A Master of Djinn by P. Djèlí Clark

Author:P. Djèlí Clark [Clark, P. Djèlí]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781250267689
Google: jU8aEAAAQBAJ
Amazon: 1250267684
Publisher: Tordotcom
Published: 2021-05-10T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

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.

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