to Sultan Abdir the Foolish. The Sultan looked up at him over his fat royal shoulder. Ghamal looked patient, and I dematerialized one ear and zoomed it in to hear. “Your daughter; sire.”
“Which one?”
“You’re only legitimate one, O Sultan. The Lady Amina.”
Abdir the Foolish was particularly so this morning. Really, it was too early to mix hashish with your tobacco. “Amirah?”
I brought my ear back, rematerialized it in place, and took down the hand that had been covering its absence. There was no profit in eavesdropping on that conversation.
Eventually, of course, Ghamal got through to his royal master, and the royal hands were clapped: “Let the Princess Amina appear before her Sultan!”
The chamberlain took it up, of course, and the words boomed off the dome of the great hall. Glancing up, I could see activity behind the pierced stone screen.
But I kept myself and both my eyes down on the floor of the great hall. Another day had gone by in which I was separated from the Lady Jinni of the Rocky Sands—in fact from all lady jinns—and I was in no mood to go watch a covey of forbidden maidens dress for a court appearance, or for anything at all.
That frightful, off-beat palace music started up again, and the procession of ladies-in-waiting began to come down the stairs from the harem. The screen was bright with the flutterings of the handmaidens who, of course, couldn’t accompany their lady to the great court, but who could stand there and watch the ladies. Under the sweet rule of the Princess Amina, there was hardly any difference at all in the status of her maids and ladies-in-waiting; they were all friends.
Who got the Lady Amina for a bride would surely be a lucky man; and it would not be the Prince Osman, if I had put the right potion in his crystal vial. I hoped I had; my interest in chemistry is not strong.
Now the Lady Amina was on the stairs; the ladies-in-waiting fanned out at the foot of it, each looking lovelier than the last. Oh, if only one of them had been a lady jinni in disguise; but she wasn’t.
Princess Amina came forward demurely, obediently; and obediently she bowed in front of her father, who frowned absent-mindedly. Ghamal leaned forward to prompt the Sultan, but Abdir the Foolish remembered all by his royal self. “My daughter, Amina,” he said graciously. Ghamal did prompt him this time, and the Sultan added; “Brightest star in my crown, fairest jewel in my turban.”
Prince Osman, sure of victory, decided to play it as though the failure of the first meeting had never happened. “O noble Princess, my heart is lifted at the sight of you; my soul is enlightened by your presence.”
His chamberlain gave it a little volume: “The Prince’s heart is lifted by the sight of her; his soul is enlightened by her presence.”
“You do me too much honor,” the Princess Amina said. Over her face cloth her eyes were downcast.
“The Prince does her too much honor,” the Sultan’s chamberlain boomed.
“Nay, it is you who honor me,” Prince Osman said.
His chamberlain rendered that “It is she who honors him, says the Prince Osman of Mossul, third son of the Sultan of Mossul, conqueror of the Berbers, scourge of the Bedouins.”
The Princess murmured: “Thank you.”
But this was no material at all for the Sultan’s chamberlain. He expanded it to: “She gives thanks, does the Princess Amina, only and sole daughter of the Sultan Abdir Bajazeth, Sultan of Baghdad, Ruler of Samarra and Samarkand, First Knight of the Desert, mighty hunter of lions and gazelles, whose voice is known and respected at every oasis from the Gulf of Aden to the Dead Sea of Jordan!”
The Mossulman chamberlain boomed: “It is the Sultan of Jordan who is known from the Gulf of Aden to the Dead Sea, not the Sultan of Baghdad. He has always been known from the Persian Gulf to the Red Sea!”
Our Baghdadian muscle-throat roared: “Are you trying to tell me—”
Ghamal, the Grand
“Which one?”
“You’re only legitimate one, O Sultan. The Lady Amina.”
Abdir the Foolish was particularly so this morning. Really, it was too early to mix hashish with your tobacco. “Amirah?”
I brought my ear back, rematerialized it in place, and took down the hand that had been covering its absence. There was no profit in eavesdropping on that conversation.
Eventually, of course, Ghamal got through to his royal master, and the royal hands were clapped: “Let the Princess Amina appear before her Sultan!”
The chamberlain took it up, of course, and the words boomed off the dome of the great hall. Glancing up, I could see activity behind the pierced stone screen.
But I kept myself and both my eyes down on the floor of the great hall. Another day had gone by in which I was separated from the Lady Jinni of the Rocky Sands—in fact from all lady jinns—and I was in no mood to go watch a covey of forbidden maidens dress for a court appearance, or for anything at all.
That frightful, off-beat palace music started up again, and the procession of ladies-in-waiting began to come down the stairs from the harem. The screen was bright with the flutterings of the handmaidens who, of course, couldn’t accompany their lady to the great court, but who could stand there and watch the ladies. Under the sweet rule of the Princess Amina, there was hardly any difference at all in the status of her maids and ladies-in-waiting; they were all friends.
Who got the Lady Amina for a bride would surely be a lucky man; and it would not be the Prince Osman, if I had put the right potion in his crystal vial. I hoped I had; my interest in chemistry is not strong.
Now the Lady Amina was on the stairs; the ladies-in-waiting fanned out at the foot of it, each looking lovelier than the last. Oh, if only one of them had been a lady jinni in disguise; but she wasn’t.
Princess Amina came forward demurely, obediently; and obediently she bowed in front of her father, who frowned absent-mindedly. Ghamal leaned forward to prompt the Sultan, but Abdir the Foolish remembered all by his royal self. “My daughter, Amina,” he said graciously. Ghamal did prompt him this time, and the Sultan added; “Brightest star in my crown, fairest jewel in my turban.”
Prince Osman, sure of victory, decided to play it as though the failure of the first meeting had never happened. “O noble Princess, my heart is lifted at the sight of you; my soul is enlightened by your presence.”
His chamberlain gave it a little volume: “The Prince’s heart is lifted by the sight of her; his soul is enlightened by her presence.”
“You do me too much honor,” the Princess Amina said. Over her face cloth her eyes were downcast.
“The Prince does her too much honor,” the Sultan’s chamberlain boomed.
“Nay, it is you who honor me,” Prince Osman said.
His chamberlain rendered that “It is she who honors him, says the Prince Osman of Mossul, third son of the Sultan of Mossul, conqueror of the Berbers, scourge of the Bedouins.”
The Princess murmured: “Thank you.”
But this was no material at all for the Sultan’s chamberlain. He expanded it to: “She gives thanks, does the Princess Amina, only and sole daughter of the Sultan Abdir Bajazeth, Sultan of Baghdad, Ruler of Samarra and Samarkand, First Knight of the Desert, mighty hunter of lions and gazelles, whose voice is known and respected at every oasis from the Gulf of Aden to the Dead Sea of Jordan!”
The Mossulman chamberlain boomed: “It is the Sultan of Jordan who is known from the Gulf of Aden to the Dead Sea, not the Sultan of Baghdad. He has always been known from the Persian Gulf to the Red Sea!”
Our Baghdadian muscle-throat roared: “Are you trying to tell me—”
Ghamal, the Grand
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