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The Water Wagon

By: Alii Nui



The lovely female musicians were all of a similar beauty. 

They had been chosen by the sultan with the care and vanity of a teamster assembling a match-set of chariot horses. Dark-haired, olive-skinned, large-eyed and full-lipped. Each dressed in flowing white robes, with gold hems. As they played their strings, cymbals, and pipes from their golden shell alcove up in the mezzanine of the sultan's harem, below them the monarch of the southern desert, Ozymandias the Great, slapped his hands to the soft jiggling flesh of the slave girl's ass and squeezed the bountiful rump as his tongue lapped the tangy juices of her sex smothering his mouth and nose.

The sultan's favorite concubine laughed in unrestrained wanton joy as she threw back her head, her long black hair swirling wildly about her head and shoulders, and rotated her wide hips, enthusiastically grinding her drenched pussy down on the face of the monarch who lie on a pile of satin pillows and silken cushions. The king was young, strong, and handsome. He was a man of prodigious conquering appetites, as the women of his perfumed seraglio could well attest. While Ozymandias sucked loud and obscenely at the tasty cunt covering his face, another slave girl nestled his testes in her soft palm as she repeatedly plunged her pretty head up and down, his turgid cock encased tight by her throat.

A night breeze blew in off the desert, gently bellowing the long lengths of red silk curtains draping the floor to ceiling windows of the pleasure dome. The zephyr disturbed the thin, lazy columns of incense smoke to fretting and swirling above their ivory-legged braziers, as the doxie on the face of the desert-ruler climaxed with a piercing scream, momentarily drowning out the soft music. She gushed hot around the tongue fucking into her. And the over-aroused monarch responded with a violent jerk of his cock and shot searing seed down the eager and willing throat of the second girl.

The other women in the room, lounging on pillows of their own, or wading in the lotus-petaled waters of the vast bathing pool, cast sultry glances toward their master. Each fervently hoped to be taken in her turn by the sultan. Aside from any carnal gain, to be rutted by Ozymandias was to obtain high status within the rooms and gardens of the extensive harem.

After his seed was spent, the sultan pushed the slave girl from his face, the other off his phallus, and he rolled on the cushions until he could grab a wineskin lying close by. With a bellowing laugh he pulled the stopper from the skin with his teeth, then guzzled the sweet red wine until it ran over his lips and down his chin and dripped from the curls of his blue-black beard.

Betimes, he thought, tis good to be the Sultan.

It was in such a blissful state that he was informed, by a hesitant and visibly shaken messenger who intruded upon the rather salacious proceedings, of the escape of the hostage Banturian princess from her inescapable prison tower.

By all reports, Ozymandias was highly displeased at the news, evidenced by the fact that he not only had the messenger killed but all the guards on duty during the time of the princess' escape were beheaded before the Sun rose. 

Perhaps more telling, the incident so disturbed the young man that it put him off his harem activities for nearly a week.

:.

For nearly a week, he'd been stowed-away within the huge empty barrel of the water wagon. 

Z'mbutu had found himself in many an odd and terrifying circumstance in his eventful life but he couldn't recall a predicament quite so uncomfortable as his current one.

He looked across the space which separated him and the most royal Crown Princess Kimya. He could just make out her seated figure in the gloom of the barrel, but not her features. The phosphorescent compound which he'd painted the interior's curved walls gave a feeble green light that did not well illuminate details. Over the years he'd discovered the method of distilling the paint from the bio-luminescent scales of the big-eye cavefish. They rode in an unending muted emerald twilight as the water wagon, part of a long caravan, rumbled and jerked along the great paving blocks of the Eastern Road, which lead away from Ozymandias' Forbidden City now hundreds of miles to the west.

"The air in here grows fouler by the minute," the princess said. Her tone haughty and unhappy. "And the odor of your unwashed body is an intolerable offense to the senses."

By Z'mbutu's count, that was her highness' one hundred and thirty-fifth complain about the stink of the confined quarters. He tried to take the carping in stride, after all, it was a fact that the air in the tank was foul. It was true that Z'mbutu was unwashed. It was also true that he could smell the stench emanating off the royal bitch equally as well as she could his own. 

Leave it to a princess not to appreciate the fact that I suffer in the same full measure as she, Z'mbutu thought, disgruntled.

"My apologies, your grace. It shouldn't be much longer now, o' most patient one," he said, using the reassuring tone of the professional courtier. "We're nearing the oasis. Tonight you will be shed of this wagon in addition to my company."

The princess did not deign to reply, lapsing instead back into a sullen silence. In the normal course of events, the royalty and aristocracy of Banturia never spoke to commoners outside their immediate household.

It was just as well, Z'mbutu thought. After a week of being shut up with the high-born woman, her voice tended to grate mightily on his ears. Besides, for all her sundry criticisms, Kimya had yet to thank him for rescuing her from her inescapable prison. The blatant lack of appreciation rankled Z'mbutu's considerable pride.

People, he thought, just tain't no good, whatsoever.

As far as the alchemist was concerned, the escape, from its conception, planning, and through its execution had been both brilliant and flawless. The rescue had taken nearly eight months to engineer, but when it finally unfolded, it had been a thing of beauty. At least, in Z'mbutu's opinion.

He'd arrived in the Forbidden City during the year's first planting, after the river had receded back into its banks from its bi-yearly floods. The flooding had fertilized the land with the organic-laden silt of the long Blue River.

Z'mbutu had entered the city as a librarian's assistant, in the Sultan's Royal Library, as the well-meaning but n'er-do-well son of a Nubian mfalme. The persona he projected had been of a self-effacing, generous, and studious man. Inoffensive. No one saw him as a threat, indeed, he was considered a soft touch among the other junior librarians when it came to lending coin. And Z'mbutu was careful to keep it that way. He was frequently found in some out of the way corner of the Royal Library reading a scroll or book, never bothering to collect on his debtors. To the senior library authorities he was all but invisible.

Besides laying his plans to rescue the princess, Z'mbutu was actually doing research of his own. It was something he'd been pursuing for the last ten years of his life, that of finding the location of the legendary Well of the Jinns. The birthplace and lair of the fabled and dreaded jinnis. Within the library of the Forbidden City he ferreted, as only a scholar can, delving deep into the archives of the extensive house of scrolls, tomes, clay and stone-tablets.

The alchemist believed his months of diligence had borne fruit. He thought he now knew where the Well of Wonders, the headquarters of the Jinnis, was located.

"I shall make certain that my father and husband both hear of the extreme discomfort which I was forced to endure at your crude and incompetent hands."

Z'mbutu had lost count of the exact number of threats she'd issued against him during their time together, but they could be rounded off at two hundred or so. He knew the real fount of Princess Kimya's anger. She was mad because her father, the king of Banturia, had chose not to go to war with Ozymandias over her imprisonment, and that her husband, the prince, had chosen not to pay the ransom the sultan had demanded over two years before. 

She vented her considerable anger on the only person near her, her rescuer. Z'mbutu could understand her frame of mind but the understanding didn't make it easier to tolerate. 

"You shall suffer for your lack of respect," she threatened.

I already am, he told himself, then dismissed her from his thoughts. 

It was not mere happenstance which had lead to Z'mbutu's decision to make the oasis the rendezvous with Kimya's husband's forces. The city was the deepest thrust point of civilization into the Great Desert. East, beyond the oasis was only scattered, impoverished nomadic tribes, sand, and somewhere in that great waste, the Well of Wonders. 

The alchemist was fairly confident he knew how to find it.

:.

Night fell and the wheels of the wagon ceased to turn. The caravan had finally reached the oasis.

The wagon's driver, although ignorant of his role in the princess' escape, had nevertheless been crucial to it. Back in the Forbidden City, when he was hired as the teamster, by Z'mbutu in disguise, he'd been instructioned to ignore any noises he might hear from the water barrel. The driver had also been told to place the wagon as far from others as possible, once reaching the oasis caravan staging area. At that point his employment was at an end and at dawn of the following day he could consider himself owner of the wagon. The alchemist had made it clear that deviation from the instructions, in the slightest, would put the man's family in danger.

The driver, a poor man and no fool, knew that he'd hardly get the chance again to outright own such a magnificent and potentially profitable wagon. He'd followed his instructions to the letter. 

When Z'mbutu was certain he could hear no one close about, he unlatched the trapdoor, scrambled out, made sure all was well and helped the snarling princess out of the barrel.

"It's about cursed time," she said, snatching her hand from his once her feet were steady under her. "I require a bath, food, and adequate quarters. And you out of my sight."

"Nothing would give me more pleasure but we're not out of danger yet, Highness. The sultan's desert chargers can traverse road stones far faster than a water wagon in a caravan. News of your escape has, no doubt, already reached this oasis. We must continue to be cautious. We must maintain the ruse that I am your owner and you are a dancing slave."

"I will not play a part subservient to you. I'm not a whore. I am Kimya, daughter of his---"

"Silence," Z'mbutu angrily hissed. "It's worth your life to reveal yourself. Worse, its worth my life as well and it isn't my intent to die in some back hole of an oasis in this wretched desert. All I wish is the gold for your safe return. You are who you are and I have nothing but respect for your linage, but you aren't my princess, your father is not my king, and I will not die for you."

Kimya stared back at him with narrowed eyes, her plush lips thinned down into an angry line. "I'll have you executed for speaking to me in such a way."

"I doubt that, young one. But, if you wish to live to carry out your threat, for the next little while you'll have to pretend to be a dancer. Do you understand?"

She glared back at him. But Kimya, although as spoiled as any high-status female could be, was no fool. She understood her predicament all too well. It was she, after all, who'd been forced to endure all those months in the sultan's prison tower. She forced herself to look beyond her immediate distaste of her rescuer, to see the greater scheme of things. She gave a curt nod. 

"I understand. Lead on, whoremonger," she sneered.

"Eeh." He agreed.

:.

Less than a quarter-hour later, Z'mbutu had cause to regret his decision to guise the princess as a dancer.

They'd quit the staging area for the caravan wagons without incident, crossing the hard packed sand to the residential parts of the oasis. Their route took them through the Water Plaza, the center part of the oasis where the wells had been sunk. Some distance from the stone steps which lead down to the wells, a crowd of men had gathered in the round plaza. There was the sound of drums and pipes and rhythmic clapping. A fire, fueled by dry oxen dung, burned within the circle of men wherein a flesh-peddler displayed the skills and charms of his almahs, dancing slave girls.

They were pretty enough for common girls. There was a raw sexuality and vitality about them as they stood in display pose before the eager eyes of the gathered men. Z'mbutu thought that they were most likely the excess daughters of deep desert nomads, sold to the slave-trader for sheep, goats, or a few coppers each. Whatever the case, the alchemist held no interest in the proceedings.

"The inn is this way," he said, pointing toward a group of adobe structures.

Kimya ignored him. She was very much interested in the goings-on around the dung fire.

Although her vaulted station denied her the right to dance publicly, the princess had learned all the traditional dances of her homeland in childhood and early adolescent, like most other Bantu. And if she were not allowed to display her skills in the open dance pits of the palace, she and her maids practiced the Art diligently in her private apartments.

Kimya stepped toward the circle. Z'mbutu's mouth folded into a disapproving scowl. But, short of putting hands upon her royal personage, there was no way he could stop her. 

The slow roll of her hips was exaggerated and earthy as she broke into the circle of men. When it came to dance, movement, grace she'd been taught by the most renowned instructors, Kimya knew what she was about.

Z'mbutu, desperate to preserve his adopted pose, moved into the cleared space beside the girl. His dark face broke into an ingratiating grin, roguish, his eyes merry. "Good sirs, good worthies all. Let me not intrude upon the moment, rather know only that this girl, my almah, will be dancing tomorrow night for your pleasure. As you can see, she is ripe and Bantu. She will bring the dance of the steaming Jungle here to your burning sands, for your pleasure. But for now, we must rest. It has been a long journey. Come, girl."

Kimya stood her ground and gave him the sweetest of smiles, while her eyes were challenging. The lioness was out of her cage.

Then, a request was shouted out by someone in the crowd. "How about a sample, eh?"

It was to his credit that Z'mbutu's grin didn't waver in the least. He gave a broad wink. "Eeh, she is delicious, no? Save your appetite for tomorrow, my eager friend. And your coin, for when the cloth is passed after the performance." Then he gave a laugh and reached for Kimya. He had decided it was better to carry her away than to tarry in so public a place.

Kimya had her own thoughts. She stepped back from the alchemist's hand as he extended it, turning her movement into a slow whirl, so that the silks about her hips billowed outward, displaying fine deep brown thighs. She issued a taunting, teasing laugh. The entire circle of men heard the challenge.

And once more Z'mbutu reacted in character. He frowned, letting his all too-real displeasure show. "Gentlemen, it would appears the slut wishes to dance." He clapped his hands twice, a hard sound in the night. "Make it so, bitch," he spat at her.

The princess' black eyes flashed at that. Called slut, then bitch and within the space of three heartbeats, when no one had ever spoken such vile and base words to her before. Not even her jailers had been so crude. She smirked at the alchemist, both knowing she had escaped his custody, at least for the nonce. She reveled in having her way for the first time in two years. Tossing her head and pulling back her shoulders, Kimya went up on the balls of her feet and strutted around the ring of men, the shadows shifting across their faces from the bonfire. She rolled her ass, the jutted and round buttocks found so rarely around the desert women, inflaming all who watched her.

The scent of her unwashed body only added the her attraction, her pheromones carried clear on the warm night breezes of the oasis. As she swirled about the circle, kicking her legs high, loving the freedom of the open air, the attention of the men. Pipes trilled and cymbals clashed and the high-born girl danced for the common men of the sands, her body felt electric, knowing she was the center of attention, that she held them in her power. And she liked that especially. While imprisoned, she'd missed the power she had held over others since birth.

Z'mbutu watched her along with the others. She was good. 

He was a connoisseur of the Dance, in all its various forms displayed across the wide world. He knew quality and the princess had it. It was also clear that she had a love of showing her body to men, something her husband would not be pleased to know. But, then again, her groom had let her smolder in prison. Z'mbutu thought it was not beyond the realm of possibility that the girl's dance was but the first blow in her campaign of revenge against her groom. Knowing women as he did, Z'mbutu was also fairly certain said campaign would be unending.

Kimya, drunk on the luxury of the outdoors after he long confinement, lost herself in the dance.

:.

Inside the room Z'mbutu had arranged for, she lie on her belly, with knees bent, lower legs and feet raised as she counted the coopers she had earned within the circle. The coins composed a sizable pile. Kimya's grin was unalloyed joy.

Z'mbutu couldn't help but smile along with her in her triumph even as he scolded her. "That was foolish."

"Perhaps."

"No, perhaps. It was foolish. Ozymandias is not an idiot. He has spies. And spies have messenger birds."

Kimya sighed. "Alchemist, you have grown far past tiresome and then some. I insist you sleep outside the room." 

Z'mbutu lost his smile. "That would be foolish as well. Even as a dancing girl you are valuable. Many men now desire you, thanks to you ill-conceived performance. I will stand guard inside, it's the more practical tactic."

"Practical or not, I've seen enough of you in the last week to last a lifetime. Good-biddings. I shall call if I need you. For now, you are banished without, along with the rest of the common fodder. Oh, and I did not enjoy being called slut, nor bitch. My father will hear of it."

"Really? Then calling you a spoiled little cunt won't make matters much worse, will it?" 

He was fast enough to open the door and leave the room before the princess could throw a handful of coppers, which showered harmlessly against the closed panel, clanging dully to the hard-packed dirt floor.

:.

Once outside, the alchemist settled his butt on the ground with his back against the adobe wall beside the door of the room. There was a stone-paved awning-covered breezeway between the row of rooms on his side and the row facing opposite across the space of some five feet or so.

Up at the eastern end of the breezeway he saw a man with lamps attached about his person, who had yellow eyes, the color of cat's eyes. Within moments the lamp salesman had shuffled up to the alchemist. "Greetings, worthy friend. Mind some company this night? I've been hawking these cursed lamps all over the oasis and my feet are complaining mightily."

"Of course," Z'mbutu said. "Sit. You would honor me with your presence."

"And you mine. Thank you, friend." 

The lamp salesman settled with a clanking of his wares and a knowing gleam in his eyes as he leaned toward his host. "I saw your whore at the wells. Well-trained. I don't think there was a limp stick in the crowd when she finished, including among the graybeards." He chuckled as he shook his head. "The gift of a Bantu wench's dance is a rare one here. She should profit you well in your travels among us. Where did you say you were headed?"


The Water Wagon



"I didn't say," Z'mbutu's words were blunt, but his tone was friendly. He thought that the princess would love to hear she'd been mistaken for a profession dancer. He reminded himself not to tell her.

"Forgive my curiosity, I don't mean to pry into your affairs. But seeing after a female can get trying on a long journey. Perhaps you'd consider relieving yourself of the burden and selling her, eh?"

Z'mbutu arched an eyebrow, showing some interest, as any pimp would at the chance for profit. "How much do you offer?"

"Oh, I suppose I'd be willing to part with a gold sequien."

Z'mbutu gave a sincere scoffing laugh. The trading skills of the desert-folk were legend. "She earned nearly half that much tonight from her dance. Besides, she's not for sale."

"Oh? Perhaps yours is more than solely a professional relationship, eh? Given that, five sequien would seem a fair offer."

"As I have said, the girl is not for sale."

"How sad. I could use such a one in my shop."

"You have dancing girls in your lamp shop?"

"No, but what a novel idea. I also own a small wine shop."

"I see."

"I'm Ifrit."

Again Z'mbutu arched his brow. "You're named, Evil Spirit?"

"A nickname thrust upon me by my brothers in our youth. It adhered and now that is how I'm known."

"I'm Alaeddin."

"Ah, well met. Alaeddin. That is a desert man's name."

"Your people find my birth name too difficult to pronounce, so, I go by Alaeddin."

"I understand. Do you mind if I light an incense-oil lamp, to chase away the smell of the animals? The smoke will also relieve us this pestilence of flies."

"Be my guest." The smell of horse, camel, and unwashed Humanity, Z'mbutu could tolerate. But the flies were a shifting plague, he was constantly swatting at them on his arms and chest and legs. Waving them away from his eyes and face.

The merchant's movements were well-practiced as he trimmed the lamp's wick, then added the oil from a leather hard case flask. He struck a sulphurhead-head against the adobe of the wall then fit the dancing flame to the ready wick. Within movements the citrus scent of lemon first joined with then suppressed the malodorous aroma of the oasis and, as of a miracle, the swarms of flies retreated.

"You have my thanks," Z'mbutu said, nodding to Ifrit in true gratitude.

"A service I am only too happy to provide, worthy friend." 

While his words were friendly, the man's smile now held an unwholesome quality the alchemist found disturbing. Z'mbutu felt himself grow suddenly dizzy, his vision doubling, then focusing for a few moments, before doubling again. "The smoke," he growled, through a grimace of self-condemnation. Too late, Z'mbutu realized that Ifrit, living up to his moniker, had poisoned him with the scented and obviously drugged smoke.

When he tried to stand, Z'mbutu accomplished nothing more than to pitch forward to the hard packed ground. As he lost awareness he felt himself falling down a long black hole, at the bottom of which he was sure waited grim and pitiless death.

:.

He was roughly shaken awake inside the princess' room.

Shujaa, Banturia Captain of the Palace Askari, stood over Z'mbutu. There was a fierce scowl on the deep brown face of the officer. "Where is the Crown Princess?"

The alchemist felt the askari's baritone reverberate painfully through his skull. It was as if the god of pain had come to reside in his head. He hissed as he opened his eyes and the bright desert sunlight hit his pupils. He shut them again, placing a hand over his face and groaning.

"Wake up, you besotted fool and answer me," roared Shujaa, poking Z'mbutu with the ivory hilt of his curved knife.

"Cease, yelling, ruffian. I'm not drunk. I was drugged. In the smoke."

"Ehh, by yourself to yourself, most like. Hashish is easier to find than water among these sand-ridden barbarians."

"Ass," Z'mbutu cursed. He forced himself to sit up on the cot, and cautiously opened his eyes once more. "I was taken in by a lamp merchant. He lit a drug-laced incense. What hour is it? What day?"

"It's noon, of the eighth day of the Month of the Low-Winds. Where is her royal highness? Where is Princess Kimya?"

Z'mbutu, his wits slowly returning, looked around the dishelved room. He saw the dull glitter of the coins the impulsive woman had earned with her passionate dance strewn about the sand-dusted floor. "From the looks of things, I'd say she's been abducted."

"Abducted?" The Captain roared again. "You were to deliver her safely into my hands, wizard. Your life is now forfeit."

Z'mbutu, his pride stung by falling victim to Ifrit's ploy, and the subsequent loss of the princess, was in no mood to be threatened. "The bargain was I deliver her safely here, which I did. Where in the countless halls of the Hell of the Doom Prophets were you?"

"We were delayed by an accursed sandstorm. But seek not to shift the blame, Z'mbutu. You've failed to hand over the Princess, as per arrangement, for that I should kill you."

Z'mbutu pointed his finger at Shujaa. "No, it was you, Captain, who failed in your mission to be on hand when the Princess was brought here. Killing me for your failure can only bring you dishonor."

Shujaa sneered. "And what does a wizard know of honor."

"I am not a wizard. I'm an alchemist. Best you remember the distinction." 

The askari growled in response and looked at the wicked sharp curved blade in his hand, but he made no move to bring it to bear.

Z'mbutu held his head in both hands, willing his mind to clear, as he stood before the solider. Normally, he gave askaris a generously wide berth. They were generally quick-tempered and good fighters, a volatile mixture. The alchemist discovered himself somewhat nauseous, the smell of too many unwashed men crowded into too small a space, without proper air-circulation.

"There's no need for anyone to die a terrible death, just yet," he grumbled. "I believe I know who has taken her and I have an idea of the general direction in which they went. Come aside, and I'll speak with you." 

Z'mbutu swayed for a moment on uncertain legs before he trusted himself enough to walk outside, into the blistering heat, which helped to revive him. He kept his voice low as he hurriedly related his suspicions to the soldier.

"Jinnis?" Shujaa responded, incredulous. "You mean the supposed magical creatures who are imagined to inhabit these desert men's lamps?"

"Lower your voice. There's nothing magical about the Jinni. They're mundane and human enough. In actuality, they're a secret society of assassins, spies, past masters of political skullduggery. They use the myth of the Jinn as a psychological edge, appearing to have magic as an ally, when in truth it's only a legend. I believe it is they who took Princess Kimya."

"Why should they do that?"

"I suspect they wish a war between your country and that of Ozymandias'."

The askari glared at Z'mbutu with suspicion. "Thin sauce, wizard."

"Alchemist."

"Just as thin, whatever you wish to be called. You were to have the princess here. She isn't here."

"Neither were you. But let's put all that behind us for the nonce. I know how to get her back. That's the important thing, isn't it?"

Shujaa grimly nodded. "Eeh. What's your plan?"

"We buy supplies and pursue."

Obviously," the captain harrumphed. "And where do you intend your pursuit to take you, Alchemist?"

"Into the Deep Wastes."

"Ah. Where you believe it will be a simple thing to elude me and my men, leaving us to perish on the dunes."

"A pleasant enough thought, captain, but multiple murder'll have to wait for another time. I believe the nabber has taken your princess into the Wastes. I believe the Jinn to be located there."

"Still thin. It's logical to assume the nabber has taken her Highness either back to the Forbidden City or north to Zur."

"Logic says there's no such thing as the future. Logic has its limits. If you want to rescue the girl you'll listen to me." 

The askari frowned as he thought it over. "I'll go with you. But my men I will send north and west, in case the obvious turns out to be true. Beware, Alchemist, if this is a ruse of some sort, I'll slit your throat with glee."

"Of that, I have no doubt." Z'mbutu rubbed his temples, his head still aching. 

:.

The chariot camel, or mule-camel, is a smaller breed than the more common camel. Shorter, but stronger and far less ornery than its taller cousin, the mule-camel also required less fodder and water. Z'mbutu managed to purchase two of the animals along with a couple of chariots, which had seen better days.

"What is taking you so long?"

Z'mbutu, who was busy loading his chariot looked up with impatience at the captain who stood in the well of his chariot, reins in hand. "Hold your water, askari, I'm nearly ready."

The space normally occupied by the chariot's second man, the archer or javelin-thrower, Z'mbutu had loaded with supplies of food, water, and salt. Between himself and Shujaa, they had a week of essentials. He hoped that would be good enough because, although Z'mbutu knew the direction to go he didn't have any idea how long the journey would take. 

Making sure all was secure beneath a protecting tarp, the alchemist moved to the front of the well of the two-wheeled vehicle and grasped the reins. "Ipshee, ipshee," he shouted and snapped the reins. 

The camel snorted and began to move. Shujaa followed. As they left the oasis the Sky was aflame with reds and oranges and burnished gold. The Sun sank in the west, hugging down toward the horizon.

:.

The stars of the deep desert Sky dazzled against the black velvet of night.

Shujaa pulled alongside Z'mbutu's chariot, the customary scowl on his face. "I still do not understand how can you know where this imagined djinn is but not how far away it is?"

"Because, I've never been there," Z'mbutu answered honestly enough. "Trust me, askari."

"Trust an alchemist? Only as a last resort and only as much as required upon the moment."

Z'mbutu gave an open smile at that. "You are wise beyond your years, Captain."

Shujaa pulled a strip of jerky from his belt pouch and torn off a piece with his teeth. He chewed and a thoughtful expression molded his features. "Tell me, Wiz--, Alchemist, how did you free the princess from her prison?"

Z'mbutu was more than happy to do so. He considered the act of having liberated the crown princess as nothing short of a work of art. He was also a self-admitted braggart.

"For months I presented myself as a harmless and not terribly bright foreign aristocrat. I worked at the sultan's library. I'd forgone both wine and women, two of my favorite things, that my guise not be tripped up by over-indulging in either. As a librarian, among other things, I showed interest in the logs and journals kept by the royal torturers. Men are vain, even torturers and I was given access to their scrolls. 

"I became somewhat of a fixture of the prison, which meant I became unnoticed by and large. I memorized the guard schedule of the prison tower. I even became friends with the captain of the night-watch. When the time was right, I dropped a pouch of gold into the watch-captain's palm. Nothing more complicated than that. The door to Kimya's prison swung open. I bundled her in a cloak and cowl and walked her from the cell while the guards were busy helping to exhaust a fire in another part of the prison, as arranged."

Shujaa's scowl was back. "Bribery? It is less than honorable."

"And yet, effective," Z'mbutu said with a proud smile in the starlight. "Only a grand invasion army could've taken the princess from that tower by force. The rescue required guile and gold. It's as simple as that."

"For a wizard, perhaps."

"The salient thing to remember here, Captain, is it got the job done."

"Eeh. That much is true. And this hiding place of the Jinnis. How did you come across it?"

"'Dark is the hand that pulls the candelabrum from its wondrous well and leads the faithful safely home'. 

"Those were the words of a victim from nearly fifty years ago, a captured assassin from the deep desert, writ down in the Royal Torturer's journal. Towards the end, his body all but destroyed by enduring a month-long torture, the hired killer was babbling about being jinn-maddened. That he was a slave of the Lamp. The business about the candelabrum were his final words."

Shujaa looked at him, incredulous. "And you take the delirium of a dying, tortured man as some sort of gleaned intelligence?"

"It will, no doubt, come as a surprise to you, Captain, but unlike the military an alchemist lacks the luxury of having a field manual with all the answers in it. I, perforce, must glean knowledge where I can, from whatever sources I am able. Facts are facts, no matter from whence they emerge. And in a few hours, we shall see if madmen speak truth."

The night worn on and the stars wheeled in the Sky. Z'mbutu studied the celestial arrangement from time to time, until several hours after leaving the oasis he halted his camel and dismounted the chariot. He faced due east then simply stood, watching the dark horizon. Shujaa stopped as well, but he remained in his chariot, stone-faced, observing his accidental companion.

Minutes passed. The wind blew. The camels snorted. Then, to the southeast a constellation began to climb into the star field. Desert astrologers dubbed the star group, the Candelabrum. 

"Astrologers call the point where a star or constellation lifts from the horizon as a well," Z'mbutu said to the askari. He pointed directly in front of him. "There is the direction of our pursuit. The way of the Faithful is lit by starlight."

Shujaa grudgingly gave a grin of admiration. "And yet you know not how far?"

"That, Captain, is presently beyond my knowledge." The alchemist once more climbed up into the chariot and urged his animal forward. 

:.

They had traveled for nearly a week.

"You'd best find this well of yours soon. We've water for one more day. Two, if one of us kills the other and takes his ration," the askari dryly observed.

Both men were covered with dust and sand, their rich brown skin matted tan. The camels were, as ever, inscrutable.

"Thankfully," Z'mbutu rejoined, "such drastic measures will be unnecessary. For we're already within the well. Look around yourself. What do you see?"

Shujaa turned in a slow circle and realized that they stood within a crater, perhaps half a mile in diameter, and they were roughly at its center. The shallow bowl was inhabited by several shards of upright stone. The hummocky ridge of the eroded crater rim was outlined by the pewter light of the Moon. He saw the alchemist begin to move away from the chariots.

"Where are you going?"

"Behind yonder splinter of rock, to take a piss, move my bowels, and think. Maybe masturbate as well. I haven't decided on the latter, as yet."

"If you attempt to stroke off in the open, the desert will dust your pecker with grit. It wouldn't be an enjoyable experience."

"That advice rings with the tone of experience," Z'mbutu observed. And he began to laugh. The askari laughed along with him. The two men weren't friends, given their personalities they probably never would be, but several days in the desert together had made them tolerable traveling companions.

The alchemist had only been half-joking about the self-abuse, but he'd been entirely serious about the bowel movement. He did some of his best thinking while in squat. And the time had come for some deep thought. Z'mbutu had studied as many puzzles of the desert-folk as he could find. Their available technology of concealed mechanisms. Every culture has a distinct way of thinking, of developing codes, ciphers and concealed traps, which binds its inhabitants into certain habits of thought.

Somewhere in this crater is the entrance to the Jinn, Z'mbutu thought. Somewhere there is a door. 

Having answered nature's call, the alchemist carefully wiped himself with reed-sheet he carried for just such a purpose. He stood and adjusted his clothing, feeling the ever-present sand in the crack of his buttocks.

The crater itself defines the search area, he told himself as he looked around. There should be some sort of marker, recognizable to the initiated, a direction finder showing the way to the entrance.

Inspiration struck and he pulled his compass out. the needle swung strongly to the southeast, the direction from which the Candelabrum constellation rose from its well. He began to walk, watching the twitching compass needle. He came upon the shortest of the upright finger stones, an obviously highly magnetic piece of rock.

It's the keystone, Z'mbutu thought. It has to be. 

For several minutes the alchemist stood before the rock, pondering, trying to hear what the stone would tell him. But, he heard nothing. With a frustrated growl he retreated to the chariots. 

"I've seen all that I can see by the light of the Moon," he admitted to Shujaa. "We'll have to wait for daylight. I'm going to get some sleep." 

:.

For the second time in a week Z'mbutu found himself being shaken awaken by Shujaa.

"The Sun's been up for a couple of hours, Alchemist."

"Eeh," Z'mbutu grunted, clearing his throat as he opened his eyes and took his bearings. "Right, right. Back to the business at hand."

Yawning and stretching, the alchemist returned to the keystone. He found it as mute in the light of day as it had been under the glow of the Moon.

Do you have a secret niche that must be pressed, he wondered. Or must you be tilted over and if so in what direction? Or should you be rotated? From left to right or the reverse? Or are you supposed to be lifted. Or lifted and turned. Lifted, turned, then tilted? And if I get the sequence wrong what terrible things are there in store for me, eh?

He stroked his beard as he stared at the splinted of rock. The Sun climbed higher. He felt sweat run down the back of his neck. It was getting hot.

"Alchemist."

"A moment. I need a few more minutes with this," he answered.

The askari fell silent.

As the Sun rose in the cloudless desert sky its light revealed the pockmarked surface of the keystone, a testament to its origin as a meteor. Its rough and fractal surface was dotted with various-sized micro craters, tiny half-bowls described into the stone, one indistinguishable from the other.

"Alchemist. The day grows hot, we must dug shelter."

"A moment," Z'mbutu snarled, impatient at the interruption to his concentration.

He returned his sight to the craters, hundreds of them dotting the rock face, differing only in diameter. Except, one."

"Eeh," Z'mbutu exclaimed with a triumphant grin.

"You found something," Shujaa asked, now towering over the squatting alchemist.

"Mayhaps." 

He undid the big buckle of his wide leather belt and took it off. Breaking the stitching on the back of the belt, revealing a secret recess, he took out an ornate ring of antique silver. There was some sort of seal or signet on its plate which Shujaa couldn't quite make out as the alchemist slipped the ring onto his finger.

Z'mbutu balled his hand into a fist and pressed the signet of the ring to the rock, just to the right of the keystone's peak. He held it there for some long seconds. Nothing happened. Feeling there was nothing to lose, he turned the ring left, then right, the direction in which the desert men wrote and read their texts. He then withdrew the ring. He stood up.

Both of the men heard the noise at the same time, they turned to the west and saw one of the large upright stones begin to sink with a disgruntled rumble into the sand. Within moments a large dark rectangle appeared in the desert floor.

"Well done, Z'mbutu," Shujaa said, slapping the man on the back. "Well done. What do you propose we do now?"




The Water Wagon



Z'mbutu, giving the hole a hard gaze, replied, "We go down. You first."

:.

The legendary Well of Wonders was, at first glance, nothing more than a stone stable carved out of the desert sandstone bedrock. There were a couple of dozen or so stalls for animals, troughs for fodder and water, hooks for tackle. Four of the stalls held horses but most were empty. There was an air of disuse about the place and no stable hand in attendance. There was a ladder at the far wall which descended through a hole in the stone floor.

Shujaa, with sword drawn, had investigated the place before he climbed back up the ramp and reported to Z'mbutu. As quietly as they could be, the two men had then led the camels and chariots down into the stable. Once they'd cleared the ramp the entrance had resealed itself. They left the camels harnessed, in case of a need for a fast get away, but the men did provide the animals with water and dried grass from the troughs.

They approached the far wall, and with Z'mbutu in the lead, climbed down the ladder. At the foot of the ladder they found themselves in a long wide corridor, indirectly lit by a source Z'mbutu could not identify. The walls, faced with gold leaf, glowed. They were decorated in mosaics made of various gemstones.

"Touch nothing," Z'mbutu warned the captain. He pulled out a taper and lit the end.

"Why? Is the treasure enchanted?"

"I doubt that. But it's said to be tainted with various clear venoms and dried solution of communicable diseases."

"Eeh. Indeed? Then I shall endeavor to keep my hands to myself."

"Eeh. And stay within the column of the taper smoke. From all descriptions, this hall is laced with clear vapors which cause hallucinations. If you should grow confused and step into a side room it could prove to be without a floor and you would plummet to your death in a pit of sharp spikes."

Shujaa curled his lip in disdain. "Sounds like the sort of thing a magician would think up."

The two moved slowly up the wide corridor until they reached a huge open dark doorway on their left from which emanated the enticing aroma of food. The hungry men both turned toward the wafting smells of a feast. "Stay within the smoke," Z'mbutu warned again. "The aroma is an illusion."

"Of course," Shujaa said, licking his lips, then swallowing. "Of course."

The next doorway was on the right, dark as well, but there was the suggestion of shadows moving about in there through the archway. Tantalizing black on black figures of female shapes and voices and scents. Both men, sweating, moved on with some effort.

The third chamber was on the left, as had been the first. There was the sound of coin clinking together. A spark flaring in the dark, as if gold glittered there. Neither man lingered.

The fourth room was on the right. Dark, no sound, no odor, no suggestion of occupants. Z'mbutu frowned. "Hold on a moment," he said to Shujaa. 

The alchemist leaned out beyond the swirling tendrils of the smoke of his panacea taper. He looked into the room. For a few seconds there was nothing. Then the darkness resolved and Z'mbutu saw a chancellor's chair. He knew it to be his own. His chest swelled that he was finally the head of a great university. The well-respected patriarch of a prestigious and learned institution. A self-satisfied smug expression crossed his dark face as Z'mbutu moved to sit in the high ornate chair.

"Magician!"

The shout brought Z'mbutu back to his senses. He saw that he stood within the arch of the portal, Shujaa's restraining hand on his forearm.

"You were about to cross into the room."

Visibly shaken, the alchemist nodded. "My thanks."

"You're welcome. As you say, stay within the smoke."

"Aye."

They made to continue down the corridor. Suddenly, there was the sound of many footsteps running and the far end of the long wide hall was choked with jinnis, men and women all with long knives drawn.

"Shit," said Z'mbutu, with an irritated growl.

"Eeh." The askari drew his curved sword, fist tight on the hilt.

"I'm Z'mbutu. I've come for the girl stolen from me by the duplicitous Ifrit. Return her to me and none of you shall suffer harm."

A scornful laugh answered his bravado and Ifrit stepped forward out of the mob. He was dressed somewhat differently than his oasis garb. He wore splendid robes of white with a broad purple sash around his waist, a golden turban snugged his head. His slippers were of gold cloth, as well, point tipped and curled at the toe.

"I am First-slave of the Lamp. Welcome to my djinn. You are both dead men."

"I really abhor these kind of situations," Z'mbutu tiredly opined. "I really do."

The Princess, who stood helpless and trembling in the grip of two large jinnis, grew wide-eyed at the sight of the alchemist and the askari. "Shujaa," she screamed in panic, "free me."

Shujaa growled and leapt forward, his scimitar glinting in the blazing lamp light. Twenty jinnis and their knives moved forward to meet him. Z'mbutu drew his own steel but did not join into the fray.

"Stop," he yelled, and threw down his sword. "We surrender!"

"Tell that to your friend," Ifrit hissed.

Z'mbutu saw that Shujaa knew his business. Three jinnis already were at his feet, dead or mortally wounded. His great broad and curved sword flashed, blood and ocher sheeting from the blade as he hacked his way toward the princess.

"Shujaa, stop. This isn't the way," Z'mbutu yelled at the berserker warrior. "Stop!"

But the askari only stopped when one of the long knives found his side, the assailant twisting the blade as he withdrew it. Shujaa bellowed, in searing pain, his sword dropping from nerveless fingers as he sank to his knees on the sand gritted tiles.

"Enough," Ifrit commanded, as the jinnis closed in on the fallen askari. "Don't kill him here. Bring them both into the Sanctuary Chamber where they can be properly sacrificed."

"Sacrifice," Z'mbutu growled to himself as he was lead away. "Why am I not surprised."

:.

Shujaa lie bleeding from his wound. Blood seeped scarlet between his fingers where he held his hands to his side, his mouth grimacing as he sought to hold his pain in silence. In Z'mbutu's opinion, without treatment, the askari wouldn't survive the hour.  

Be quick, the alchemist admonished himself. Be clever.

The men and women of the djinn knelt on their knees on a tiled floor in a semi-circle before a high and wide sandstone altar. Ifrit stood next to it with his fists to his waist and thumbs hooked down inside of his broad sash, the assured posture of a man certain of his command of the situation. He sneered at Z'mbutu. "Quite the bumbler, aren't you Master Alchemist? What I mean is, you seem adept enough to devise plans but lack the skills to see them through, successfully."

"Not even the gods themselves win every battle, or so the saying goes."

"Just so," the jinni agreed. "Still, this is your second attempt to return the wayward princess to her people and you've failed again. It must be very frustrating for you."

"Inconvenient, if nothing else."

"Well, fear not. All your worries are about to come to an abrupt end."

"That's a relief, because lately, and I don't mean to complain but things have been somewhat harried."

Ifrit graciously smiled at Z'mbutu's attempt at humor then ordered the princess gagged and secured to the altar, her struggles less than nothing to the burly jinnis who chained her down. Ifrit ran a hand lovingly over her dark brown cheek, she shrank from the touch. He laughed and turned to Z'mbutu.

"I've had her practice her dancing at every opportunity. She's improved, if you can believe that. A luscious girl. A shame she must be sacrificed with her charms unsampled. Well, Alchemist, this is the end. I'll drink a salute to you tonight as I feast beneath the pole with your head on it."

"Not a very good idea. My head on a pole wouldn't be very attractive. Not to berate your idea, I've just got one of those kind of heads."

"Empty bravado. It'll serve you no better than it did that solider bleeding out his life on the floor."

"Then, mayhaps, scholarship will prove the more effective weapon."

Ifrit's top lip curled in disdain. "No amount of learning can save you now."

"Oh? Think you can order my death? You aren't the Master of the Lamp. You're a slave of it, you said so yourself, as are all your brethren and sisters. It is said that it's the Master of the Ring who truly controls the jinnis of the Lamp."

"The Ring has been lost long since before the Dawn of the Age. I am First-slave, Master of the Lamp and all the slaves within it."

"Eeh. But I am Master of the Ring." And Z'mbutu held up his left hand, with all the showmanship of a carnival conjurer. The antique silver ring dully glinted back the light of the chamber. All eyes were turned to him.

Ifrit blanched under his sun burnt complexion, taking a stumbling step back from the altar before he regained his composure. "No, it's a counterfeit."

"Is it?" Z'mbutu asked, taking a step forward.

"The Ring has been lost since before the Great Desert was a green grassland. It vanished when Eden fell and no man has seen trace of it since."

"Oh? Well, obviously I found it. It's the reason I'm here in the first place. Put it to the test. Bring the Sacred Kumkum. Bring forth the Mother of Lamps."

Ifrit's yellow eyes widened even as he grimaced in simmering rage. "How can you know these things?"

Z'mbutu gave a slow smile. "I read a great deal, especially about the history of this piece of jewelry. I took it from the finger of a succubus. The demon was said to be immortal, until a stone wall collapsed on her proving the facts otherwise. Bring forth the Kumkum, Ifrit. Or are you afraid?"

The first-slave saw he had little choice. His legitimate leadership had been put in doubt. He must quickly remove that doubt. The ring had to be a fake. He clapped his hand. "Bring forth the Kumkum."

The lamp was brought. Ifrit held it out, firmly in his grip, his eyes full of a renewed spiteful confidence. "Proceed, Alchemist."

Z'mbutu curled his left hand into a fist and thrust it at the bulging side of the large golden lamp, clicking the signet into the dimple. With a grunting effort, he turned his fist to the left, then the right, then to the left once more, before hurriedly withdrawing it.

All watched, enrapt. Seconds passed and nothing happened.

Ifrit pulled the lamp back toward him and gave forth a giggling, mildly hysterical expression of relief. "The ring is false," he declared. "Kill him and the warrior."

The jinnis stood from their knees as one and began to advance on Z'mbutu and Shujaa, but were stopped in their tracks by a hiss which began to issue from the Kumkum, growing louder and stronger with each passing moment. Ifrit's triumphant smile turned to an expression of puzzlement as he stared at the lamp in his hands which was growing hotter. Then, smoke began to pour from the spout of the lamp. With a yell, Ifrit dropped the sacred relic to the rugged tiles.

The Kumkum clanked against the stone tiles as it skidded a few feet across the floor, smoking all the while.

"The smoke is said to be death," Ifrit screamed. "An oil concentrate of asp's venom. Flee."

"Stop!" Z'mbutu bellowed. It was the voice of command and it was obeyed.

He took three strides across the floor, grabbed up the lamp and once more fit the ring to the depression in the side of it. He turned it right, then left, then right. The smoke ceased before gaining lethal intensity. The metal began to cool. He looked out at the assembled jinnis and his easy smile returned.

"The Master of the Ring controls the Lamp and all the slaves within it."

With the exception of the shaken Ifrit, the collective repeated the prime commandment of the djinn. "The Master of the Ring controls the Lamp and all the slaves within it."

Z'mbutu nodded, nestling the lamp in the crook of his arm. "It is my wish that Ifrit not live to see another minute of life."

The jinni nearest to the first-slave, drew her jewel dagger and plunged it into the hollow of Ifrit's throat, twisted the blade, then withdrew it. With more than a little satisfaction Z'mbutu watched the first-slave fall dead across the altar at the princess' bare feet, then slide lifeless to the floor.

"Well done, comely jinni. It is my wish as well that you become First Slave of the Kumkum, Guardian of the Lamp."

She went down on one knee. "I'm your servant, Master of the Ring."

"Indeed you are, girl. Is there a surgeon in the djinn?"

"Yes, Master."

"Have him tend my fallen friend, here. You may also release the princess and bring her proper garments. Then, let us speak of supper."

"As you wish, Master of the Ring."

Z'mbutu chuckled, obviously quite pleased with himself. He was alive. Ifrit was dead. The princess was rescued. And, for the moment at least, life was just as he wished it to be.

-end-