Thief of Baghdad Read Free Page B

was their own, in the reign of Abdir the Foolish, and while I used to take some ribbing about it from the boys at Kaf Mountain, I always thought that was a very nice thing about my town.
    Osman was a big fellow, broad in the shoulders, good looking enough in a way. It occurred to me that maybe I ought to take the easy way out, let Osman marry the Princess Amina, let her father abdicate if he wanted to, and stop the jinni jokes that way.
    But I crowded nearer. The Prince was off his horse, and he’d removed his sandy outer cloak. Servants were covering his big shoulders with a cloth of gold ceremonial robe to wear through the inner gate, and removing his riding spurs and sword so that they could fit him out with impractical gold ornamental trappings.
    One man near him was obviously not a servant. I zoomed my hearing between them.
    The man—a chamberlain of some sort, I presumed—was saying: “Now, remember, O my Prince, the Princess’s name is the Lady Amina. The Sultan is Abdir, never mind the rest of his names. And we are in Baghdad.”
    “Abima, Amir and—Samarra?”
    “Baghdad, O my Prince.”
    “Baghdad. Good.”
    I zoomed my hearing back. No use. Cross that handsome dolt with a girl who carried the blood of Abdir the Foolish, and the Jinni of Baghdad would be the butt of Mount Kaf.
    No use. I’d have to look up Karim and maybe he’d turn out to be wrong, and I’d have to look further. But anyway, I wouldn’t have to look far for Karim; here he came. And he was wearing the uniform cape of one of Osman’s servants. Oh, he was a bold one, that thief of Baghdad; he walked right up to Osman, and held out a ewer of water. He whispered something in the Prince Osman’s ear.
    No doubt he told Osman that the Prince had a smudge over one eye, or smelled of horse sweat, or something; together they retired into one of the little arched embrasures between the pillars.
    As they went away I noticed that Karim’s shoulders were just as broad as Osman’s and that the two men were the same height. Karim was such an agile, acrobatic chap that he looked much smaller, alone.
    I stayed where I was; I had an idea of what was about to happen, and I had no intention of giving Karim any jinnish help. He was doing all right by himself, and even if he wasn’t, the man I was looking for wouldn’t need much help from me. There were a lot of lesser matters in Baghdad I wanted to take care of, once I got a competent sultan on the leewan.
    Sure enough, two men went into the embrasure; only one came out. He was wearing Osman’s cloth of gold ceremonial cloak, and he had fastened the right front fold of the cloak up to his gold turban, covering his face.
    But he moved like a prince, and he walked to his horse like a prince, and he swung into the saddle like a ruler of men; when he raised his hand, the trumpeters never doubted that he was Prince Osman, and they raised their horns and blew for the inner gate to be opened.
    Before I followed Karim as he rode Osman’s horse into the courtyard, I flew into the embrasure for a moment to make sure that Osman didn’t strangle; I had no desire to see Baghdad have a war with Mossul.
    The Prince was all right, though I found out that Karim was not perfect; he’d tied the gag on Osman with a granny instead of a square knot. I corrected this, and materialized as an old man, modeling myself on the great Achim the First, and mingled with the crowd of fellaheen following Osman’s entourage into the courtyard.
    The Prince’s chamberlain had just finished announcing Osman’s name and his string of titles; I was glad I hadn’t hurried.
    Grand Vizier Ghamal, flanked by his new Chief Guard Abdoul, came out of the palace and Ghamal signaled to our chamberlain, who proceeded to roll off the names and titles of our Sultan, Abdir, his possessions, and the names of his ancestors back to the time of Mohammed. I never have a really perfect day.
    Then Osman’s chamberlain announced that Osman had brought