Revenge
Leaning against one of the many pillars at the back of the great hall, the tall, lanky youth smiled grimly as he watched the ceremony. Damali and the sultan stood at the opposite end, going through the vows of marriage. A hand reached out to grip the man's shoulder. He swung his head to look at the hand's owner. A stoic face, similar to his own, greeted him.
"How could you let him do this to you?" Nasira demanded, her face dark with a scowl. "You're his friend, are you not? Won't he listen to you?"
The man turned back to the ceremony, which was almost at an end. Damali's emerald eyes stole a look at where he stood, arms crossed, one hand gripping a golden staff with a snake's head. Slowly, he shook his head, responding to both women. "You think the great sultan would worry himself over the concerns of a mere commoner, sister? He has what he requires; my opinions are no longer of importance."
Nasira's lips pursed while the vast audience applauded the conclusion of the wedding. "I've heard he's made you grand vizier."
A chuckled rippled his long frame as they made their way out to the gardens. "He has. A foolish choice, after what he's done to me." They made their way to a great fountain, one of Damali's favorite places on the palace grounds. The man sighed, watching the water dance in the sunlight. "In time, my dear Nasira, I will have my revenge…and Agrabah will be mine."
Makram knelt at his father's bedside, Jafar standing worriedly in the doorway. The sultan's turban lay forgotten on the bedside table, one of the few reminders to those present that the dying man was ruler. They'd placed him in a simple room, merely a couch for the sultan to recline on, the small table at his side, and a few simple pillows for his visitors. He'd been stuck sick in that room for nearly three years now, leaving Makram to rule, albeit unofficially. Jafar had been helping, of course, by his friend's request. The boy had never been very good at leading on his own, which was probably the reason why he and the future sultan were so close. Jafar started out in the palace as a servant, through his father. He served under Makram since he was a child, doing the usual manservant duties long before either were considered men. That servitude had gradually developed into a friendship that left Jafar a higher place in the palace than most commoners hoped for.
The boys grew into young adulthood together, breeching the traditional master and servant relationship. Makram promised great things for his friend, plans to give him power and a voice when he became ruler. Jafar tried not to let it go to his head – he'd spend enough time in the palace to see what happens when power was bestowed to those who weren't ready for it. Yet something always triggered at the back of his mind, a thought of his father before he worked for Makram.
They sat in their home, deep in the thieves region of the slums in Agrabah. Their house was a single room, bar of everything but an empty fireplace and a few pallets on the floor for sleeping. The window, small and open to the night air, allowed the sounds of the street rats and bargaining black market merchants to creep up into their midst. Nasira lay sleeping on the pallet she shared with Jafar. The boy Jafar sat next to the flap of cloth that served as their door, waiting for their father to return for the night, a broken knife clutched in his palm. He was due any moment, causing Jafar to tensely listen for the sounds of his footsteps. Moments later the sound reached his ears, leading to the flap being opened and a tall man entering. Spotting Jafar, he grinned.
"My boy," he whispered, kneeling at his side and looking at where Nasira lay. "Time for sleep. I've returned home safe for another night."
"Any interesting news from the palace, Father?" Jafar asked eagerly, as he did every night.
His father chuckled, pulling them both to their feet. "Nothing more than examples of the folly of power, son," he replied, walking to his pallet and laying down. "Remember this, Jafar: take heed of the mistakes of those in the highest position, for they are the ones who have the most to lose if ever they might slip."
The daydream was nudged out of focus by the low groaning of the sultan. Present day Jafar, a ripe eighteen-year-old courtier, stepped farther into the room holding Makram and his father. The sultan coughed, causing the worry crease on his son's forehead to deepen. He placed a hand on the old man's arm.
"Father," the prince said soothingly, "what do you desire? I can have anything sent for in an instant. Whatever you need shall be brought."
The sultan coughed again, harder this time. "No, my son," the man wheezed, gripping Makram's arm, "there's nothing in all of Agrabah can help me now. The city's yours; do with it better than I ever did." The sultan's grip slackened and he fell slowly to the pillows at his back. Makram, horror stricken, called for the healers. They rushed into the room, brushing past Jafar in their haste for the sultan. Makram backed away from the couch to Jafar's side. The two watched as the healers attempted to unsuccessfully revive the ruler. Unable to watch any longer, Makram yanked Jafar out of the room and into the vast gardens. Jafar matched his friend's stride.
"You know what this means, Highness?" he started, studying Makram's face. "You'll officially be crowned sultan now."
Makram gravely studied the path, hands thrust into the pockets of his pants. "It's not as if it should be a surprise to anyone," he muttered, a catch at the back of his throat. "I've been ruling for years now as it is. All that's left is to get the official business, the coronation and other such nonsense, out of the way. We've known it was coming for a while." They reached a fountain and sat at its edge.
Jafar leaned back on his palms, watching a cloud float past lazily. "I had a vision, a memory, again," he stated, trying to lighten the mood. "Just now, before…well, you know."
Makram nodded, watching the same cloud. "What of this time? The desert?"
Jafar shook his head. "No. The slums. Thieves quarters. Something about power or some such rubbish." He grinned, turning to face Makram. "My father and Nasira were in it this time."
A slight grin snuck out of the prince's face. "They never set foot in the thieves' quarters, and neither have you. How are you so sure it was there?"
"There's always a way to tell, Highness," Jafar replied, moving to stare back at the cloud. "Hints. Nudges. Always a bit of a clue to let me know where I am this time. I always know enough about where I am for it to seem as real as a memory."
Makram sighed. "So what sort of message did the Sun God send me this time?"
"I believe his exact words were "Take heed of the mistakes of those in the highest position, for they are the ones who have the most to lose if ever they might slip.' Must have known you'd become sultan today."
"It's ever so convenient having your visions around, Jafar," Makram said sarcastically, turning to glare at his friend. "They're dreadfully straightforward. Makes my life rather easy, don't you think, having clues thrust at me by the Sun God's messenger himself?"
Jafar chuckled and patted Makram on the shoulder. "Never fear, Highness, the Sun God wouldn't think of sending a messenger who wasn't an interpreter as well. My guess is that he wants to warn you to beware your power; it could be your greatest victory, or your strongest downfall." The two were silent for a moment, considering Jafar's words. With an overly dramatic sigh, Jafar rose to his feet.
"Well, Highness, I've done my task. Perhaps now we should prepare for your imminent coronation?"
The coronation was three days later, before the whole kingdom. Makram sat on the dais that held the throne, which had been moved to the outside of the palace doors for the occasion. All of Agrabah stood below, shifting uncomfortably in the beating summer sun. Jafar, securely hidden amongst the shadows of the pillars by the palace entrance, watched the proceedings with a steady eye. His spot was secluded, where he could observe without being observed. He always preferred being in the background; that way, he could study without worrying about glances. He tended to attract strange looks – everyone knew of his visions from the Sun God, plus a fair few heard of the sorcery too. He'd learned to keep his distance from experience.
A shift of cloth and light steps alerted him to an approaching visitor. The light arm of a woman linked with his own, and he smiled. Turning his head slightly, he smiled down at his betrothed.
Damali smiled back up at him, resting her head against his shoulder. "Hiding about in the shadows again, are you, my love? You spend much of your time in the dark, for being the Sun God's chosen one."
His smile broadened as he drew her away from the crowds, where they could talk without disturbing or being disturbed. "Ah yes, well, you know the pressure of being a messenger. I can hardly stand the revered stares of the common people. Besides, I might blind them with my mere presence."
She laughed, a lovely sound. "Whatever did I do to pass the time without you, Jafar? It seems as though my life started when I first met you."
"I should say the same about you," he replied earnestly, leading her to an open air pavilion at the back of the palace grounds. "I hardly remember life before you came to the palace."
"Hmm. Yes, that was a lovely time, wasn't it? About five or six years ago, am I right? I was twelve, you thirteen. My father sent me from Zalabi in hopes of making me a sultan's wife. What he'd say if he heard how his plans have gone awry!" She laughed again, eyes sparkling. "He'd approve of you regardless, I think. A god's messenger, a sorcerer, and nearly second in command to the sultan himself. It's the best he could possibly wish for."
"I'm glad your father would approve," Jafar said with a smirk, "because like it or not, I'd have you eventually."
"And I you, my dear," she replied softly, and they kissed. Her eyes remained closed after she drew away, a ghost of a smile at her lips. "You make my heart content."
"My Lord Jafar!" Tazeem, a manservant Jafar hardly knew, was breathlessly running toward them. "The sultan demands your presence!"
Jafar sighed, pulling away from Damali reluctantly. "I must go, love. Tomorrow, at noon?"
She nodded and was gone in a flash. Turning to Tazeem, Jafar commanded, "Lead the way. We mustn't keep our new sultan waiting. What does he need this time?"
The manservant was tittering, leading him back inside the palace and toward Makram's quarters. "His Majesty was very flustered when he looked into the crowd and could not find you, my lord! He told me he searched the spot you promised to stay and was highly agitated when you proved to be elsewhere! I've never seen him in such an uproar!"
Jafar frowned as they made their way through the twisting hallways. It was unusual behavior for Makram, to be sure. Perhaps something had agitated his nerves? They approached the double doors to the sultan's rooms and hammered on the painted wood. Rifa'ah, another manservant, pulled them open and rushed them inside.
"Your Majesty, Lord Jafar has been found!" Rifa'ah cried as he shut the world out with a dull thud. Makram paced the entrance to his balcony, wringing his hands in agitation. At the sound of Jafar's name, he jumped a foot and ran over to them.
"Jafar! You mustn't startle me so! I was afraid something had happened to you!"
"Quite the opposite, High…rather, Majesty," Jafar replied with a bow. "Damali found me."
Makram puffed up angrily, making him look particularly comical. "Regardless, you must inform me before you take off like that! I can't afford to lose you, and I'm afraid that when you disappear I can only fear the worst!"
"Makram…Majesty," Jafar corrected at the huffs and gasps of the servants in the room. "Surely you don't think me so unable to defend myself? You know of my link to the Sun God, and other…particular qualities."
"Indeed, Jafar, but we cannot take any chances. I'm ordering a guard to keep watch on you."
Jafar took a step back, mouth agape. "A guard? Am I but a child that you must send a nursemaid to make sure I do my chores? Majesty, I am sorry, but that is going too far."
The room was silent as everyone waited for the sultan's reaction. His round face had gone dark red, his hands tightened into fists. He seemed to be attempting to control himself, because he began taking slow, deep breaths and to loosen his tight hold on the air about his arms. Eventually, he calmed so that he could speak.
"Servants, you are dismissed. Leave me to speak with Lord Jafar. Alone."
The various servants scurried to finish their tasks and leave, taking the remnants of their work with them. In a matter of seconds, Makram and Jafar were the only ones in the room.
"Jafar, my dearest friend, there is something I must tell you." Makram took a deep breath and motioned that they should sit. "It is of greatest importance, to the kingdom and to you. When I was a child, before your father came to work for my father and we became friends, a fortune teller came to the palace. He wove tales of enchantment, to my glee, and predicted the future for my father. He complied with all of my father's wishes, telling him that the kingdom would flourish in his hands, that he was wise and would be a great leader. My father then asked of me, and my rule." Makram paused, gazing out at the balcony. "The fortune teller told my father that my rule would be equally prosperous, but that something dark lurked on the edges. When I ruled, an event would occur to put the whole kingdom in jeopardy." He turned back to stare fearfully into Jafar's eyes.
"Someone would try to take over the kingdom, someone I'd least expect, and I must do everything in my power to guard myself."
He rose and took the pitcher of wine that sat on a small table into his hand, shakily pouring a bit for himself. He quickly drained the cup and poured another. "I'm afraid for your safety, Jafar, that is all. I do not know who this man is who will try to dethrone me, but my first instinct is that he would attack where I am most vulnerable: my family and friends. That is why I am so suddenly protective, nothing more."
Jafar came to stand next to his friend, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I'm flattered, Majesty," he said softly, meeting the man's eyes, "but surely you know I am fine on my own. A guard would merely make others wary and suspicious, and would honestly provide little assistance if necessary. I can care for myself on my own; leave your guards to protect what is more important."
Makram nodded, placing the cup back on the table. "Of course. Forgive me, old friend. My emotions took the better of me once more."
Jafar smiled, leading him back to his seat. "Forgiveness granted, my lord. Now, on to business. What shall be your first act as sultan?"
It was three months later and the palace was in a flurry. Princess Mehriban of Zalabi was due to arrive in a moment, and everywhere last minute preparations were being made. Exotic flowers, arranged in artistic manners, were being placed upon every available space. The tiles of the floor were highly scrutinized by head butlers and maids, searching out any miniscule piece of dust. Finishing touches were being arranged in the princess' quarters. Jafar stood at the sultan's side, watching as the man paced his dais nervously. Makram had been frantic for weeks.
"But Jafar, what if she doesn't like me?" he wondered for what seemed to be the hundredth time. "I mean, we met when we were children, but much has changed since then. Will she still approve of me? Will I still approve of her?"
"I'm sure everything will go exactly to plan, Majesty," Jafar replied soothingly as Makram sat at his throne and immediately jumped back to his feet to continue his pacing. "Your father and hers arranged the marriage years ago; surely they did it with justifiable reasons, besides the promises of trade and peace between the two."
"Justifiable reasons or no, I'm still worried that – " The sound of trumpets calling welcome burst through the open window. Makram's face turned white. "She's here, Jafar, she's here! Whatever am I to do?"
"Remain calm, Majesty; as I said, we must trust in the Sun God that all will go well."
Makram frowned and sat, drumming his fingers on the arms of his throne in obvious agitation. Jafar muttered a soothing spell, one for tranquility and open-mindedness, to the edgy ruler. Instantly a serene expression fell across Makram's face. He finally appeared ready to meet his bride. The great doors opened briskly and a trumpeter entered, bowing to Jafar and the sultan before stepping to the side to announce the princess' entrance. The first of the entourage to enter was a man, tall, but shorter than Jafar by a head. He wore the robes of someone obviously important, and entered the throne room alone. Swiftly, he crossed the large room and bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty, most royal sultan of Agrabah," he said formally in a deep voice. "The people of Zalabi must beg your forgiveness."
Jafar's spell evaporated almost instantly, replaced by a furrow of concern on Makram's face. "Forgiveness?" he managed to squeak. "Forgiveness for what?"
The man shook his head sadly. "Princess Mehriban…she cannot wed you."
Jafar and Makram stood in stunned silence. Jafar collected himself first, glancing at the sultan before he replied. The man was too devastated to respond.
"Sir, representative of the land of Zalabi, may we inquire why exactly this is so? A previous betrothal was held between the two kingdoms; if this is so, this binding contract would insist that she belong to him."
"This may be so, Master…?"
Jafar straightened, narrowing his eyes. "Jafar. Grand Vizier Jafar."
The man bowed again. "Pardon, my lord Grand Vizier. Your claims are true – the two are previously engaged." His voice suddenly caught in his throat. "However…the princess…she is dead."
Makram gasped as Jafar lowered his head, grimacing. "Now it is I who must beg forgiveness, Master Messenger. Had I known, my words would not have been so sharp. Please accept my and the sultan's condolences."
Makram seemed to have finally found control of his emotions. "Yes indeed. Terribly sorry…I cannot believe…Jafar, what are we to do now?" His composure didn't last long as he turned to look dejectedly at his friend.
Jafar turned to the messenger, gesturing to a doorway to his right. "Come, let us move to other quarters. We may sit, take refreshment, and…discuss our options."
Back in his rooms that night, Jafar sat stunned and rumpled, his robes in disarray after the day-long negotiations. The results left him bewildered, terrified, and, above all, unspeakably infuriated. He hadn't even the strength or physical capacity to move; the fact that he'd made it back to his living quarters at the back of the palace was astounding. He'd walked in a daze through the near silent building, his feet leading the way on the long-familiar path. No one had disturbed him, which was just as well – he wasn't sure if he would have been able to respond. After he'd sat in the silence for what seemed an eternity, a gentle tap came at the door. Nasira entered.
"Jafar?" she said quietly, walking forward to kneel at his feet. "What happened? The entire palace has heard of the princess' death. But what of your meeting? Has an arrangement been made?"
He sat in silence so long, she might have thought him dead. Finally, he stirred. "Yes," he replied stoically, no hint of emotion in his voice. "We made an arrangement. One that pleases and suits all…everyone but me."
Nasira clutched at his knees, grabbing desperately at his attention. "Jafar, you will tell me what happened in that meeting room! What's wrong with you? Please, talk with me!"
Pulling his dazed eyes away from the open window through which he'd been staring, he turned his face down to his twin's. "Damali. She's the condition. Otherwise, the treaties are void. They won't accept anyone else. Her father's demanded it, and rightfully so, as the sultan of Zalabi's brother. Without her, we're lost. And Makram…he didn't even protest. My dearest friend…and he refused to defend me."
"I don't understand," Nasira replied quietly. "Do you mean…Makram and Damali…"
"Yes," he said grimly, a humorless smile splitting his face. "They are to be wed, as soon as her father arrives. He's the vizier, after all, besides related to the throne. They won't follow through on our arrangements unless someone in the royal family marries him, and she's the only one available. It's our only choice."
Nasira was furious. "What do you mean, only choice? There are always other options! I say damn to the treaty and we'll do as we please! Makram's sultan, he doesn't need this betrothal to rule."
"You're right; he doesn't. But he's fine with it regardless." Jafar stood and paced to a window, looking out at the sleeping Agrabah. "He'd rather avoid a war than do what's just by me, and Damali. He'd rather follow orders, listen stupidly and sheepishly to the commands of the others than to think for himself – "
"Use your gift." Her statement was short, interrupting the tyranting rage that was consuming his thoughts. He hadn't thought of his power…it would be simple for him to wield it over Makram…a flash of his staff, a claim that the Sun God was displeased with his choice…it was blatantly simple, now that he thought of it. "You have the ability, Jafar. This could be solved easily, simply – bewitch all into thinking a marriage to you would be better. Use your power. It's the only other reasonable method available."
"I cannot." His shoulders slumped as he leaned to rest his palms on the windowsill. "I've never used my control in such a way. The Sun God would be angered…moreover, Makram is my friend…surely he'll put a stop to it." Shaking his head, he turned to his twin. "I must rest, and pray on it. Makram will do right by me. I believe that; I must…"
The sultan and his new wife sat on the dais, both looking awkward and uncertain among the splendor. Her eyes were desperately scanning the room, glittering with hardly concealed tears. The man she searched for stood out of her vision, studying her with a stoic expression that thinly veiled devastation. His grip on his snake-headed staff was turning his knuckles white as the populace celebrated, oblivious of the rulers' less than enthusiastic expressions. The man turned away, pushing his way through the startled crowd as he stormed from the room. He burst out into the starlit night, screaming internally at the sky as he made his way back to her fountain. Looking into the water, he saw a new expression on his face, one of fury and insurmountable devastation. Makram had worried about the prophecy, and well he should. Jafar would carry out its commands, bring the ruin of the one-time sultan of Agrabah. The power of the city would shift, and vengeance, the bittersweet satisfaction of things that could not change, would be found.