Sand Scroll Two

Elaborate mozaics of shining ebony and alabaster covered the walls of the round room in which the High Council of Djinn came together.  Nine separate diases lay around the outside of the room, leaving an open space in the center for supplicants, which was currently occupied by a genii genuflecting to Fellah, the High Djinn.  Rather than sitting proudly upright after the customary bow, however, he huddled on the floor, head hanging so low it nearly touched the stone.

The silence became steadily more disapproving by the second as he lay there.  It was understood that anyone in the center would direct his speech towards Fellah, as she was highest in status, but only the lowest imp would offer such deep obeisance for so long.  Anyone as powerful as a full genii should show some self-respect.

“You disgrace yourself and reflect shame back on all our people with this behavior,” commented the djinn to Fellah’s left, coolly.  He seemed more amused than offended, though, with a smug twist to his midnight blue features.

“Silence, Asad,” Fellah said quietly.  “What is the meaning of this?”

“I am helpless,” whispered the genii on the floor.  “I am beholden to a mortal as none of our kind have been for centuries, reduced to slavery by a spell.  He strips my pride from me, my power, my form, honored Council!”  Desperate gold eyes rose to meet the gazes of the frowning djinn before him.  “He uses me as an ordinary succubus.  My power drains from me daily, so abused, and I am bound unable to resist!”

Asad’s eyes were wide and delighted, but the rest of the Council did not look pleased.

“A slave?  Like any common imp?  That’s disgraceful!”

“How could a mortal magician have managed – ”

“ – outrageous!  He should be flayed alive for such insult!”

“They’re clever, but who would have thought – ”

Asad’s lips twitched, and he murmured below the babble, just loud enough for the plaintif to hear.  “A succubus?  Well, no one ever denied he was pretty, but really…”

Gold cat’s eyes slitted in a tired glare up at him.

“Quiet!” Fellah growled, staring around the room with eyes like orange flame.  Guilty silence fell, and she stared thoughtfully down at the huddled form before her.  “The mortal must be clever, to have found a loophole in our laws that would allow such a spell to take effect.  We will have to be equally devious to find a way around it.”

“I am wholly yours to command, Most High Fellah,” sighed the genii in a voice like honey scraped thin.

“Ah, Jadir, you shouldn’t lie to your High Council, you know,” Asad said, smiling.  “What you meant to say is that you are wholly your mortal master’s to command, and won’t be able to offer us any service whatsoever.”

“Asad, if you’ve nothing useful to say, don’t speak.”  Fellah glared at him.

“But I do have something to say, Most High,” Asad countered.  “Something I think is worth consideration by the Council before we offer any assistance to this pathetic excuse for a djinn.  I fail to understand why we should help one who has so clearly proven himself unworthy.  He ignores status and rank, his former overweening pride has taught him to scorn those he should offer high respect to, and only when his incredible arrogance at last attracts the kind of trouble he deserves does he crawl to us begging mercy!  I believe he should be left to reap the full results of his conduct.”

“If the rest of us were unaware of your eternal rivalry with Jadir, your protest might seem more worth consideration,” a sky-blue djinn said dryly from the other side of the room.  “As it is, I believe you remain the only Council member to have smarted over any pride Jadir might have displayed before.”

“Rafiq, he offered insult to the Council!  How can you ignore arrogance such as he has continuously displayed, which disregards anything and anyone that would place itself higher than he?”

Rafiq made a show of peering down in surprise at Jadir, who was no longer reacting to the conversation over and around him, dull gold eyes staring at the floor.

“Arrogance which disregards anything…?  I’m sorry, Asad, I don’t see the mirror, or no doubt I would wonder when Jadir stopped being frail and aquired such an excellent build.”  Rafiq smirked and straightened up in his cushions to stretch elaborately, the sculpted muscles of his chest and arms coming into sharply defined relief.

Asad’s flush was nearly imperceptible against his dark skin, but his fists clenched.  “Are you calling me arrogant?”

Rafiq’s grin widened, but before he could follow up the opening Fellah cut him short with a voice like a diamond blade.  “If the two of you find you are unable to maintain decorum, please feel free to excuse yourselves at any time.”  It was not a request, and the quarrelsome pair were forced to satisfy themselves with a final cold glare.

“I am forced to agree that the argument raised by Asad is not exactly objective,” she continued, “and in any case, the existance of the spell responsible for this situation calls for immediate response regardless of the personal qualities of the first victim.  This kind of treatment cannot become widespread.  The issue is not being owned for the entire length of one mortal life, or until stolen by another mortal, rather than only for the length of three wishes:  it is having no limits on the power they can force us to expend.  If mortal magicians avoid the laws we have established, becoming able to enslave us with no regard for our safety, they can exhaust us to the brink of death.”

  Startled silence swept around the chamber as the gravity of the matter sank in for the rest of the Council.  Then a genii with bright sapphire skin spoke up quietly.

“Most High Fellah.  We await your command.  What shall we do?”

Fellah stroked the tassel of a cushion beside her, staring at nothing.  “We must mend the loopholes, so that if this spell is performed on any other of our people, it will fail.  Unfortunately, that will not save the one who has already been ensnared.”  She met Jadir’s empty gaze for a long, thoughtful moment.  “Perhaps if we remove the main component, the rest of his plight will sort itself out.  I think at the moment, it is the best we can hope for.”

*                                                                      *

Massara Ismail felt her way along a dimly lit passageway.  Muscles twitched and tingled with every breath, and she felt as if she’d been pushing a large rock up and down dunes all day, but the aches were rewarding, because it meant her talent was being noticed at last.

Breathing fire, juggling knives, doing flips off the shoulders of her traveling companions, she had still been conscious of the eyes of Shakoor Temiz focused on her, incredulous and impressed.  He appreciated tumbling art, as had become well-known among the jonglours and itinerant performers who passed this way, and female tumblers with skills besides dancing were rare.  Massara hoped that if only she could secure a place here, he would show her off to rich, important visiters, who would vie for her services, and eventually she would have a permanent and respected position entertaining in an generous, affluent household.

Meanwhile, she was learning the ways of this place, which was certainly rich.

Shakoor was generous as well, she had to admit.  But something about him kept her from wanting to work for him.

She stopped to peer into the reflective surface of a beaten gold bowl that sat on a dias, daring to touch the inside with delicate fingertips, and thought again, as she did every time she passed it, that it looked like the skin of the tall man who stood near Shakoor every day.  Mist had flowed off his hand like water, once, at Shakoor’s command, and made the solid silver armlet that she wore.  It had been a reward for some piece of acrobatic finesse, perhaps her grace in landing, but she only remembered the way the man had held himself, handing the thing to Shakoor to give to her.

He was the genii, Massara knew, the one that had made it possible for Shakoor to become famous, for his wisdom and his poetry to be praised by every man who experienced it.  Shakoor never boasted of him and seemed to treat him like a piece of furniture for all he spoke to or looked at him, but the servants knew.  Anyone who had stayed for a while would know, because on some days Shakoor would issue a command to one side, not bothering to look at his genii directly, and the silent, golden-skinned man would wave a hand and produce something from a veil of mist.

Perhaps he disliked his treatment as much as a human would in his situation, Massara thought.  She remembered that when she had first arrived, barely tolerated by the rest of the troupe, the genii had moved as if full of barely restrained anger, and his expression had been openly dark.  Now she had been here for weeks, and the genii had changed.  His eyes were empty and his movements stiff as if from exhaustion.  If he were human, she would’ve said he wasn’t eating or sleeping enough, but djinn didn’t need such things to live.

It wasn’t her business.  She had known since she was small the dangers of peering too closely into the affairs of powerful men – her father had lost his home from just such a mistake – but she couldn’t help watching the genii.  His grace made her breath run short, and she wanted to see him smile.  If only she knew how to help him… but he was a genii, and she only a mortal woman.  How likely was she to be able to help?

Somewhat dispirited, she finally reached the room she shared with the rest of her troupe.  Some of the younger kitchen servants were visiting, and Massara hastily averted her eyes from the darkest corner of the room, where quiet moans twined through the air under the rest of the gossip and laughter.

“Massara!” called Abida, who had snuck her a snack of melon a few weeks back, producing instant friendship.  “Come here!”

Ducking the expansive gestures of her drunken companions – the kitchen folk had brought refreshments – Massara adeptly wove to the other girl’s side.

“You look so grim!  Your work is done, it’s evening, time to relax and appreciate a fine vintage!”  Abida clasped her arm, tugging her towards the small side table, but Massara held her ground, shaking her head with a half-smile.  “No?  What troubles you, then?  Did our master hold you late again?”

“He wanted me to perform the routines by myself,” Massara sighed.  “Abida, when our troupe moves on, I’m not certain he’ll want me to leave.”

Abida stared at her.  “A permanent place for you?  But Massara, I thought that was your greatest desire!  Shakoor Temiz is rich and famous!  If you are his prized entertainer, your fame will rise with his, and he will value you even more greatly!”

A braid had fallen from beneath Massara’s headcloth, and she twined it dejectedly around one finger.  “It is my greatest desire, but I do not want it here.  Shakoor is not the master I would prefer to serve.”  Before Abida could question her any further, she quickly changed the subject.  “Abida, what is wrong with his genii?  I know you servants see everything, and I cannot understand why a being so powerful would look so… tired.”

Lazy, half-lidded eyes widened, then glanced aside, flicking casually around the room.  Abida took her arm again, pulling her forcefully to the side of the room, farther from earshot of the rest of the gathering.  “I do not know much about genii-kind,” she said quietly, picking a piece of hard cheese out of a bowl and nibbling on it.  “But if he were human, it would be because he is not sleeping.”

Massara blinked at her, and Abida sighed, stepping closer.  “Understand,” she murmured, even more quietly than before, “you must say nothing to anyone, no matter what you think.  He is our master, and the genii is his possession, to do with as he likes.”  She waited for Massara’s impatient nod, then continued.  “Omar, who straightens his room, says Shakoor has clearly had nightly – ” she coughed, glancing meaningfully up from beneath her lashes, “– companionship there for almost two moons now, but no mortal besides Shakoor enters, evenings.  I have wondered if perhaps the genii serves more than one purpose for our master.”

“You believe that he is – ” Massara stopped, unable to put it into words.

Her friend shrugged gracefully.  “Genii-kind shift form, that much I know for sure.  And I believe they are the same sort of creature as incubi and succubi.  If you had one at your disposal, and nothing else you needed him for, would you not exercise your curiosity?”

“I would not, unless he agreed to it,” Massara hissed, angry, but trying to keep her voice down.  “Now I see why he has looked so different recently!”

Abida closed her eyes, bowing her head to gather patience.  “Please,” she said quietly, “do not attack Master Shakoor.  The genii would suffer no less.”

Massara stopped, mouth opening and closing.  She was right.

But Massara didn’t have to like it.

Her eyes snapped open on darkness.  Although she had no idea what had woken her, her heartbeat rattled in her ears as if she’d been running.

“Excuse me, Lady,” said a voice like soft fur over granite, right next to her ear.

Normally she would have shrieked and dived out of bed, but she found herself unable to move or make so much as a squeak.

“I apologize for the startling tactics, Lady.  I trust you can understand.  Please get out of bed and walk with me to a place we can speak in private.”

Heart in her throat, she lay still for a moment until her breathing slowed.  Anyone who meant her harm wouldn’t have bothered to wake her first, but still she was wary as she rolled out of bed and followed the dim form past her sleeping companions, out of the room, through the halls in such a twisting route that she lost her way.  By the time they reached the well-lit room her guide finally stopped in, Massara was twitchier from nerves than a camel with sandflies.

The dim shape stepped into the light and turned to face her.  Massara’s mouth dropped open as her head tilted back, brown eyes going round.  She had never seen someone so huge in her life, and his obvious inhuman nature only made him more unnerving.

Eyes gold as some huge cat’s stared down into hers as he loomed above her, and she marveled faintly that he could be so attractive with skin blue as the pale edge of sky near the horizon.

“Massara the Tumbler,” said the deep voice that had woken her.  “I bring a message from the High Council of Djinn.”

Massara momentarily forgot how to breathe and almost choked.  What under the heavens could a high council of such powerful creatures want with a low-born tumbler girl?

“It has come to our attention that the laws between mortals and djinn have been flagrantly flouted, one of our people bound and held in conditions beyond tolerance.  He has suffered abuse to the point where self and life is in danger, and it is past time the situation was relieved.”

Massara stared up at him, swept in a confusion of horror and vindication.  “Are you talking about Shakoor’s genii?”

“I speak of the one currently bound to serve the devious magician who employs you, yes,” rumbled the djinn, glaring down.

Massara cringed a bit, involuntarily thinking about some of the things that could happen to her if the genii should get really annoyed.  “My apologies, great djinn, I only meant to identify him, not offend.”

Large blue muscles untensed slightly and she almost thought he smiled for a moment.  “Your sympathy was noted, earlier tonight, and it was proposed that you might be willing to assist us in our efforts.”

Her mouth dropped open again.  Had djinn been spending time spying on her?  “Ah… whatever assistance I can offer, great djinn, I will… within reason,” she quickly added.  One had to be careful with words and promises around these creatures.

This time he smiled openly, with an approving glint deep in his eyes.  “No fear, mortal child.  You wish fame, recognition for your talent, and security, do you not?”

“I do!” she said eagerly, then realized how he’d phrased it.  “But those are not three wishes – !”

“Not yet, it is true,” he agreed.  “But if you follow my directions, you may yet win them.  Do you consent?”

Massara barely hesitated before nodding.

*                                                          *

The corridor she stood in was dimly lit, but brighter light shone around the corner Massara pressed flat against.  She knew that just down that short hall lay Shakoor’s bedroom, but two guards always stood outside it all night long.  Admittedly, they would be bored and unwary, and the djinn had hinted that she would have some sort of assistance from his people, although he had refused to be specific.  Still, her breathing was much faster than she would’ve preferred, and her heart was beating in her throat.  Skilled tumbler or not, she wasn’t sure how she was going to get past the guards.

Nothing for it but to try.

Peeking around the corner, she saw the two guards playing a quiet game of dice halfway down the hall, several yards from the closed door of their master’s bedroom.  Two empty wineflasks lay beside them.  Massara studied the scene as best she could, chewing on her lip, trying to see any advantages she might be able to use.  The ceilings here were high, she noted idly, and the lamps hanging from them looked quite strong. 

Abruptly the observation became considerably less idle.  It would never work, surely!  Even drunken and distracted guards would notice something that blatant, wouldn’t they?

Except that Massara had the Djinn High Council on her side.  And she had to do this.

After a long moment of tensing all the muscles in her legs and arms, making sure they were up to what was about to be asked of them, she ducked around the corner and darted into the nearest shadowed doorway in the hall.  Any minute she expected to hear a cry and see the two guards pulling themselves to their feet, yanking sword from sheath and pointing them at her… but they didn’t move, except to curse at each other and toss the dice.

Praying that the djinn understood what she needed from them – enough luck to walk on air, essentially – she stepped out of her doorway and launched herself as silently as possible for the nearest ceiling lamp.  It creaked slightly as both hands wrapped around it, and she hauled her legs up underneath, teeth clenched in the expectation of landing on her back when it pulled out, or simply feeling sword-points in her spine in a moment, but neither occurred.  Disbelieving, she looked down and found the guards obliviously playing dice just down the hall.  Either they were much more drunk than she had assumed… or the djinn were helping her.

Massara felt much better as she lowered her legs to give her the leverage for the swing to the next lamp, almost directly above the guards, and this time she didn’t stop but swung off that one immediately, landing in the darkened doorway to the bedroom with one hand on the door.

As the djinn had said, giving her this one reassurance at least, the door opened at her push and without a sound.  She closed it behind her and stood just inside Shakoor’s bed chamber, still breathing fast but silent, and much more calm now.  Now she had only to untie the lamp from the cord that leashed it to Shakoor’s wrist, and they could be away.

Thick and soft as packed feathers underfoot, the heavy rug absorbed her steps entirely.  As she neared the bed, a faint snore rattled in the air and she froze.  Shakoor heaved himself around under the covers, flopped back down, and breathed steadily again.  Long moments later, she dared to move.  In a cat-footed rush, she reached the side of the bed and lifted the lamp from the stand beside it.

Eyes flickering from the still form in the bed to the cord under her fingers, she fumbled at the knot.  Too tight, it was tied too well, but she worried at it with sore fingers and finally managed a little slack in one loop –

Shakoor bolted upright in bed, head whipping around to glare at her with bleary eyes.  Massara’s throat tied itself tight, she couldn’t breathe or think.

“Thief!” he growled, and snatched at the cord, and she clutched harder at the lamp, wide eyes snapping to the door as a guard stuck his head through, then bounded in, drawing his sword, and desperately Massara rubbed one hand hard against the side of the lamp, crying “You’re mine now, I hold the lamp, I wish to hold this lamp somewhere else!”

The room vanished.

Bare toes flexing, Massara felt cold sand beneath her feet, and opened her eyes to see the desert night surrounding her.  One wish wasted, but at least they were safe.  Relief filled her lungs with sweet cool air and she consciously relaxed her grip on the lamp.

“Genii?”

The familiar voice answered from thin air, as empty and tired as ever.  “Mistress.”

She frowned.  “Are you truly mine now?”

“As you said, Mistress, you hold the lamp.  I am yours to command.”  He sounded almost listless, and it annoyed her.  After all, she was saving him from Shakoor – shouldn’t he be grateful?

“Genii, what’s wrong with you?  I’m not cruel, like Shakoor.  I’m not even a magician, so I can’t bind you to serve me outside the laws, as he did.”

“You don’t need to, Mistress.  His spell bound me outside the laws.  Unless the spell is broken, I serve you as I served him:  with my life.”

The despair in his voice touched her, but her mind was distracted with a sudden nagging thought.  Did this mean that, like Shakoor, she had more than three wishes?  Not that she would keep him forever, of course, that would be as cruel as Shakoor, but certainly it meant she didn’t have to be as careful.  How much more convenient it would be to make as many little wishes as she liked, rather than only two more carefully worded ones!

But first she should make sure.  “Does that mean I have more than three wishes?”

“You don’t have to wish, Mistress.  I must obey.”

“Stop sounding so miserable, I have no intention of treating you badly!”  She sighed.  Perhaps just the melancholy would be enough to keep her from wanting to hold on to him.  Well, first things first, whatever her next step was.  “Take me somewhere luxurious to sleep tonight and eat.”

*                                                          *

Two days later, Massara had new clothes, money, and a room at a very good inn, and she still hadn’t decided what to do with her genii.  She had told him to materialize and rest among the cushions so that she could watch him from across the room.  Perhaps djinn-kind did not normally sleep, but he seemed to fall into it naturally enough.  She wondered uncomfortably if he’d had practice with Shakoor, then shoved the thought quickly away.

Even sleeping, the grace of the genii’s body amazed her, warmed her face and her blood.  Smooth blue-skinned muscles across his chest shifted with every breath, and she was half-hypnotized watching.

Before, when he was owned by Shakoor and kept his gold-skinned, brown-eyed form, she had never guessed what he really looked like.  His slitted emerald pupils could bewitch, the blue of his skin was luminous and pure as water reflecting the deeps of the sky, and the darker blue markings like tattoos across his cheekbones fascinated her. 

She had been certain to give him time to rest after taking her to the inn and after every command she gave, and he seemed to have regained some power and energy, if not a sense of security.  She had not yet made him smile, and the failure nibbled at her until she could no longer tell if it was doubt of herself or irritation with him.

So beautiful his body without that shirt.  So perfect the long legs, slender waist, clever fingers.  So well-formed the arch of the brow, the sculpted lips…

Even if she could not make him smile, she knew a certain way to make him forget his troubles, to please him and fulfill this desire that had been growing in her since the first time she had seen him.  He would enjoy it – what man didn’t?  Such a wish would be filling his needs as much as hers, even if he hadn’t yet realized it.  She would only be doing him a favor, anyone would agree.

Faint tension rippled across the fine blue features deep in sleep.  Black brows tightened, and the strong fingers clutched at a pillow above his head. 

Massara barely caught a garbled moan, but that was enough to remind her of what he had already suffered.  She drew a deep breath, shaking her head free of the vision that had wrapped around it, all but obscuring her purpose and her honor.  A deal had been struck, and she had nearly danced merrily past it, taking more wishes than had been offered her as reward and very nearly breaking her end of the bargain entirely. 

She had also intended, at some point, to try breaking the spell that Shakoor had laid on him.  When had that intention slipped so unobtrusively away?

What was it about this creature that could change her so quickly, tempt her into overlooking not only kindness, but her given word?  Not so long ago she had insisted to Abida that she would never mistreat the genii if he were in her control.  She had been incensed at Shakoor for misusing the gift granted him, convinced that had she been in such a situation, she would have dealt with the genii in grace and courtesy.  Surely it had been true, back then.

It had to be something about owning him, the power granted by it, that changed a person.  Although she would not bet on the likelihood of Shakoor Temiz ever having been a better man, even before he aquired a personal djinn.

Now she knew why the Council had not suggested she keep the lamp for herself.  Despite her dislike for Shakoor’s behavior, the presence of that power in her life with such an attractive form was likely to turn her as immoral as he. 

Even now, as she thought about it, she knew she wouldn’t wish the spell off him.  It would be the right thing to do, she was almost certain of it, but as she nibbled on slices of melon and sipped something dark, hot, and spicy, watching him sleep, the limp sprawl of those flawless limbs, she could feel the strange sensation welling up in her chest again.  Masked before, it was bare-faced and vengeful now, with her facing it head-on, and savory sweet with the knowledge of power.  Perhaps the natural reflex of the human spirit, resentful of the more powerful creature, she was beginning to exult in her hold over him, and the very last thing she was going to do was free him of it.

Massara closed her eyes, desperately searching for herself in the swirl of dizzy, drunken glory.  She knew herself not to be cruel.  She was distantly aware that before she had stolen the lamp, she had even felt an aching admiration for its dweller, had wanted to help him, keep him safe.  Already she had failed in that – her own voice rang in her ears, these past two days, purring unnecessary commands, petty or sarcastic merely to show him his place.  And only now realizing it.

If she wanted to know herself again, wanted to stay a reasonably good person, she was going to have to pass the lamp on as she had originally promised to do.  Perhaps she could make herself tell the new owner what she knew about the spell, so the burden would shift to shoulders that could deal with it kindly. 

Which meant she had to find someone kind for the next owner.  This would take some very careful wording for her second-to-last, very specific order.  And perhaps she should warn the genii to appear in his near-human guise for his new owner, since it seemed harder to be sympathetic to someone who looked so inhuman.  His face was even more difficult to read when it was blue, somehow, and made it easy to be cruel in annoyance.  Anything Massara could do to counteract the effect she had already felt in herself, she would carry out as best she could.

She only hoped she would be able to explain about the spell.  She was very much afraid she would find herself forgetting on purpose.

*                                                          *

Most days were hot and dry in the great city of Keshtyra, but at least today the wind was quiet.  Mahdi’s wineshop always did a brisk business around midday, but he lost customers on windy days.  People didn’t like to leave their houses unless they knew they wouldn’t be chewing grit with every breath from the sand in the air.

He enjoyed flirting gently with the fishwife who had come in search of wine that was still cheap, but sweeter than usual, and finally sent her off laughing with a sack of it that probably shouldn’t have been quite that cheap.  She didn’t look like she could afford any more, though, and he’d already taken plenty of profit for the day.  His uncle would never know the difference.

Everyone called it Mahdi’s wineshop even though it was actually owned by his Uncle Yasir.  After all, his uncle hardly ever showed up in the shop itself, taking care of the business part of it while Mahdi sold the wares.  It worked better all around that way, since Mahdi had no head for numbers but people tended to like him, and his uncle didn’t like people and refused to let anyone else touch his bookkeeping.

He lifted the half-full jar beside him, shaking fine black hair out of his face as he tilted it to his lips and drank.  For some reason this vintage never sold much, so Mahdi always felt free to take some of his wages in liquid form.  He liked the sharpness, the way it made his lips and tongue sting and then tingle, and most of all he liked the pleasant veil that wine dropped between him and the world.  His tolerance had grown high enough for it not to interfere with his bahavior or sales, but it made everything look softer, simpler.  Pain faded to nothing when he’d been drinking most of the day.

Wine swished inside the jar when he set it down again rather lighter and looked up to see a small dust cloud blow up as if a large hand had slapped the road in front of his shop.  Abruptly Mahdi blinked and shook his head, causing the world to wheel a bit.  Maybe he’d misjudged this time, and had considerably too much to drink – now he was seeing things.

The road between his shop and the tailor’s across the way had been empty momentarily when the fishwife left, the crowd swirling elsewhere for a moment.  Now someone was standing in the middle of the dust cloud, facing him square on.  He hadn’t seen anyone come out of Alim’s shop, but if the person hadn’t come from the tailor’s, why stand there looking at him?

As the dust cleared, he realized that it was a woman, a little older than he, and that she held an oil lamp in one hand.  She wore an outfit of beautifully embroidered silks and sashes, but something was different about her.  Disbelieving, he looked closer and realized that underneath the rich clothes, she looked as strong as he was, which was so unlikely for a wealthy lady as to be impossible!

She was watching him, he realized, and smiled welcomingly a bit too late.  “Prophet’s blessings on your house, fine lady.  I hope our humble wares can interest you.  Fine wines for every occasion, many vintages, sweet, dry, rich and subtle…”

She approached as he glibly ran through the spiel, but her gaze never left his face, and her thoughtful expression puzzled him enough that he broke off.

“Lady… is there some question I can answer?”

“Is your name Mahdi Ayasha?” she asked directly, tone barely tinged with uncertainty until he nodded.  Then the brown eyes smiled as her face lit.  “I wasn’t certain it would work, but you’re here, so you must be the best owner.  Take this, and… please treat him well.”  She offered the lamp to him with both hands.

Mahdi didn’t touch it.  “Him?  Best owner of what?”  Confusion made the world spin again slightly, and he wondered how a mirage could make so much sense, and how it had a voice in the first place for that matter.

The lady set the lamp down on the table in front of him and leaned forward, lowering her voice for him alone.  “The genii.  He’s yours because you won’t mistreat him and he needs a kind master.  Prophet’s blessings on you.  I…” she seemed to struggle with herself for a moment, then “Genii,” she said to the lamp as Mahdi stared mutely at her, “carry out my last wish.”

Suddenly the air around her shimmered and sparkled oddly, and then she was just gone.

Mahdi reached out and picked up the lamp.  For being the result of a random hallucination it felt awfully real, cool and hard, dented in a few places.  Without conscious instruction on his part, his palm reached out and rubbed gently on the side of the lamp.

Sparkling mist trickled out of the mouth and pooled in a column in front of him as he took an abrupt step back, eyes round.  When the mist cleared, a man with golden skin stood in front of him, head bowed, arms crossed over his chest.

“I am yours to command, my master,” he said in a toneless voice.

Mahdi stared with his mouth open for a very long time.

*                                                          *

The wine shop had never closed up quite so quickly so early in the afternoon.  Fortunately, the hottest part of the day was almost past, so only those coming by late for their dinner wine would be disappointed.  Mahdi barely spared them a passing thought as he settled down across the room from a genii, who for some reason now belonged to Mahdi.

“Would you like some wine?” he suggested, holding out the half-full jug he’d carried up to his rooms in the certainty that he would need the liquid support for this kind of strangeness.  He looked around for a cup, then shrugged and set the jug in his lap when the genii shook his head.

Silence stretched as Mahdi looked for the most sensible place to start this conversation.  Do you enjoy being a magical creature powerful enough to change the shape of the sky?  Are the benefits good?  Any free wine?

“What was that lady’s last wish?” he finally asked, unable to stabilize his whirling thoughts enough to choose a more important question.

“A valued position as a skilled tumbler in a wealthy and generous household where she could respect those she worked for and they would respect her,” the genii answered in the most beautiful voice Mahdi’d ever heard.  Back straight and face closed, he sat cross-legged on the cushion Mahdi had waved him towards, hands listless in his lap.

Leaning back on his hands, Mahdi regarded him for a moment, frowning slightly.  His head had almost stopped spinning now, the pleasant veil of drink he’d been working on somewhat thinned but still intact. 

A tumbler, that made sense, he thought distantly.  That explained the corded muscle beneath the silks…

Genii were supposed to be inhuman, of course, but he’d never met one to know that they were so beautiful.  This one’s voice…  It wrapped around his head, wove itself into his mild intoxication and brought all sorts of thoughts to mind.  Being the master of this genii could become a very bad idea, he realized.

“You don’t look very happy.”  Of course, genii-kind didn’t necessarily enjoy serving humans, that was well known, but they didn’t look downright miserable in any tale he’d heard.  “Did you prefer the lady as a master to me?”  Although she’d said that strange thing about the “best owner,” saying he would be a kind master, not to mention admonishing him to treat the genii well.  Who would mistreat a genii?  How could one?  Weren’t they better known for mistreating their owners, doing tricky things like misinterpreting wishes and so on?

Empty amber-brown eyes rose to meet his and the genii shrugged slightly.  “I have no preference, Master.”

Mahdi frowned again.  “What’s wrong, then?”

A long gaze met his, then thick black lashes dropped over the eyes as they turned away.  “Nothing is wrong, Master.”

Mahdi tilted his head back to frown at the ceiling for a moment.  It was useless to ask if the genii was allowed to lie, he’d say no whether he was honest or not.  Presumably one had to ask the right question.  Well, it wasn’t as if he needed a genii’s services at the moment, so he supposed it made sense just to relax and play with it, find out what he could and shrug off what he couldn’t.  A new and different way to spend his evening, for sure.

He set the wine aside for the moment, then flopped sideways into the threadbare cushions there to lean on one elbow and smile.  “Do you have a name I can call you by?”

Amber eyes flickered, hesitating before the genii bowed his head.  “Jadir, Master.”

“Jadir.  Call me Mahdi, not Master.”

Dark eyebrows creased as the eyes flicked up to meet his, then away again.  “Are you not afraid that I will forget my place if I do not call you Master?”

Mahdi blinked, tilted his head curiously.  “Will you?  Will you try to kill me or stop obeying my orders if you call me by name?”

Jadir’s shoulders hunched slightly as he stared down at his hands.  “No, Mas – Mah-ahdi.”

Something strange here.  This was not how a genii should act, a powerful djinn who could move heaven and earth to meet a wish.  From everything Mahdi had ever heard, they were supposed to be arrogant and subtle, proud and irritable and all too easy to offend, at which point their erstwhile master’s life became worth less than a burst wineskin.  Involuntarily he found himself becoming intrigued.

“What happened to you?” he said quietly, sitting up, leaning forward.  The question spun in his head – what under heaven’s broad shelter could make a djinn act this way?  He could think of nothing, but then that might be the muddling effect of the wine…

“I have experienced much, Mast – Mahdi.  What experience did you wish me to relate?”  Head still bowed, Jadir wasn’t looking at him.

“Tell me what’s made you so… timid.”

Brown eyes flashed as the genii finally met his eyes again, anger tightening those shapely lips.  “I am not timid.”

Mahdi cocked an eyebrow at him.  “Oh no?  What would you call this, then?”  He mimicked Jadir’s posture a moment past, rounding and pulling his shoulders in, hanging his head, letting his expression go blank and hopeless.  It was uncomfortably reminiscent of certain things, and he only held it for a second before shaking his limbs out and looking up with a challenging half-smile.

Sharp brown eyes glared at him for a long moment, then Jadir looked away again, not answering.  Mahdi considered other possible words.  “Wretched?  Miserable?  In despair?  Forlorn?  Hopeless?”

The glare was back, and trying to burn through his skull this time.  Mahdi raised an unimpressed eyebrow and sighed.  “You know, getting angry at people for telling you the truth is something humans try to grow out of.  Are you young for a genii?”

No answer but the continuing glare.  Mahdi rolled his eyes.  He was definitely too sober to deal with this.  “I can’t make you talk to me, and I can’t find out anything if you won’t talk.  If you’d prefer your lamp to talking to me, be free to return to it so I can go find some more congenial company.”

Now Jadir stopped scowling at him, staring instead, incredulous as if Mahdi’d just declared himself Jadir’s long lost grandfather.  Perhaps he wasn’t used to being dismissed so easily.

Deep golden hands slowly pressed together in front of his chest and the genii bowed hesitantly, as if waiting to be stopped.  Still staring at his new master, he quickly dissolved into a sparkling cloud of mist and shot into the lamp – diving for safety, Mahdi thought.

Sighing deeply, he stretched and stood up, giving the lamp a thoughtful look.  He didn’t really want to take it with him to the tavern, but a genii might come in handy if he ran into any more drunken toughs on the way home – the Prophet Suhail and all the gods knew he had no gift for fighting.

He looked around, grabbed a cord of the kind he used to fasten wineskins together, and lashed the lamp securely to his sash under his long shirt.  It was small enough not to make much of a lump, and the cord was tough enough to resist the blade of any furtive pickpockets.

Safety thus assured, he wandered out toward the evening meeting place of most of his aquaintances.  A general shout went up when he walked in – Mahdi was well-liked for his open face and easy temper as much as for the rounds he bought and the very good wine he sold – and he settled down to a comfortable night of drinking while his friends boasted.

Ra’id had finally convinced Afaf’s father to hear his suit, and he’d either been drunk on jubilance alone or started on the festivities long before getting here.  Mahdi congratulated him with a slap on the shoulder and nearly knocked him off the bench.

“She’sss… sssoo beauut’ful…” Ra’id held up both hands, unmindful of the half-full glass in one, and waved them in descriptive curves, half-focused eyes glazed with the vision behind them.  “Eyes like… brown, withh, moon in ‘em.”

Mahdi smiled as the laughter rose higher amidst lewd jests and held his silence, holding his glass idly up to the light for a moment.  Dark red wine sloshed in strange shapes between the thick, misshapen walls filled with bubbles – the proprieter was wise enough to buy for quantity rather than quality, considering that the care his customers used with their drinks was often inversely proportional to how many they’d had.

For some reason the mere possession of a genii’s lamp made him uncomfortable.  It made no sense; it wasn’t as if he was going to be forced to make wishes – unless a gang of toughs caught him on the way home and couldn’t be talked out of it this time, of course, but he knew how to phrase a request carefully.  Besides, the genii wouldn’t look so miserable if he had the habit of deliberately misinterpreting wishes, would he?  He’d be smug and confident, because he’d have exploited every little loophole he could find until his former masters died – and that tumbler lady had looked safe and well.

That wasn’t it, then.  It was something else making him uneasy about the situation.

Well, he couldn’t guess it, and there was no use stewing over it, so he might as well enjoy the wine and company and leave worrying about it for another time.

“You just wait,” Amir said, waving his empty glass meaningfully at his friends.  “If Ra’id can land a wife, anyone can do it!  Wager ten cir I’ll be wed next!”

“Ten cir?”  Mahdi put his drink down.  “That’s a lot of money, Amir.  Ten dorin, maybe, but you shouldn’t feed cir to the wind.”

“I’m telling you, I’ve got my eye on a pretty one whose father won’t mind a helping hand in the business.  Just a little acting on my part, and – ” he set his glass down to smack both hands together, “I’m set!  ‘Sides, what about you, Mahdi?  You talk like my old uncle with your high and mighty advice – how are you catching a wife?”

This was no new avenue for them – Mahdi’s companions occasionally wondered at his continuing single status, but always before he’d put them off with a casual jest or sidetracked the conversation until they forgot the question.  Tonight, in his distraction, it struck deeper than usual, and while the others cheered the retort, Mahdi picked up his drink and sipped, expressionless.  Too many faces were focused on him, too drunk to see the mood in his dark eyes, and he didn’t much care to watch his words at the moment.

“I’m not looking for a wife,” he said quietly.  “My first love went… badly.  I do not think… my lover survived.”

Amir was drunk enough to miss the hint that the depressing subject was off-limits even if it had been announced by a town cryer, and plowed straight ahead.  “Oh-ho, don’t tell us Mahdi the innocent’s been in a married woman’s bed!  What was it?  Did she seduce you?  Bet Mahdi felt a fool later, eh?”

Slamming the rest of his wine back, Mahdi put the glass down carefully and stood up.

“No.  It wasn’t a married woman.”  He stepped away from his seat, raised his hands goodbye with a short bow, and walked out, leaving startled, confused faces behind.  “Very good, Amir,” he heard faintly, fading as he moved away.  “Mock the man when he thinks his girl is dead.  Very smart…”

Mahdi shook his head, pulling in a deep breath of the cool, dry night air.  If only it had been that simple. 

He’d barely escaped with his life, that night, slipping into the desert with a stolen camel and the barest supplies to survive, to the city where Uncle Yasir lived, to run his wineshop for him.  He didn’t think about it much, spent every day not thinking about it.  Eventually that was going to get old, no doubt, but not yet.  He could spend months yet lost in the wine.

At least now his drinking companions were less likely to bring the subject up again – until they got drunk enough the next time to forget it all, and by that hour he’d be able to leave without offending anyone.

Mahdi walked along the dimly-lit, cluttered streets, heat radiating up at him from the sun-baked earth underfoot.  He was careful to stick to the main streets, where people still gathered to talk and relax, moving slowly from one establishment to the next.  The smaller, dark alleyways were dangerous for an unarmed man to go alone.  Although, he wasn’t exactly alone – One hand patted thoughtfully at the slight bump the djinn’s lamp made under his shirt.  Even so, he’d rather keep himself safe with common sense.

Indeed, with the precautions he’d learned to take, he reached the wineshop untroubled and mounted the stairs to his rooms above, planning on a long deep sleep just as soon as he reached his bed.

Of course, he forgot to explain this plan to the man who was waiting in his room.

Mahdi stepped through the door at the top of the stairs, head down in fatigue, moving blindly for his bed, and heard the footstep across the room.  He looked up just in time to see the very large fist heading for his temple connect solidly with his cheek instead.  Not that he had a very good view, given the white flares that went off behind his eyes at that point.

Mahdi sprawled backwards over the cushions scattered across the floor, world wheeling darkly around his head, and realized muzzily that this meant his hangover tomorrow was going to be even worse than usual.  He stared up at the man, who, while skinny, was quite tall and seemed to be made purely of muscle wrapped generously over bone.

“What…?” he managed thickly, too dizzy and confused to be alarmed.

“Where’d you hide it?” demanded his assailant.  His hands were flexing constantly, Mahdi noticed, and his weight shifted jerkily from one foot to the other, back and forth.  Feverishly agitated or excited over something, obviously.

“Hide what?”  He raised his head to try to lean up on his elbows, then changed his mind when the world twisted viciously again as half his face ached.

“The genii!” snapped the man.  “Where’d you put the lamp?”

Mahdi frowned at him.  “It’s my lamp,” he protested.  That much he knew, even drunk with the room spinning up on its corners at him.  His mouth tasted salty, like olives and meat… no, it was blood.  His cheek throbbed inside and outside, cut on his teeth.

Jaw tight and hard, the stranger loomed above him in the flickering light, stepping closer, and Mahdi abruptly realized that he could be in some danger here.  Hands fastened on the front of his shirt, heaving him abruptly to his feet as his vision flecked white and red and black, spinning wildly for a moment, and he revised that estimate to “serious danger here.”  If he could even stay conscious – the man was shaking him now, yelling in his face words he only partly understood because the world reeled so badly with the shaking.

One hand was over the man’s, trying to keep his grip on the shirt from strangling Mahdi, and the other flapped for a moment, brushing something hard at Mahdi’s own waist.

Revelation hit his muddled brain like sun through a glass, lighting it up.  Yes, he had the lamp right now, which meant he had a way out!  The hand rubbed over the lamp through the cloth, and he distantly hoped it didn’t need bare skin to work.

Shimmering smoke coiled into shape behind the man’s shoulder, quivering uncertainly in Mahdi’s blurring vision.

“Please, I wish you’d take this man to the opposite side of the city,” Mahdi groaned through rattling teeth, “and leave him there with no memory of the lamp!”

He collapsed on the floor as the hands holding him up vanished along with the rest of his attacker.  For a long moment he lay there letting reality stabilize around him, waiting as the swaying, flickering room faded fully in again.  Only then, as he slowly, carefully sat up, did he have opportunity to realize that his few belongings had been thoroughly gone over.  One cupboard door was hanging off its hinges, his clothes strewn around the bottom of it, and his two precious books had been flung across the room – he dearly hoped none of the pages were damaged.

Wondering at last why he could see, he looked to the small lamps scattered around his room – all lit.  The stranger must have lit them when he first came in, Mahdi realized, to cast light on his search for the djinn’s lamp.

The genii reappeared and bowed.  “Your command is done, Mmmahdi.”  He still seemed to have a bit of trouble with the name thing.

“Prophet’s Blessings on you,” Mahdi sighed fervently, not noticing the djinn’s blink of startlement.  He crossed his legs, looking glumly around at the destruction.  “I… suppose that’s one wish gone, then.”  If his books were hurt, he would be using the second one right after the first, too, to make them whole again.  Not that the wishes were anything but an unexpected gift, of course, but even in the stories, ownership of a genii always seemed to make everyone but the most virtuous person discontent with the one limit on their sudden power.

Well, he remembered what it was like not to have a genii, and he didn’t especially care about the difference.  He would use the wishes as they came, and then let the lamp go.

The genii was watching him, silent and blank-faced, amber eyes focused on his face.  Odd that he could see them so clearly in the dim light, he thought, looked closer, and saw with a queer jump in his stomach that they were glowing faintly.

“Do you wish something, Mas – Mahdi?”  The dark voice, smooth as polished ebony, rich as the most expensive wine, pulled warmth up his spine, and he shivered, staring at the narrow stretch of golden chest visible beneath the genii’s vest.  Muscle, the arc of the ribcage.  Strong hands, long-boned, clever-fingered, supple tendons under gold skin.

He was drunk, he was drunk, too much wine this time and not enough.

He raised his head the eternal distance to meet Jadir’s eyes, dark amber so slightly glowing gold, and saw the wariness there, just this side of fear.

Ashamed even though he wasn’t sure what he’d done to cause it, Mahdi dropped his eyes to his hands.  “No, Jadir, I don’t need any more wishes tonight, thank you.  You can go back to your lamp.”  He didn’t need to fix the books tonight, after all – if they were torn or bent, a night wouldn’t make any difference to the wish.  Jadir would disappear to his lamp, Mahdi could gather up his books and straighten what he could, then go to sleep.  Perhaps if he slept well enough, the morning headache wouldn’t be too horrific.

Jadir shifted slightly in place, looking at him uncertainly.  Mahdi, who’d been expecting him to vanish as quickly as before, was startled when he spoke abruptly.  “Your face…”

Mahdi frowned at him, then reached up to feel his throbbing cheek and bit back a grunt.  By tomorrow that would make quite a colorful splotch – it felt like half his face was swollen.  “What about it?”  Perhaps he could stop round Utbah’s place early to get a poultice…

“You do not wish it well?”

Mahdi chuckled quietly, keeping that side of his mouth as still as possible so it wouldn’t pull.  He lifted one shoulder.  “I’ve had worse.  It’s not worth a wish, I’ll get something for it in the morning.”

Puzzled amber eyes stared into his.  Cautiously, as if expecting a snarled warning any minute, Jadir leaned forward and stretched out his arm just enough for one fingertip to brush Mahdi’s cheek.  A second later, the arm was a wisp of sparkling mist streaming into the lamp after the rest of him.  Hanging in the air was the quiet murmur, “Strange mortal…”

Brow creased in puzzlement himself, Mahdi idly reached up to feel his cheek again, as it seemed to have gone oddly numb.  Then the other hand joined the first.  Both agreed, and Mahdi shook his head in complete bewilderment.

His face didn’t hurt because the bruising was gone.  For some reason, the genii had healed it.

*                                                          *

Asad flicked an irritable finger against the view-stone and glowered as the slick ebony went blank, the wineseller’s worthless face fading into shiny black stone.  Snapping his fingers, he glared at the imp that instantly appeared groveling on the floor before him.  The small, hideous face peered ingratiatingly up at him.

“Yesss, Masster?”

“Your thief was poorly chosen,” Asad said coldly, ignoring the fact that the imp had only followed his inexact instructions on what to look for, and snapped his fingers again.  The imp threw back its head and screamed, misshapen features contorting further in agony.  Clutching at its head with taloned hands, it fell onto its side, a writhing, twisting, stone-grey creature shrieking in a voice like rending steel.

Asad glowered at the view-stone a while before flicking a finger at the imp to cut the spell.  The screams died away to whimpers and the imp crept painfully back onto its knees, twitching.

“Find one more like this, next time,” Asad ordered, tossing an image of what the man’s thoughts should look like into the imp’s mind.  “Now go, and strive for once in your useless existance to succeed.”

The wrinkled brow pressed against the floor in submission before the imp looked up again, baleful orange eyes glaring at Asad.

“Yess, Masster,” it snarled, and vanished with an acrid puff of smoke.

Asad leaned back in his elegant throne, toying with the intricate carvings along one arm.  Jadir believed himself to be broken, which was amusing, but Asad knew better.  Give broken Jadir a Master who was a spineless mortal worm like this wineseller, who not only hadn’t yet figured out that he had endless wishes, but wouldn’t know how to use them if he did, and before long that haughty pride would be sneaking out of hiding.  Treated as gently as this useless mortal would, Jadir would be strutting around again in far too short a time, eyes flashing contempt of his betters, until one wanted him strangled and beaten within an inch of his life.  He had to be taught a thorough lesson now, when the job had been started off so nicely but not completed.  He had to be thrown to the ground while his spirit was weakened, to break the spine of his pride so it wouldn’t grow back.

If it worked, he might actually make decent company, Asad thought cheerfully.  In fact… He smirked.  For an untrained virgin, Jadir had seemed to make a very nice personal succubus for Shakoor.  One might consider testing the theory for oneself.  Of course, the rest of the Council would go mad at the thought of Asad keeping another djinn as a slave, but then the Council need never find out.

On the other hand, he could just leave Jadir in the possession of whatever cruel and grasping mortal the imp found.  That might even be more satisfying.  He would have to watch on occasion.