A Whole New World

by Liz Braswell

  Aladdin covered his face and let the carpet find its way to the top. It followed the rapidly disappearing stone staircase up the cat’s throat, keeping close as if it was safer.

  They had almost reached the top when a falling stalactite caught the back of the carpet. It plunged down with the stone. Aladdin threw himself and Abu off and managed to catch the end of the stairs at the edge of the cat’s mouth. The cave was shaking too much for him to be able to pull himself up and over the side.

  Like a miracle, the old man appeared.

  “Help me out!” Aladdin cried.

  “Throw me the lamp!” the old man demanded.

  Aladdin could barely process what he had said, it was so insane.

  “I can’t hold on! Come on! Give me your hand!”

  “First give me the lamp!” the old man insisted, a wild look in his eyes.

  Survival won out over logic. Aladdin managed to reach into his sash, where he had stashed the lamp, and pulled it out with his free hand, holding on desperately with the other.

  The old man grabbed it and cackled triumphantly. “Yesss!” he screamed. “At last!”

  Aladdin managed to get one leg up into a crevice. Abu scampered off his head, making it easier.

  The old man came forward to the edge, a menacing gleam in his eye.

  He began to hammer at Aladdin’s fingers with his cane.

  “What are you doing?” Aladdin cried.

  “Giving you your reward. Your eternal reward.”

  The old man—now standing strangely straight—pulled out an evil-looking black dagger and raised it above his head.

  Abu bit the man on the toe.

  He screamed—but managed to kick Aladdin’s fingers.

  Aladdin tumbled back into the cavern, falling into the darkness and lava.

  A soft thump let him know the carpet had managed to find and catch him. A quick monkey scream meant he’d gotten Abu, too. Slowly and shakily, as if the magic carpet was tired and beat-up itself, it lowered all three of them to a cliff high above the lava. Aladdin watched in dismay as the cavern above them, the stone cat’s mouth, yawned and screamed one last time before snapping shut and settling down beneath the sands.

  Aladdin was stuck, sealed hundreds of feet belowground, with no way out, no treasure—

  —and no lamp.

  THE SUN ROSE ABOVE the palace of Agrabah, seeming to dim before the gold-and-white greatness of the house of the sultan.

  The princess Jasmine was seething.

  She had, in fact, been seething since the evening before. Since the boy she had been just about to kiss was whisked away by the guards. Since she had stalked back to the palace on foot herself, not caring who saw her.

  When she had arrived at the palace, Jasmine immediately demanded to be taken to the royal prison, where mostly harmless troublemakers and tax evaders were kept.

  The boy was not there.

  She demanded to be taken to the dungeon, where thieves, goat stealers, and murderers were locked up.

  The boy was not there.

  Losing patience, she demanded to be taken to the secret royal oubliette, where the worst rapists, enemies of the state, and caravan raiders were thrown to be forgotten. Forever. Reluctantly, a pair of the stoutest guards armed with two scimitars apiece took her down to investigate.

  The boy was not there.

  So she had started questioning the guards themselves. The younger ones, the lower-ranked ones, clearly had no idea about the boy or anything that had happened. Those higher in command were evasive. The ones who had actually brought the boy in could not be found. And Rasoul was silent on the matter.

  “My lips are sealed,” he said, somewhat apologetically. “By orders of Jafar himself.”

  “He is not an enemy of the state or a spy,” Jasmine cried, exasperated. She almost lost her temper and stomped her foot like the angry little girl she felt like. “He’s just a boy. A harmless boy who was showing me around Agrabah.”

  Rasoul continued to say nothing. But his eyes betrayed something at the last thing she said.

  Jasmine realized with horror where this whole thing—and the boy—was going.

  “I was not going to run off with him!” she yelled. Probably. “He wasn’t going to…We weren’t going to…”

  Rasoul looked uncomfortable.

  She composed herself quickly.

  “I will go find Jafar and clear this up immediately,” she said, stalking off.

  “As you will, Your Highness,” Rasoul called after her. But he sounded relieved.

  Several hours later Jasmine had failed to find her father’s creepy adviser. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was purposefully hiding from her and her wrath. It was time to go see her father, officially, and make some princessy demands.

  “He will no doubt be in his playroom,” she growled. Then she stopped. “Study,” she said, correcting herself. Who knew who was listening?

  She stalked down the halls, not caring who heard the stomp of her feet in their silk slippers. Seething and trying to track down the boy hadn’t left her a chance to bathe or change since the night before. Her thick black hair was coming out of its bands. Tendrils waved behind her like snakes. She scratched the side of her nose with a very unprincessy rub of the back of her hand. She had sweated in the hot streets of the market and the Quarter of the Street Rats, and it had dried; the feeling of its still being there and not immediately washed off was new to her. Not bad, necessarily, but new.

  She threw open the carved doors to the giant, airy “study” where her father spent all his time since her mother had passed away. She sighed as she passed the table with the giant clockwork model of Agrabah—whose tiny water clock really did work, making miniature suns and moons rise and fall with the day. She rolled her eyes at the colorful silk kites hanging from the ceiling that were brought from the far east and looked like dragons.

  She found her father with his latest favorite toy, an intricate balancing game that had come from somewhere in the far west. Tiny carved animals like puzzle pieces had to be placed carefully on top of each other in descending order of size, finishing with the mouse.

  Currently he held a yellow duck in his hand and was frowning at it.

  “Father,” she said politely, trying not to startle him. She ground her teeth and reined in her impatience.

  “Oh! Jasmine!” the sultan said, beaming. He was a fat, old little man with a beard as white as the snow on top of far-off mountains. He had been old when he married Jasmine’s mother, but the white was less then—merely streaks of clouds on the same dark mountains. His turban was also white and topped with a smooth round ruby and an iridescent blue feather. Cloth of gold trimmed his robes, and turquoise decorated his sash.

  He paused, taking her in: her own turquoise pants were dusty and had a tear near her ankle. Her sash was askew. Her top might have been turned just a little.

  “Dearest, is everything all right?”

  Jasmine took a deep breath and smoothed back the hair around her face, at least.

  “No, Father, everything is not all right. I slipped out of the palace last night—”

  “Jasmine!” her father admonished.

  She took another deep breath and continued. “And Jafar had his guards arrest a boy who saved me from having my hand cut off at the market.”

  The sultan blinked.

  “Jafar,” she began again slowly, “had his guards…arrest…a boy…”

  “Your hand cut off?” the sultan said, in something between the outraged yell of a sultan and the shriek of a father.

  “It was a misunderstanding,” Jasmine said, waving her still-attached hand like it was nothing. A big misunderstanding, she allowed, thinking about it for a moment. Like not understanding how things work in the world outside these walls. Money. Poverty. The cost of an apple. “The point is, he saved me.…”

  “Jafar did?”

  “No, the boy,” she said, finally unable to conceal her impatience a
nymore. “A boy, I don’t know his name, stopped a merchant from cutting my hand off, and then was showing me around Agrabah, and Jafar had him arrested.…”

  “You went out of the palace unescorted?”

  “Which is probably why Jafar had the boy arrested,” Jasmine said through gritted teeth. “But he wasn’t hurting me, he was helping me, and he deserves a reward, not to be locked up, and I can’t find him, and I’m worried.”

  The sultan looked at his daughter wordlessly for a moment.

  “Well,” he finally said, “I haven’t heard anything about an arrest. But I shall speak to Jafar about this immediately.”

  “Thank you,” Jasmine said, bowing her head.

  “And while we’re on the subject of getting your hand almost chopped off,” the sultan continued, a little bit of a growl in his throat, “let’s talk about you leaving the palace…unescorted…running away…”

  “Well, I guess it’s irrelevant, because Jafar can apparently track my every move,” Jasmine growled back.

  “Ah, yes, I shall thank Jafar for that, you can be sure.”

  “Thank me for what, Your Majesty?”

  Jasmine glowered as Jafar swept into the room, cool as a melon. She had been looking for him all morning and yet here he was, suddenly, almost as if he had been summoned. Dressed from head to foot, as usual, in black and red—pointy-shouldered cape over his robes and high white collar, as if it wasn’t high summer in the desert city of Agrabah. Tapping his long staff with the cobra head and its evil eyes. Frightening to some, it looked like a bit of theatrical silliness to Jasmine.

  At least that stupid parrot wasn’t around.

  On anyone else, the affectation of such a ridiculous bird might have been endearing. On Jafar, it was just another sign of his near insanity. The brightly colored thing often sat on his shoulder all day, sometimes eating the crackers her own father delightedly offered it. And then it relieved itself down the back of Jafar’s otherwise immaculate cloak. Long white disgusting streaks.

  No one in the palace or city dared say a word about it.

  Who knew what expensive tapestry it was chewing on or ruining with its mess right then?

  “What did you do with the boy?” Jasmine demanded, crossing her arms.

  “What?” Jafar looked genuinely confused.

  “The one you had arrested!”

  “Oh. Him. He’s dead by now, I should think. But I came here for something far more important.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yes, dead. Taken out to the desert and executed for laying hands on the royal princess. Or whatever,” Jafar said impatiently, waving his hands.

  “Who gave you permission to conduct an execution?” the sultan demanded.

  Jasmine was barely listening. She had known the boy for less than a day—but could summon his face at will, every detail of it. His large brown eyes that crinkled into a smile so easily. The tiny scar just above the left side of his lip. The way his hair moved when he laughed.

  And it was all gone now. Dust.

  Because of her.

  “Silence, you useless little old man. I didn’t come here to discuss the fate of one Street Rat,” Jafar said.

  Jasmine’s father stared, speechless. No one treated the sultan that way. Not even Jafar. Not even Jasmine.

  “I came to tell you that your reign, I’m afraid, is now at an end.”

  “Watch your tongue, Jafar,” the sultan said warningly. “Obviously there is something wrong with your head today. But even you aren’t above accusations of treason. What on earth do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Jafar said, drawling his words, “your reign. Has come. To an end. And mine is beginning.”

  “Explain yourself!” the sultan exploded. His face turned red and he balled his hands into fists at his side.

  Jasmine forced herself to pay attention. She was still in shock about the boy, but strange things seemed afoot everywhere in this situation.

  “With pleasure,” Jafar said. He reached dramatically into his cape and pulled out…

  …what looked very much like a beaten old brass lamp.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” the sultan asked curiously. “Is it my birthday today?”

  Jasmine was also confused at first.

  Then, with the hot prickles of creeping horror, she began to figure it out. Her nurses had told her tales of the magic of the djinn and the things that lurked in the deep deserts. She had also read many books of legends herself. The language etched into the base of the lamp was old. Very old…

  As if she was in a story herself, Jasmine watched Jafar do exactly what she knew he would: he took the cuff of his sleeve and began to rub the lamp.

  At first nothing happened.

  Jasmine started to release the breath she had been holding.

  Then a tiny wisp of blue smoke began to curl up out of the spout.

  The sultan leaned forward, intrigued.

  “Oh, no…” Jasmine whispered.

  Suddenly, more smoke poured out of the lamp, like bees escaping a burning hive. Jafar held the lamp delicately away from his body. The sultan jumped back. The lamp began to spark and shake. Tiny lightning bolts shot out of it. It began to scream.

  Or something began to scream.

  Something streaky and blue that shot out of the lamp and raced around the room like a wild dog—that could fly.

  Jasmine turned and covered her face.

  “YYYYEEEEEEEEOOOOOOWWW!”

  The scream resolved into something human-sounding.

  The band of blue slowed down and expanded and became…a person.

  Half of a person.

  Half of a very big blue person, with a golden earring and the golden wristbands of a slave. He was bald except for a tiny black topknot held with a golden thong and a beard with a scrolly pointed tip. His eyes were almond shaped and glittery.

  His bottom half was smoke.

  “Ten thousand years!” he cried in a booming voice. “Ten thousand years have I been imprisoned in the lamp.”

  “Genie,” Jafar said with an oily smile. “Genie, I—”

  “Oy, it feels good to get out,” the genie continued in a more normal voice, stretching and grinning. He spun, feeling the air around him. “You know what it’s like spending ten thousand years without a massage? Or a bath? Or a—”

  “Genie,” Jafar interrupted. “I am your master. Heed my words.”

  “Well, here’s a man who obviously knows what he wants,” the genie said, smoothing what little hair he had and straightening his sash. “Lay it on me, Master!”

  Jasmine started sneaking to the door. She kept her attention, seemingly rapt, on the genie. It wasn’t hard. Besides his being so incredibly improbable, there was something also instantly likable about him. Although she knew that djinn were supposed to be more or less exactly like regular people—magical, ancient regular people—she always imagined them stern, dignified, and vaguely frightening. Not charming and goofy.

  She slipped her hand over the doorknob.

  It didn’t turn.

  Jasmine frowned. She lightly shook the door. Locked. From the outside. It must have been Jafar’s doing.

  “I am granted three wishes by you, is that not correct?” the sorcerer was asking, drawing out the words with relish.

  The genie drew himself up and suddenly had on the robes of a scholar. He started to enumerate things on his fingers in a priggishly didactic manner.

  “Absotively. Of course, there are a few provisos, a couple of quid pro quos—”

  “Yes, yes, whatever,” Jafar interrupted. “Genie, my first wish is to rule on high and become sultan.”

  Jasmine’s jaw dropped. The sultan looked aghast.

  The genie noticed their reactions and gave a low whistle.

  “Sorry, buddy,” he murmured to the sultan. “Nothing personal. Looks like your time is up.”

  With a flash of blue smoke the room grew dim. Outside the window, Jasmine could see the sky become dark and stormy l
ike it did before a monsoon. A strange energy filled the room. She felt the ends of her hair lift.

  The sultan’s turban rose into the air.

  “Confound it! What is this trickery?” the sultan demanded, jumping up and trying to grab his turban. “Jafar, I order you to stop all of this nonsense at once!”

  Jasmine gritted her teeth. Her father didn’t seem to understand what was happening. He was so used to being the supreme ruler of Agrabah he couldn’t imagine anything disturbing that. He actually believed he could still order his adviser around.

  She shook the doorknob again futilely. She had to get out of there somehow. Jafar still had two wishes left and already ruled the land—what came next could only be worse.

  “Yes, Sultan, but there is a new order now,” Jafar sneered. “My order.”

  Smoke circled around him and around the sultan. As Jasmine watched, her father was summarily stripped of his royal whites and cloth of gold. Soon he wore nothing but his underthings.

  Jafar grinned while he was kitted out in the finest robes of state by the swirling smoke.

  “Bow to me!” he screamed at the sultan and Jasmine, fixing Jasmine with his insane eyes.

  There was no escape. That much was obvious.

  Jasmine suddenly found herself wondering what the boy from the market would do. He had been a natural at thinking on his feet and surviving with nothing but his wits. If they played along, would that buy them time? Would Jafar swallow their act? Maybe they could distract him and grab the lamp.…

  “I will never bow to you—you impersonator!” the sultan spat.

  Well, there went that possibility. Jasmine wilted with despair.

  Jafar’s face turned purple with rage. At any other time, Jasmine would have thoroughly enjoyed the sight.

  “If you will not bow before a sultan, then you will cower before a sorcerer! Genie!”

  The genie, who had been watching them quietly, his blue smoke thumping nervously a bit like a tail, suddenly leapt to attention.

  “I wish to be the most powerful sorcerer in the world!”

  Jasmine should have given the man more credit; insane, vain, and repulsive he might have been—stupid he was not. Suddenly, things were a lot more difficult.