and refused to take my advice about donning the pilgrim’s robes . . .
I found him on top of an oil press. A dozen prisoners were pushing the big upper stone of the press around by shoving their bodies against the arm of a long sweep; Karim, because of his amazing agility, had been selected to dance on the olives as they went down into the press. It was a job allowing no rest and it was a job that offered great danger; it would be easy to feed that monstrous press a toe instead of an olive.
Above all, standing on a platform that did not revolve with the rest of the press, were two overseers with long whips. But I noticed with satisfaction that they hardly glanced at my boy, Karim; he was a man who would do his hard and difficult labor without whipping.
A bell rang, announcing the end of the first four-hour shift of the day; there were four of these altogether, I remembered from earlier visits to the Mills; a long day for the prisoners. The overseers furled their whips, the prisoners stopped pushing the sweep, and the press slowly came to a halt. Karim dropped down from his perch, and joined the other prisoners for their ration of a few dates, a few cured olives and a draft of water.
Going behind the press, I materialized as another prisoner, ragged and dirty and hungry-looking. When I came back, Karim was sitting with his back against an oil jar, munching his dates and drinking his water out of its unglazed pot. I sat down next to him. “Next time I tell you to wear something, you’ll wear it.”
He looked at me. “Are you the Jinni? You look different.”
“I look like what I have to look like. So long as it is male.” Just to prove who I was I dematerialized my nose for a moment.
Karim said: “All right, all right, I believe you. Have some dates?”
And he offered me some of his scanty ration. I kept myself from shuddering; they were tenth-rate dates from some Syrian caravan. Instead I handed him a package of rahat lakhoum; I’d remembered to buy an ample supply in the bazaar.
He said: “Jinni, Jinni, your long life is likely to end if these men see that. The prisoners are starving here; they’d kill the Sultan for a piece of rahat lakhoum.”
“This is fresh from the factory. You’d better eat it. Divided, it wouldn’t go very far.”
He nodded, and put a piece of sweetmeat in his mouth. “Good,” he said. “You don’t propose to stay here, do you, O Jinni? I thought not. So, if you’re coming back, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know if Malek is making out all right, while I’m away. My brother’s not very practical.”
“And the Lady Amina? Don’t you want to know how she is faring?”
Munching, he nodded. “That’s right. Palaces and royal tents are as open to you as the bazaar, aren’t they? Yes, as you very well know from your spying, I am interested in the Lady Amina.”
“Interested is a mild word.”
“Spying is a very mild word for what you were doing. But I have been taught to respect old age.”
“Quite right, too.” I popped a piece of rahat lakhoum in my mouth and looked at him. His face was lined with the work he’d been doing, and he’d been there hardly any time at all. “You’re a strange fellow, Karim. In all my years I’ve never visited a prisoner before who didn’t ask me to get him out, first thing.”
Karim munched his candy. “You know, O Jinni, when I was a boy, I used to dream of having one of you appear to me. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Because you’ve found out that the three wish thing isn’t so?”
He laughed, and glanced over at the group of overseers. They were beginning to unfurl their whips; rest time was nearly over. “No,” Karim said. “No. Wishing for three wishes is boy’s stuff. But it seems to me that the price of having a jinni in one’s life . . . How’ll I put it without hurting your feelings?”
“Don’t worry about my feelings, O Karim. At my age they’re well callused.”
He grinned. “What I’m
I found him on top of an oil press. A dozen prisoners were pushing the big upper stone of the press around by shoving their bodies against the arm of a long sweep; Karim, because of his amazing agility, had been selected to dance on the olives as they went down into the press. It was a job allowing no rest and it was a job that offered great danger; it would be easy to feed that monstrous press a toe instead of an olive.
Above all, standing on a platform that did not revolve with the rest of the press, were two overseers with long whips. But I noticed with satisfaction that they hardly glanced at my boy, Karim; he was a man who would do his hard and difficult labor without whipping.
A bell rang, announcing the end of the first four-hour shift of the day; there were four of these altogether, I remembered from earlier visits to the Mills; a long day for the prisoners. The overseers furled their whips, the prisoners stopped pushing the sweep, and the press slowly came to a halt. Karim dropped down from his perch, and joined the other prisoners for their ration of a few dates, a few cured olives and a draft of water.
Going behind the press, I materialized as another prisoner, ragged and dirty and hungry-looking. When I came back, Karim was sitting with his back against an oil jar, munching his dates and drinking his water out of its unglazed pot. I sat down next to him. “Next time I tell you to wear something, you’ll wear it.”
He looked at me. “Are you the Jinni? You look different.”
“I look like what I have to look like. So long as it is male.” Just to prove who I was I dematerialized my nose for a moment.
Karim said: “All right, all right, I believe you. Have some dates?”
And he offered me some of his scanty ration. I kept myself from shuddering; they were tenth-rate dates from some Syrian caravan. Instead I handed him a package of rahat lakhoum; I’d remembered to buy an ample supply in the bazaar.
He said: “Jinni, Jinni, your long life is likely to end if these men see that. The prisoners are starving here; they’d kill the Sultan for a piece of rahat lakhoum.”
“This is fresh from the factory. You’d better eat it. Divided, it wouldn’t go very far.”
He nodded, and put a piece of sweetmeat in his mouth. “Good,” he said. “You don’t propose to stay here, do you, O Jinni? I thought not. So, if you’re coming back, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know if Malek is making out all right, while I’m away. My brother’s not very practical.”
“And the Lady Amina? Don’t you want to know how she is faring?”
Munching, he nodded. “That’s right. Palaces and royal tents are as open to you as the bazaar, aren’t they? Yes, as you very well know from your spying, I am interested in the Lady Amina.”
“Interested is a mild word.”
“Spying is a very mild word for what you were doing. But I have been taught to respect old age.”
“Quite right, too.” I popped a piece of rahat lakhoum in my mouth and looked at him. His face was lined with the work he’d been doing, and he’d been there hardly any time at all. “You’re a strange fellow, Karim. In all my years I’ve never visited a prisoner before who didn’t ask me to get him out, first thing.”
Karim munched his candy. “You know, O Jinni, when I was a boy, I used to dream of having one of you appear to me. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Because you’ve found out that the three wish thing isn’t so?”
He laughed, and glanced over at the group of overseers. They were beginning to unfurl their whips; rest time was nearly over. “No,” Karim said. “No. Wishing for three wishes is boy’s stuff. But it seems to me that the price of having a jinni in one’s life . . . How’ll I put it without hurting your feelings?”
“Don’t worry about my feelings, O Karim. At my age they’re well callused.”
He grinned. “What I’m
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