Christóbal wet his lips. “Truly this shah lives in a paradise.”
“Hrumph! And if memory serves, he graciously gave you the choice of half his concubines. But were you satisfied? No. You had to look for more.”
“By the devil’s wicked horns, you do me injustice, my friend. How was I to know that the seductive temptress with emerald eyes and flaming hair was the shah’s personal favourite, eh? It was she who lured me to her bed, not the other way round.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Besides, it would be a sin to have refused her pleadings.”
“Don’t play the innocent with me, you crusty old hound. Your manly prowess nearly cost us both our lives. Forced us to flee Persia in the dead of night like criminals.
Christóbal grinned mirthfully at the unfortunate encounter. There they stood surrounded by the shah’s frenzied cohort of bodyguards. It had been a merry little fight, culminating in their climbing over the walls, then stealing horses from the royal stables, and disguising themselves as holy men on a pilgrimage in order to make it out of the city. Even then, the soldiers had remained hot on their heels, but fortunately, the escape had been successful. It had been an unforgettable adventure. It was a shame, however, that neither of them could ever go back.
“Tonight I shall be on my best behaviour,” the Spaniard promised as he held up a hand in solemn oath. “I swear to not even glance at a woman the wrong way unless I have the sultan’s word she is fair game.”
“And you’ll not get too drunk? You know how you are when you’re drunk. Lewd behaviour and bawdy jokes will only get us into trouble again.”
“I’ll be a saint.” Then, reflecting on the shah’s jealousy, he added, “But I’ll never understand why a man becomes so possessive of one woman.” He folded his hands over his barrel-like chest and twiddled his thumbs absently. Aladdin groaned. He knew his friend was getting ready to spin some Valencian philosophy.
“If a man were meant to be monogamous, then surely heaven would not tempt him with so many to choose from, don’t you agree? Ah, my dear Aladdin, what is a woman but a ripe wild flower ready to be plucked? What is a man but a fisherman amid a pond of enticing fish? Are there not as many available girls as there are stars? Or as many...”
As he rattled on, Aladdin noticed a lithe figure spring across the shadows of the west wing colonnades, burst through the bronze doors, and come racing up the marble steps three and four at a time. Aladdin gestured for Christóbal to hold his thoughts. They exchanged a quick glance as they heard the patter of running feet, then the rapping on their door.
“My lords, my lords, please open! Hurry, my lords. Hurry!”
No sooner had Aladdin turned the brass knob than the servant tumbled inside and fell to his knees. Dishevelled and panting, he looked up at the two men standing over him. “Forgive me, my lords, but you must come at once. You must! There is no time to be lost.”
“Come where?” snarled Christóbal. “Speak plainly, man. Don’t slobber like a toothless dog.”
The servant gulped between breaths, “it is terrible, my lords. My great and illustrious sultan, protector of Basra, sole heir to the throne of the golden empire and — ”
“By Allah, get to the point! What happened?”
The servant whimpered, lowering his head. “I cannot say; only that my sultan has been stricken with anguish. He pulls out his hair, clutches at his heart as though a seizure were upon him, and sobs like an old hag. I fear he has lost his mind. Please, my lords, come at once. He begs for Aladdin.”
“Begs?” mimicked Christóbal. “A sultan doesn’t beg.”
“I swear it is true.” The servant rose, still panting, his face twisted in fear. “Please, come. Please.”
The Spaniard turned to his companion. Aladdin was equally distraught. Neither had a clue about the sultan’s mysterious behaviour.
“Let’s go,” said Aladdin, strapping his dagger onto his belt. He ran out the door, Christóbal at his heels. Without pausing for breath, they followed the servant across the green and through the gardens, until they reached the private rooms of the inner palace where the sultan himself was waiting.
Chapter Seven
The sultan pounded his fists in a fury. He yanked tapestries off the wall and kicked them across the floor. Then he heaved sculptures and knocked over pedestals. Palace courtiers from all corridors cringed in fear as their monarch cried out in anger to the heavens.
“By the blessed halos of the three wise men!” wheezed Christóbal as he and Aladdin burst unceremoniously into the opulent hall. Aladdin ducked as the sultan lifted a priceless vase and flung it over his head. The vase smashed against the wall and shattered into a thousand piaster fragments. “He has lost his mind!”
“My liege, it’s I,” called Aladdin, approaching cautiously, while the aggrieved monarch, gritting his teeth, sent a charcoal brazier flying. Wild-eyed, spittle trickling from his lips, he seemed not to recognise his boyhood friend at all. As the figure approached, he scooted up to a Babylonian urn and flung it with all his might.
“Get out!” he shrieked. “Leave me alone!”
“But, sire, you sent for me,” Aladdin reminded him, dodging a sailing candlestick.
Sobbing wildly, the sultan pulled his hair and stamped his feet on the patterned tiles. “I want to die,” he wailed pitifully. “Take my life, I beg you. It is no longer worth living.”
The adventurer realised there was only one thing to do. Approaching the wild man from behind, he pinned his shoulders to the floor like a wrestler. “My liege, what’s happened? What terrible ailment has befallen you?”
The sultan seemed oblivious. He shook his head from side to side, refusing to answer, while tears streamed down his tortured face.
Aladdin panted in despair. What he was about to do was a crime punishable by death, but there didn’t seem to be any other choice. “Forgive me, sire,” he mumbled. The he drew back his fist and let loose, connecting it powerfully with the sultan’s jaw. The regent of Basra sighed, then slumped sideways with the blow.
“You’ve rendered him unconscious,” rasped an astounded Christóbal. “By the Madonna, he’s out cold!” The Spaniard glanced around furtively to see if the act had been witnessed and to seek some quick escape route. Men had lost more than eyes and tongues for assaulting a monarch.
The servants remained huddled behind the ornate columns, too frightened to run or shout for help. “Don’t just stand there!” Aladdin chastised the cringing staff. “Quick, bring him some strong wine.” At the command, some dozen hiding servants scurried toward the corridors. Then the adventurer knelt beside his friend and mopped his sweaty brow, while Christóbal, ever fretful of the guards, stood over them vulture-like, a ready hand on the hilt of his hidden dagger.
“I think he’s starting to come round,” said Aladdin, cradling the sultan’s head in his lap. The dazed sultan opened his eyes slowly and gazed up at the familiar face.
“Aladdin,” he croaked, grabbing the adventurer’s collar. “Praise Allah you have come...”
He didn’t seem to remember the events of recent minutes. Meanwhile, one of the servants returned with the wine. Aladdin took the goblet and placed it against the sultan’s lips. “Here, sip this, my liege. It will make you feel better.”
Gloomily, the monarch complied; he downed a few swallows of the heady stuff, coughed, and slowly sat up on his own accord. He placed the goblet at his side and stared around the shattered chamber. “What a mess,” he said.
“You were in a severely agitated state, my liege. Perhaps now you can explain what caused your rage?”
“My rage?” The sultan put his hand to his head, and the reasons for his peculiar behaviour came flooding back. “Ohhh, what am I to do?” he moaned. “Dear Aladdin, what recourse do I have to make things right again?”
“About what, sire? What awful event has transpired?” Aladdin knit his brow, fearful his friend would start to rave again.
The sultan looked up at Aladdin like a frightened child. T
hen, sniffling, he wiped away the tears. Christóbal handed him a handkerchief to blow his nose. When the sultan had regained a measure of composure, he sighed deeply and said, “Fatima. My beloved... O spiteful world! Better that I lose my right hand and my eyes be plucked savagely from their sockets, than lose the gentle girl who means more to me than this mortal life...”
Aladdin’s face grew dark and tense. He should have guessed the problem had something to do with the princess. Had the girl been kidnapped, stolen maliciously from the arms and protection of the man she adored? Or had she been the victim of some unknown assassin’s blade, already cold and ready for her tomb? Aladdin shuddered at the possibility. Whatever the reason for his friend’s grief, he vowed right then and there to hunt down the culprit and relegate him to a living hell.
“Help me up, Aladdin,” the sultan whimpered. “Let me show you what’s been done.”
The adventurer hauled up the monarch who walked on rubbery legs over crunching shards of plaster and shattered glass, across the expansive chamber. Bending down in the far shadows, he reached to pick something up. Holding a small package in open hands, the sultan came back to his friends, his eyes sunken and bloodshot, his face tightly drawn and pale.
“Here,” he said, holding out the object in trembling hands for his two guests to see.
Warm light radiated beautifully from the pristine quartz, spraying a prism of rainbow colour across their faces.
“A crystal prism,” said Christóbal in wonder.
The sultan nodded, offering it to Aladdin. The adventurer took it with ambivalence. As he turned it, more rays of light danced from within and splashed across the walls. Mesmerized by its beauty, Aladdin whispered, “In the name of Allah, what is this thing? Where did you get it?”
The sultan looked broodingly at his companion. “Look closer, Aladdin, I beg you. Look inside. Deep inside.”
Perplexed, he held the crystal prism close to his eyes and stared into the nearest face. The intensity of the hues was so blinding that his eyes watered.
“Do you see?” asked the sultan. “Tell me, my friend. Speak only the truth. Is the cause of my grief real — or have I gone mad?”
Aladdin gazed beyond the translucent surface, into the centre of the crystal. Something seemed to be moving around inside. A figurine, like the tiniest of sculptured statues. Then his jaw dropped and his eyes widened in disbelief.
“It — it looks like...” He shook his head, reeling at the possibility of what his vision plainly saw but his mind refused to accept. “It can’t be, my liege. It must be an illusion of some kind. A magician’s trick.”
“It is no illusion,” said the sultan, tears filling his eyes anew. “Put your ear to the crystal; tell me what you hear.” Aladdin complied, holding the prism close in the manner of a boy with a sea shell. But the sound coming from within was not of the sea. It was a human voice, distant but audible.
“Help me, Aladdin! Help set me free!”
The adventurer turned white. His own hands began to shake as he lowered the quartz and held it carefully in his open palms. As incredible as it seemed, neither his eyes nor his ears had lied. The princess Fatima, reduced to the size of a pen quill, was imprisoned within the splendid prism.
“Well?” said the sultan nervously.
Aladdin met his troubled gaze evenly. “You are not mad, sire. Unless we both are.”
The sultan sighed with relief. “Now do you understand the reason for my agony?”
“Bah,” growled Christóbal. Ever the sceptic, he took the prism to examine. The dubious look on his face quickly disappeared, as soon as he saw the tiny figure with tears falling down her face, banging on the walls of her prison. Fatima was shouting to him at the top of her lungs, but the sound was little more than a whisper. The Spaniard grew bubbling hot with anger. “What demon has done this?” he demanded. “Tell me the fiend’s name and I’ll make him less than a man!”
“Hold your temper, friend,” advised Aladdin, putting a hand on the bear’s iron-like biceps. “Now is a time for cool thinking.” Aladdin turned to the sultan. “When did all this happen?” he asked.
The monarch of Basra shook his head “I saw my beloved only this morning at breakfast,” he said. “After that she retired to her rooms, saying she was planning to spend the day sketching birds and flowers in the garden. The next thing I knew, I found this under my door.” He reached inside his gold-threaded robe, took out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to Aladdin. The adventurer opened the note quickly, and stared at the nearly illegible scribbling. Christóbal stood directly behind, peering down over his shoulder, and read the brief message aloud.
Sultan of Basra:
Know that the affliction suffered by the princess cannot be removed by any hand except my own. If and when my terms are met she will be freed.
The note was unsigned.
“Is that all?” cried Aladdin, turning to the sultan. “Nothing more? No demand for ransom or how it is to be paid?”
The sultan shook his head ruefully. “All I know is what I have already confided. As to clues, there are none.” He put his face on his forearm and wept bitterly. Christóbal cast a grim glance at Aladdin, both of them lost for words.
“By the Madonna’s child, there is evil afoot in Basra,” the burly Spaniard growled. “Our work is cut out for us.” Aladdin could read his thoughts easily. Every inch of the sprawling city would have to be searched. No stone must be left unturned if there was to be any hope of catching the fiend responsible. However, that hope hung on the slimmest of threads; it could take weeks, even months, to cover all the ground. And still there was no assurance of success. By now the culprit could be long leagues away, traveling the desert or setting sail upon some ship.
And no one was more sadly aware of the predicament than the sultan himself. “My Fatima will never be set free,” he moaned. “She’ll die inside the prism, from loneliness or starvation, whichever comes first.”
His remarks seemed valid enough; her survival was clearly in jeopardy, and the sooner Aladdin came up with a workable solution the better.
Christóbal absently rubbed a calloused thumb against his cleft chin. “Perhaps I can smash this prism open and release her,” he suggested.
“Too risky,” replied Aladdin. “Taking an axe to the crystal would most likely crush the princess as well.”
“What about sending for a diamond cutter, then? A craftsman might be able to break it safely.”
Aladdin scratched his head. “She’s been reduced to the size of a figurine, don’t forget. Even if we can devise some way of freeing her, what kind of life could she lead? A woman no larger than my little finger, she’d be lost in a world of behemoths, prey to any stray cat or hungry dog that came along — ”
“I could build her a special palace of her own,” the sultan offered hopefully. “A doll house of gold where she could be happy.”
“Happy, sire?” Aladdin shook his head. “I think not. Fatima would be miserable, relegated to such an existence. I know I would be. What sort of marriage would that be for the two of you? She, sitting in the palm of your hand, and you conversing with her in whispers lest the boom of your voice shatter her delicate eardrums.”
It did seem a wretched condition, the sultan was forced to admit. Still, desperate times call for desperate measures. “So what are we to do, my friend?” he pleaded.
Hands on hips, the adventurer looked in consternation around the resplendent hall. Indeed, what were they to do? It was as troubling a problem as he’d ever tackled before. And two lives were now at stake; first and foremost, Fatima’s, but also the sultan’s. His boyhood friend would not want to live, should anything happen to the woman he worshiped.
“I do have one small idea,” he said at length.
The sultan’s eyes brightened. “You do?”
“It seems, sire, that our only hope is to fight fire with fire. If magic be the cause of her plight, then with magic we must seek to allay it. Firstly, we must send
for your court magicians. Maybe one of them can concoct a counter-spell.”
The sultan pulled a long face. “Those clowns? Why, they can barely cause a rabbit to appear from a cloud of smoke. The quality of wizardry has declined so drastically in recent years, that you can hardly find a magician worthy of the name anymore. I let them perform for small children, who seem to enjoy it.”
“All right,” said Aladdin. “If that isn’t the answer, I suggest we immediately send word into the city that all sorcerers come to the palace; offer a handsome reward for the wizard who can do the trick. We have nothing to lose, sire. Unless you prefer to remain at the mercy of the perpetrator, and wait for him to claim his ransom.”
Angered at the idea of giving in to blackmail, the sultan banged a fist into his palm. “Never! By Allah, who does this fiend think he’s dealing with?”
He shouted for his guards. Three caped soldiers flew into the room and bowed before him.
“Call for our court magicians,” he commanded. “Yes, and issue word across the length and breadth of Basra that all who claim knowledge of supernatural acts will be welcome to appear here tomorrow — alchemists, witches, wizards, sorcerers, magicians, cultists of every description. A reward of one thousand gold coins is offered.” He paused, then corrected himself. “Make that ten thousand coins of gold. And his or her weight in silver. All this to the one who can free Fatima from her prison.”
Chapter Eight
Upon hearing of the generous reward for services rendered, the applicants flocked to the august palace grounds, forming a single line which led across the gardens, up the marble steps, and all the way into the official rooms of state. All manner of enchanters were at hand, eager to display their abilities — thaumaturgists, charmers, necromancers, exorcists, voo-dooists, wizards, occultists, alchemists, spirit mediums, and sorcerers — each one stoutly broadcasting his own superiority. Some were in rags, smelling of the gutter; others were bejewelled in feathered caps and velvet capes, with beards ribboned and fingernails manicured. An alchemist of diminutive stature claimed that by use of his vials of colourless liquids, he could not only free princess Fatima from her plight, but could also make clouds burst into liquid gold. When his vials were uncorked, the released gases served only to increase the already terrible stench, and he was summarily hauled outside on his behind and sent skimming.
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 85
