The night air was cool on Fatma’s skin, stirring her from a fitful sleep.
She’d been dreaming. Of the man in the gold mask. Ghuls and roaring djinn. Ifrit that flew on wings of flame. She pulled free of Siti, and rose from the bed. Slipping on a gallabiyah she walked to where Ramses lay on her high-backed Moroccan chair—a ball of silver fur atop cream-colored cushions. She thought to sit, but remembered her mother’s claim that the Prophet—peace be upon him—had once cut his own cloak rather than move a sleeping cat. Instead, she stepped past fluttering curtains to her balcony, and looked out at the city below.
When she was younger, her family spent summer nights on the house roof to avoid the heat. They’d sit sharing coffee and what news of the day. She slept peaceful there, preferring the expanse of open sky to closed walls. A part of her toyed with going to the roof of her apartment. But it wasn’t the same. Besides, getting lost in memories of home was usually her way of trying to escape the now. Too much at stake to lose herself in that kind of reverie. It had been three nights and two days since the attack on the Ministry.
And Cairo was in shambles.
The city’s administrators and Ministry brass had come by the day after to assess the damage and present a strong front to the public. But people could see the wreckage. Photographs of the Ministry building pouring black smoke were splashed across all the dailies. And everyone knew who was responsible. If the streets had been abuzz about al-Jahiz before, now they were on fire.
Ask the average person what it was the Ministry did, and you got all sorts of answers—much of them fanciful. But people understood what the Ministry stood for: to make some sense of this new world; to help create balance between the mystical and the mundane; to allow them to go on living their lives, knowing someone was there to watch over forces they barely understood. To see that institution laid low was like taking a hammer to the collective psyche of the city.
Riots erupted that first night and continued into the second. Some of the unrest came from Moustafa’s sympathizers, who took the attack as a sign to demand the release of the alleged Bearer of Witness. It got ugly. Almost a repeat of the Battle of el-Arafa. Scores arrested. More police injured.
And that was only the beginning.
Protestors calling themselves Al-Jahiz’s Faithful demonstrated outside state offices—even showing up in front of the bombed Ministry. They called on the government to stop hiding the truth, accused authorities of outlandish conspiracies to strip Egypt of its sovereignty, and demanded acknowledgment of al-Jahiz’s return. More violent elements attacked anyone denying their claims. There’d been beatings and at least one firebombing at an aether-works shop. This wasn’t some extremist religious sect. Al-Jahiz’s followers included Sunni and Shia, Sufi and Copts, fervent nationalists, even atheistic anarchists and nihilists—all united in their dedication. To an imposter.
I will make you hurt. I will make you understand.
Fatma realized her hands had balled into fists. Her eyes ran back to the bed, and some measure of her tension eased. Even sleeping, Siti had that effect. It was hard to believe the woman had suffered a grievous injury just days past. Even the scar was gone. Whatever magics she and the Temple of Hathor dabbled in, it was potent. Her gaze left the bed, falling on a bit of gold that sat on a nearby table. Her pocket watch.
She picked up the timepiece, turning it over. The back was fashioned like the tympan of an old asturlab—with the coordinates of the celestial sphere engraved in a stereographic projection, overlaid with an ornate rete. Depressing a latch, she flipped the watch open to reveal a glass casing covering bronze wheel gears, plates, pinions, and springs. A silver crescent moved along an inner circle ticking down the seconds, with a sun and star keeping the hour and minutes.
Her father was a watchmaker, a skill that yet proved resourceful in this age. In the industrial world everyone needed a watch, if only to keep up with airship and railway schedules. Her father crafted beautiful timepieces, no two the same. His creations were commissioned in nearby Luxor and as far south as Aswan. This one, he’d made for her. She still remembered his words when offering it.
Old travelers and sailors used the asturlab to tell their place in the world. So that no matter where they went, they could locate the Qibla for prayer or know the proper time of sunrise. I made this watch for you, light of my eyes, so that you can always know where you are. Cairo is a big city—so big, you can get lost if you’re not careful. If things ever get too fast, and you feel as if you don’t know where you’re going, remember this gift. It will always lead you back where you need to be.
“Counting down the hours?” a voice purred in her ear.
She jumped slightly as Siti’s arms wrapped around her waist. She hadn’t even heard the woman stir, much less cross the room.
“Still can’t sleep?”
Fatma closed the pocket watch. “Can’t keep my mind quiet.”
“Been a busy week. You’re lucky to be alive.”
That was true. No one had died in the attack, praise be to God. The ghuls, it seemed, were meant to keep people out of the way. Even the missing guard had turned up, in his oversized uniform. But they weren’t without casualties. The building’s brain had been destroyed. For all intents and purposes, the imposter had murdered it.
Zagros was another troubling matter.
That the imposter was able to turn one of their own damaged morale more than any bomb. The djinn librarian hadn’t put up resistance when arrested. He was a traitor for certain. But an oddly quiet one. He spent his days in a cell, refusing to speak to anyone. She still saw his golden eyes as he tried to kill her. Empty. Dead.
“Come back to bed,” Siti urged, nuzzling her neck. “Worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.”
Fatma leaned back, wishing she could. But her mind wouldn’t stop working, like her watch. She and Hadia hadn’t been able to do much on the case since the attack. Between sweeps for traps, leftover ghuls, and repairs, the building wouldn’t be habitable for days. They’d been working out of makeshift offices, but things were no longer solely in their hands.
Brass had stepped in, pulling in agents from as far as Alexandria. It was a manhunt now. Find out where the imposter would strike next. Chase down every sighting. Arrest anyone involved. The leads she and Hadia had dug up, the investigation around Lord Worthington’s death—all of that had been mostly abandoned.
“It’s like they don’t even care about solving the case,” she grumbled.
“The imposter’s admitted to the crime,” Siti said. “Added a bombing to the list.”
“But there’s no motive!”
“I thought we were just going with criminally insane?”
Fatma cursed silently. “We were getting close. I know it. Alexander Worthington. He’s involved somehow!”
Siti shook her head. “No one’s going to let you go after Alexander Worthington. Not on the eve of the king’s peace summit. The one his father put together. It would be a scandal. And, no offense, but you don’t exactly have much to go on.”
Fatma exhaled wearily. Not from lack of sleep but exasperation. Siti was right. Brass had commanded her to stay away from the Worthingtons. Not to question their associates, or take any action to embarrass them. They couldn’t even subpoena business records. Aasim had similar orders. Finding the imposter and making certain the king’s summit went off without a hitch was now top priority. She and Hadia had even been put on assignment that night, in an attempt to make the palace an impregnable fortress.
“I told you what he took from the vault,” Fatma whispered. “You know better than anyone what that could mean.”
The two of them had been the only ones to see the Clock of Worlds set into motion. The machine had been built by a rogue angel named Maker—based on the Theory of Overlapping Spheres, the very one al-Jahiz used to open the portal to the Kaf forty years past. Using blood sorcery, the angel had unlocked a doorway to some nether-realm—part of a mad plan to cleanse humanity and start anew. She and Siti managed by the skin of their teeth to stop him, closing the portal, and sealing away the terrible things within.
She’d explained all this to the higher-ups at the Ministry, begging them to take seriously the threat of the Clock of Worlds in the imposter’s hands. Amir backed her up. But their concerns were waved away. No madman and imposter would be able to re-create the work of an angel, they reasoned. She was certain more than a few doubted her account of what the machine was capable of doing. It was all so maddening.
“It’s getting dark out there.”
Siti looked out onto the city, understanding she wasn’t speaking about the night. “All the temples are worried about these Jahiziin.”
Fatma rolled her eyes at the term, cooked up by the dailies to describe the imposter’s followers. There couldn’t be that many. Most Cairenes were too sensible for that. Probably fewer than a thousand. But a loud and determined minority was all you needed to sow chaos.
“That firebombing last night of the aether mechanic,” Siti went on. “That was actually a Temple of Osiris. The head priest was only saved because some Forty Leopards intervened—chased the Jahiziin off.”
Fatma met that with surprise, recalling their run-in with the Forty Leopards at el-Arafa. “So the lady thieves are on our side now?”
“Be thankful someone is,” Siti remarked playfully. Her tone turned sober. “Merira’s shop window was smashed last night. But I think it was just random vandalism, not an attack on Hathor. We’ve been careful.”
Fatma was reminded of their argument about whether the temples could come out into the open. She didn’t bring it up.
“It might all unravel, you know. The whole city. Come apart like a cheap suit.”
Siti rumbled a low laugh. “Like you know anything about cheap suits.” Then hugging Fatma tight: “Whatever comes, we’ll meet it. We’ve done it before. Now get back to bed. Not taking no for an answer.”
Fatma finally allowed herself to be led back. Curling about Siti, she took a deep breath, drinking in the woman’s scent, and finally drifted away. Her dreams now were pleasant, even peaceful. And she tried to hold on to them for as long as she could.
The summit took place the following week.
On a Wednesday.