The Djinni and I watched with Yossarian while Aladdin peered in through the secret door.
“You are very lucky you went in when you did, Baron Rostov,” the young trap-master said politely. “I see a trap three steps down. The sunlight must have disarmed it then. I think I see the way to disarm it now.”
But he had barely stepped in when a meter-long needle skewered his side. Its twin protruded from the other wall, ready to puncture anyone sneaking down the other side of the corridor. Hideous pain distorted Aladdin’s face as he groaned, “Likely to be poisoned, too.”
After a second, the needles retracted. I floated Aladdin out with a Lift spell and laid him on the ground outside the door. He was gasping for air, his face already a deathly white. I calculated that unless helped he would be dead within a minute.
Before I could act, Yossarian knelt listening to his chest, then began chanting a long priestly spell. It was totally alien to me, but obviously effective. The boy’s color improved immediately and five minutes later he was totally recovered, except for some heavy breathing as he swallowed down his close call.
“You owe me, boy,” said Yossarian.
“I owe you nothing!” Aladdin gasped. “I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t sent that lackey Djinni of yours to get me.”
Yossarian growled, about to give Aladdin the back of his hand again, then thought better of it. Calmly he conceded, “Perhaps you are right. Go get some food.”
Aladdin walked to the table and began gobbling a meal.
“I hate it when other people are right,” said Yossarian. “But if I don’t admit it, I’m my own worst enemy.”
As Aladdin was finishing his second helpings, Yossarian yelled, “Back to work. I don’t want you getting drowsy on an overfull stomach.”
The boy came back, licking his fingers. His first disaster proved a fluke. Carefully he disarmed two more traps in the worship chamber. One would have filled the space with some gaseous poison, the other would have set scores of deadly little blades springing up from their images in the floor.
“This room is clean, not dust-filled,” I commented as we walked across the chamber. We were standing before the golden relief itself, wondering whether the scrolls that Yossarian sought were among the many on the wall shelves, when there was a shout from the top of the stairs.
“Captain, there’s trouble brewing out here. You’d better come.”
Yossarian scowled. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Out we go … all of us,” he said, motioning light-fingered Aladdin to lead us out.