Before sunrise the next day, I was high over the bandit camp. Abdul had not only provided me with a disguise but also with a flying carpet.
“I offered this to Aladdin as well, but he chose to travel more quickly, and more discreetly,” the Djinni said. “And the thought of being up in the air seemed to bother him.”
I cast a Protection from Missiles spell on myself and the carpet, so that no hothead with a bow would cause us grief, then swooped low over the bandit camp. The carpet was not fast; it moved at the speed of a man sprinting. As we circled, I stood up and waved. When there were shouts and people began coming out of their tents below us, I knew that we had attracted their attention. I turned the carpet and aimed it for a pass to the west, one that did not lead to Aladdin’s village.
“Such a simple solution to distract Eskiya’s attention,” I thought, passing over the bandit leader’s tent as he looked up at us. But then he shouted in some language unfamiliar to me, but definitely mystic.
Before I had finished thinking, “By Az’sroc, this is no mere son of a peasant!” the flying carpet came to an abrupt halt … and I didn’t.
I flew off the front, headed earthward through thin air! Fortunately the Featherfall spell is easy to remember and quick to cast, so I landed without harm.
But not only was I now in the middle of the bandits that I had so thoroughly alerted, I found myself under a spell so that I could not move or fight. The carpet drifted down beside me and the Djinni said, “My deepest and most sincere apologies, O Master. The man before you is an acolyte of Zarathustra, the patron saint of Djinn and Ifrits. Zarathustra was the mage who introduced us to this Prime Material Plane long, long ago. His followers here have our highest respect.
“You are my master until you have used your three wishes, but he is much more so. This man is the chief priest of the Most High.”
“Well spoken, Djinni Abdul,” said Yavuz Eskiya.
“You know me?” said the Djinni.
“Your tale is well known among the true believers,” laughed the bandit leader. “But who is this curious man you are traveling with? A man who dares disturb the morning rest of my band of followers? Take the disguise from him.” Eskiya looked surprised when he saw my face. “Odd, I do not know you, sir.”
“You were expecting Aladdin, perhaps?” I said.
“I was. What has happened to him?”
I looked to the Djinni, who said, “He had a most unfortunate accident. Broke his back falling from a horse. I healed him and sent him home.”
Eskiya raised his arms and bellowed, “Arrrrrgh! Can’t I get some luck! I acquire a promising trap-master, I almost have a location, and then he takes off! I suppose he’s chasing after that rich man’s daughter he wrote all those love songs for. I don’t need this!”
Then his tone changed abruptly and the priest of Zarathustra became businesslike. “Enough on that for now. Back to your part in this saga, Abdul. Where is the temple?”
“At the top of this pass,” replied Abdul.
Eskiya did a little jig of delight. “Hah! I knew I was close! Well, at least some good news this day!”
He looked at me. “You, whoever you are. You look like you’re good for some ransom, but I’ll deal with that later. For now, if I have your parole not to try escaping, I’ll release you under guard.”
After I had given my word and stood up, and Eskiya had assigned me two burly guards, he shouted with a grin, “Lead on, Abdul! Lead on!”
The band decamped, and after some hours we reached the very temple I had visited the day before. Once there, Abdul looked confused and worried. “This temple is strange to me,” he said. “What god’s is it?”
Eskiya just stood there, glowering, so I answered. “It is a temple of Dionysus, the god of wine.”
“I know wine well,” said the Djinni. “I do not know this god.”
Eskiya was opening his mouth to bellow against his fate again, but then he paused and asked, “Abdul, when were you last here?”
“Djinn do not measure time as Humans do. But … perhaps four or five thousand of your years.”
Then the bandit did resume bellowing. “Years of searching, all in vain. Because of a temple built thousands of years before I was born, all is lost.” He sat on a nearby rock and buried his face in his hands. I noticed that there was a good deal of gray in his hair, though he held himself like a younger man.
“What did you lose?” I asked.
“The key to freedom for my people,” he answered. “The folk around here think of me and my men as bandits. I would rather call us foragers. My real name is Hagop Yossarian. My homeland is Armenia, and I want to cast off from it the yoke of the Turks.”
“I am familiar with fighting Turks,” I said.
“As are many others in the world these days. Most of my fellow Armenians are Christians, and so kept down by the Turkish dogs of Mohammed, as they would say. But I follow a far older creed than either.
“It is written that the sixth of Zarathustra’s disciples traveled to this land now called Thrace, thousands of years before the Greeks invaded from the north, and left a holy scroll in a temple here—a text written by the hand of Zarathustra himself. Gaining that scroll will give my people a strong blessing and the will to throw off the Turk.
“The wisdom of my people is that there would be trials in finding that sacred text … but I have been wandering this distant land for five years now. Five years away from my home, fighting Turks and others who have nothing to do with my homeland. Nothing!” Yossarian (as I now thought of him) was now barely controlling his rage.
“Then I find the lamp! Then the lamp is stolen from me! Then, by all that is sacred, it comes back! Then the Djinni leads me to the temple! But the temple is no longer here!
“Am I being a fool?” he murmured. “Is this some crazy game?” And then again he bellowed, “Arrrrrgh!”
His rant touched me. His heart was in the right place. Now he had no reason to hunt Aladdin down. Should I tell him of the secret door?
But though his words were right, his deeds were wrong. He had been marauding this land for five years as a bandit. If I told him the secret, I would be interfering in the affairs of nations, affairs that had no meaning to me. I had not hurt him or his men, so if I said nothing, he might go and trouble me no more. However, I was noble, and he had already mentioned ransom …
“You”—he pointed at me—“may leave, but I will keep the lamp as your ransom. Given your skill in managing that tumble off your carpet, I suspect that Djinni magic is not going to add much to your repertoire.”
“Three wishes. That sounds like a lot of ransom,” I said.
Yossarian grinned. “Hah! So you are a man of Occidental magic, not Oriental. You don’t know about Djinni magic.”
He said to Abdul, “Make him a gold coin.”
Abdul pulled a single gold coin from his garment and handed it to me.
“Check it,” he said to me.
I hefted it; it was heavy enough to be gold. I bit it; it gave easily under the pressure of my teeth. It was genuine, very pure gold.
Yossarian chuckled. “Now go bury it nearby. Mark your spot, so you can find it again, like you’re burying valuable treasure. Then come back here.”
I followed his instructions, remaining in his sight. I dramatically stepped thirteen paces at a right angle from the seventh column in the temple’s easternmost row. There I buried the coin in a hole a hand’s breadth deep, and then came back.
“Now listen carefully. I want you to—” There was a bang. “What was that?” Yossarian cried. He and his men drew their weapons and looked around wildly. I too searched for danger.
Then we saw that Abdul was holding a popped sheep’s bladder and grinning like a boy, and everyone laughed.
Yossarian sheathed his sword and told me, “Go back and collect your treasure.”
The dirt was still disturbed, but the coin was gone. I came back to him scratching my head; if he wanted me puzzled, I could overact puzzled. He was smirking like a cat with a canary in its mouth.
“Did one of your people sneak over and take it while we were all distracted?” I asked. I was fairly certain that was not the case, but it seemed the proper naïve thing to say.
Yossarian laughed and said to the Djinni, “Abdul, how long does Djinni magic last?”
“As long as someone thinks about it,” he answered. “We Djinn envy your Human ability to make things that last years and centuries without being thought about.” Abdul smiled. “No Djinni home has an attic.”
My jaw dropped. “By the saints! I never knew that.”
“Do you still want this lamp?” the bandit leader asked me.
“Oh, it’s quite a nice souvenir of this journey,” I said smoothly.
“In that case, you can have it, Mr. … I don’t believe you’ve given me your name!”
Bowing formally, I replied, “Baron Iglacias Rostov, of the Kalzov Valley, a few days ride north and west of here.”
Then I realized what I needed to make my choice about the secret. I continued, “And in return for your generosity, I perhaps can help you. Tell me, does the wavy blade of your belt knife have some special significance?”
Yossarian pulled it out and held it with the blade straight up. “It is the symbol of fire. Light represents the good in the preaching of Zarathustra.”
“I have seen, nearby here, a parquet with images of such wavy flames.”
What Yossarian did next was crucial. If he threatened, I would oppose him, knowing that his life as Yavuz Eskiya the bandit had turned him into a bellicose fool. Likewise, if he tried to bargain, I could be sure he intended to betray me in the future. But I prayed that his heart was still pure.
His eyes wide with interest, he pleaded, “Tell me where and I will be in your debt for life. If I find what I seek there, my people will also be in your debt, and I will see that you are repaid handsomely. This I swear!” And with the dagger he drew blood from his arm.
It was a good answer. “There is a cave below this temple that holds a sacred image made of gold,” I told him. “That must be the temple to your god, now hidden underground.”
I told him how I had found the hidden door. Then I led him to it, and opened it, or tried to. My spell no longer worked, and the priest had to dredge up and cast a special spell to enter.
Despite the excitement in his eyes as he cast that spell, and the triumph when it succeeded, Yossarian did not immediately enter.
“Traps,” he said.
“Oh, the first part is safe enough—” I said, and started in.
Roughly, he pulled me back. “You went at a special time. The crafters of this sacred cave could have easily built time-sensitive traps, as indeed they set a time-sensitive door.”
“You have a point,” I said.
“Now,” Yossarian laughed, “I need Aladdin!
“Abdul. You sent Aladdin away. Can you bring him back again?”
“I can,” the Djinni answered. “But for certain reasons, it will take a little time.”
“Do you need me to make a wish on the lamp?” I asked.
“No, the priest can command at will. I won’t be long. But in the meantime, sit and enjoy yourselves.”
Abdul waved a hand and an elaborate meal appeared, with beautiful plates, bowls, and drinking ware. Then he vanished.
Yossarian laughed again. “There’s nothing that beats the creature comforts of traveling with a Djinni.”
A leisurely lunch later, Abdul was back with a scruffy looking boy who fell to his knees before Yossarian.
Yossarian frowned grimly down at Aladdin, but I could see a strong undercurrent of joy in his eyes. “I have not forgotten, but I will forgive, if you perform well for the next few hours.”
Aladdin nodded. Yossarian pointed at the hidden door. With a smile, he proclaimed, “This is the Baron Rostov, who found the way to the final resting place. Help me gain entrance.” Then, scowling hard, he continued, “And this time be very, very careful what your light fingers touch.”
The boy looked over at the remaining food. Yossarian cuffed him. “Feel lucky to still have your hands and tongue to eat such food with! Prove your worth first! And your honor! Until you do that, you are low-life scum!”
Yossarian turned to me. “You have an interest in this, Baron. You may join us.”