E. Hoffmann Price's Fables of Ismeddin MEGAPACK®

by E. Hoffmann Price

  A second attendant, kneeling, presented a tray of sweetmeats and a flagon of chilled wine. A third offered the sultan the stem of a narghileh. But the prince wished neither to drink nor to smoke.

  “Absál,” said the sultan to the scribe who sat at the foot of his master’s dais, “of what were we speaking?”

  “These papers, my lord.”

  The wrinkled, leathery old scribe thrust before the sultan’s sleepy eyes a bundle of papers and documents.

  “Quite so, Absál.” Another world-engulfing yawn. “Take them out and attend to them. I am very busy today. And by the way, have the apricots arrived?”

  “Not yet, my lord. It is a long, hard trip from Persia.”

  The scribe withdrew, scowling at the great sheaf of papers that represented the neglected affairs of the realm.

  The sultan sucked a wisp of smoke from his narghileh, sipped a bit of wine, stroked his curled beard, then turned to the eunuch who guarded the entrance to the harem.

  “Saoud, didn’t you pick up a Kashmiri dancing girl the other day?”

  “She awaits my lord’s pleasure.”

  And without further command, the eunuch entered the seraglio to summon the Kashmiri.

  From behind a carven teakwood screen at the sultan’s right came the wailing, piping, mournful notes of reed instruments, and the faint pulsing of atabals. The concealed musicians had been awaiting their cue, even as had the Kashmiri girl who was about to make her debut before the sultan.

  The piping subsided. Then came three thin, vibrant, shivering notes of a gong; and, as the sighing, whining reeds resumed their cadence, the Kashmiri entered the presence.

  Silent, shadowlike, she picked her way across the tiled floor, each step a formal pose to display her slim, serpentine perfection for the sultan’s approval. And then she danced with weaving, twining steps and sinuous arms: lithe, wondrous swift, with gesture and contortion that aroused even the phlegmatic despot from his lethargy. A silken veil rippling in the breeze; a moonbeam shimmering on a sword-blade; a wisp of smoke curling from a censer; all these, but surely not a woman it was whose gilded limbs gleamed before the nodding prince. Neither bracelet nor anklet tinkled; for this being her first appearance, she was without jewels, without any tokens of the master’s approval.

  Again the gong behind the screen shivered its thin, rustling note. The Kashmiri sank in obeisance before her lord to receive from his hand some trophy to flaunt before her rivals in the seraglio.

  Schamas-ad-Din drew from his pouch a small, heavy purse, weighed it in his hand a moment, and replaced it. Then from his turban he removed the wondrous Father of Fire, a great, livid ruby that flared fiercely from its bed of diamonds.

  “You are from the Valley of Kashmir? And your name?”

  “Istalani, my lord.”

  The girl’s eyes gleamed welcome to the magnificence that smoldered before her.

  “Ah, yes, I remember now. Kashmir…a land of rich gardens…” The sultan fingered the massive ruby and its adamantine companions.

  “Rich gardens…the finest and loveliest of my apricot trees, even now on the way from Ispahan, shall be named after you,” concluded the sultan as with a magnificent gesture he dismissed the girl and replaced the glowing jewel in his turban.

  Whereupon Schamas-ad-Din arose from his dais and went into the gardens to prepare with his own hands the earth that was to receive the long-awaited apricot trees.

  * * * *

  Affairs of state and the administrative duties of a monarch were nothing, and less than nothing, to the Sultan Schamas-ad-Din of Djalan-batû. Absál, the ancient secretary and ex-captain of the guard he had inherited from his father, had the administration of affairs so well in hand that the horticultural prince had but to sign on the dotted line, then spend the remainder of the day in his gardens. At times, of course, he would in person dispense capricious justice in the halls of public or private audience, and at times pause for an hour of soporific music and the intricate dances of his sultanas; but these were after all but distractions from his important mission in life, that of pottering about in his extensive gardens. Here, certainly, was the perfect, untroubled life of a prince who reigned painlessly and without care.

  The following morning, as was his custom, Absál awaited the sultan in his study and arranged for his inspection the previous day’s accumulation of papers: petitions, communications from neighboring princelings, statements from the Feringhi engineers who worked the rich mineral deposits of Djalan-batû and for the privilege paid royalties so heavy that the taxation of the sultan’s subjects had become a useless formality. And all these affairs were handled as capably by Absál as they had been administered by the chief wazir whose recent death had left the scribe heir to the duties, though not the rank, of the deceased.

  The responsibilities were Absál’s, though not the title, the prestige, nor the privilege of that high office. And for this the old man had to thank Zaid, the court astrologer, the crafty star-gazer who played well and skillfully on the sultan’s credulity. Schamas-ad-Din had informally promised Absál the post of chief wazir; and then he had become evasive. In due course the truth leaked out, reaching the scribe’s ears in a fairly complete report of the conversation that had wrecked his chances of advancement.

  “…Absál doubtless is learned, but he is simple-minded…lacking in the astuteness requisite to a chief wazir, one who must partake in a measure of my lord’s cunning and shrewdness…consider, my lord, the unhappy configuration, here in the sixth house. And see, here in the ascendant, what unfavorable signs…surely my lord will not consider elevating Absál to that high position when all the omens and all the stars are against it…”

  And then the sultan had sidestepped, asking the astrologer who, then, he would recommend. Whereat the astrologer had dissembled, not deeming it wise at that time to offer his own uncle as a candidate; for even the sultan’s obtuseness had its limits.

  All this Absál learned and in a measure verified by seeing that day by day the uncle of the astrologer became more and more prominent at court. But the scribe could do no more than curse all stars and all stargazers, and patiently wait for the opportunity that would enable him to discredit his enemy.

  The scribe had scarcely commenced his day’s work when Zaid entered, laden with charts, and resplendent in the garb of his office.

  “And with you be peace,” returned Absál to the astrologer’s salutation, then resumed his task.

  Before the scribe had arranged the portfolio of documents in heaps according to their nature and ultimate disposal, the sultan himself entered, preceded by eight cadaverous Annamite fan-bearers, and followed by his personal attendants.

  “A thousand years!” greeted Zaid and the scribe as they made their salaam to the prince.

  “What news this morning, Absál?”

  “The Feringhi engineers seem bent on robbing us.”

  “And what of my apricot trees?” interrupted the sultan, before the scribe could report on the mining syndicate.

  “They arrived last night, my lord. Here is a message from the head porter. Now as to the Feringhi…”

  “Let that wait. You should have notified me last night the moment those trees arrived. Zaid, determine a day propitious to their planting. And you, Absál, check them in immediately, and note their condition carefully. Report to me as soon as you are through.”

  The astrologer busied himself with his charts.

  Absál departed on his urgent mission, letting the affairs of the realm take care of themselves.

  “Each worth its weight in gold, and more,” reflected the scribe, as he checked those young apricot trees whose commonplace appearance belied their precious character, priceless in view of their long trip from Persia, and doubly so in view of the sultan’s whim.

  “Seventy-two…sev
enty-three…this one can not survive…seventy-four…this one has been scorched…seventy-five…someone’s head will answer for this…seventy-six…seventy-seven…boy, the sultan spoke of forty trees; and there are over eighty in this lot.”

  “You are right, uncle. But look at their labels and you will see that they are not all apricot trees, even though they do look much alike. Half of them are nectarines.”

  “Well then, and did he also order nectarines?”

  “No. But the head porter brought them along as a bit of speculation. It costs no more to carry eighty than forty. He will sell them in the souk today.”

  “So…well, help me sort them out. And by the way, I may buy some of those nectarines for my own garden. Gardening is the great game here…perhaps the road to royal favor,” mused the scribe as he departed.

  When Absál sought the sultan to inform him that the trees had been checked in and were in good condition, he found him still in conference with Zaid, who, with charts deployed, was laying his customary fog of astrological jargon.

  “A few have been slightly damaged, my lord; but the count is nevertheless in excess of what you expected. I have just turned them over to the chief gardener.”

  “Allah forbid! I must plant them with my own hands, three days hence, at an hour to be named by Zaid. Tell Musa…never mind, I’ll tell him myself.”

  “But what of these papers, my lord?”

  “Take them with you. I will be busy all day. You can handle them.”

  * * * *

  Upon leaving the sultan, Absál sought the head porter and bought the lot of nectarine slips, paying then and there the exorbitant price he demanded. This done, he made short work of affairs of state. But despite his haste, it was late in the afternoon before he was free to pursue some recently conceived plans of his own.

  His first move was to go in search of Musa, the chief gardener; not at his house, but in the various caravanserai and wine shops near the souk. In the third tavern he found Musa, drunk, as usual, but not, as Absál expected, riotously gleeful.

  “Peace be with you, friend Musa,” saluted the scribe.

  The gardener returned the peace, and, flattered at the notice of so high a person, offered him wine. And with the wine he inflicted his latest grievance, told how the sultan had, in the presence of the gardeners under him, strictly forbidden him to touch those precious apricot trees; had forbidden him, Musa, to set out those accursed trees from Persia.

  “Well now,” thought Absál, as he heard the gardener’s sorrows, “this is excellent. The chances are that I’ll not even have to suggest it… Still…it might never occur to this ass of a gardener that it would be a rare jest to sprinkle salt about the roots of those fiend-begotten trees, and then watch them mysteriously wilt and die…”

  After numerous drafts of Musa’s wine, Absál contrived to put in a few words of his own.

  “That is what I call lack of appreciation! To think of affronting you, who for twenty years served his father, upon whom be peace!”

  “And exceeding prayer!” interjected Musa. “That was bad enough; but that was but half of it.”

  The gardener gulped a glass of wine, grimaced fiercely, and simmered in his grievances.

  “So… Really, you interest me strangely, Musa. Come to my house where we can talk in privacy, and drink Shirazi from the sultan’s own cellar,” suggested Absál.

  And thus it was that shortly after sunset, the scribe and the chief gardener reeled across the courtyard of the palace, chanting in broken, uncertain cadence. The gardener’s gloom was alternated with flashes of his usual good humor. With song and denunciation drunkenly mingled, they tottered into Absál’s quarters; and, upon the advent of the scribe’s servant with a jar of Shirazi, began anew the discussion of their several sorrows.

  “Drink wine, oh my brother, for the world is but a breath of wind,” hiccupped Absál, who was scarce as drunk as he seemed.

  “Iblis fly away with your wine,” protested the gardener.

  But unable to resist the old man’s invitation to drink the master’s wine, he drained the glass at a draft. “And the black hands of Abbadon strangle all sultans and all astrologers!”

  “Especially all astrologers,” suggested Absál.

  “Especially all sultans!” contradicted Musa.

  “Well now, friend, you have your grievances. But why feel so bitter about it? The chances are that the gardeners under you did not even hear the sultan’s words.”

  Musa stared somberly into the depths of his Cairene goblet.

  “A mere trifle, that. Come now, Musa, tell me the truth,” wheedled the scribe. “What is on your mind? If I remember rightly, you suggested…”

  “Many things. Remember, ten days ago, they sold a Kashmiri girl in the souk? Lovely as the morning star…”

  “Remember? Well now, and were I not an old man, I would have bought her myself. And it seems to me that you were there, bidding heavily.”

  “To what end?” queried the gardener dolorously. “That fat eunuch outbid me in behalf of the sultan, that old wind-bag with more girls than he could name in a day. Oh, loveliest of all loveliness! And that father of many little piglings robbed me of her, bidding his great wealth against my poverty. And I could have bought her otherwise, for no one else was bidding against me.”

  “So that is the lay of the land, eh, Musa? Well, and I should grieve also, were I in your place. But is it not written…”

  “Rot! You with your Persian verses…”

  “Softly, Musa, softly! Do you suppose that the Kashmiri was pleased with the bargain? Surely she would prefer a handsome young fellow like yourself. And didn’t she weep when Saoud led her to the palace?”

  And then Absál, to whom came all palace gossip, related the tale of the Kashmiri’s debut, and of her rich reward.

  “Named a tree after her!”

  The gardener spat disgustedly, then stared sourly at the gilded scrolls on the wall.

  “Tell me, Musa, are you really a man of courage? Do you really want the girl? It happens that Saoud has me to thank that his head is still above his shoulders. He can refuse me nothing within reason. I think—I am sure it could be arranged.”

  The ensuing half-hour was spent in smothering the gardener’s protestations of gratitude and assurances as to his courage.

  * * * *

  The succeeding three days were slow of passage, weary and anxious and nerve-racking to gardener and sultan alike. The former thought of the lovely Kashmiri behind the barred windows of the seraglio, looking, perhaps, into the very garden wherein he worked; the latter counted the hours and fretfully awaited the sunset of that day which would be favorable to the planting of those fine young apricot trees from Ispahan.

  Absál went about his duties as usual. At times he permitted himself a shadow of a smile as his lean old talons stroked his long, white beard. And the smile widened whenever he caught sight of the astrologer. The old man even went so far as to purchase a silver-white Kochlani stallion, richly caparisoned after the Moorish fashion.

  “A chief wazir,” he reflected, “should be well mounted when he appears in public.”

  * * * *

  Sunset of the third day. The astrologer, with the sultan at his side, stood in the garden, waiting for the lord of the sign to rise into the position of good omen. At last he lowered his astrolabe.

  “Now, my lord, you may plant the first tree. The one named after the Kashmiri. And be assured that they will flourish and prosper in the shadow of your magnificence,” he concluded, as he received from the sultan’s hand a small purse, heavy as only gold could make it.

  Musa stood by with the necessary implements, fidgeting and pacing about as the sultan with scrupulous care set each tree in place, checked its alignment with its mates, irrigated it with rose-wate
r. And from time to time the chief gardener glanced over his shoulder at a cavernous, barred window overlooking the garden.

  The sultan, wearied at last by his own frenzy of enthusiasm, left the garden, followed by the astrologer.

  No sooner had the gate closed after them than Absál emerged from the shadow of a plane-tree. The gardener approached at the scribe’s low whistle.

  “She is expecting you, Musa.”

  “And she will go?”

  “She favors you. But it is for you to persuade her. Tap at the bars of that window. And if you can convince her of your worth, she will tell you of the means I have devised for her escape. I will be waiting with horses just outside the garden wall. You can pass the sentries at the Eastern Gate, and once clear, ride across the border into Lacra-kai, where you can rest secure under the protection of an old friend of mine high in the rajah’s favor. Or would you rather not leave the service of the master you have served so long?”

  “Iblis fly away with all sultans!… What’s that?” whispered Musa, lowering his voice at the sound of a heavy step and the tinkle of spurs just outside the garden gate.

  “Only the captain of the guard on his way to inspect the sentries along the city wall. If he is at the gate, you can not pass, even though I have bribed the sentries. So lose no time! And I will go out on the wall and detain him.”

  Whereupon Absál departed to seek the captain of the guard, leaving Musa to meet his fate at the barred window.

  After several unsuccessful attempts, Musa drew himself to the crest of the wall, just beneath the window, whose sill was at about the height of his shoulders. With the garden keys he tapped lightly on the bars; waited a moment; tapped again.

  Silence, save for the splashing waters of a nearby fountain; not a sound came from within the seraglio. Standing there on the wall beneath that forbidden window, Musa felt all the eyes of Djalan-batû were impaling him. And from the blackness within he felt destruction blindly groping to reach and strangle him. He cursed the dazzling whiteness of the moonlight; shivered at the thought of what would befall him if his mad escapade were witnessed; damned all scribes and all Kashmiri girls; but, just on the point of sinking back into the garden, he collected himself and tapped again.