Thief of Baghdad (3 page)

Flying across to the towers, my ears were assailed again by the noise the palace band was making. It was certainly time for a new sultan, one with a better sense of rhythm and tone . . .

The Lady Jinni of the Rocky Sands was very, very musical. Maybe if I appealed to the Council of Suleyman for the temporary loan of a musical spirit for the Sultan’s band? After all, this aggregation here was bestial and extraordinary punishment to my jinni-ears.

No. They’d send someone else, like the Hairy Jinni of Cairo. They’d never send a lady jinni. Never. Arabian musicians wouldn’t listen to her if they did.

She’d have to materialize as a woman, that’s the rule, and palace music is martial music, not suitable for women to teach . . .

Sighing, I came down between the main inner gate and the main outer gate. I stepped into an embrasure and materialized; it was perfectly safe, because when Prince Osman had come in through the outer gate, a whole bunch of curious Baghdadians had crowded in with him.

My Baghdadians treated the palace as though it was their own, in the reign of Abdir the Foolish, and while I used to take some ribbing about it from the boys at Kaf Mountain, I always thought that was a very nice thing about my town.

Osman was a big fellow, broad in the shoulders, good looking enough in a way. It occurred to me that maybe I ought to take the easy way out, let Osman marry the Princess Amina, let her father abdicate if he wanted to, and stop the jinni jokes that way.

But I crowded nearer. The Prince was off his horse, and he’d removed his sandy outer cloak. Servants were covering his big shoulders with a cloth of gold ceremonial robe to wear through the inner gate, and removing his riding spurs and sword so that they could fit him out with impractical gold ornamental trappings.

One man near him was obviously not a servant. I zoomed my hearing between them.

The man—a chamberlain of some sort, I presumed—was saying: “Now, remember, O my Prince, the Princess’s name is the Lady Amina. The Sultan is Abdir, never mind the rest of his names. And we are in Baghdad.”

“Abima, Amir and—Samarra?”

“Baghdad, O my Prince.”

“Baghdad. Good.”

I zoomed my hearing back. No use. Cross that handsome dolt with a girl who carried the blood of Abdir the Foolish, and the Jinni of Baghdad would be the butt of Mount Kaf.

No use. I’d have to look up Karim and maybe he’d turn out to be wrong, and I’d have to look further. But anyway, I wouldn’t have to look far for Karim; here he came. And he was wearing the uniform cape of one of Osman’s servants. Oh, he was a bold one, that thief of Baghdad; he walked right up to Osman, and held out a ewer of water. He whispered something in the Prince Osman’s ear.

No doubt he told Osman that the Prince had a smudge over one eye, or smelled of horse sweat, or something; together they retired into one of the little arched embrasures between the pillars.

As they went away I noticed that Karim’s shoulders were just as broad as Osman’s and that the two men were the same height. Karim was such an agile, acrobatic chap that he looked much smaller, alone.

I stayed where I was; I had an idea of what was about to happen, and I had no intention of giving Karim any jinnish help. He was doing all right by himself, and even if he wasn’t, the man I was looking for wouldn’t need much help from me. There were a lot of lesser matters in Baghdad I wanted to take care of, once I got a competent sultan on the
leewan.

Sure enough, two men went into the embrasure; only one came out. He was wearing Osman’s cloth of gold ceremonial cloak, and he had fastened the right front fold of the cloak up to his gold turban, covering his face.

But he moved like a prince, and he walked to his horse like a prince, and he swung into the saddle like a ruler of men; when he raised his hand, the trumpeters never doubted that he was Prince Osman, and they raised their horns and blew for the inner gate to be opened.

Before I followed Karim as he rode Osman’s horse into the courtyard, I flew into the embrasure for a moment to make sure that Osman didn’t strangle; I had no desire to see Baghdad have a war with Mossul.

The Prince was all right, though I found out that Karim was not perfect; he’d tied the gag on Osman with a granny instead of a square knot. I corrected this, and materialized as an old man, modeling myself on the great Achim the First, and mingled with the crowd of fellaheen following Osman’s entourage into the courtyard.

The Prince’s chamberlain had just finished announcing Osman’s name and his string of titles; I was glad I hadn’t hurried.

Grand Vizier Ghamal, flanked by his new Chief Guard Abdoul, came out of the palace and Ghamal signaled to our chamberlain, who proceeded to roll off the names and titles of our Sultan, Abdir, his possessions, and the names of his ancestors back to the time of Mohammed. I
never
have a really perfect day.

Then Osman’s chamberlain announced that Osman had brought truly princely gifts for Abdir, and our chamberlain boomed that Osman was thrice welcome, and I found myself yawning.

Chamberlains are supposed to be in charge of the palaces and royal chambers; that’s what the name means, of course; but sultans and princes try to outdo each other in the depth and volume of their chamberlains’ voices, and in the long run, the man with the brassiest voice gets the job; and I suppose that is why our Arabian palaces are usually so dirty.

Finally the interchange of meaningless shouts was over, and we could get on with the actual entrance of Karim-as-Osman into the palace. Karim did a good job of it, striding like a soldier, never looking around to see if the page carrying the gift box could keep up with him. He even remembered to give his horse a pat on the nose as he dismounted and left him, just as a simple-minded warrior prince should.

Inside the palace, there was Abdir the Foolish on his
leewan,
with Vizier Ghamal hurrying to him and whispering in his ear: reminding him of Osman’s name and why the Prince was here.

Osman’s chamberlain was whispering in Karim’s ear, telling him who Abdir was, and that Osman had come here for the hand of the Princess Amina. Two great dolts were scheduled to meet; but one of them was lying out there between the gates, a gag tied over his mouth—with a square knot.

I had followed the crowd into the palace. I glanced up. There was movement and light up there behind the fretwork that kept vulgar eyes—and some of the eyes in Baghdad are
very
vulgar—from seeing the Sultan’s harem. Abdir the Foolish had given up keeping a harem, in the ordinary sense of the word, so the women’s quarters were entirely occupied by his daughter, the Lady Amina, and her entourage of ladies and handmaidens.

Naturally the girl was anxious to see what her future husband looked like.

Osman’s page opened the jewel box. Karim took a string of black pearls out of it and presented them to Abdir, who draped them around his neck. Ghamal clapped his hands, and a page brought out a black Arab colt, truly a beautiful animal, and presented him to Karim-as-Osman.

Karim looked a little disappointed—a cutpurse can’t be burdened with a horse—and gave the Sultan a gold filigree brooch, decorated with rubies.

Abdir, prompted by Ghamal, gave Karim a bag of uncut diamonds. This was more like it.

And so it went. Abdir got a pair of matched racing camels; Karim got an emerald turban-clasp. Abdir got a ceremonial scimitar; he gave Karim a farater-clock eight feet tall for the palace Karim didn’t have.

But on the whole, my candidate got plenty of things a good thief could carry away.

Finally the ceremonial exchange of gifts was over, and Abdir invited his visitor to sit on the
leewan
with him, while the nargilehs were brought for them to smoke, and coffee was served in a brass coffee set brought all the way from India.

My ear zoomed between the fool and the thief. Abdir said: “Tell me, O—”

Ghamal whispered, “Osman,” and the Sultan went on: “Prince Osman, do you fancy dancing girls?”

“By all means, O great Sultan Abdir,” Karim said. Osman’s chamberlain, all ready to prompt his Prince, looked surprised and swallowed. “Dancing girls always delight me,” Karim went on. “It is said that our Prophet Mohammed has a troupe of a thousand dancing girls in Paradise.”

“Do you like clothed dancing girls, O Prince, or otherwise?”

Karim pretended to consider this. “First one,” he said finally, “and then at the proper time, the other.” His eyes were twinkling, over the gold cloth he still had across most of his face. I had been wondering how you drink coffee with a cloth across your mouth; that clever Karim showed me. “O Sultan,” he cried in a voice loud as a chamberlain’s, “permit me to dismiss my suite! It is not fitting that I insult your people by having
my
bodyguard and following remain here.” He clapped his hand, a prince to the life. “Go, all those of Mossul! I put myself in the hands of Baghdad.”

His chamberlain started shooing Osman’s people out of there. When the last was gone, Karim quietly unpinned his robe, let it fall away from his face, and took a swallow of the royal coffee. “Good,” he said. “From the north, O Sultan?”

“No, no,” Abdir the Foolish said. “Made right here in my own royal kitchen.”

Karim sighed. Even for a short period, it was a strain to talk to Abdir the Foolish. “Excellent coffee,” Karim said. Absent-mindedly he cut the string on the black pearls he’d given Abdir, and stowed the pearls dexterously under his cloth of gold robe. That boy worked all the time.

Beside me one of the men who’d crowded in from the street said: “It is. No, it cannot be. But it certainly looks like—” He turned and looked at me. I was dressed very poorly, like a fakir, and this seemed to reassure him. He said: “Neighbor, I think that prince is no stranger to Baghdad.”

“He does look familiar,” I said cautiously.

My neighbor was a fat man, though not very rich looking. He bent toward me, wheezing. “He looks like Karim, the Thief,” he said.

“There’s a resemblance,” I said.

My neighbor began chuckling. He said softly: “Oh, there will be fine times in the Street of the Tanners tonight, if that, in truth, be Karim.”

“Shush,” I said. “If it is, indeed, Karim, do not disclose him.”

He drew himself up indignantly. “No man of all the poor of Baghdad would betray Karim the Thief,” he said, and pulled his robes away from me.

Music had started up, flutes and cymbals, two lute players and a harpist. Abdir the Foolish was eying the cymbals hungrily. Now he clapped his hands, as was required, and the dancing girls came in, twenty of them, large breasted and small waisted, with curving hips leading to shapely, luscious legs. They started their dancing, sinuously winding themselves around themselves for the enriching of the eyes of their royal master and his princely guests. They were clothed—lightly, but still clothed—according to the desire of Karim.

Abdir the Foolish was still looking at the cymbals. But Karim was a right-minded young man; he was watching the dancers, especially the leading girl, a red-headed Circassian.

So was I. But as the robes—according to the routine laid out by Karim—began fluttering to the tessellated floor, I decided that a sex-starved jinni had better get out of there. The permanent, fixed command to have nothing to do with ordinary mortal girls was taking an awful strain.

It wasn’t necessary to retire before I dematerialized. I could have changed myself into a camel with the heads of an ass, a goat and a horse added to the rear end, and no man present would have noticed. The floor of the great hall was beginning to be covered with the gauzy clothes of the dancing girls, like rose petals falling in the autumn . . .

Dematerialized, I teleported up to the women’s gallery. The Lady Amina and her ladies were lined up at all the choice viewing points; down the gallery, the handmaidens were peering through the screen, giggling and poking each other.

This was only a slightly better place for me than down on the floor of the great hall. But at least these young maidens—some of them, I’m sure, only maidens by courtesy—were keeping their clothes on.

The lady next to the Princess Amina was keeping up a running commentary: “He’s very handsome, Amina.”

“He’s very interested,” the Lady Amina said. “He’s just dying to make a grab for that red-headed hip-twirler.”

“Well, you wouldn’t want a husband who wasn’t interested in girls.” The lady-in-waiting giggled. “Look at his shoulders. He’s very virile!”

“He’s very lecherous,” Amina said. “Look at the sweat on his forehead, Mariam.”

The Lady Mariam was a great giggler. “If he leans forward any further, he’s going to fall right off the
leewan,”
she said.

“From the way he’s holding his hands,” Amina said, “he plans to fall on top of the red-haired navel-winker. Right in front of everybody.”

“Oh, my, what a scandal that would be! Still and all, it would give you some idea of what to expect when you’re married.”

The Lady Amina had clenched her teeth in rage. She spoke through them: “A girl who has been raised in a harem doesn’t need education,” she said. “What she needs is a husband who isn’t going to maintain a harem, especially a harem with red-topped acrobats in it!”

“Maybe he knows you’re watching him,” Lady Mariam said. “And if he does, he’s acting like that to make you jealous.”

“I know why he’s acting like that,” Lady Amina said. “And sooner or later, he’s going to pay for it!”

Against my better judgment, I stole a look.

The main body of dancing girls—and what bodies—had already discarded all their clothes. But their leader, the Circassian wench, still clutched one piece of gauze to her. She had let it dangle down between her lovely legs, concealing that which should be last disclosed, and she was leaning far, far back from her narrow waist, making an arch of herself, its symmetry broken only by the mounds that Allah gave girls to distract men from their warrior-duties.

Bent back at that impossible position, she still had perfect control of her hips; they were going round and round, and causing the gauze—it was dyed to exactly match her hair—to flutter and flirt in the still Baghdad air.