Princess of Dhagabad, The (16 page)

The sultan listens to the teacher’s praise
with a mixture of pride and bitterness. If his
daughter
is
so good in learning, one can only imagine how good his
son
would be. Everyone knows women are less capable of learning simply
because they are women. His bloodlines must be exceptionally good
to produce such a talented daughter. Why is he accursed in this
horrible way?

These thoughts direct him more toward matters
at hand, and he interrupts the sage’s praise.

“Tell me more about the djinn, Haib,” he
says. “What can we expect from him?”

“Nothing magical, without the princess
around,” Haib says. “But he is very old and wise. Don’t let your
majesty be deceived by his youthful appearance. He is much wiser
than anyone your majesty has ever met. Whatever advice he gives may
be tricky.”

It is not the advice that I seek
,
Chamar thinks.
But I will not tell that to Haib.

He hears the clanking of the door, and a
streak of sunlight for a moment slides into the dark hall and
disappears again. Two figures enter and stop several paces into the
room. The one on the left is Shamil. As for the one on the
right…

Since his daughter’s birthday ceremony, the
sultan hasn’t seen the djinn at all, and even then he didn’t pay
much attention to the looks of this strange creature, overwhelmed
by the general chaos that surrounded his appearance. And now,
facing the djinn, the first thing he feels is disappointment.

An ordinary young man, no better looking than
some of his guards, is standing before him with an impassive
expression on his face. Chamar suddenly feels awkward seeking help
from him, just as if he were seeking help from a common guard in
the palace.

“Are you—the djinn?” he asks.

“Yes, your majesty.”

There
is
something different about
him, Chamar notes. None of his guards would address him with the
calmness of an equal. No man who ever stood in this chamber looked
so unaffected by its ancient grandeur, by the majesty of the
sultans of Dhagabad.

“And your name is—” The sultan tries to
remember, feeling that it would be somehow right to address this
creature properly.

“Hasan, your majesty.”

“Well, Hasan, there is something I wish to
ask you.”

The djinn silently meets his eyes and the
sultan feels startled by the absence of the usual response—“It is
my honor to serve your majesty,” or “Anything you wish, your
majesty,” or something else like that, something that any one of
his subjects would say. No, this creature is definitely different
from anything he has seen before.

Taken aback, the sultan at the same time has
a strange sense of comfort. He is dealing with someone out of the
ordinary; this time his request may finally reach a capable
ear.

He also realizes another thing. He absolutely
cannot continue this conversation, feeling vulnerable, with his
usual servants around.

“Leave us,” he says, turning to Shamil and
Haib.

“But, your majesty,” Shamil protests.

“I wish to speak to Hasan alone.”

Hearing the finality in his voice, the two
old men bow and leave the room. Chamar watches them close the door
behind them, then shifts his eyes to the djinn, whose expression
does not seem to change a bit. His gray eyes are impenetrable, and
yet something in his face tells Chamar that Hasan knows what the
sultan wishes to ask of him, and he is not going to make it any
easier.

“Why is it that I don’t have any sons?”
Chamar says on impulse.

A shadow moves over Hasan’s face as he looks
straight into the sultan’s eyes—a shadow that resembles both a
frown and a smile.

“Is this what you wished to ask me, your
majesty?”

Chamar swallows a lump in his throat. “No.
But first I wish to know the answer to this question.”

“It is a quality, a—condition—that makes it
highly improbable for your sons to survive, your majesty,” Hasan
says. “While your chances to conceive a son are just the same as
any man’s, your sons are destined to die before, or just after,
they are born.”

“But why?”

“Such is your inheritance, your majesty. In
your mother’s dynasty all men suffered the same condition.”

“You call it a condition, Hasan,” the sultan
says with sinking heart. “Is that an illness?”

“Not really, your majesty. You yourself are
in perfect health. It affects only your sons.”

Chamar clenches his teeth. He cannot, will
not give up!

“Can I ever have a son, Hasan?” he asks.

“There is a chance, your majesty,” Hasan
says, “but it is very small.”

Chamar takes a deep breath and rushes
straight forward.

“I wish for you to make it possible for me to
have a son,” he says. “Just one. I need an heir to the throne.”

He slowly raises his eyes, half-expecting to
see devilish scorn on the djinn’s face. But what he sees startles
him even more. The expression on Hasan’s face is gentle. Chamar
even seems to see something close to compassion in his
features.

“By your mother’s will I belong to the
princess, your majesty,” Hasan says. “I cannot obey anyone else’s
wishes.”

“Does it mean”—Chamar’s heart races in wild
hope—“if she wished for it, you could do it?”

“Yes, your majesty,” Hasan says, “but it must
be her whole-hearted wish. She has to have her own reasons to want
me to do it.”

“She is a good child,” Chamar says. “She
never disobeyed me. She will do it for me.”

“I believe she will not disobey you, your
majesty,” Hasan says, “but to make it a genuine wish she has to go
beyond simple obedience. Your majesty does realize that she is your
heiress now, and I believe she graces her station quite well. Being
an heiress she is already involved in this problem more than anyone
else. Does your majesty really want her to get even more involved?
Do you want the princess to wholeheartedly wish for another heir to
the throne?”

Startled, the sultan takes another look at
the djinn and catches a glimpse of something that escaped him
before, something that he believes most people in the palace must
be missing. There is more human in this ancient creature than meets
the eye. Chamar senses genuine concern in his speech that goes
beyond the indifferent responses of a slave. He suddenly sees
something he thought impossible before. The djinn, this spirit of
an all-powerful wizard, enslaved by a force nobody knows anything
about,
cares
for his young daughter. Perhaps there is
something in all this that the sultan doesn’t understand? Perhaps
there is a higher purpose in his having no sons, so that his
firstborn daughter with her extraordinary scholarly abilities can
be ruler of Dhagabad. Perhaps married to the right man and with the
help of her all-powerful slave she could serve Dhagabad better than
any of Chamar’s sons would.

Chamar suddenly feels small and inadequate in
the face of these higher powers and purposes. Does he really want
to forcibly change his destiny, the will of the gods, knowing
nothing of their motives and goals? And does he really want to get
his daughter, his heiress and commander of a mighty wizard,
involved in his problems even more than she already is? It must be
not easy for her. A great burden already lies on her shoulders.
Does Chamar really want to make her his tool in changing the will
of the gods?

“I don’t want to get her involved, Hasan,” he
says, bowing his head.

Chapter 9. Bazaar

“You know, Hasan, I read a tale about a
caliph who, together with his grand vizier walked on the city
streets disguised as a merchant. It sounded so wonderful! Let’s
turn into merchants and go to the Dhagabad bazaar!”

The princess says this, trying with all her
might to make it sound like something insignificant, but her effort
itself fills every word with anxiety she cannot possibly hide.
Trying to level this impression, the princess glances sidelong at
Hasan, putting on an easygoing smile. She is dying to fulfill her
wish to go to the bazaar in the lower city as one of the ordinary
citizens, and she is very proud of the way she thought to suggest
it. At the same time, remembering how long the bazaar has been
forbidden to her, and not wanting to do anything against the better
judgment of her new friend, she is mortally afraid of being
refused, forgetting that Hasan has no power to deny her any of her
wishes.

She sees a smile pass through Hasan’s eyes—a
smile that fleetingly changes his face, showing her better than
words that he sees all of her complicated feelings, all her tricks
and schemes. But his reply, as always, is calm and impassive.

“It is not safe this time of the year,
princess.”

The princess sighs, ready to submit to the
inevitable and forget her new idea. But instantly pictures start
floating up in her mind’s eye, colorful scenes she saw in the side
streets and plazas of the bazaar, where people somehow feel no
obligation to bow their heads at the passage of the royal train.
The longing that she used to feel as she stood on the palace
balcony, peering into the distant network of narrow streets,
overwhelms her, replacing her childish wish to play a new game with
the unreasonable stubbornness of an adolescent whim.

“But you can protect us from anything,
Hasan!” she insists.

“Unfortunately, I cannot protect you from bad
experience, princess.”

What bad experience can one possibly have
at the bazaar?
the princess thinks, still remembering the
brightness of the colors, the mixture of strange sounds and smells,
and the joyous bustle of the seething crowd.

“I wish to go to the bazaar, Hasan!” she
exclaims.

“Your wish is my command, princess,” the
djinn replies with a light bow.

In a moment his looks change completely. The
simple elegance of his loose shirt and pants is transformed to the
rich brightness of a typical merchant’s clothes: colorful wide
robe, crimson pants, and gold-embroidered shoes. His short dark
hair is now hidden by a turban, with a piece of cloth coming out of
it like a scarf, lying on his shoulders and covering the top of his
chest. The princess sees nothing but a young merchant in front of
her, indistinguishable in appearance from any other Dhagabad
merchant. Only the quiet look of his gray eyes and the face, half
familiar in its new frame, remind her that this new acquaintance is
her djinn.

Excited, the princess forgets all her
stubbornness.

“You make such a funny merchant, Hasan!” she
exclaims. “I’ve never seen you in a robe and turban.”

“Wait until you look in the mirror,
princess!” he says with a quick smile.

The princess throws a disinterested look into
the mirror, where she sees a venerable old man in a bright pink
robe, blue pants and a gold-embroidered turban. And then she is
suddenly stung with realization—
an old man—in the
mirror?

“Do you mean to say that the old man in the
mirror is me?”

“Why old, princess?” Hasan grins. “About
fifty—quite a respectable age.”

“Respectable? What about you? Couldn’t you at
least wear a beard?”

“I don’t need a beard, princess. I will
pretend to be your son. What could be more natural at the bazaar
than to protect your venerable old father from the roughness of the
throng?”

“Just you wait, Hasan! You will regret this!”
The princess shakes her fist at him in mock anger.

Hasan throws a short glance at the princess
and she sees indecision in his eyes.

“Is something wrong, Hasan?” she asks,
hurriedly looking over her new appearance. It is strange to see her
new body, which reminds her of the grand vizier Shamil. Physically
she doesn’t feel any different, but seeing herself move her big
hand with its short fat fingers, seeing her sagging belly partly
obscure large feet, shod in elaborate pointed slippers, makes her
feel surreal. Yet, nothing seems to be wrong with her. Her new
appearance, while not exactly attractive, seems fitting for the
occasion.

“Let me create a magical defense around you,
princess,” Hasan says unexpectedly. “We could be separated in the
crowd and I may not be able to come to your aid at once.”

“You speak as if we are going into a battle,”
the princess says impatiently. She knows about battles from history
books and the lessons of the sage Haib al-Mutassim, and she is
certain their dangers are greatly exaggerated. “No merchant needs a
magical defense around him to go to the bazaar! I want to feel
exactly like a common Dhagabad merchant!”

“As you wish, princess.”

The princess barely has time to blink as she
suddenly feels as if she is diving head-first into whirling water.
A wave of half-familiar smells, deeply imprinted into her memory,
hits her in the face. The quietness that surrounded her in the
palace bursts with sound—loud wails of the merchants praising their
goods, horses neighing, the disorderly music of the street bands,
and the shrill cry of a peacock somewhere nearby. Looking around,
she finds herself and Hasan standing on a narrow street running
straight into the Dhagabad bazaar.