Aladdin’s mind raced.
Abu chattered inquisitively from the ground. The monkey obviously sensed the general trouble in the air.
That was it.
“She thinks the monkey is the sultan,” Aladdin whispered loudly into the merchant’s ear. Loudly enough for the crowd—and the girl—to hear.
“Oh, uh, wise, great Sultan,” the girl began uncertainly, taking his cue.
She looked at the muck-covered ground and then the sharp khanjar the merchant still had, which was aimed at Aladdin now.
She threw herself into the dirt, prostrating herself in front of Abu.
“How may I serve you?”
The men and women in the crowd made tching noises and sounds of general sympathy; they began to disperse from the embarrassing scene.
The merchant watched the pretty girl in the street dust and began to look convinced.
This was where Aladdin had to finish up quickly and get out, before anything went south. He palmed another apple off the cart.
“Tragic, isn’t it?” he sighed regretfully. He handed the merchant the apple. “Well, no harm done. Come on, Sis, we should get you back home to Aunt Idina now.”
The girl stood up and tried to make her eyes look all goofy and crazy. It was a bit much, Aladdin thought, but not half bad for a naive rich girl. He put his hands on her shoulders and steered her through the crowd. She let herself be guided, walking stiffly—more like a ghoul than a crazy person, but whatever. It was good enough.
She stopped in front of a camel.
“Hello, Auntie Idina!” she said with a wide, dumb smile.
“That’s not Auntie,” he said through gritted teeth, and pushed her to go faster. He called to Abu. “C’mon, Sultan.”
Unfortunately, that brought attention back to Abu. The tiny monkey was grabbing as many small apples as he could from the stall, even holding one in his teeth.
The merchant, who had finally lost interest in the proceedings and had just turned around to rearrange his fruit, saw this.
If he had been angry before, it was nothing like what he was experiencing now. His face turned purple and red with rage. For a moment, Aladdin almost worried the merchant would drop dead right there on the spot.
“Stop, thief!”
Aladdin grabbed the girl’s hand and ran.
Abu skittered after them, desperately trying to hold on to at least one apple.
FAR BENEATH THE DEEPEST rooms of the palace, a secret workshop glowed red and orange from liquid fire that flowed in pits around it. Despite the seething, bloody glow, the room was cool—almost cold. Jafar moved around carefully in his enveloping layers of robes, fingers tapping in impatience on the shiny ebon surface of his staff.
He was the sultan’s grand vizier and closest advisor—and only friend since the sultana had died. If the public gossiped openly about the royal princess, they confined their talk about Jafar to the nighttime hours. It was said that he meddled in dark magic. That his cobra-headed staff gave him power over others. That the sultan was so completely within his control that nothing was out of Jafar’s reach.
Gossip aside, there were also solid facts about the man: he was the second most powerful person in the kingdom, he seemed to know everything that happened everywhere in Agrabah, and he had—more than a few times—taken people and disappeared them into the dungeons or worse.
This workshop was part of that “worse.”
Strange, terrible equipment covered the table Jafar currently leaned over. Rust-colored wood was carved into cogs and painted all over with ugly runes that seemed to whisper when he leaned in close. Black metal that wasn’t iron twisted and spiked in unsettling shapes like a cage around the wood. Scraps of wispy things—torn cloth, spider silk, bloody feathers—caught on its thorns and waved in an unseen breeze like hair underwater.
The air in the middle of it all shuddered and ripped like the world itself was being torn apart. In the bleeding, black hole, a wavering shape appeared.
Jafar leaned closer, trying to make out the image. This was the most forbidden, most esoteric magic known to people of his ilk: Rizar Hadinok, the Seeing Beyond.
Just then a puffy, sweaty form bounded down the final set of stone steps that led to Jafar’s secret room. Rasoul was obviously trying not to appear nervous, and saluted as properly as he could muster.
“You summoned me, Grand Vizier?”
“I need you to find and bring me this man. It is of utmost importance to…the sultan.”
Jafar indicated the blurry shape in the air with the tick of a long, pointed finger. The captain of the guard moved close in small, shuffling steps, trying to keep as much of his body as he could away from the evil-looking equipment. But when he focused on the picture in the air, he lost his nervousness to surprise.
“That one, Vizier? He’s but a boy. A Street Rat. A petty thief in the markets, nothing more. He could not possibly cause harm to the sultan.”
Jafar raised a sharp eyebrow at the guard’s presumption.
“My magic has foretold of his role in certain events involving the fate of Agrabah. It is imperative you fetch him at once,” he snarled.
“Yes, of course, Grand Vizier,” Rasoul apologized quickly, sweeping down in a low bow.
When he rose, he saluted to go, chancing one last look around the forbidden workshop.
“Where’s Iago?” he asked before he could stop himself.
“Hmmm?” Jafar asked distractedly, already turning his attention back to his device.
“The…your…parrot,” Rasoul stammered. “You always have him on your shoulder. Or nearby.”
Jafar looked out the corner of his eye at the guard for one frightening moment.
“Eating crackers somewhere, I should assume.”
“Ye-es. Of course. Grand Vizier,” Rasoul said with another low bow. Then he hurried out of the room as fast as he could—without making it look like it.
Jafar slowly tapped his left fingers on the table, one after another, contemplating the image.
“So,” he said slowly to the picture of the boy. “You are the only one the ancient powers say can enter the cave and live. Much good it may do you, my ‘diamond in the rough.…’”
WHEN THEY WERE what he thought was a safe distance from the market, Aladdin finally collapsed against an old broken water trough.
“Oh, wow, did you see his face?” he said, cracking up. “Boy, was he mad. He must feel so stupid now. He bought everything! Until you completely ruined it, Abu.”
Abu seemed to sense he was being criticized. He jumped off Aladdin’s shoulder and chattered sulkily.
The girl was bent over, hand to her side, panting. After her breaths had slowed to mere wheezes, she pressed the palms of her hands together and closed her eyes. Then she did a series of stretches that were graceful and seemed well practiced.
“Sorry,” Aladdin said. “Guess you’re not used to running much, huh?”
“Yes, you should be completely sorry for saving me from having my hand cut off. And no, I’m not used to running from people. I do race with Rajah, my”—she paused, as if thinking of an appropriate word—“dog.”
She was being purposefully vague. Not that it took a genius to figure out that she had probably spent her whole life in the women’s quarters of some mansion or estate.