Thief of Baghdad Read Online Free

truly princely gifts for Abdir, and our chamberlain boomed that Osman was thrice welcome, and I found myself yawning.
    Chamberlains are supposed to be in charge of the palaces and royal chambers; that’s what the name means, of course; but sultans and princes try to outdo each other in the depth and volume of their chamberlains’ voices, and in the long run, the man with the brassiest voice gets the job; and I suppose that is why our Arabian palaces are usually so dirty.
    Finally the interchange of meaningless shouts was over, and we could get on with the actual entrance of Karim-as-Osman into the palace. Karim did a good job of it, striding like a soldier, never looking around to see if the page carrying the gift box could keep up with him. He even remembered to give his horse a pat on the nose as he dismounted and left him, just as a simple-minded warrior prince should.
    Inside the palace, there was Abdir the Foolish on his leewan, with Vizier Ghamal hurrying to him and whispering in his ear: reminding him of Osman’s name and why the Prince was here.
    Osman’s chamberlain was whispering in Karim’s ear, telling him who Abdir was, and that Osman had come here for the hand of the Princess Amina. Two great dolts were scheduled to meet; but one of them was lying out there between the gates, a gag tied over his mouth—with a square knot.
    I had followed the crowd into the palace. I glanced up. There was movement and light up there behind the fretwork that kept vulgar eyes—and some of the eyes in Baghdad are very vulgar—from seeing the Sultan’s harem. Abdir the Foolish had given up keeping a harem, in the ordinary sense of the word, so the women’s quarters were entirely occupied by his daughter, the Lady Amina, and her entourage of ladies and handmaidens.
    Naturally the girl was anxious to see what her future husband looked like.
    Osman’s page opened the jewel box. Karim took a string of black pearls out of it and presented them to Abdir, who draped them around his neck. Ghamal clapped his hands, and a page brought out a black Arab colt, truly a beautiful animal, and presented him to Karim-as-Osman.
    Karim looked a little disappointed—a cutpurse can’t be burdened with a horse—and gave the Sultan a gold filigree brooch, decorated with rubies.
    Abdir, prompted by Ghamal, gave Karim a bag of uncut diamonds. This was more like it.
    And so it went. Abdir got a pair of matched racing camels; Karim got an emerald turban-clasp. Abdir got a ceremonial scimitar; he gave Karim a farater-clock eight feet tall for the palace Karim didn’t have.
    But on the whole, my candidate got plenty of things a good thief could carry away.
    Finally the ceremonial exchange of gifts was over, and Abdir invited his visitor to sit on the leewan with him, while the nargilehs were brought for them to smoke, and coffee was served in a brass coffee set brought all the way from India.
    My ear zoomed between the fool and the thief. Abdir said: “Tell me, O—”
    Ghamal whispered, “Osman,” and the Sultan went on: “Prince Osman, do you fancy dancing girls?”
    “By all means, O great Sultan Abdir,” Karim said. Osman’s chamberlain, all ready to prompt his Prince, looked surprised and swallowed. “Dancing girls always delight me,” Karim went on. “It is said that our Prophet Mohammed has a troupe of a thousand dancing girls in Paradise.”
    “Do you like clothed dancing girls, O Prince, or otherwise?”
    Karim pretended to consider this. “First one,” he said finally, “and then at the proper time, the other.” His eyes were twinkling, over the gold cloth he still had across most of his face. I had been wondering how you drink coffee with a cloth across your mouth; that clever Karim showed me. “O Sultan,” he cried in a voice loud as a chamberlain’s, “permit me to dismiss my suite! It is not fitting that I insult your people by having my bodyguard and following remain here.” He clapped his hand, a prince to the