by Liz Braswell
He checked outside but the danger seemed to have passed; he could hear Agrabah reawakening behind the patrol, like scrub grass full of timid insects that start chirping again once mounted raiders have gone on their way.
They had slipped only about four houses up the street when Jasmine suddenly asked:
“Wait, who’s Morgiana?”
Aladdin sighed.
“A friend,” he decided.
“A ‘friend,’” Jasmine said skeptically.
“We’ve known each other since childhood. We grew up together. And then we sort of…went down different roads.”
“What, she became a scholar?” Jasmine teased. But she sounded relieved. “A mother? A priestess?”
“No, worse. A thief. Much worse than me. She and Duban organized their own little crime ring. They started out training the small, uncared-for Street Rats to be better beggars. Remember the ones I showed you? Yeah, those. And then they got trained to be thieves. And sometimes other not nice things. I didn’t agree with their…philosophy of life. Between that and what was going on with my family, we went our separate ways.”
“A fortnight ago I didn’t understand markets, thievery, or poverty. Today I’m learning there are different levels of thievery,” Jasmine said, shaking her head.
“Yeah, try getting stuck inside the belly of a stone tiger,” Aladdin suggested. “That will really open up a whole new world for you.”
Jasmine was delighted by their entry into Morgiana’s hideout—but not by the daggers that were suddenly pointed at her and Aladdin’s sides as soon as they arrived in the main room.
“Twice in one week, Aladdin,” Morgiana drawled. She and Duban had obviously been engaged in some sort of tense discussion: they stood close and looked unhappy. “I’m honored.”
“You should be,” Aladdin hissed, trying not to flinch when a little girl’s dagger poked his wound.
“Oh, let them go,” Duban said wearily. “Aladdin and his girlfriend are no threat to us.”
Morgiana nodded at the children and they melted into the darkness like dreams. She flashed a quick white smile at her old friend. “And a mighty impressive girlfriend at that, Aladdin. Tell me, how are you and the royal princess Jasmine acquainted?”
Jasmine looked startled. Aladdin was surprised, but only a little. Under the dirt and blood her clothes were still silk and satin; above her braids she still wore her crown, and those giant golden earrings were pretty much a dead giveaway. Morgiana was just faster on the uptake than he had been, undistracted by Jasmine’s beauty from seeing who she really was.
Plus, in his defense, Jasmine was no longer wearing a headscarf.
Jasmine went cross-eyed trying to look up at what Morgiana was indicating with a tilt of her chin. When she realized that it was her crown, she quickly took it off. She threw it at the thieves’ feet, where it hit the dirt floor with an ominous thud.
Duban and Morgiana—and even Aladdin—jumped in surprise.
“Take it. I don’t care. I’ve lost my father, I’ve lost my tiger…I’ve lost my kingdom. What’s a crown going to do for me?”
“Whoa,” Duban said.
“You didn’t have to get rid of the crown,” Aladdin said quickly. “We could have…”
“If I wanted your crown, I would have taken it myself, Princess,” Morgiana said. She used the heel of her foot to neatly snap it into the air, catching it one-handed. Then she walked over to Jasmine and held it out. “What’s mine is yours, in my house,” she said in the traditional welcome. “If you thirst, I have water.”
Jasmine took the crown back. Slowly she began to smile.
“I do, in fact, thirst. I would love a cup of water.”
“Please,” Morgiana said, indicating the low table. Jasmine collapsed as gracefully as she could into lotus position. Aladdin sank down as well, in his own graceful yet jerky way. Duban and Morgiana followed suit. The boy Hazan came forward with two cups of water: a plain silver one for Aladdin, a golden one for Jasmine.
“Many thanks,” Jasmine said, toasting them. She took a long drink, finishing it. Then she turned the cup over and looked at the bottom. “Ah…I knew it. This goblet comes from the palace. It’s from the lesser banqueting set. There’s my father’s seal.”
Morgiana spread her hands out and shrugged. “You can’t move those very easily, because of the seal. No one will buy them. They can be traced back to the palace, and the punishment for theft from the palace is death. So we use them here.”
“Uh,” Aladdin began. Duban also looked nervous.
Jasmine waved her hand tiredly at them. “It was just an observation. I find my standards for right and wrong shifting greatly these days.”
Duban and Morgiana exchanged a glance at the jaded tone in her voice.
“You guys seem nervous,” Aladdin said, shifting on his pillow and helping himself to some persimmons and a quail leg from a platter. It was surprisingly juicy and well cooked. “Extra guards, lookouts on the street corners—yes, I saw them. Even the well-disguised young woman in blue. I thought Agrabah was wonderful under its new ruler.”
“Not all change is good,” Duban muttered, drinking something that was very obviously not water out of his own cup, and then shaking the droplets out of his beard.
“We thought the Peacekeeping Patrols would be the usual market guard trash,” Morgiana said. “But they are—something else. Something unnatural. Nobody knows who they are, or where they come from. And last time I checked, there weren’t caravans coming into the city carting dozens of identical soldiers from foreign lands.”
“And they have been keeping the peace very well,” Duban growled. “Just an hour ago a thief was found tacked to the city wall like a bug, a dagger in each of his wrists and feet and neck and heart. Not one of ours,” he added hastily.
“There’s also the little problem of inflation,” Morgiana drawled, pouring herself some wine out of a leather flask. “It’s no joke.”
“Inflation? Like money?” Jasmine asked. “What has that to do with anything?”
“Do you see this orange?” Morgiana asked, spearing one from the table with her dagger. “A week ago you could get a dozen for a single silver shekel. Now? This one orange will cost you twenty golden darics. Or golden jafars, or whatever you want to call the sorcerous coins.”
“When you can bring forth gold from the sky,” Duban explained, seeing Jasmine was still confused, “when anyone can reach up and take as much as they want—gold stops having value. Like sand.”
Morgiana pointed her chin at the tiny piles of gold in the corner of the cavern. “That is all basically worthless now.”
Aladdin was reminded once again of the mountains of treasure now buried under the desert. A strange thought occurred to him. Had this all happened…before? Was the treasure buried not because of some mad old sultan who wanted his wealth to die with him, but because someone nearly destroyed the world by bringing too much gold into it? With the help of a genie, whose lamp was the only “worthless” thing in there…Maybe it was all hidden to protect people from the power of wishes.
He rubbed his head. Deep thoughts were not usually his thing. He suspected that was changing, too.
“This can’t have been part of Jafar’s plan,” Jasmine murmured. “I don’t think he foresaw this.”
“You said there was a bigger plan, though, right?” Aladdin prompted. “Something worse?”
“Worse than worthless gold?” Morgiana asked archly. “I have a hard time imagining anything beyond that.”
Jasmine nodded. It was like with a moment’s rest and a single cup of water she had regained herself and her former energy.
“We need to stop Jafar. Listen: he has a lamp with a genie enslaved to it. So far he has made two wishes: one to become sultan, another to become the world’s most powerful sorcerer. The genie wasn’t able to grant his third wish, because it broke the laws of magic.”
“What was it?” Duban asked breathlessly.
Jasmine
blushed, faltering in her role as storyteller.
“Jafar wanted a willing bride,” she finally said, forcing the words out. “He wanted the genie to make me fall in love with him.”
“Oh,” Morgiana said, a little disappointed. “Is that all? Why?”
Jasmine didn’t take it as an insult, Aladdin was relieved to see.
“Because that’s what he wants, besides power,” she explained. “More than anything Jafar seems to want to be loved and admired—that’s why he has those parades, and gives all the coins out, and makes those speeches from the balcony. He wants everyone, including me, to love him.”
“That’s not what I would wish for. No offense,” Duban said, equally dumbfounded. “What about all that good stuff you hear about in myths and legends? Like a horse faster than the wind, or a ship that can fly through the stars? That’s what I’d want.”
Morgiana’s eyes narrowed at Aladdin.
“I’m sorry, do I understand correctly that you have brought the object of obsession of the world’s most powerful sorcerer into our secret hideout?”
“Um. Yes…?” Aladdin offered with a chagrined smile.
“She could be a useful negotiating point,” Duban offered.
“If he knew I was here, he would have already attacked,” Jasmine said quickly. “I don’t think he possesses the power to see through walls. But let me continue.
“He was enraged when the genie couldn’t—when he couldn’t make me fall in love. Magic can’t do that, or directly kill people, or bring them back from the dead. So right now Jafar is dedicating all of his resources to figuring out how he can break the laws of magic. He has already sent dozens of servants all over the world to find ancient, evil sources of knowledge that may help him. Jafar wants everyone to love him—but he also wants to raise an army of the dead. To conquer the rest of the world.”
Everyone was silent as the significance of what Jasmine had just said sank in.
“You’re joking,” Duban said, wide-eyed.
“I’m not,” Jasmine said grimly. “I’ve seen his initial attempts. It’s…really not a joke.”
Morgiana spat a curse in her mother’s language.
“Black magic of Shetan! This is serious business, Jasmine,” she said, almost accusingly.
“I’m really not sure what is worse,” Duban mused. “Raising the dead to walk again and serve him, or a spell that would compel all of us to love Jafar unconditionally. Forever.”
“Both sound equally awful to me,” Aladdin said. “We have to stop him. Or get out of town. Or die trying.”
“Will you help me?” Jasmine pleaded. “Will you help me stop Jafar from getting the things he needs to make this nightmare happen? Will you…will you help me overthrow him and reinstate me on the throne?”
Morgiana and Duban looked at each other.
“We’re thieves, Jasmine. What can we do?” Duban asked.
“You’re not just thieves, you’re a whole network of thieves,” Jasmine pointed out. “You’re practically an army. And we don’t need military strength—we just need to stop Jafar from gaining the ability to break the laws of magic. Like by stealing the stuff he’s looking for before it gets to him. I’ll bet you guys know a thing or two about holding up a caravan.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Morgiana said mildly, taking a sip from her goblet.
Jasmine ignored her. “In the meantime, I can circulate among the people and build up support for my retaking the throne. Build a real power base.”
The two thieves didn’t say anything. Jasmine looked back and forth between them.
“What’s in it for us?” Morgiana asked, sounding reasonable.
“The limitless thanks of a grateful sultana?” Jasmine asked archly. “Not having your mind taken from you and your body used as an undead soldier in a mad sorcerer’s army? How about that?”
The thief shrugged. “Maybe it’s time for us thieves to simply disappear. Relocate. I hear Baghdad is nice this time of year…”
“Come on! This is Agrabah! And the rest of the world we’re talking about saving!” Jasmine said desperately.
“I don’t particularly care about the rest of the world. The army of dead can have ’em,” Duban said with a shrug.
“Yes, but I don’t particularly care for the Peacekeeping Patrols.” Morgiana sighed, as if she were talking about a kind of plum. “They make it damn hard for a body of thieves to get any work done.”
“I’ll give you that,” Duban agreed, toasting her with his cup. “And honestly, I have no particular love of ghouls. A whole army of them might be unpleasant.”
Jasmine despaired at their casual, offhand remarks.
But Aladdin grinned. He recognized the careless-sounding banter from his longtime friends: they had already made their decision and were talking around the subject. Like it was no big deal to take on a sultan, a sorcerer, a genie, and a guarded palace.
“So…you will help us?” Jasmine asked hopefully, seeing Aladdin’s amusement.
Duban reached over and slammed his fist into the table in front of her. Jasmine jumped back. When he pulled away, his dagger was left standing deep in the wood: dark and short and deadly, like Duban himself.
“Nobody takes Agrabah from us. No devilish sorcerer and his dark arts. Not an army of them.”
Morgiana did the same thing, slamming her dagger into the wood in front of Jasmine.
“For Agrabah,” she pledged.
“For Agrabah!” everyone in the cavern echoed. A half dozen daggers, knives, and stilettos were embedded in the table in front of and around Jasmine by surprisingly adept little arms.
“Well, Princess,” Morgiana said. “You have an army of Street Rats. Now, what is the plan?”
“I DON’T EXPECT YOU to understand what I’m doing. Just watch and learn.”
Lit harshly red from below by lava that flowed through his secret workshop, shears in hand, Jafar looked like a terrifyingly evil tailor. He pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow, pulling back from his work to get a better perspective. Then he made his decision, chose a point, and starting clipping.
The cloth he was working on shuddered.
The brightly colored carpet was stretched taut across a rack usually reserved for human victims, its three remaining tassels pinned with cruel barbed nails into the head- and footboards. As Jafar squeezed the shears and tore its fabric, the poor thing roiled and rolled. Bits of thread and fluff from the nap fell to the floor in a strange liquid stream like blood.
“The problem is,” Jafar said, getting to the end of the carpet and struggling with the thick selvage. “The problem is, Iago, you still don’t understand how you need to keep your mind open and be ready to seize whatever life hands you. How you can turn disappointments and failures and setbacks into triumphs. It’s all about perspective. It may look very bad that we lost Jasmine, but turn it around. We have gained a very interesting and valuable resource. Do you think I would be sultan now if I hadn’t been able to come up with some…creative responses to the problems life threw at me?”
A final snip and the cloth was cut in two; both sides wiggled strangely, like an insect whose head had come off but whose legs still moved for a while after.
Jafar had more than a little experience with that sort of thing. Seeing it made him nostalgic. He sighed and went back to cutting.
“You have no idea. None at all, Iago. You’ve lived your life pampered and plush in these gilded halls. Everyone gives you treats and crackers—even that stupid old sultan used to spoil you. When I was a boy, my mother gave me nothing but my name. I was sold as a slave to the first person who would take me. I didn’t get crackers, I can tell you that, Iago. I had to work hard, and plan constantly, and be creative to get out of my lot.”
He grew quiet, concentrating on pushing the shears through the next piece of resisting cloth. With more slack it could now also struggle more, and Jafar had to grip it tightly. Beads of sweat popped out on his pallid forehead. Th
e room was silent except for the sickening sound of blades against thick, crunching fabric. The pile of strange glistening threads pooled out over the floor.
When he finally made it all the way through again, Jafar cackled in triumph. He held up a wide strip of carpet that was frayed on its two long edges. It weakly twisted and squirmed in the air.
“Perfect! Don’t you think so, Iago?”
But of course the room was empty except for the carpet and the sorcerer, and no one answered him.
A STRANGE, HEAVILY GUARDED wagon rolled slowly through the dust to Agrabah. Silhouetted against the sky behind it were the Mountains of Atrazak, tall, sharp, gray, and mostly lifeless. Whatever the caravan had brought back from the lands beyond those mountains was important enough to require two armored drivers, two black-and-red palace soldiers marching on either side, and the genie, hovering silently above them, blue hands spread in readiness for something.…
When this strange procession, quiet except for the squeaking of the wheels and the occasional chuffing of the camels, came through the rarely used northeastern city gates, the silence was immediately broken.
A dozen little kids ran to greet them, armed with pails, cups, and pitchers. They clanged and brandished these over their heads to get attention.
“May I quench your thirst, honored guards?”
“Water your camels, Esteemed Effendi?”
“Good sir, have a drink?”
“Want some water?”
One of the drivers leapt down. He was covered in sweat and dust; his lips were cracked. The padded armor he wore stuck to him unpleasantly, and the hair that crawled out from underneath his pointed helm was plastered in place like a statue’s coif. His face was an ugly portrait of sunburn, dirt, and exhaustion.
And yet he did his duty and swept at the children with a small whip.
“Away, Street Rats!” he snapped. “If one of you so much as touches my camels or wagon, I will beat you to within an inch of your worthless little lives!”
The children immediately backed away, some bowing, some throwing themselves in the dust, some prostrating themselves at his feet.
