It was a warm autumn day, and the trees were just beginning to change their color. The warmth of summer had lasted for an unusually long period that year. Knowing full well that it might be the final week before the monsoons came on, the Sultana sat in the palace courtyard on the edge of the fountain, watching as her young daughter, Jasmine, carelessly splashed around in the water.
"Now, Jasmine, make sure you don't get your clothes wet," she instructed. The little girl made no acknowledgement. Adiba smiled vaguely to herself, thinking how perfect her life was.
A call could be heard from inside the palace: "Adiba? Adiba, where are you?"
"I'm out here, Fahrid," she called back. Her husband was looking for her.
At age forty-five, the Sultan Fahrid al Asadel was short, stocky and just beginning to show traces of grey hair. He marched out to the courtyard dressed in yellow and silver silks and commandingly stood before his wife, a smile on his face. He often came across as a bit kooky and dimwitted, and it annoyed Adiba to no end. She hoped that he might be in one of his rare regal moods right now.
"I am listening," she said.
"Adiba," he said merrily, "I have some important news for you."
No such luck. She could tell from his tone that he was being flighty. She looked at him, her long eyelashes brushing against her brows. "Yes? What is it?" There was a notable lack of interest in her voice.
"Adiba, my dear, I am divorcing you."
Adiba blinked three times. Fahrid had been acting rather strange lately, but this was particularly odd. "Divorcing me?" she repeated slowly.
"Yes. Now, don't take it the wrong way; you are still a fine and charming woman, my dear. I have simply decided that I want to marry a European girl."
Adiba's forehead wrinkled up like a raison as her brow furrowed. "You want to marry a European girl," she repeated, her tone darkening.
"I met the wife of Pasha Husam al Din today. She is from Portugal, and not only was she the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, but also the most clever and exciting, much more than any woman between Dakar and Aceh. I asked her if all European women are like that, and she said that indeed they are! So you see, my dearest, I must divorce you so that I can marry at last a woman from Europe."
Adiba stared at her husband. "You want to divorce me so that you can marry Pasha Husam al Din's wife?"
"Oh, no, no, no! Nothing like that. I wouldn't dream of infringing on another man's property. No, no. I quite intend to find my own European woman to marry. I simply cannot do that while I am still married to you."
There was a pause. "You're joking, right?" she finally asked.
Fahrid kept his joyful smile. "Oh, come now. It's not all that bad. Don't think that I've forgotten my responsibilities to you, oh, no: I will see to it that you and Jasmine are both well taken care of."
Adiba sat just sat there like a statue, a grotesque look of horror, shock, confusion, anger slapped across her face. Behind her Jasmine plod through the water, blissfully unaware of what was going on. The Sultan continued:
"You two can remain here in the palace, that will be no trouble at all. I've even arranged a new husband for you, to ensure that you'll be well cared for. A fine young man he is, too." Fahrid spun around toward the palace so quickly that he nearly lost his turban. He yelled out. "Oh, Orazio! Orazio! You can come out now."
A young brown-haired man with phlegmatic features reluctantly stepped forward. Orazio Andreini had worked in the Sultan's service for nearly a year. Twelve months back he had been captain of a Venetian mercantile ship headed to collect silk and spices in India, but due an unfortunate encounter with a galleon full of pirates, he and everyone else aboard had found themselves sold into slavery in Arabia. Now he was little more than a steward to the Sultan of Agrabah. He was dressed in ridiculous Arabic garments, including a small plumed turban and curled shoes. He cringed as the Sultan began explaining the situation to him.
"My dear boy," said Fahrid. "This lovely woman is going to be your wife. She has more good traits than I can possibly describe. She would be perfect for a handsome, clever young fellow such as you are. Trust me: I used to be married to her myself."
Adiba exploded. This was the last straw. "You want me to marry a slave! The divorce, that I could handle, but this is an outrage! An Italian slave as my husband!"
Orazio, with much disquiet and embarrassment, cleared his throat. He understood Arabic well enough, but he spoke it rather badly. He hoped the Sultan would be able to understand what he said.
"Ma lo'd, your highness-a, scusate, but... I no wanna marry your-a wife."
"Ah, excellent!" The Sultan said, patting him on the back.
Orazio's frown deepened. "No, no. I..." he tried to think of the correct way to phrase it. "I want-a not to marry your-a wife."
The Sultan appeared confused. "Really? Why on earth not?"
Orazio smiled a little, happy to at least have accurately stated something. "I want-a not to marry. I have a..." he paused, trying to remember the word, "...A betrothal back at Italia."
"Oh, is that what's causing this reluctance? Well, my dear boy, you need not worry about that. Afterall, it's not as if you're ever going back to Italy again. As for Adiba, I am certain that you'll see her virtues once you get to know her a little better. I'll leave you two alone to get acquainted. I'm afraid I have to run off right now; I have business to attend."
Adiba held back a shriek. She wanted to slap him, but she was reluctant to make a scene in front of the staff. Orazio could do nothing more than gape. Fahrid merrily sauntered back into the palace. He felt confident that the two of them would be happy together: Adiba was a very pretty woman and Orazio was a handsome young man. Plus, they were both interested in landscaping. It seemed like a match made in heaven.
The instant the Sultan's jewel-encrusted slipper touched the polished stone floor of the palace's interior, he set about his next order of business. Luckily Jafar, his vizir and most trusted confidant, was waiting for him.
"I take it that all went well, my lord?" Jafar uttered with his deep dissenting voice.
"Oh, yes, I do believe so. I now have a job for you, Jafar."
Jafar bowed. "Whatever you wish of me, your excellence."
"As you well know, phase one of my plan had been put into action: I have divorced Adiba. Now for phase two I must find a European girl to marry. I want you to make inquiries and locate one as soon as possible."
Jafar tried to conceal his amusement. "I shall do everything in my power for you, highness. I will set to work on this dilemma immediately." The Sultan had assigned him to fulfill all sort of unusual whims in the twenty years he had worked in his service, including feeding a diamond to a live fish, dressing up as a beggar to learn who the most generous men in town were, and reading the royal bedtime stories; yet somehow this seemed like the strangest assignment of them all. Perhaps the Sultan's mind was starting to go. Jafar watched him bounce out of the room, happy as a young pup, and waited until he was knew he was alone to burst out laughing.

At the gates which lead out of the harsh desert and into the city of Agrabah, a caravan was making its way through. It was made up of three carts and five camels. It carried some of the finest imports from Italy. Among them was Aurelia.
Ten months ago, Aurelia di Pazzi had learned that her fiancé's ship had been taken by pirates and that he was enslaved someplace in the city of Agrabah. Upon learning this she had sold every jewel, every silk and every book in her possession in order to fund a rescue mission. This mission consisted solely of her, an Italian girl travelling alone through the Arab countries. As the caravan came to halt, she consulted her glossary for the twentieth time that hour.
The driver and leader, a very kind old man named Ibrahim, approached her.
"Here we are, my dear. This is Agrabah."
Aurelia did not mind his familiar mode of address. They had spent every day of the past five months together in travel. After such a long period they'd almost come to think of each other as father and daughter. She was actually sad to be leaving him now. She stepped down from the cart, her knapsack in hand. It contained nothing but a map of the three continents and all the gold she had. She retrieved a few coins and held them out to him. He certainly deserved them: he had taken her all the way from Constantinople.
"Thank you so much," she said in barely accented Arabic. She had always been good with languages.
Ibrahim shook his head. "It is most kind, but I ask you keep your money. Your company was reward enough."
She smiled and threw her arms around him. "I am going to miss you, Signor Ibrahim. You have been so helpful. I would be lost without you."
"It was nothing. Besides, we still might meet again."
"It is possible."
He stepped away from her and smiled kindly. "I wish you luck in finding your fiancé."
"Thank you. I wish the best of luck to you as well."
"And remember, my shop is right here. If you need anything from me at all, I'll be glad to help you. You can come by at any time."
"Thank you again, signore. Words cannot express my gratitude. But I must bid you farewell; until we meet again."
She scurried off into the town, a bit misty eyed. She really would miss that man.
With no particular destination in mind at present, she hoped something would catch her eye and lead her in the right direction: phase one was complete, for she had made it to Agrabah. Now she just had to learn where in Agrabah her beloved Orazio was being held.

Jafar closed the door of his secret room in the palace. It has cost him nearly a years salary to have that room constructed in the course of 10 hours without anybody else noticing, but he thought it well worth the price. He had long been interested in necromancy as well as a few other hobbies which might get him into trouble were he ever caught at them, but with the hidden chamber he could do as he pleased with virtually no fear of discovery.
It was interesting that his skill in black magic was what gave him access to all the knowledge that so impressed the Sultan, even though his majesty would surely be furious if he ever learned about it.
As soon as Jafar reached the top of the stairs, his pet parrot, Iago, began to loudly scream the only thing it knew how to say:
"Fuck you! Fuck you!"
Jafar literally cursed the bird's previous owner daily. He thought today he might strike the fellow blind, for he noticed that the stupid thing had been eating the furniture again. If it weren't for the fact that the parrot made an excellent test subject for his potions, Jafar would have been going over poultry recipes that very minute. Unless he found an excuse to try out a poison sometime in the near future, he was going to have to teach that thing a few more vocabulary words.
Trying to ignore the screaming and vulgarity of the bird, Jafar began consulting his collection of crumbling ancient books. He needed a way to locate unmarried European girls residing in Agrabah. After an hour of searching, the only suitable spell he could find required both a blue diamond and thunderstorm, neither of which he happened to have. He began playing with his beard as he mentally tried to solve this problem. If he remembered correctly, rain was caused by evaporated water rising and then sticking to the heavenly firmament until it began to drip down again, the same as a lid placed over a pot of boiling water would drip after being left for a time. Clouds were formed similarly, when the vapors coming off the water hit colder air and solidified. Lightning could only be brought by Gods or Genies, but there was a simple spell to cultivate that.
Jafar took out a blank sheet of parchment and some ink. He scowled when he grabbed his pen and found that Iago had eaten most of it. Trying to put that aside, he began to draw out plans for a device which would recreate the necessary conditions to make a miniature storm.

"Jasmine, go inside and wait in your room."
"But mommy, why?" the little girl whined.
"Why is immaterial. Do as I say."
Sulkily, the young princess stomped off to her bedroom in the palace. Glowering, Ex-Sultana Adiba sat on the edge of the fountain, next to Orazio.
The young Italian rotated his head so that he was looking at her. "Madama, signora, my lady, please-a be not-a mad wi' me because I no wanna marry you."
Adiba stared back at him with icy coldness. "My grievances are not on your account. As far as I am concerned, this is a political affair, and as a noblewoman, I have been trained my whole life to deal with such situations. It is simply business as usual."
"So de noblewomen are-a more trained about-a love?"
"Love has nothing to do with it. I am not concerned because my husband no longer loves me, I am concerned because he has demoted my status in this most grotesque manner of arranging a marriage to you! Do you realize, sirrah, what levels of travail one must go through to wed a Sultan? It is by no means a simple task. To think that the goals for which I have strived my entire life, upon finally reaching them, would come toppling around me entirely due to Europeans!"
"Maybe de Sultan is 'inking because-a he wantzza European, so will you."
"Why is immaterial. His motivations, whatever they may be, are inconsequential. My focus must be on working my way back into power, and his favor. It is not unlike a regime change; I shall look upon it as if you vile Europeans have finally won that crusade you have been carrying on about all century. My skills have worked once before, and I see no reason why they should not work again."

Aurelia scampered along a heavily crowded street lined with shops. She was hoping to locate one that sold imports from Europe, her logic being they'd most likely know about the group of Italian slaves brought to town last year. The goods they were selling might very well have been cargo on Orazio's ship.
After wondering up and down the street several times, a sign posted on one particular shop caught her attention. Her eyes slowly scanned the dots and squiggles, right to left, carefully ensuring that she read it correctly:
WE SELL BOOKS IN ARABIC, HEBREW, GREEK AND LATIN
Latin was almost the same as Italian, and widely used in Europe. It was worth a try; surely it wouldn't hurt to ask.

Jafar stood over a cheap, splintered wooden table, his plan for the storm machine laid out. Beside him the owner of the science shop, a small fellow with the difficult to pronounce name of Muwaffaq al Muhsin, stood examining the sketch.
"So," said Muwaffaq, "You need a round, hollow glass jar."
"Oblong," Jafar corrected with annoyance: it was right there on the paper.
"Gears, wheels... some of this stuff I can give you right now, but the others you might have a bit of a wait on."
Jafar wanted to slap the guy. He knew perfectly that making the parts was as simple as going to the blacksmith. "It is of utmost importance that I have these parts immediately. If you feel you cannot obtain them then I will go someplace else."
"Forgive me, my lord vizir, but it will take as much effort for anyone else in this city to obtain the parts as it will for me."
"Then do it quickly," Jafar growled menacingly.
There was the sound of a door opening and closing as somebody entered the shop. The two men turned and, with much surprise, found a woman standing in the doorway. They observed her for several long seconds; something about her seemed odd. As Jafar continued to look her over, a smile slowly formed and spread across his long, gaunt face. She was wearing a surcote over a long-sleeved tunic, a skinny leather belt, and a small white cap atop her head. Light brown hair spilled down her back.
Dear Allah. It was a European woman.
"Good day, my lady," Jafar said politely.
"Good day," she answered back. There was no emotion in her voice.
"Forgive me, miss," Jafar said, trying to appear friendly, "But where are you from?"
She looked up at Jafar with a curious glance. "I am from Italy."
"Excellent. Perhaps you could help us out, then. Would you mind stepping over here for a moment?"
Confused, Aurelia did as she was asked and walked toward the man. Once she was standing next to him, she waited for his next question. Instead, the next thing she knew was a sharp pain across the back of her head, and suddenly everything went dark.
Jafar released his hand from the girl's face and let her limp body slide down the wall. There was a slight dent in the plaster at the spot where her head had cracked. Quickly, the vizir gathered up the listless figure and threw her over his shoulder. He looked at Muwaffaq.
"I was wrong. Take your time in getting those parts."
At that Jafar turned about and exited the shop along with the unconscious Aurelia. Muwaffaq gazed after them, utterly baffled.