Gardner, Craig Shaw - Arabian 1 - The Other Sindbad

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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

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 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 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.

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 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.

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ThisbookisanAceoriginaledition,andhasneverbeenpreviouslypublished.THEOTHERSINBADBookOneoftheArabianNightsbyCraigShawGardnerAnAceBook/publishedbyarrangementwiththeauthorPRINTINGHISTORYAceedition/November1991Allrightsreserved.Copyright©1991byCraigShawGardner.CoverartbyDarrellSweet.Thisbookmaynotberepr...

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Gardner, Craig Shaw - Arabian 1 - The Other Sindbad

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