Djinn City, page 26
“My thanks to the society.”
“Well, you know, we believe our interests coincide somewhat. You’re known as a peaceable djinn, and we at the society think this thing Matteras is doing is a little bit much.”
“Well, I sure as hell ain’t for it,” Beltrex said. He turned rheumy eyes toward Barabas. “This is your new protégé, huh?”
“Ahem, that’s the djinn Barabas,” Golgoras said.
“Right, right, sorry, where’s that new emissary?”
“Well, emissary-in-training, really,” Barabas said with a huff. “Kaikobad’s nephew.”
“In my day it was pretty careless, losing your emissary like that,” Beltrex said. “You’d have lost an ass-load of dignatas.”
“I did, I did,” Barabas said angrily. “You can’t imagine what I’m going through. I can’t even hail a taxicab these days. It was so careless of Kaikobad!”
“You’re the new whelp,” Beltrex said to Rais, “the one creating the ruckus in the courts?”
“Well, my mother’s handling that part of it,” Rais said.
“Scary woman,” Barabas said. “You’d better stay away from her, Beltrex, if you were smart.”
“Why don’t you boys take a smoke break?” Beltrex said. “I want to talk to our emissary for a bit.”
The old djinn’s field flexed for a second, and the other two almost flinched back. For a brief moment, his power was so luminous that even Rais could feel it. Golgoras nodded shortly.
“I knew your uncle,” Beltrex said, when they had left. “Good man.”
“Yeah, so says everyone,” Rais said. “We knew him as a crazy drunk, but apparently he was pretty solid out here.”
“You won’t be stopping this clusterfuck, boy,” Beltrex said. “They’ve thrown you to the wolves.”
“It does look that way,” Rais admitted.
“Matteras is a different kind of djinn,” Beltrex said. “New breed of ’em. Aggressive. Younger ones, the ones who’ve forgotten the war, they follow him. Think he’s some kind of royalty.”
“Beltrex, might I ask a question?”
“Sure, son.”
“How old are you?”
“That’s a personal thing for us djinn. An emissary worth his weight would have known that.”
“Is there anyone alive from back then?”
“I’d be careful, boy, asking about the war. Djinn don’t like that kind of talk.”
“I’ve noticed. I can’t figure out why.”
“A lot of powerful folk went crazy,” Beltrex said. “It was the time of high magic, the golden age of djinn, and the war put an end to that and almost to everything else—men, djinn, this world, perhaps more. It was a holocaust, an extinction event. It ended the First Empire of Djinn. Ain’t no surprise no one wants to think about it. The young guns like Matteras, they don’t know what it was like, can’t really understand why we are the way we are.”
“Bahamut told me to look at the war.”
“Bahamut is old and strange.”
“Was he active during the war?”
“Almost twenty thousand years ago?” Beltrex shrugged. “Hell, he might have been. I don’t know, he might have been around back then—no one brings that shit up. Look, boy, I knew your uncle, I owed him a favor or two, so I’m gonna warn you: some waves you can’t surf. Matteras will end you, your family, your entire damn race if he wants to, there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop it. Now you be smart and get outta here with your folk. You all need help, hell, bring ’em to Napa, I’ll get you green cards.”
“That’s generous of you, sir,” Rais said. He thought for a moment of living with his parents in a nice vineyard, making wine for tourists, far away from all of this, and it was seriously tempting, to see his parents close together again, like olden times. Then he thought of Moffat, Maria, their parents, all his own friends and relatives, and the hundreds of acquaintances—his whole world of people, really—blotted out for no reason. He thought of lonely Indelbed, maybe still alive somewhere, stuck in a murder pit, and the urge to surrender went away. He had to do something, anything.
“And don’t go digging into the war thing. Sick shit happened back then is all I remember. A lot of Marid died, a lot of ’em went to sleep after.”
“Sleep?”
“Sure, a lot of djinn hibernate. Sometimes we skip centuries when it gets boring. All I’m saying is any folk still around from back then, we probably don’t wanna be running into ’em. Djinn were a different kind of breed back then. Nasty, arrogant. Uncivilized. Didn’t have the laws, didn’t have our Lore. I’ll say no more on this, except I don’t much like the way we’re heading. Mind you, that was a clever trick with that fake book.”
“It wasn’t a fake.”
“You must be mistaken, boy.”
“It’s real. Hand drawn by him too. Found it at Risal’s.”
“Bad news to have that thing floating around,” Beltrex said with a grunt. “Even worse if that bastard is still alive.”
“I still don’t get why Givaras is such a big deal. I mean, what exactly did he do?”
“Givar Broken killed more men and more djinn than the plague,” Beltrex said. “And he’s old. He’s one of the founder djinn. They called him Horus in ancient Kemet. The things he’s done over the years are strange even for the ancients. He has theories that are a little hard to take. He’s known as the father of the evolutionary school for a reason. Plenty of nasty things crawling around that we owe him for. Some of the djinn follow him because he’s, well, the closest thing we have to a champion of science. The Creationists hate his work, always have. Me, I don’t care much either way.”
“And this terrible book? The Compendium of Beasts?”
“They call him Maker because he makes things. Living things.” Beltrex leaned forward. “Matteras destroyed all the books. I never read it. But, of course, I’ve heard bits and pieces.”
“From Risal, by any chance?”
“What?”
“She’s missing. Has been for twenty years.”
“The historian? I don’t know her.”
“Are you sure? We found the Compendium at her place. It was cleverly hidden. Her home was ransacked twenty years ago, all of her original work taken. I have the rest of her library.”
Beltrex stared at him. There was very little of the absentminded djinn about him now. “So you have stolen her library. Theft is punishable by death, according to our laws.”
“It was not theft,” Rais said. “I have the documentation from the RAS. Salvage rights. Her home was unmoored, spinning freely, and the door was unsecured. I filed a claim for discovery of an abandoned vessel.”
“Very careless of Risal, to leave her house up for salvage.”
“The funny thing is she mentions you in her journal.”
“She kept a journal?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve read it?”
“It was mostly full of bowel movements and what she ate. All nine volumes.”
Beltrex smiled. “That seems like Risal. Perhaps I did know her a little.”
“Was she asking you questions about the war?”
“She might have been.”
“You spoke to her then?”
“I might have.”
“But not about the Compendium?”
“Oh no, not that. Never knew she had it.”
“I’ve read it, you know. Thrice. It’s strange, some of the drawings in the book are in Kaikobad’s notes, I swear.”
Beltrex sighed. “I don’t know about Kaikobad’s notes. Givar was before his time. Maybe he found a few pages, who knows? That book was banned, and some people can’t help rooting around forbidden fruit. You really should have kept the book hidden, boy,” Beltrex said. “Owning an artifact of Givar’s marks you for death nowadays.”
“I’ve got a damn good memory,” Rais said. “Near eidetic. I can recall whole passages even now. It seemed like he was giving very detailed instructions on how to make djinns.”
“Hush now,” Beltrex said. “That kinda talk might get you killed around here. God made djinns. God. We are the chosen people.”
“Right,” Rais said. “The Creationist creed.”
“You might think Creationists are some lunatic fringe, but a lot of djinn believe it, inside,” Beltrex said. “Anything that says otherwise is anathema. You never know who’s going to turn on you if you start spouting that Evolutionist stuff.”
“Yeah,” Rais said. “I think Risal knew that. The Compendium was hidden, as I said, and it wasn’t in the catalog.”
“Catalog?”
“Risal was very organized. I found her catalog, and I matched it to every single book in her library. There was only one book missing: the Register of Kings, from Gangaridai. It was part of her rare book collection.”
“And?”
“I want Risal’s missing book.”
“Why?”
“Because Bahamut told me to look into it.” And because I’m not going to fold like everyone expects. Maybe I’m my mother’s son after all.
“Typical Bahamut,” Beltrex said. “Reading books while the world is burning. Now I hate to tell you, boy, but I don’t have her book, whatever it’s called, and I don’t know what happened to her either.”
“It’s called the Register of Kings, by the djinn Mohandas. Did she say anything about it?”
“I can’t remember any specifics. Risal used to talk a lot of gibberish.”
“Are there any notable libraries where I might find a copy?”
“Gangaridai had a big one.”
“Destroyed and underwater, of course,” Rais said.
“Mohenjo Daro had one. The old city, I mean, the djinn one.”
“Again, destroyed.”
“The Bayt al-Hikma had one.”
“The House of Wisdom? Burned by the Mongols in 1258 when they sacked Baghdad. The Tigris ran black with ink from all the books they dumped into the river.”
“I’m sorry, boy, not too many djinns interested in old books these days. Kuriken’s got a library in his castle up in Siberia. Probably the last one left in Russia that wasn’t sacked by the Bolsheviks. I once sold him all my first editions for a cartload of Cossack bones.”
“I’ve got to ask… Cossack bones?”
“Medicinal value,” Beltrex answered, and winked. “Gets the juices flowing, ahem. When you’re as old as I am, m’boy…”
“Right, right.” Rais shuddered. “So Kuriken might have a copy?”
“I wouldn’t go asking him,” Beltrex said. “Hates humans. Barely tolerates his own emissary and that woman is a bloody Romanov princess.”
“So again I hit a dead end.”
“I’m sorry, boy.”
“Did my uncle Kaikobad know Risal well?”
“Hmm, you know, I think I remember seeing them together once or twice. He knew a lot of djinns.”
“Beltrex, what do you know about Nephilim? Kaikobad was obsessed with them. He had a collection of different Bibles.”
“Nephilim are a myth,” Beltrex said shortly. “You’re wasting your time.”
“Thanks, Beltrex. One last question. Do you know anything about haplogroup R?”
“What is it, some kind of STD?”
“No, never mind. Thanks for talking to me, Beltrex, I appreciate it.”
“Sure thing, son. I owed Kaikobad a favor or two. If he wakes up, tell him I tried to help.”
CHAPTER 33
Kiss the Ring
Rais was in the lobby when he checked his phone. It had been on silent the whole morning. There were eighteen calls from his mother and finally one short message: “Your father is dead. Apollo Hospital. Come quick.”
When he got there, everything was already done. Uncle Pappo, the heart specialist, had taken care of business. Even though it was a stabbing incident, the hospital had issued a certificate saying heart attack. The men who had found him in the park had been paid off. The officer in charge of the Gulshan police knew Juny personally and had come to pay his condolences and offer any required assistance. The home secretary, another friend, had called. There would be no autopsy, no formal investigation. His body was taken out discreetly in a minivan, straight to the mosque for a quick prayer. It had been strongly advised that he be buried as quickly as possible, to avoid any complications.
Numb with shock, Rais followed the steps, stumbling through the rituals, shouldering his end of the coffin through the rain and slipping in the mud, his father heavy in death as he had been in life. He was surprised at what he felt: the rawness of grief. He had drifted away from the Ambassador lately, or, rather, his presence had dimmed in his secret life, like a guttering candle, but the loss felt immediate, like a cut limb, and he realized that he wasn’t finished with his father yet, and now never would be.
They were in Banani, in the most coveted of graveyards, where burial plots were the most expensive real estate in Dhaka. Old families and the rich had plots here, where they could bury their dead on top of each other (it was common wisdom that buried bodies decomposed within seven years, so it was possible to reuse the plot). With most old families, the previous generations were much more numerous, and thus there was plenty of space to go around. The Ambassador’s grandfather had had three wives (not simultaneously) and seventeen children surviving to adulthood. His own father had produced only four, and the Ambassador himself had managed only one. Thus, when Rais passed on, he would have his pick of ancestors to be buried with.
The Ambassador was laid to rest on the long-decayed bones of his father, and everyone praised the profound rightness of it, a fitting end to a great man. This was the prized spot, and his elder brother grumbled under his breath and would later complain to his wife that it was typical of Vulu to selfishly take everything for himself. The graveyard was leafy and pleasant under the light rain. Rais got into the rectangular hole barefoot, lowering the corpse, turning the head sideways so it would look to the west, this job reserved for the closest of kin. His father had never been religious. He wondered whether facing west would give him much pleasure. The cemetery officials up top kept up a steady stream of advice, as professional buriers of men, each one sure of the precise formula required to appease God. Plus they wanted to be remembered for tips.
Thankfully the body was swathed in white cloth and tied up; there was nothing to see, it felt like a doll, a mannequin being put to rest. Rais felt weird manhandling it, wary of hurting it somehow. When everything was perfect, he said a last whispered prayer on his father’s forehead, resisting the urge to kiss it. His cousins pulled him out, an undignified scramble. Everyone grabbed a clod of dirt and threw it, reciting a prayer, the last ritual of the burial itself. This was a job deemed unsuitable for women, so they stood afar, watching, clustered around Juny, who stood ramrod straight in the rain, umbrella high, her face inscrutable. By now everyone was soaked, white kurtas plastered across skin, saris beginning to droop, but no one minded because of the heat. All told it was considered an efficient funeral, a clockwork thing typical of Juny, and most of them were grateful to be away so quick. In less expert hands these things might eat up the whole day.
It was only family at the graveyard, for the Ambassador’s vast pool of friends and acquaintances had not yet been notified. Over the next week there would be obituaries and wakes, laments and paeans, but no mention of that trickle of blood from the sword wound in his chest, nothing shady at all about the august Ambassador, only grief.
Rais got into his mother’s car, the old Mercedes tooled by the equally old driver. Several relatives looked like they wanted to get in—it was customary to be suffocated by family during these times—but Juny motioned the driver to lock the doors and drive, and just like that they were gone into a pocket of space, leaving behind a trailing menagerie. Rais looked up at his mother’s face and saw no sorrow, only rage.
For four days their apartment was a carnival, a revolving door of mourners bringing food, eating, drinking, gossiping, and praying—endless rounds of it. Juny was the perfect hostess. She accepted condolences with grace, provided round-the-clock snacks and meals, shed tears on demand, was cosseted, petted, hugged, and comforted beyond normal human endurance without displaying a single crack. Everyone left eventually, vaguely dissatisfied but not sure why, saying things like, “She’s taking this well,” and “I’d have thought she’d be a bit more upset.”
Of course, in some corner of their hearts, despite their genuine good wishes, they wanted to see her broken, just a tiny bit; wanted to see a faltering of the dynamo, any kind of stutter, any sign at all that she was human, that she could be brought down a peg or two. Rais, who could read his mother, saw nothing in her face other than the opaque obsidian gaze of the raptor, cold, waiting, waiting, and he was frightened.
When they were alone she had the house cleaned. She could never abide the clutter of other people, the tracks of their shoes, their dirty plates and crumbs, the indentations of their bodies on her chairs. Rais knew she had held back before, out of consideration for the Ambassador, but now she let loose on a massive scale of reordering, and he thought this was perhaps her way of expressing grief, of coping. He rose to comfort her, or at least assist her in some way, and she forestalled him with a glance.
“It’s not grief,” she said, somehow reading his mind. “I prefer the house like this. Your father was more… casual, but it was also his house, so I compromised.”
“That must have been hard.”
“It is what people do for one another. I am sure I had annoying traits he forgave. He was a good man.”
“He was murdered,” Rais said, savoring the words, the ability to say them out loud to someone. “I can’t believe it.”
“Stabbed by a sword hidden in a cane,” Juny said, “carried by an Afghan emissary.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“What will you do?” Rais felt hollow inside. He wanted to shout; he wanted to run and rage and bluster. He wanted to ram his fist into the smug face of the frightening old man. But his fury had never been enough, never been lengthy enough or strong enough or cold enough, to carry through to action.
