Thief of Baghdad (8 page)

Winding up like a Bedouin about to spear a gazelle, I produced a ball of fire between my fingers and crashed it down at the feet of the Lady Amina.

She jumped back and put her hands to her face. She screamed. All her ladies screamed, too. It made more noise than three chamberlains trying out for a job at one time. And while they were confused with their own noise and their own maidenly fright, I slipped in and slid the Great Ring off the Princess’s finger. It wasn’t hard to do because it was a man’s ring—a fat man’s ring—and she was a thin girl, with dainty fingers.

But after I’d gotten it, it was impossible to conceal it; I was dematerialized and it wasn’t. There is a way of dematerializing things without materializing yourself, but it’s very complicated, and in moments of distress, I always forget it. So, usually, what I do is materialize myself, conceal the object under my clothes and then dematerialize again.

But I had a feeling that if I materialized—as man or beast—in the middle of the harem, I’d cause a panic. So I just walked off with the Ring of State.

There was a hope that the girls were too excited to notice it, but it was a hope feeble as a new-hatched mynah bird. Sure enough, one of the young ladies saw the ring apparently floating in the air, moving away, and she let out a shriek: “Princess, you’ve been raped. I mean, robbed.” Her mind was on
that,
too.

The Princess let out a scream. A couple of eunuchs rushed in. I ran, the Ring shining and twinkling in my invisible hand. One of the eunuchs shrieked, too, girlishly: post-operative shock.

I ran down the stairs and into the great hall. Everyone’s eyes were on the arch I came through, of course, since it was the place where they expected the Lady Amina and her young women to appear; and the audience was purely male; where else would they be looking?

The entrance of the Ring, apparently floating by itself, was one of the finest sensations of my rather long life. It was too bad that the Lady Jinni of the Rocky Sands wasn’t there to see it; I think she would have regretted spurning me all through the conference at Mount Kaf.

When I realized how well I was doing, I slowed down to protract the sensation. I walked as slowly as I could toward the
leewan
and raised the Sultan’s hand with my left one. He yelped: “Someone’s pawing at me!”

Disregarding this, I slowly slid the Great Ring back on his finger where it belonged. Then I turned, pinched Prince Osman’s cheek—hard—and retreated discreetly behind a pillar, where I could watch in peace.

The Sultan stared at the Ring awhile, and then it slowly percolated to the mind of Abdir the Foolish that he was again in full command of his Sultanate. Whether it also occurred to him that for a while he had not been Sultan at all, I don’t know.

He clapped his fat hands, and cried in his squeaky voice: “Let the Princess Amina appear!” His chamberlain, standing behind the
leewan,
repeated the command in a brass-lined boom.

The Princess Amina had no choice, now; the hands that had clapped for her were ornamented with the Great Ring of Baghdad; she had to come.

The Lady Mariam entered first, and then a pair of ladies-in-waiting, and then my Lady Amina, beautiful as a rose, as a racing filly, as a lady jinni.

Prince Osman had risen to await his betrothed; for that was what she was. It would never occur to any Arab father, moreover a sultan, to ask the girl herself.

Princess Amina signaled to her train to halt. The girls in front of her parted, and she walked between them until she was directly in front of her father. Then she bowed, deeply and obediently, her eyes on the Great Ring.

Ghamal hurried forward and whispered in the Sultan’s ear.

Abdir the Foolish said, loud enough for the court to hear: “Oh, that’s right,” and raised his hand. “O my daughter, turn.” The Princess turned, and the Sultan put his ear back for Ghamal to whisper into it. Then the Sultan said: “Face the Prince Osman of Mossul, and know that this is your bridegroom.”

His chamberlain at once bawled: “All glory to Mossul!” and Osman’s chamberlain tried to outdo him with: “Great Power to the Sultanate of Baghdad!”

There was enough noise to awaken the smoker of three nargilehs of hashish, but the Princess didn’t seem to hear. Moving as though she were asleep, she turned and marched herself to in front of Prince Osman. Then she bowed.

No Arabian bows to a woman, but he had the decency to lower his head a little. Then he signaled to one of his men, who came and dropped a necklace of chrysoprase over the Princess’s head. It settled on her neck gently; the stones, not too valuable in themselves, had been cut phantom-thin by some great artificer.

“And now, O Princess,” Osman the Sturdy said, “raise your veil.”

But the Princess Amina just stood there.

Ghamal whispered in his Sultan’s ear, and the old boy squeaked: “It is the custom, O my daughter. You must show your betrothed your face.”

The Princess Amina looked at Prince Osman, who was licking his lips. Then she raised her trembling hands. But I did a fast float over there, and grabbed both her wrists.

Above the silk gauze I could see her eyes widen in surprise. I am one strong jinni; she couldn’t move at all. She cried out: “But I can’t.”

Her genuine surprise was taken for confusion, maidenly modesty, Suleyman knows what. Ghamal leaped into the breach: “How shy is our Princess, how modest. Raise the veil for her, O Great Prince Osman, and spare her blushes.”

Prince Osman licked his lips again, and reached out to pull the face cloth up. I let go of Princess Amina and took a firm hold on Prince Osman’s wrists. They were thicker and hairier than hers and no pleasure to hold, but they didn’t give me any real trouble either.

Prince Osman looked surprised, but only for a moment. He cried out: “There is witchery here!”

I didn’t get insulted. Of course, a witch is female; men are wizards. And, also of course, a wizard is three or four ranks below a jinni; sort of like a lieutenant is to a brigadier general; but I’m a modest fellow. Let him think witches, if he wanted to.

Bracing my feet against the base of a column I gave his wrists a real twist.

The noble and sturdy Prince Osman went sprawling on the floor of the great hall.

He picked himself up, and glared at the Sultan. “This is insult and worse than insult! In Mossul, we control our evil spirits!”

I’ve said before, I don’t like being called an evil spirit, when I’ve been a good and benevolent jinni for over seven hundred years. I pulled up a guard’s scimitar and pricked Osman where it would do the most good.

He dropped his hand to his own sword, and glared at the Sultan. “I am your guest, O Sultan. And so, I go. But I shall return. There are twenty thousand men in Mossul who do my bidding: with sword and torch and lance and bow!”

Great shades of the Prophet’s camel! This meant war; it meant the one thing I could pride myself on saving Baghdad from all through the reign of Abdir the Foolish. I did my quickest possible float, and got behind Ghamal and whispered in his ear: “Stop him, Grand Vizier. Another prince might not be so amenable to your wishes.”

Ghamal looked around, of course. And of course, he saw nothing. So I told a lie, a great big lie for which I shall have to do penance next time I go to Mount Kaf. I said: “This is your personal angel, O Grand Vizier.”

It was a terrible thing to do. Impersonating an angel, even a lower-grade or guardian angel—I didn’t even know what the penalty was for that. Maybe I would be sent to relieve my father in Samarra for the hot season. But I had to do it; Suleyman would, perhaps, understand that I feared war for Baghdad even more than I feared Samarra for myself.

I did utter a little silent prayer: let it not be exile to Syria.

Ghamal was quick-witted; I’d never doubted that. He glided, fast as a floating jinni, to get in front of the striding Osman the Sturdy. “Please, Your Highness!”

Prince Osman was not in the kindest of moods. He growled: “Out of my way, you lying dog!” and raised his hand to strike Ghamal down.

This time I caught his wrist with both my hands. Held impotent, he could only yell: “I am leaving this witch-ridden court!”

That was what he thought. With me hanging on, he was going no place.

Ghamal got his clever, corrupt face up close to the Prince’s ear and whispered: “Please, O Prince. All will come right. I have assurance that these invisible spirits are on our side, yours and mine.”

Well, he said it, not I. You don’t get sent to Syria for being misunderstood.

My hold on Prince Osman’s wrist gave strength to Ghamal’s plea. I let it go and gently stroked Prince Osman’s face, like a houri of a thousand years’ experience. He couldn’t see me, after all.

Seeing the Prince somewhat softened, Ghamal hastened to say: “As the learned Prince knows, there are days when affairs are propitious, and days when undertakings should not be started.”

Prince Osman slowly nodded. “I shall return to my tent and consult my astrologer. Tomorrow or the next day I shall return, as the stars incline.”

And he walked out, if not in a friendly mood, at least not disposed to start a war at once. It was enough.

The Sultan had fallen into some sort of a reverie; maybe he was dreaming of a set of cymbals as big as the Mountains of Atlas.

The Princess glanced at her father, and then, getting no signal, turned and led her entourage back to the harem. She was smiling gently, as though to take credit for everything that had happened.

Young girls, when they are in love, believe in magic, and they believe it is all for their personal benefit. It has always been thus.

6

R
eally, it was time for me to go get some sleep. But I was restless. I floated up to the palace roof, and leaned against some of the pillows left by the harem ladies. Below me, the palace buzzed.

This was the hot time of year, the middle of summer, and in summer the Baghdadians do not sleep a whole night through; they nap a few hours, awake and eat, game, and then nap again. The days are so hot that a three- or four-hour sleep at noon is necessary; nightime napping is a luxury.

What to do? I could float over to the Prince’s tent and appear inside his fortune teller’s crystal ball, but this sounded suspiciously like my father with the lamp. Next thing, I would have to give some dolt three wishes to get me out of the crystal again.

I could materialize and stroll through my restless and beloved city, smell the good bazaar smells, taste the good bazaar sweetmeats; I was out of
rahat lakhoum
at the moment. I could go back to the odorous Street of the Tanners and probably find Karim’s brother Malek and have a learned discussion with that philosopher. I could . . .

Things were decided for me. The Lady Amina came out on the roof. I could hear her dismissing her companion, Lady Mariam, and I could hear Mariam’s parting giggle as she went back down to the harem.

I looked down to make sure I was properly dematerialized and then settled back to see what would happen now.

Nothing, at first. My Lady Amina stared up at the fine desert moon, and sighed, and rightly. There is no moon in all the world like our Baghdad moon.

No doubt she was thinking of Karim, but she was still wearing the necklace of phantom-thin chrysoprase that Prince Osman had given her. She would make a sensible and wise adviser to her husband when she got one.

Now the Lady Amina was looking down. She saw something apparently; she chuckled, a much more musical sound than the senseless giggle of Lady Mariam. Then she turned and came toward the pillows where I was lying so fast that I just had time to get out of the way before she flung herself down.

Of course, I was dematerialized, but if you are a jinni you have no doubt found out that fading away completely is much too exhausting; for ordinary invisibility it is much more sensible to leave a little, just a little, that can be vaguely felt, if not seen.

That little is quite sensitive if sat upon or stepped on. I remember once when a Berber rode his horse through invisible me, I ached for a week.

From being a lively young girl, refreshed by a few hours sleep and the gift of a necklace, Princess Amina had suddenly become completely somnolent; she lolled back on the pillows from which she had expelled me, her eyes closed, her arms and legs sprawled in gentle and graceful repose.

She was, to the eye, unconscious. Somehow or other I doubted it. Her gauze-covered bosom was rising and falling at the steady rate that looks like sleep; but there was an added quivering that indicated that her heart was pounding like a gold beater’s mallet.

So I floated over to the parapet and looked where she had looked, and saw—not at all to my surprise—Karim, climbing up the vine that covered the south wall of the harem wing.

Heroes are made, not born. If he was really hero-stuff, nothing should be able to stop him. So I floated down and cut the vine, about three feet above him.

Karim fell to the ground, of course; nobody ever taught him how to float. He invoked the names of two or three minor prophets, a saint or two, and brushed himself off. Then he started climbing again.

A quick float upward disclosed that the Princess Amina was getting impatient. She had opened her eyes. Then the noise of vine leaves fluttering and fingers scratching came to her, and she redisposed herself in sleep, gracefully and alluringly. At the last moment, she moved enough to pull her bodice down slightly, and then closed her eyes again.

This time I let Karim make it. It is one thing to try your heroes, and another one to use them completely up.

He came over the wall with a lithe vault, and then crouched in the shadow of the parapet, looking around cautiously. But there were no eunuchs in sight; he started creeping for the stairs that led down to the harem.

He was so intent on doing an authentic creep that he almost passed the Princess without seeing her. She fixed that, though; she moved slightly and sighed.

Karim jumped like an ichneumon surprised by a mother crocodile while eating her eggs. He turned completely while still in the air, and came down facing the Princess.