Free Thief of Baghdad by Richard Wormser

though she were asleep, she turned and marched herself to in front of Prince Osman. Then she bowed.
    No Arabian bows to a woman, but he had the decency to lower his head a little. Then he signaled to one of his men, who came and dropped a necklace of chrysoprase over the Princess’s head. It settled on her neck gently; the stones, not too valuable in themselves, had been cut phantom-thin by some great artificer.
    “And now, O Princess,” Osman the Sturdy said, “raise your veil.”
    But the Princess Amina just stood there.
    Ghamal whispered in his Sultan’s ear, and the old boy squeaked: “It is the custom, O my daughter. You must show your betrothed your face.”
    The Princess Amina looked at Prince Osman, who was licking his lips. Then she raised her trembling hands. But I did a fast float over there, and grabbed both her wrists.
    Above the silk gauze I could see her eyes widen in surprise. I am one strong jinni; she couldn’t move at all. She cried out: “But I can’t.”
    Her genuine surprise was taken for confusion, maidenly modesty, Suleyman knows what. Ghamal leaped into the breach: “How shy is our Princess, how modest. Raise the veil for her, O Great Prince Osman, and spare her blushes.”
    Prince Osman licked his lips again, and reached out to pull the face cloth up. I let go of Princess Amina and took a firm hold on Prince Osman’s wrists. They were thicker and hairier than hers and no pleasure to hold, but they didn’t give me any real trouble either.
    Prince Osman looked surprised, but only for a moment. He cried out: “There is witchery here!”
    I didn’t get insulted. Of course, a witch is female; men are wizards. And, also of course, a wizard is three or four ranks below a jinni; sort of like a lieutenant is to a brigadier general; but I’m a modest fellow. Let him think witches, if he wanted to.
    Bracing my feet against the base of a column I gave his wrists a real twist.
    The noble and sturdy Prince Osman went sprawling on the floor of the great hall.
    He picked himself up, and glared at the Sultan. “This is insult and worse than insult! In Mossul, we control our evil spirits!”
    I’ve said before, I don’t like being called an evil spirit, when I’ve been a good and benevolent jinni for over seven hundred years. I pulled up a guard’s scimitar and pricked Osman where it would do the most good.
    He dropped his hand to his own sword, and glared at the Sultan. “I am your guest, O Sultan. And so, I go. But I shall return. There are twenty thousand men in Mossul who do my bidding: with sword and torch and lance and bow!”
    Great shades of the Prophet’s camel! This meant war; it meant the one thing I could pride myself on saving Baghdad from all through the reign of Abdir the Foolish. I did my quickest possible float, and got behind Ghamal and whispered in his ear: “Stop him, Grand Vizier. Another prince might not be so amenable to your wishes.”
    Ghamal looked around, of course. And of course, he saw nothing. So I told a lie, a great big lie for which I shall have to do penance next time I go to Mount Kaf. I said: “This is your personal angel, O Grand Vizier.”
    It was a terrible thing to do. Impersonating an angel, even a lower-grade or guardian angel—I didn’t even know what the penalty was for that. Maybe I would be sent to relieve my father in Samarra for the hot season. But I had to do it; Suleyman would, perhaps, understand that I feared war for Baghdad even more than I feared Samarra for myself.
    I did utter a little silent prayer: let it not be exile to Syria.
    Ghamal was quick-witted; I’d never doubted that. He glided, fast as a floating jinni, to get in front of the striding Osman the Sturdy. “Please, Your Highness!”
    Prince Osman was not in the kindest of moods. He growled: “Out of my way, you lying dog!” and raised his hand to strike Ghamal down.
    This time I caught his wrist with both my hands. Held impotent, he could only yell: “I am leaving this