The Grand Vizier of Agrabah raised his eyes as the desert-begrimed peddler entered the palace chamber. "Ah," he said mildly, stroking the colubriform head of his brazen staff. "You received our summons, then?"
"I did, most puissant one," said the peddler with an ostentatious bow. He considered asking why this particular summons had come from three hulking palace guards with drawn scimitars, one of whom was standing behind him at that moment, but decided against it. Even the most gentle-spirited court official was liable to get testy if questioned by a commoner in such a fashion – and, from the stories that were whispered about the current Vizier, he was far from gentle of spirit.
"Excellent," said the Vizier. "I trust that this little visit will not discommode your day's work overmuch?"
The peddler shook his head.
"That is most gratifying," said the Vizier. "We know what a prosperous trade you have established in desert antiquities; it has enabled you to make a name for yourself throughout this region. It pleases the Sultan to hear of a native son of Agrabah thriving so."
"If the Sultan is pleased, I am pleased," said the peddler unctuously. "His fame and might have been my pride from earliest boyhood; I shall never cease to praise Allah that I was born in his noble dominions."
"Yes," said the Vizier, his tone suddenly growing unexpectedly cold. "You have even, it seems, composed a song about this native land of yours, which you are wont to sing as you travel about the peninsula. Something about it being far away, and camels roaming through it – and also, if our information is correct, about it being a place where 'they cut off your hand if they don't like your face'."
He paused just long enough to watch the first gleams of comprehension surface on the peddler's face; then, almost but not quite suppressing a malicious smile, he continued. "You understand, of course, that the judges of Agrabah are appointed by the Sultan to uphold and apply the civil law, and serve, in that capacity, as instruments of the Sultan's own will. To suggest that, when they pronounce sentence in cases of theft, they allow prejudices about the defendant's demeanor to weigh more heavily with them than the actual evidence, amounts to accusing the Sultan himself of corrupting justice."
"Corrupting justice!" the parrot on his shoulder added, helpfully. "Awwk!"
The peddler swallowed – pointlessly, since his mouth was utterly dry just then, but it seemed to him the appropriate thing to do. He hadn't even thought about the line in political terms – it had just seemed a witty thing to say, and had fit beautifully into the song's rhyme scheme – but he could readily see how the Vizier might, not least because the Vizier, according to rumor, did, in fact, have people thrown into dungeons to whom he happened to take a disliking (all in the name of keeping peace in Agrabah, of course). Naturally, anything that tended to bring this habit of his to light, whether advertently or no, would be most displeasing to him.
As the peddler debated with himself how many more minutes of life and liberty he was likely to enjoy, the Vizier's voice broke in on him again. "Of course," it said smoothly, "if you were willing to alter that verse while leaving the song otherwise intact, there would be no harm done. Anyone who heard the new version would assume that he had misremembered the earlier words, and could be assured that no loyal son of Agrabah would ever make such insinuations about the Sultan's courts."
The peddler glanced up sharply, suddenly hopeful. "He could?" he said. "Er… that is… why, yes, of course he could. What a fool I am, not to think of it myself."
"No doubt," the Vizier agreed pleasantly. "How fortunate, then, that our Sultan is so immensely wise, and has not only thought of it, but has condescended to prepare the alternate version himself." He withdrew a piece of parchment from his robes, and handed it to the peddler – taking care, as he did so, that no part of him or his costume actually touched the other man.
As the peddler examined the proposed revision, a frown appeared on his face, and he scratched his chin in puzzlement. "But this makes no sense," he said.
"No?" said the Vizier, raising an eyebrow.
"No," said the peddler. "Topography and climate aren't what make a place barbaric. If you changed it that way, you would also have to…"
"Then you are now criticizing the Sultan's literary powers, as well as his justice?"
The peddler considered that for a space of half a second, and then thrust the parchment into his own robes. "Wonderful!" he announced. "Flat and immense, yes! The very quintessence of barbarism! I would be honored to sing this as I travel the desert!"
"Good," said the Vizier, and gestured to the guard. "Selim, show this… gentleman… back to his camel."
"…but, hey, it's home," the peddler murmured to himself as he and the guard retraced their steps through the palace corridors.
"What's that?" said the guard sharply.
"Oh, nothing," said the peddler. "Tell me, my good man, would any of your wives be interested in some Dead-Sea Tupperware? Very excellent quality, and only… ah… no, perhaps not."
Disclaimer: Not wishing to get in trouble with my own Sultan, I hereby acknowledge that I do not own Aladdin.
Author's note: It has recently been brought to my attention that the original lyric actually spoke of the men of Agrabah cutting off your ear if they didn't like your face, not your hand. (Not to lambast a man who has two Oscars to my zero, and who, at the time he wrote the song, was actually in the process of dying of AIDS, but... seriously, Howard? A change of one word gives you both a real cultural reference and a clever internal rhyme, and you can't be bothered to make it?) I don't plan to change the story to reflect this - not least because, if I did, it wouldn't make any more sense than the revised lyrics - but it seemed to me that I should go on record as being aware of it. It is so done.