Princess of Dhagabad, The (17 page)

The princess’s breath catches with
excitement. Forgoing all stubbornness, she happily hurries after
the djinn. Harking back to that unimaginable time when she was
still under twelve, she vaguely remembers the whirlpool of colors
and sounds of the bazaar that she passed in her litter as a part of
her mother’s suite. The thought that she will soon enter the very
heart of this magical place—the center of her dreams and
desires—makes her want to scream with excitement.

The bazaar is even more wondrous than her
wildest expectations. Clinging to Hasan’s arm and fighting her way
along the rows of merchandise, she tries not to miss anything. She
watches a fakir playing a monotonous tune on his flute while a fat
sleepy cobra lazily swings to the music. A rug merchant wearing
slippers with enormously long curled toes—his mustache carefully
hidden in a special sheath—jumps up and down before a comely
respectable old man accompanied by four captious wives. A handsome
emir, surrounded by dark-skinned Ghullian bodyguards, swings a
black Dimeshqian blade back and forth, carefully listening to the
whizzing sound produced by the noble weapon; and the owner of the
weapons shop fusses around, trying to please a rich customer.
Everything here is strange and unusual for the princess. But the
strangest thing of all is that everybody is calling her
“father”.

“Buy some silk, father! The sultan himself
has never seen such a fine silk!”

“Spices, father, buy some spices! Spices from
distant Megina!”

“My fruit is the best in all Dhagabad—ask
anyone, father! I know a secret to growing persimmon—it just melts
in your mouth! And these figs are pure honey!”

Someone shoves the princess hard from behind.
She stumbles, and, trying to regain her balance, releases Hasan’s
arm. The crowd immediately sweeps her aside, and, struggling
against the powerful stream, the princess is forced into an alley
adjoining the main street of the bazaar.

“Hasan!” she yells, but the street noise
drowns out her voice.

“Quiet, father,” a hoarse voice whispers
behind her. A hand covers her mouth and she feels the cold of steel
at her throat.

“Come with us,” the voice says. “And don’t
even think of trying to escape.”

Feeling a chill inside her, the princess lets
unknown hands lead her through a gate into a small courtyard. Her
terror is worse because of her feeling of guilt—like a child who
grabs a lit candle in spite of its being strictly forbidden,
burning himself. Hasan had warned her they could become separated
in the crowd and she might need a magical defense. Behaving like a
spoiled child and insisting on having it her way, she deserves
every possible punishment, she chides herself. After all,
everything happened just as Hasan said it would, and now he’ll
never help her because she is not worth it! Besides, he doesn’t
have to help her without her direct order every time she gets into
trouble. He saved her from the Veriduan horse out of kindness; but
now, when she no doubt hurt his feelings by stupidly refusing to
follow his advice, why would he ever want to save her again? The
princess shuts her eyes as burning tears run down her cheeks. Will
she really die so needlessly, at the hands of these people who
don’t even know who she really is?

“Give us your money, father,” whispers the
evil voice. She hears at least three men talking behind her but she
can’t make out the words.

“I don’t have any money,” she answers. “Let
me go.”

“Search the old man,” another voice says. “If
you are lying to us, merchant, we’ll cut out your tongue!”

“Let him go!” a distinct voice resounds at
the end of the courtyard.

Hasan!

The princess makes a movement to free
herself, but the razor-sharp steel presses hard against her
throat.

“Now, now! Finally, the old man’s son!” the
first voice says. “Listen, boy, run along home and get us three
hundred dinars, quick. That is, of course, if you don’t want us to
cut your father’s throat.”

Hands force the princess around to face the
courtyard entrance and she sees Hasan. He has thrown away the
merchant’s robe and turban and is moving with soft catlike steps
along the wall, eyeing the two huge cutthroats by her side.

“Am I dreaming, or does this boy really want
to fight?” one of them says scornfully. “Do you want to kill your
father here?” He nods to someone behind the princess, and the
dagger cuts the skin at her throat, making the princess scream with
sudden pain.

Hasan lifts his head, his eyes flash, and all
the rest happens as if in a dream. Moving faster that the human eye
can follow, he leaps forward at the bandit holding the princess.
His arm blurs; a thud echoes through the yard, and the man folds to
the ground like an empty sack. Landing on his feet, Hasan turns to
face the other two enemies. Two blows that resemble snakebites in
their speed and flying grace send them down, senseless, to the
stones of the courtyard. Hasan grabs the princess just before she
sinks limply into his arms.

“Princess?” he whispers, urging her to
pronounce the wish he can easily fulfill.

“Take us back, Hasan,” she manages to say,
using all her strength to make this barely audible plea. She
doesn’t remember how she finds herself in her normal shape and in
the safety of her chambers. She clings to Hasan, as the djinn
gently holds her, and it seems that she will never again find the
strength to leave the shelter of his safe embrace. Gradually, she
regains her ability to speak.

“You didn’t
kill
them, Hasan, did
you?” she whispers.

“Of course not, princess,” Hasan answers
softly. “I just knocked them out for a while.”

“It’s all my fault,” the princess sobs. “You
warned
me it could happen.”

“It was unforgivable of me to let those men
scare you, princess.”

“I thought you would never come to my rescue
after the way I behaved.” Tears run down her cheeks and she cannot
stop shivering. She clings to Hasan, and suddenly notices a little
stream of blood running down her white sleeve. “Blood…they cut me
with a dagger,” the princess sobs, trembling.

“It will be all right, princess.” Hasan
gently runs his hand along her neck. “I will touch your wound and
it will heal. There, it’s all gone.”

Hasan caresses her. The movement of his hands
is soothing and the princess starts to feel the terror loosen its
grasp. Only one thought still has her worried.

“Hasan,” she says softly, raising her
tearstained face to him, “please don’t tell anyone about this! I
don’t want them to forbid me to see you.”

“Of course, not, princess,” Hasan says, and
she sees a very definite smile on his face. Holding her breath, she
watches this smile lightly touch the corners of his mouth, soften
his features, light up his eyes with a soft glow. He looks at her
for a moment, then turns away—as the princess, giving in to her
fatigue and to his caress, lays her head on his shoulder. She feels
her body become pleasantly heavy, the tears dry on her cheeks, and
she sinks into a quiet peaceful sleep.

Her breath is even, her eyes are shut, and
her pale, tearstained cheeks gradually regain their natural color.
Looking at her, sleeping peacefully after the shock, you let your
mind wander, absorbed in its usual smooth flow of thoughts.

You made a serious error, letting her drag
you into an adventure that was too dangerous even considering the
precautions you took. It was unforgivable to overlook anything in
this way—unable to help her with your magic—leaving her to suffer
such a brutal attack… You give yourself a solemn oath not to make
such mistakes in the future. And, at the same time, you feel
surprised at the significance that you put on such a small episode,
moreover, an episode with a happy ending.

What makes you care so much for this young
girl, this little child? You are, after all, an all-powerful spirit
who once chose the path to absolute knowledge and followed the way
to its end. What makes you feel so much? The answer, which you have
been guessing before, forms itself in your mind. Having given in to
your destiny, bearing the torture of absolute power, and losing
your freedom, you have suddenly met someone who reflects the same
feeling that long ago made you, a young fool and a talented mage,
recklessly set your foot on the way to absolute knowledge. And now,
at the end of your journey, you are ready to apply all your powers
and knowledge to protect this someone, your young mistress, from
the dangers of the outside world.

Your thoughts wander more deeply into the
distant past. You remember your life after you gained immortality.
You recall how at first your knowledge served your vanity, giving
you immeasurable advantage over the people who surrounded you. How
you later confined yourself to your Dimeshqian house, surrounded by
books. How, searching anew for the company of people, you started
to leave your refuge from time to time and wander around the noisy
Dimeshqian bazaar, like the way you did with the princess today
around the bazaar in Dhagabad. How those walks sometimes put you
into very strange situations and led you to very unusual meetings.
And gradually, without noticing it, you sink into memories as old
as the burden of centuries that weighs on your shoulders.

The Dimeshquian bazaar on a Sunday morning
resembles a thick field of colorful flowers that constantly
ripples, changing and moving around so fast that anyone who happens
to look from the side is instantly dazzled. But inside the churning
mass, everyone knows his place, going about his business with
surprising efficiency.

Approaching the Plaza of Mages you find
yourself engulfed in a stream of people. The powerful current
carries you down the street into the plaza where it turns around to
make an eddy and gradually scatters into a forming crowd. You hear
the sound of an argument coming from a stone platform at the center
of the plaza, built in the shape of a giant pentagram. The crowd,
with an enormous effort to lower its usual beehive humming,
carefully catches the voices that float in waves above their heads.
One—loud and confident, obviously belonging to someone who thinks
highly of himself, and the other—is it possible?—is the voice of a
woman.

“
Repeat what you just said, o miserable
one!” thunders the man. “Repeat your words, so that all these
worthy people can witness your incredible foolishness!”

“
I have been called by many names, mage,”
the woman’s voice rings high above the crowd. “But no one has ever
called me a fool!”

Squeezing between two gapers, you find
yourself close enough to the platform to see them arguing. The man,
whose black velvet cloak falls down his shoulders like a king’s
mantle, is familiar to you. He is the court mage to the sultan of
Dimeshq. Galeot-din al-Gaul is a haughty character who knows the
flashy tricks of magic well enough to dazzle a crowd and win the
reputation as a great mage. You have never known, never even
wondered about the true limit of his powers; but now, standing in
the crowd, you realize for the first time that the force that
surrounds him is enormous. His handsome face is grim, and his eyes
are shining with anger directed at the woman standing motionlessly
opposite him. And, seeing that woman, you forget for a moment about
the crowd, about the Plaza of Mages, about the pentagram, and about
the haughty Galeot-din.

The woman is wrapped in a loose silvery
gray robe that enfolds her tall stately figure from head to toe
like a cloud of mist. Her pale beautiful face with narrow catlike
eyes is frowning. Strands of hair stray from under the shawl
wrapping her head and shoulders, hair of a fiery-red color that you
have never seen before. Her face and figure are enchanting, leaving
the impression of flowing grace, further enhanced by the soft shine
of a strange misty stone in a ring on her right forefinger. Sending
your feelings in her direction, you realize that the woman is
familiar with magic, but
her powers, arranged mostly around
the stone in her ring, are far less than the overwhelming force of
Galeot-din. In the now-inevitable magic duel the woman is bound to
lose.

The mage’s voice rolls above the crowd:

“
Are you saying, O miserable one, that you
are arrogant enough to challenge me, the great mage Galeot-din
al-Gaul?”

“
I leave the decision to you, O great
mage,” the woman says, a quiet threat ringing in her voice.

“
In that case, woman, I, Galeot-din
al-Gaul of Dimeshq, challenge you to a magic duel! And let all
these worthy people be the witnesses to my rightness and your
defeat!”

Magic duels on the Plaza of Mages aren’t
unfamiliar to the people of Dimeshq. But many of them end in the
death of the weaker mage, and often considerable damage to the
nearby buildings is done. The crowd backs off, crushing the rear
rows of spectators, leaving empty the center of the plaza around
the giant pentagram.