designs with green calligraphy. A gramophone belted out music—surprisingly one of the songs made popular from the Jasmine. Never stopping their needlework, the three directed the two women upstairs when they inquired after a Siwa. As narrow as the passage was, Fatma thought it a wonder a djinn could fit the tight space.
“You’d think with all the money this Siwa’s been paid,” Hadia mused, “he could afford a bigger place.”
“Maybe he’s the frugal type,” Fatma muttered.
They stopped at a door on the third floor, which looked recently painted over a bright yellow. Before they could even knock, it opened. Djinn had a habit of that.
“Ahlan wa Sahlan!” he greeted.
“Ahlan biik,” Fatma replied.
She was taken aback at the warm welcome, as well as the djinn. He wasn’t small after all—just slightly less massive than Zagros, in fact—though his voice was higher than his size might predict. Beneath a black velvet kaftan embroidered in gold, his skin was dark red with thin curving lines of ivory. They formed swirling patterns that moved continually. The effect was hypnotizing, and she had to look away—though his yellow-and-green eyes did much the same. “I’m Agent Fatma, and this is Agent Hadia, with the Ministry of Alchemy, Enchantments, and Supernatural Entities. We’re looking for Siwa?”
The djinn inspected their badges, then touched the tips of his looping blue horns in some gesture she didn’t quite understand. “I am Siwa.” He smiled. “As I’ve already welcomed you to my home, please enter at your leisure.”
He guided them inside, and Fatma stopped in her tracks. Beside her, Hadia released a stunned breath. Like most djinn dwellings she’d visited, this one mimicked a museum: with antique furniture, statues, paintings that had the appearance of another time—and books. Endless books. Everywhere. In shelves. Stacked onto tables. In towering piles that looked like orderly mounds of art. But it was the size of the room that stood out. The apartment was immense, with archways and columns, and a wide stone floor. She looked back through the still-open doorway that showed the narrow stairs and then to the scene before her.
“It’s bigger on the inside than the outside?” Hadia whispered, incredulous.
Apparently so. Djinn magic was sometimes perplexing.
“I beg your pardon for the great mess,” Siwa said.
“You certainly like to read,” Hadia remarked.
“I’m something of an archivist. Of rare texts—both ancient and medieval, by mortal reckoning. Most of these are works of literature, from my personal collection.”
Hadia examined a thin volume written in Greek. “Have you read them all?”
The djinn beamed. “Several times! Will you take tea with me in the sitting room?”
He led them across the apartment—and Fatma tried not to gawk when they entered another room with a towering water fountain, made up of white marble camels balancing a bowl upon their humps. Paintings in gilded frames lined the walls—most depicting camels galloping across sweeping desert vistas.
When they arrived in the sitting room, the djinn offered them space on a plush purple divan while he sat in a wide chair large enough to fit his frame. On either side of him were tall gold carvings of camels. The detail was exquisite, down to the fur on their flexed muscles imitating movement and bright red rubies meant for eyes.
“Definitely not the frugal type,” Hadia whispered.
A small wood table was set up between them that held a gilt bronze pitcher carved with Persian designs and a spout like a camel’s mouth. Beside it were three cups of tea, with fresh mint leaves. They were invited to drink, and Fatma took her cup, sipping in surprise. This might have been the best mint tea she’d ever tasted.
“Now, how might I help the Ministry?” Siwa asked, a pleasant smile on his large face.
“We’re looking into the death of Lord Alistair Worthington,” Fatma said. “We understand that you knew him?”
The djinn blinked as Fatma moved to set her cup down. She fumbled, almost dropping it as she missed the edge of the table. Had the thing grown smaller?
“The papers say it was a terrible tragedy,” he answered. “But I did not know the English Basha, not personally.”
“You did do business with him. Through an intermediary—Archibald Portendorf?”
“Yes. The Wazir and I did business together.”
Fatma took note to better phrase her words. Djinn weren’t inherently deceptive. But they were at times direct, answering only precisely what you asked.
“This business. It was for the Hermetic Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz?”
Siwa blinked again. His smile wavered, lips trembling before going still. Fatma took note of that, breaking her concentration as her eyes flickered to the dark wood walls. She’d already noticed the mural that hung behind the djinn, displaying more camels on a gold background. Seemed to be a theme. Only now the camels that had been running right appeared to be running left. Her eyes went to her cup. What was in that tea?
“Yes,” Siwa answered finally. “My business was with the organization founded by Lord Alistair Worthington.”
“You helped them procure items.”
“Such was I was tasked, by the Wazir. We did good business together.”
“Why do you call him that?” Hadia asked. “The Wazir?”
“The members of the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz often held titles. Lord Alistair Worthington was known as the Grand Master. Archibald, the Wazir, his second.”
That explained the journal. “Were you a member of the Brotherhood?” Fatma asked.
Siwa’s smile broadened, and he chuckled. “No djinn belonged to Lord Alistair’s Brotherhood. Not that he didn’t try.”
“He tried to recruit you?”
Siwa’s smile wavered. Fatma glanced to make sure Hadia was writing this all down, but found her contemplating the teapot—which had oddly become brass instead of bronze.
“He made the attempt,” the djinn said. “But I declined. Such intimacy in mortal affairs can bring … problems.” For the first time his smile shrank to nothing, and his eyes took on an inward look, before his pleasant demeanor returned.
“How do you know so much about the Brotherhood, then?”
Siwa shrugged. “The Wazir was nervous around djinn. I would try to settle him with tea, and he would chatter on—I believe to cover his discomfort.”
“The things you procured for the Brotherhood,” Hadia asked. “They came from a list? Were they authentic? Because you were paid a lot for them.”
The djinn’s smile remained, but his answer was stiff. “I only deal in authentic items. My list is sound. My word is my reputation.”
“Of course,” Fatma jumped in. Djinn were sensitive to the insinuation of lying—even when they were. “You know, then, that Archibald died alongside Alistair Worthington.”
“Again, a terrible tragedy. May God show them His mercy.”
“You might have been one of the last people to see him, outside of the Brotherhood. He came to collect a sword from you, for £50,000. What kind of sword was that?”
“A blade that once belonged to the man you call al-Jahiz,” Siwa replied. “Forged by a djinn. A black blade that sings.”
So that explained how the imposter had gotten it. “Where did it come from?”
Siwa sighed regretfully. “Forgive me. But such secrets of my trade, I cannot divulge.”
She’d expected as much. “One last thing. Archibald claimed the night he came to get the sword there was an argument over money.” The djinn’s lips did that trembling thing again, and he blinked rapidly. “It seems someone else had already wired you £50,000 from Worthington’s account, two weeks prior, for unknown services. Someone with the initials AW.”
Siwa emitted a strangled noise. His lips compressed tight, as if holding something back, before he bellowed: “Ethiope! A cursed land indeed! The blackamoors from there are in his keep! Broad in the nose they are and flat in ear! Fifty thousand and more in his company!” The djinn clapped a clawed hand over his mouth, shaking his horned head.
Fatma, startled, looked to Hadia and back to the djinn. “Are you well?” When he didn’t answer, she tried again. “I only wanted to know about the second wire of money. What was it for? And who made it? The initials AW—was it Alexander Worthington?”
She’d barely finished speaking before Siwa let out a howl. No, not a howl, a stream of words without end. “Have the bards who preceded me left any theme unsung? What, therefore, shall be my subject? When the gods deal defeat to a person, they first take his mind away, so that he sees things wrongly! Nothing can be revoked or said in vain nor unfulfilled if I should nod my head!” Then without warning, the world rippled.
Fatma jumped to her feet.
“What just happened?” Hadia stood as well.
Before she could answer, the world rippled again. Not Hadia, not herself. But the djinn and the entire room shifted about, undulating like the swirl patterns on the djinn’s skin. She thought she might guess what was happening, when Siwa gave a gurgling scream. His mouth opened wide, unhinging until his jaw gaped, and a dark blue tongue lolled out—so long it fell to the middle of his chest. He pulled something from his kaftan: a long knife with a serrated blade. Fatma reached for her pistol. But the djinn put the sharp end to his tongue. With a fevered look in his eyes, he began to cut.
Fatma heard Hadia gag as blood spurted. Without another word, the two hurriedly backed out of the room, watching the apartment heave in sporadic spasms as the djinn’s screams filled their ears. They didn’t stop until they’d gotten out the front door, down the stairs, and past the three tentmakers—who still worked studiously at their stitching. Only when they reached the sidewalk did they speak.
“Ya Satter ya Rabb!” Hadia gasped. “What was that?”
Fatma had no answer. A djinn cutting out his own tongue was a first. “Didn’t the journal say something about him turning erratic when asked about the wired money? I’d call that erratic.”
“What was he yelling? It sounded like literature or—?”
“—poetry,” Fatma finished. “I didn’t know the first bit. But the second, it was Antar.”
“The medieval poet? So am I crazy? Or was that apartment … jumping about?”
“You’re not crazy,” Fatma answered. “He’s an Illusion djinn.”
Hadia blinked, then widened her eyes in understanding. Fatma should have caught it right away: an apartment too big on the inside; items changing one moment to the next. All djinn were gifted with illusion. The strongest ones in stories made entire cities appear in the desert and could fool each of your senses.
“But I felt like I walked a whole way to that sitting room,” Hadia insisted.
“That’s what makes Illusion djinn so good at what they do.”
“Did we even see the real Siwa? Did I really drink mint tea?”
“I doubt his apartment is as opulent as it seems. I also have a guess where his money’s been going. Did you notice all the camels? Almost always running?”
Hadia frowned quizzically, but Fatma let her work it out. “We won’t support his habit!” she said, catching on. “From the journal. He’s a gambler! Camel races!”
Fatma nodded. Camel racing had always been more popular out in the eastern desert, or back home near Luxor. Anywhere with flat wide spaces, which were hard to come by in Cairo. That was, until the djinn created their mechanical steam-powered camels, which could reach breakneck speeds. A track sat outside the city, and the high bets on riders and their clockwork mounts were notorious. Nothing emptied pockets faster.
“That explains why he needs so much money,” Hadia deduced. “But why rip out his own tongue? Unless that was an illusion too.”
“That felt too real,” Fatma said. “He seemed genuinely upset. Every time we asked him anything that came close to touching on the Brotherhood, his illusion slipped. When we asked about that night with Archibald, the argument over the money, it started falling apart.”
“Not just the money,” Hadia noted, frowning. “It was when you mentioned Alexander that things got bad. He really didn’t want to talk about that.”
Or couldn’t. Fatma gazed back up to the tentmaker’s shop. She’d heard of spells that could stop someone from revealing secrets, rendering a person unable to form words, sealing their lips tight. A spell that could reduce a djinn—a Marid no less—to spouting random lines of literature and force him to cut out his own tongue was strong magic.
“One more question,” Hadia said. “Is it darker out than usual?”
Fatma broke from her contemplations to follow Hadia’s gaze. The sky was darkening, the blue obscured by a growing yellowish haze. A warm strong wind picked up, buffeting them and fluttering the awning above. All along the street, canvases were tossed about in the growing gale—a few becoming unmoored and flapping wildly. The bread seller they’d seen earlier sped by, still holding loaves atop his head. He shouted as he went: “Sandstorm! Sandstorm!”
Sandstorm? This time of year? But as Fatma watched, signs of a brewing storm mounted, as sunlight dimmed and the wind intensified. People hustled to get indoors, closing shops and pulling down barricades. She could already feel the dust in her nose, making it hard to breathe.
“We need to make it back!” she told Hadia. Holding her bowler tight and putting her shoulder against the wind, she set out, hoping to beat the storm before it arrived.