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P. Djeli Clark

A Master of Djinn

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  • Persillyhar citerati fjol
    —a West African princess, the German kaiser, and a Russian general, wandering the broken Abdeen Palace on this very strange night in Cairo
  • Persillyhar citerati fjol
    At the question, the angels all turned to Fatma. She sighed, already knowing the answer.

    “A very unpleasant Marid. Who I promised never to bother again.”

    Angels. They were going to end up being the death of her.
  • Persillyhar citerati fjol
    hand as if clearing the stories away. “In truth, al-Jahiz was known to abhor slavery. He himself may have once been a slave and preached against it at every turn
  • Persillyhar citerati fjol
    What’s this?” a voice broke in. “Yakov, are you going on about your cavalry again?”
  • Persillyhar citerati fjol
    The Master of Djinn—one of al-Jahiz’s famous honorifics
  • Persillyhar citerati fjol
    Cairo was fast outstripping London, even Paris. Their people swaggered through the streets—mocking England as “that dreary little isle.” Their foods troubled his stomach. Their praying came at all times of day and night. And they delighted in pretending not to understand English when he knew they very well could!

    Eat shit colonizer

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