Princess of Dhagabad, The (15 page)

“Your majesty,” Shamil repeats with
monotonous patience. “As a vizier I must counsel your majesty to
the best of my knowledge. Everything I know about the djinns—and I
took the liberty to consult the sage Haib al-Mutassim about
them—everything tells me it is extremely dangerous to use them.
Take the sultan of Veridue, for instance.”

“I know the old Veriduan tale about their
great-grandfather,” Chamar interrupts impatiently. “He just didn’t
use the djinn properly, that’s all. It takes nothing to create
rumors of how dangerous the djinns are. In reality, one just has to
be wise dealing with them.”

“The sultan of Veridue died because of his
mistake, your majesty. I respect your wisdom greatly, but don’t you
think the stakes are a bit too high?”

“I am not asking for myself, Shamil,” Chamar
insists. “I merely want to have a son who lives. All my sons are
dead anyway, remember? My last son died yesterday. Things cannot
possibly be any worse.”

“You never know, your majesty,” Shamil says
with a sigh, realizing the uselessness of argument in this matter,
where the sultan’s desire to get what he wants overpowers all the
rest.
And, perhaps, the sultan is right
, Shamil thinks.
Perhaps there is nothing worse than having your sons die at
birth.
He himself has two sons and they are a great support to
him in his old age. He only has one daughter and she is more of a
burden than joy, given the necessity to marry her off with honor
and profit.

“Come, Shamil,” Chamar says, sensing the end
of the argument. “I think it would be best if you go to the
princess yourself and ask her to make the djinn available for
conversation. Have him come to the audience chamber. And also—the
sage Haib al-Mutassim. Since he knows so much about djinns, I want
him to be present.”

“Your majesty—”

“I’ll see you in the audience chamber,
Shamil,” Chamar says and strides out of the room.

The princess closes the heavy library door
behind her and stops, looking around the room. There are more books
here than she could possibly read in several lifetimes; and
although she often comes here to read, or to pick out a book to
take back to her quarters, she still can’t figure out how to
actually find the exact books she wants.

She walks between the rows of shelves that
run from floor to ceiling, enclosing her in a long narrow space she
finds so comforting. The books seem to absorb sound and movement,
creating a feeling of soft stillness that seems to scare away time
itself. In some places the even rows are interrupted by long boxes
containing, as she knows, old scrolls which people used before
bookbinding was invented.

She knows that books here are organized by
subject, and she finds the history section easily, having been
there before. But where should she go next? Books within subject
sections are arranged alphabetically by author’s name or, in the
absence of author, by title. But who would write about the
Ghullo-Aethian war? What would be the title of such a book?

The library is the realm of the sage Haib
al-Mutassim. He is the one who, with the help of several young
scholars, keeps the books organized and properly accounted for. Of
course, she could simply go to her teacher and ask him, but she
does not even want to think about how humiliating that would be.
She has to prove to him she is capable of doing her homework
without his help, however impossible it may seem.

She stops again, feeling lost. There is no
way to find the right book and learn it by tomorrow! Maybe she
could ask one of the sage’s scholars? But they would surely tell
Haib.

The princess walks along the shelves of the
history section, running her eyes randomly through the titles.
The Prosperity of Megina, Dimeshqian Caravans, Baskary of Old,
The Customs of Stikts
… She moves to
G—Ghull. The Great
River, Ghullian Traditions
…nothing on war. Maybe
W
for
war
?

She searches briefly through the
W
section.
Willful Rulers, The Wonders of Dimeshq
… She stops
in frustration. Some books don’t even have titles on their
bindings. She has to take them off the shelves and look inside.
This is taking too long. Even if she does find the right book in
the end, she will have no time to read it. What can she do?

The answer suddenly pops into her head; and
she smiles in relief, amazed that she didn’t think of it
before.

“Hasan!” she calls out softly, watching his
figure materialize right in front of her even before the sound of
her voice dies down. She sighs happily, relaxing after her strain,
feeling like a child who was lost in a strange place and then
turned a corner to wander right into his mother’s arms.

“Princess?” A flicker in Hasan’s eyes tells
her he knows exactly what she needs.

“I need to learn about Ghullo-Aethian war by
tomorrow,” she says, knowing by now that she has to spell out her
wish to enable him to fulfill it. “Can you help me find the right
book?”

“There are a hundred and thirty seven books
here on that subject, princess, and many more that have at least
some mention of the war. But I think the most useful for you would
be this one.”

Hasan steps to the shelf in a singe graceful
movement and, without any hesitation, pulls out a small book in
thick leather binding. Even from where she stands the princess can
see that there are no words or markings on the smooth leather
cover, no indication on the outside of what the book may be about.
She takes it from Hasan’s hands and opens it, careful not to
disturb the thin parchment pages inside. The title reads:
The
Most Accurate Account of the Conflict Between the Two Kingdoms on
the Shores of the Great River.
Such a long title. No mention of
Aeth and Ghull whatsoever. Of course she should know that these two
kingdoms are on the shores of the Great River, but in her rush she
would have missed it for sure.

“I would never have found it by myself,
Hasan,” she says, realizing how helpless she is in this library
without guidance. “I wonder, how does the sage Haib al-Mutassim do
it?”

“Actually, princess,” Hasan says. “There are
index volumes over there.” He points to the corner of the room,
where three huge books are lying open on the stands nearly as tall
as she is.

“Each of these books has cross-references
that point to the numbers on the shelves.”

“Can you teach me how to use it, Hasan?” the
princess asks hopefully.

“Certainly, princess.”

The library door creaks, and the princess
looks up sharply, afraid to be caught by her teacher. But the
newcomer is not lean and longhaired, like the sage. He is bald,
and, although somewhat younger, he moves with the difficulty of a
man who pays little attention to his physical fitness. It takes a
few moments for the princess to place a name to the bald man with a
bushy gray beard who unhurriedly walks toward her and respectfully
stops a few paces short.

Shamil. Her father’s grand vizier.

This man belongs to the world to which the
princess has no access—to the special world of the north wing of
the palace, to her father’s dwelling, to the world she associates
with the ruling power of the country. Seeing the vizier close up
fills her with a mixture of uneasiness and curiosity. It must
certainly be something very important that made the old man seek
her out in the library and stand before her now, with his head
bowed.

“Princess,” Shamil begins, glancing uneasily
at Hasan beside her. “I apologize for disturbing you. The sage Haib
al-Mutassim suggested you may be found in the library.”

The sage
.
Does he know
everything?

“The sultan wishes to speak with your slave,”
Shamil continues.

It takes the princess several moments to
realize he must mean Hasan. During the past months Hasan has become
so much more than a slave to her that it sounds strange and
unpleasant when somebody refers to him as such.

“You mean—Hasan?” she asks, not showing her
displeasure, and yet trying in her own quiet way to point out the
mistake to the vizier.

“Yes, princess,” the old man says calmly,
raising a finger in Hasan’s direction. “The djinn.”

“What does my father want with Hasan?” the
princess wonders, half to herself.

“His majesty’s higher purposes are beyond my
knowledge, princess.” Shamil bows his head in a gesture of respect.
Also, the princess knows, this bow is Shamil’s way to show the
princess her place, and his intention to keep silent—because after
her father’s will is spoken there is nothing more to say.

“Hasan,” the princess says. “Will you go with
Shamil and talk to my father?”

“If such is your wish, princess,” Hasan
replies.

Her wish. Of course, she wishes for Hasan to
stay with her in the library. But, like everyone in Dhagabad, she
is one of her father’s subjects and cannot possibly disobey him.
Besides, it must be something important if her father sent Shamil
to ask her for the djinn. After all, what does she, a girl, know of
the affairs of the state?

“It is my wish, Hasan,” she says quietly.

As she watches the two men walk toward the
library door, another thought occurs to her.

“Hasan,” she calls out. “When you are
finished, please come back here. I will be reading.”

“Your wish is my command, princess,” Hasan
replies, and before he turns to walk away she catches a merry
sparkle in his eyes.

The audience chamber, in the heart of the
north wing, has none of the glamour of the great ceremonial hall,
but it has something else instead—a feeling of ancient power of the
royal dynasty of Dhagabad emanating from its walls. It is the
oldest part of the palace, and the gloominess of its small windows
and dark vaulted ceiling immediately overpowers anyone who walks in
from the sunlit front gallery.

The sultan always liked this place. To him,
unlike anyone else, it feels that it is
his
power and
his
glory that these stone walls project, and that its
depressing massiveness is designed to diminish anyone before
him
. He often uses this hall to receive ambassadors,
watching with some pleasure these haughty men lose more and more of
their self-importance with every step they take into the
chamber.

Chamar doesn’t know why he chose this place
to speak to the djinn, passing up the more casual comfort of his
own quarters. Does he want to acknowledge in this way the
importance of the subject? Or, perhaps, he wants to diminish this
ancient wizard the way he diminishes the ambassadors that come to
court? Is he trying to compensate for the fact that he has to ask
something of his daughter’s
slave
?

He slowly walks around the hall, talking to
the sage Haib al-Mutassim, their voices hollow under the vault of
the ceiling.

“The princess is a very talented student,
your majesty,” the sage is saying. “I have rarely seen anyone
progress as fast in their studies. I think, where learning is
concerned, she is equal to a man, even better than some of them, if
I may be so bold.”