Free Thief of Baghdad by Richard Wormser Page A

witch-ridden court!”
    That was what he thought. With me hanging on, he was going no place.
    Ghamal got his clever, corrupt face up close to the Prince’s ear and whispered: “Please, O Prince. All will come right. I have assurance that these invisible spirits are on our side, yours and mine.”
    Well, he said it, not I. You don’t get sent to Syria for being misunderstood.
    My hold on Prince Osman’s wrist gave strength to Ghamal’s plea. I let it go and gently stroked Prince Osman’s face, like a houri of a thousand years’ experience. He couldn’t see me, after all.
    Seeing the Prince somewhat softened, Ghamal hastened to say: “As the learned Prince knows, there are days when affairs are propitious, and days when undertakings should not be started.”
    Prince Osman slowly nodded. “I shall return to my tent and consult my astrologer. Tomorrow or the next day I shall return, as the stars incline.”
    And he walked out, if not in a friendly mood, at least not disposed to start a war at once. It was enough.
    The Sultan had fallen into some sort of a reverie; maybe he was dreaming of a set of cymbals as big as the Mountains of Atlas.
    The Princess glanced at her father, and then, getting no signal, turned and led her entourage back to the harem. She was smiling gently, as though to take credit for everything that had happened.
    Young girls, when they are in love, believe in magic, and they believe it is all for their personal benefit. It has always been thus.

6
    R eally, it was time for me to go get some sleep. But I was restless. I floated up to the palace roof, and leaned against some of the pillows left by the harem ladies. Below me, the palace buzzed.
    This was the hot time of year, the middle of summer, and in summer the Baghdadians do not sleep a whole night through; they nap a few hours, awake and eat, game, and then nap again. The days are so hot that a three- or four-hour sleep at noon is necessary; nightime napping is a luxury.
    What to do? I could float over to the Prince’s tent and appear inside his fortune teller’s crystal ball, but this sounded suspiciously like my father with the lamp. Next thing, I would have to give some dolt three wishes to get me out of the crystal again.
    I could materialize and stroll through my restless and beloved city, smell the good bazaar smells, taste the good bazaar sweetmeats; I was out of rahat lakhoum at the moment. I could go back to the odorous Street of the Tanners and probably find Karim’s brother Malek and have a learned discussion with that philosopher. I could . . .
    Things were decided for me. The Lady Amina came out on the roof. I could hear her dismissing her companion, Lady Mariam, and I could hear Mariam’s parting giggle as she went back down to the harem.
    I looked down to make sure I was properly dematerialized and then settled back to see what would happen now.
    Nothing, at first. My Lady Amina stared up at the fine desert moon, and sighed, and rightly. There is no moon in all the world like our Baghdad moon.
    No doubt she was thinking of Karim, but she was still wearing the necklace of phantom-thin chrysoprase that Prince Osman had given her. She would make a sensible and wise adviser to her husband when she got one.
    Now the Lady Amina was looking down. She saw something apparently; she chuckled, a much more musical sound than the senseless giggle of Lady Mariam. Then she turned and came toward the pillows where I was lying so fast that I just had time to get out of the way before she flung herself down.
    Of course, I was dematerialized, but if you are a jinni you have no doubt found out that fading away completely is much too exhausting; for ordinary invisibility it is much more sensible to leave a little, just a little, that can be vaguely felt, if not seen.
    That little is quite sensitive if sat upon or stepped on. I remember once when a Berber rode his horse through invisible me, I ached for a week.
    From being a lively young girl,