This book is an Ace original edition, and has never been previously published. THE OTHER SINBAD Book One of the Arabian Nights by Craig Shaw Gardner An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author PRINTING HISTORY Ace edition / November 1991 All rights reserved. Copyright © 1991 by Craig Shaw Gardner. Cover art by Darrell Sweet. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016. ISBN: 0-441-76720-6 Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016. The name “ACE” and the “A” logo are trademarks belonging to Charter Communications, Inc. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 TO FLO— Who nursed me back … An Introduction., in which the true nature of the story is first revealed. Ah. Let me tell you a story, then, about a time very long ago, or perhaps only yesterday; and a place that never was, but will always be. It was (and is) a city, but not any city, no glorified village nor swollen township, but the most magnificent of metropolises, so far across that a horse at full gallop would take three whole days to circle its walls. And within those walls stands far more than a collection of mud huts and stone hovels, for a hundred times a hundred multicolored towers reach up to caress the clouds, and the avenues at the city’s center are so broad that forty strong men striding shoulder to shoulder might walk down them without impediment. There, I have mentioned the colors, and what colors! For within the city’s walls you will see every hue witnessed by man, from the soft pigments deep beneath the sea to the brilliance of the sky and sand, with all the countless shades in between, from the eternal green of summer grasses to that mysterious brown you might glimpse only in a woman’s eyes. By now, you must surely know the place of which I speak. Let me tell you, then, about Baghdad. I see by the look on your face that it all becomes clear. Now you know I speak of the city of wonders, where exquisite goods from the far ends of the earth are traded every market day, where perfumed gardens stand but a wall away from the dusty streets, and where magic often waits within the shadows to benefit the fortunate or to destroy the unworthy. Baghdad, a place of wealth beyond the imaginings of all but Allah, but a place that holds more than wealth; indeed, a place where you will find a bit of everything. The great city of Baghdad holds every sort of man and woman, from the richest to the poorest, the holiest to the most profane; a place where wealthy merchants and princes may walk side by side with common laborers and the lowest of slaves. And what of me? I know the poorer quarters of Baghdad with an embarrassing familiarity, for when my story begins, I am but a poor porter, carrying goods from one quarter of our magnificent city to another for whatever coin or barter might be had. And my name? It is Sinbad. No, not the famous sailor, though he figures prominently in my story as well. No, I am the other Sinbad. My story begins on this particular day, in this particular quarter of the city. Perhaps you have heard another version of the tale, but know that this is the only Perhaps you have heard another version of the tale, but know that this is the only true version, and I will spare no detail or marvel, whether that fact brings great glory or causes tremendous humiliation, in recounting the first seven voyages, and why they caused the far more important, and even more dangerous, eighth voyage to occur. You have not heard of the eighth voyage? Well, perhaps my story will be a new one to you, after all. I trust you are comfortable. Come, come. No fidgeting, now. Are you quite prepared? Chapter the First, in which we attend a feast, and our hero detects a difficulty. The day, at first, was not unusual. It began for me like many others, and I was contracted to carry an especially weighty burden from one particular quarter of the great city to another. Still, the day was warm, and the way was long, and I found my burden pressing heavy down upon my head as I turned this particular corner, and discovered myself in an area of shade in front of a great gateway. Truly, I thought, this must be the home of some wealthy and fortunate merchant, for the ground before me was swept and sprinkled with rose water, and there was a small but well-built bench set a bit to one side of the doorway, placed there, no doubt, for the benefit of weary wayfarers. Since, at that very moment, I could think of no man more weary than myself, I availed myself of the merchant’s kindness, and sat down as I placed my heavy burden on the bench beside me. And, as I sat there, appreciating the benefits of the cool breezes and the scented air, I heard equally sweet music drifting from the gates, mixed with the fine cries of many exotic birds. At this time, I must admit, I became curious as to the exact nature of my benefactor’s estate, and so rose and pushed my head through a particularly large opening in the wrought-iron gate. What I saw upon the other side caused my breath to leave me and my spirit to soar. Beyond the gate was a great garden, filled with flowers and plants and fruit-bearing trees, a few familiar to me, but many more that I had truly never seen before, so that I imagined they had been brought here from every region of the earth. And standing amidst the flowers and shrubs was a vast throng of guests, their every need being attended to by servants and slaves, even the lowest guests, their every need being attended to by servants and slaves, even the lowest of whom was dressed in garments of fine silk. Upon the walls were ornate tapestries, while scattered about the grounds were tables and chairs that shone as if they were made from solid gold, such as I imagined might grace the apartments of only the greatest of sultans. Of course, I have not yet mentioned the wondrous odors of cooked meats and fine wines. In all, it was quite overwhelming, and set me to thinking upon the differences in station that men see in their lives, and how, in Allah’s wisdom, a garden of great delight might be viewed by one such as myself, so hot, so tired, so covered by the grime of the city streets, the lowest of the low. Thus, in such a reflective mood, I decided to sing myself a song to speed me on my way. So did I begin to sing in my best falsetto: “I swelter through the heat of day. For hardly any gain; A porter’s life is full of strife, But I do not complain!” Then, as my father taught me, after a brief chorus of “oody-oody, shebang shebang,” I launched into the second verse: “A package sits upon my head. My back is bent with pain, My corns are acting up as well, But I do not complain!” Another brief interlude of oody-oodys, and I was on to the third verse: “The riches I carry aren’t for me. In sunshine and in rain, And my employers never tip. But I do not complain!” “Oh, don’t you?” a high voice piped up from somewhere around the region of my navel. I looked down, being careful not to strangle on the ornate wrought- iron workmanship surrounding my head, and saw a child, but what a child. Even though he was most likely a servant of some sort, he wore a tunic, leggings, and turban of almost midnight blue, and had eight rings upon his fingers, each golden circle set with a semiprecious stone. “I beg your pardon if I have offended-” I began, rather shocked by this intrusion upon my placid songsmanship. “What I think doesn’t matter around here,” the child replied with admirable frankness. “It’s what the master wants that’s important, and he wants the singer.” “Me?” I asked, still frankly astonished to think so well dressed a servant would even address a personage as humble as myself. The child suppressed a yawn. “It was you doing the singing out here, wasn’t it? Or did I hear a nightingale strangling?” Here, the child was comparing me to a nightingale! “And he wants to see me for my poor singing?” I asked humbly. “There is no accounting for my master’s tastes,” the child agreed solemnly. “Still, he has bade you enter. Would you deny his request?” I have learned, through my many years in Baghdad, that such a polite inquiry may often be followed by a more forceful form of request, perhaps accompanied by burly slaves sporting sharpened scimitars. Keeping this in mind, I readily agreed. “But,” I still added cautiously, “my song was not yet finished.” “Yes, yes,” the child replied with what appeared to be growing impatience. “You hadn’t gotten to the all-important, final, inspirational verse, where you talk about all these other people who might complain, but not someone like you who has such tremendous respect for the Almighty.” The child’s perception was astonishing. “How did you know?” I asked with not a little bit of awe. The child glanced distractedly at his fingernails. “Those songs always end like that.” He pulled open the gate, then spun upon his heels and walked back toward the garden. “Come on,” he called over his shoulder. “You’re the featured entertainment.” He waved distractedly at a large fellow of the sort I sometimes expected to be sporting one of those sharpened scimitars. “You can leave your burden with Hassan.” And so it was that I entered the household that would change my life. The well- dressed child led me through the perfumed gardens and into a well-appointed building that seemed to me as large as a palace. building that seemed to me as large as a palace. After proceeding down a short corridor, carpeted with fine rugs of the deepest red, the child brought me into an inner courtyard where fully fifty of the guests had gathered. On the far side of this enclosed yard I saw a man who I presumed must be my host, a worthy gentleman of late middle years and substantial girth, whose clothing was of such color and refinement that it made all the garments of his slaves and servants seem like nothing more than mere rags. Truly, I thought, this could not be the home of a mere merchant, but must be the palace of a mighty djinni or even mightier king. What could I do but bow and call my blessings to all those assembled here? My host bade me to come forward and sit by his side. Before I should sing, however, he instructed me to partake of some of the refreshments that the servants carried forward upon golden trays. And what refreshments! The tenderest of meat, the sweetest of fruit, and the finest of wine all passed between my lips as the gentleman and his audience waited patiently. When I had finished, my portly host asked my name. I did my best to answer him with sufficient style: “I am called Sinbad the Porter, and I carry great amounts for small reward.” With that, the portly man laughed. “This truly is the work of Providence! My name is also Sinbad, for I am known as Sinbad the Sailor.” Yes, it was the very same Sinbad so famous in song and story. I was astonished that my fortunes had taken such a turn. This man, Sinbad the Sailor? I could scarce believe that this portly fellow before me was that august personage. For one thing, I would have thought he would be taller and thinner, but no matter. I was here, and it was time to sing my song. So I sang the same sweet verses that I have mentioned before, to a courtyard full of those high above my humble station. And this time I was not interrupted once by the child, who now stood to one side of the master’s seat and glowered in welcome silence. Let me tell you now, if naught else happened to me in this eventful life, the day I sang that song would be one of those crystalline moments that I should cherish sang that song would be one of those crystalline moments that I should cherish for as long as I might remember. That instant alone when I heard all those respected gentlemen join in on the oody-shebang-shebang chorus was enough to chill even my coarse and overheated blood. And this time, without the child’s interference, I managed to complete even the final verse and chorus. My host clapped his hands together when I was done. “Truly, that is a marvelous song, and the last verse wonderfully inspirational.” He glanced distractedly for an instant at the snickering child before he continued. “For your song speaks of Destiny, and I have a tale of Destiny as well.” At the mention of the word Destiny, the crowd shifted before us, and made a collective noise that I might have perceived as a polite murmur had not the group’s conversation been spiced by so many groans. The portly fellow with the same name as my own seemed not to notice. “For know, O porter, that my situation has not always been as comfortable as it now appears, and there was a time when as I was as poor-” He hesitated as he took a moment to examine my ragged garb. “Well, perhaps nowhere near as poor as you, but poor enough not to be comfortable.” The crowd of respected gentlemen seemed to understand what he was talking about, if I did not. They called lustily for the servants to bring them food and wine as my host settled into his chair to tell his tale. “Now I shall tell you of the first of my voyages, and how Destiny showed me the way.” I noticed that the groans were back again, although this time they were muffled by the sounds of heavy eating and even heavier drinking. Sinbad the Sailor cleared his throat. Had I known what was to happen next, I would have leapt from my place of honor and run screaming back into the streets. But I did not, and perhaps it was all for the best. You will have to be the judge. Chapter the Second, in which the true nature of the difficulty is manifested, and there is a further problem. “Now,” my esteemed host resumed, “if all my guests are comfortable, and have all they desire, I shall begin my most amazing story.” I, for one, was quite enthralled with this turn of events. First, I am plucked from the dusty street, then fed with the finest foodstuffs imaginable, and now I was to learn a lesson concerning the great man’s Destiny. However, many of the guests seemed somewhat less interested. “You there!” a man with a long face and a coarse, brown beard called to one of the servants. “Those artfully arranged delicacies that you carry. Unless I guess incorrectly, those are portions of a pickled Rukh egg.” “The very same,” the servant replied with the most gracious of smiles. “Each one captured at great peril, then aged and fermented for a full year. Even sliced wafer-thin, as is the egg upon this plate, every piece is worth a king’s ransom.” “Exactly,” the thin-faced man agreed. “I’ll take half a dozen.” He scooped them from the golden platter and stuffed them in his mouth. “Now,” continued Sinbad the Sailor, politely oblivious to the excesses of his guests, “many of you may know that I am the son of a wealthy merchant, and, when that great man passed from this world into the next, he left me a considerable sum of money, not to mention great holdings of land and the occasional village or two. I was quite pleased with my newfound wealth, and set about exploring the wonders of the world and and this magnificent city, sampling the rarest delicacies, the richest of clothing, and studying the art of friendship with individuals too numerous to mention. “Unfortunately,” the wealthy man continued in a voice rich with regret, “while I pursued these worthy endeavors, I had neglected to watch my purse strings, and I discovered that my land had all been sold, my villages seized by creditors, and my chest of gold dwindled down to the last few coins. Truly, I became faced with a dilemma, for I was suddenly poor-” The great man paused to glance apologetically in my direction. “Well, perhaps not as poor as some, but I knew I would have to act soon so as not to spend my remaining years in poverty. For has not the wise man said, ‘A man with a sack of gold may sail forever, but a man without two coins to rub together is lost in a dry and odiferous riverbed without a proper method of conveyance’?” “So true!” a man with a dark face and even darker beard called out. “Slave! Bring that golden pitcher over here!” The slave did as he was bidden. “Tell me,” the dark-faced man asked as the slave approached. “Is this not the nectar procured from the mouth of the silver-winged hummingbird, a creature which dwells only near the mythical source of the Nile?” “You are very knowledgeable,” the slave replied graciously. “The nectar is the sweetest of the sweet, but it sours when exposed to the sun, and so can only be transported at great cost during the darkest hours of night. Each sip is worth a sultan’s palace.” “Exactly!” the guest called with great relish. “Fill my cup to the brim!” “But I must entertain you with my story,” the elder Sinbad ventured. “I knew at that moment, I must pursue my Destiny”-he shuddered slightly-“or be poor forever. So it was that I took such meager belongings as I had remaining, and sold them at auction, receiving the sum of three thousand dinars. With these monies in hand, I purchased both unique and exotic goods from the marketplace, and passage on a ship bound for distant ports. “And so we traveled downriver from Baghdad to Basrah, and from there out to the great green sea, and we stopped at many ports, and I sold and bartered my goods to great advantage.” “A most interesting tale,” said a bored-looking gentleman at the edge of the crowd as he grabbed a servant by his golden wrist bracelet. “But do tell me. Are not these the most delicate of dates that grow upon the dwarf palm trees found only in the highest mountains in the realm?” “How wise of you to notice,” the servant replied with impeccable manners. “These are the very dates, brought from that mountainous location where the growing season is so short that they must be picked on one certain day, or the fruit will freeze upon the tree.” “And worth a great fortune, are they not?” the bored gentleman remarked as he scooped a handful of the dainty fruit onto his plate. “So great,” the servant replied affably, “that, when certain of the civilized “So great,” the servant replied affably, “that, when certain of the civilized world’s wealthier realms decided that they had become too rich to remain upon the common gold standard, they substituted this very fruit for their currency.” “A remarkable fact!” the bored man exclaimed, no longer appearing quite so bored. “You will excuse me while I take a few more.” And with that, he emptied the servant’s golden tray. It was, indeed, a remarkable feast that I saw about me that day; a rich repast in every sense. Although I was but a poor porter and unlearned in the ways of the wealthy, I was astonished that even one as wealthy as the great Sinbad the Sailor could afford a feast of this enormous proportion. “But allow me to continue with my tale,” the merchant Sinbad ventured, and his audience did precisely that, with only the occasional sounds of ingestion, mastication, and the sporadic gaseous eructation to punctuate the story. “Know ye,” Sinbad continued, “that, after many days of travel, our ship anchored near a great island, so that the merchants on board might find fruit and fresh water with which to refresh themselves. “But, alas, this newfound haven in the ocean’s midst was not as it had first appeared. My fellow merchants and I embarked upon the island, and many of the others soon had started fires to roast varied meats from the ship’s stores. I decided, however, that my hunger was not so great as my need to exercise my legs. So it was that I had ventured to the far end of the island before the cooking smells reached my nostrils to remind me that perhaps I needed sustenance, after all. But I had barely the chance to turn about before the very earth beneath my feet began to shake, and heave up with a great roar, as if that earth itself had cried in pain.” Sinbad paused, as if to allow his audience the proper time to accept the marvels of which he spoke. He waved at the ground as he resumed his tale, as though he still stood upon that enchanted isle: “It took me but an instant to realize that what we stood upon was not an island at all, but a living thing. I heard the captain calling out behind me from his position still aboard the ship, for he cried that we must hurry back to the safety of the boat. This was indeed no island that we had come upon, but a great whale, which