Being a Tsar is Not a Craft

Once upon a time, there lived a young prince. His father had passed away, and the people immediately placed him on the throne. He was very young, loved hunting, and soon began searching for a bride.

Both for hunting and for seeking a bride, he would go in disguise. Among all the girls, he liked one the most. He sent his steward, the mourav, to her father to ask for her hand in marriage on behalf of the young king. Her parents were delighted, but the girl asked the mourav:

"And what craft has the groom mastered?"

"Why, he is a king!" the mourav laughed in response.

"Being a king is not a craft," the girl retorted. "I am asking what he can do, what skill he possesses."

The mourav laughed again and repeated:

"He knows how to rule a kingdom—that is his craft. He is a king!"

Then the girl firmly said:

"Being a king is not a craft. If he doesn’t know anything else, I won’t marry such a man, even if he sits on the throne!"

The girl’s parents were beside themselves with indignation: how dare this fool refuse the king, and such a young and handsome one at that!

When the king was informed of this, he was not offended but instead began to ponder. Indeed, what kind of man is he if he doesn’t possess any craft? Who knows what life may bring! And he said to his mourav:

"I believe that a craft would not hinder a king in ruling his kingdom."

"Of course," replied the mourav. "The more a person knows, the better. And a king, of course, would not be harmed by knowing a craft—it would help in many ways and save him in difficult times. We didn’t dare tell you what else your intended said to her angry parents: 'And if the people overthrow the king, what craft will he use to earn his bread?'"

"True! My chosen one is wise, and I must certainly learn a craft. But which one? That’s what I need to think about."

"It seems to me that silversmiths and goldsmiths have an advantage over others."

"No," replied the young king. "The best craft is weaving carpets. What could be more beautiful than coloring silks with flowers and birds, so that my beloved’s bare feet may touch the carpet? The first fruit of my labor I must give to my bride."

The mourav did not argue, and the best carpet weaver in the kingdom was summoned. He began visiting the palace to teach the king. The first carpet woven by the king-apprentice was adorned with love poems so skillfully woven among flowers and birds that it was difficult to discern the letters and read the verses.

The king sent this carpet to his beloved as proof of his skill. The girl was delighted by the king’s talent and not only agreed to become his wife but also praised his skill to the heavens. A royal wedding took place.

Some time later, the king, as was his custom, disguised himself in simple clothes and went hunting. He killed no game and, growing hungry, came upon a road and began searching for a tavern where he could eat. Finally, he found a small house in the forest and hurried toward it.

"Can I have lunch here?" he asked.

"Of course," came the reply. The tavern keeper looked him over approvingly, pointed to a seat, and said:

"Please sit down, we’ll serve you lunch shortly." The king entered a room that was beautifully decorated, and at the very threshold lay a magnificent carpet. "This place is just right for me," thought the king, and as soon as he stepped on the carpet, the floor gave way beneath him, and he found himself in a deep pit.

After the sunlight, everything in the pit seemed as black as tar. Falling to the bottom, he didn’t immediately understand what had happened to him. Gradually coming to his senses, he began to make out some people in the darkness. One of them approached him and asked:

"What sin brought you to this slaughterhouse?"

"What slaughterhouse?"

"You, me, and that man over there were thrown here to be killed..."

"What are you saying? Killed how?"

"Like this: they feed the meat of 'calves' like us to those who enter their den."

"They feed on human flesh?"

"Yes, human flesh. Whoever suits them, they throw into this pit. They don’t even have to spend money on meat. Their greed is so great that they won’t abandon their terrible deed, even though they know that the pitcher that goes too often to the well will eventually break, and then they’ll have to pay for the deaths of innocent people."

"How do you know they kill people and use their flesh..."

"You’ll find out soon enough... It’s one of our turns now. Armed men will come here and slaughter the victim like a bull. You can’t run, you can’t resist. They take your weapons when you enter this den."

The young king’s heart ached. As they spoke, armed bandits descended into the pit, grabbed the man who had been speaking, tied his hands, and slit his throat right before the king’s eyes. The king asked:

"Are you going to kill me too?"

"What makes you so special?"

"What if I possess a craft that could bring you more profit than my flesh? Wouldn’t it be more profitable for you? Make me work, spare my life, and you’ll be rolling in money..."

"What craft do you know?" they asked suspiciously.

"I can weave a carpet that will cost you six tumans, but you can sell it for five hundred."

"Who would give us five hundred tumans for a carpet? You’re spinning tales," they laughed.

"Don’t laugh! I’m serious. I’ll tell you who will give five hundred gold coins for the carpet. My skill is unmatched—you’ll see for yourselves."

"If we bring you the yarn, will you do what you promised?"

"Anywhere, it doesn’t matter to me."

"Don’t think you can fool us easily."

"My craft doesn’t need lies or boasting. It speaks for itself."

"And if we don’t get five hundred tumans?"

"I’m in your hands. You’ll kill me anyway—so kill me then."

"Maybe you’re trying to buy time? Maybe you’re planning something?"

"You’re wrong to suspect me. I have golden hands—take advantage of that. You’ll gain a hundred times more profit."

"Well, write down what tools and materials you need."

"Any carpet weaver will recognize my skill from this list!" said the king, and he wrote down everything he needed for his work.

They realized they were dealing with a true master weaver and brought him everything he asked for.

The king began weaving the carpet by the light of an oil lamp. And before his eyes, the bandits continued to kill people.

Time passed.

The work was completed, and the carpet turned out to be of rare beauty. When the villains saw it, their eyes widened. They never imagined the young hunter was capable of such a thing: the leaves, flowers, and birds were arranged harmoniously, everything in its proper place. It seemed as if a real garden with singing birds lay before them.

"So who will buy it? Who will give us five hundred gold coins for it? Where should we take it?" The young man replied:

"Ordinary people won’t have enough money for such a carpet, so take it to the royal palace, but only at night, in secret. Whoever comes out to you—be it the king or the queen—will buy the carpet immediately and count out the gold for you."

The bandits went to the palace at night. The guards stopped them at the gate:

"What do you want here?"

"We’ve brought a newly woven, expensive carpet, one that only the king or queen could afford."

They reported to the queen, who invited the "merchants" into her chambers. She glanced at the carpet and immediately realized her husband had made it. "They must have forced him to work in captivity," she thought, but she held her tongue...

"Let’s bring the carpet into my bedchamber, lay it out, and see how it looks."

"Right away, my lady!"

The servants brought the carpet into the royal bedchamber. The queen lingered there, for among the leaves and birds, she read of all her husband’s misadventures.

"Disguised, I went hunting as usual. I killed no game. Growing hungry, I entered a tavern to eat. There, I was led into a room, the floor gave way beneath me, and I found myself in a deep pit. This pit is a slaughterhouse for innocent people. They plan to kill me too, to feed my flesh to those who enter their den. If anything saves me, it will be my craft as a carpet weaver. Give these people five hundred gold tumans and order them to bring me to the palace to measure the darbazi, so I can weave a carpet for it. Promise them a thousand tumans. Have my servants secretly follow them. Hurry, but be cautious, or they’ll slit my throat."

The carpet turned out to be a true letter. The queen brought the bandits five hundred tumans and said:

"I need a large carpet for this hall. I’ll pay you a thousand tumans, but the carpet must be woven to the exact measurements. If it’s even slightly too big or too small, I won’t accept it, and you’ll be at a loss. So let the master himself measure the length and width. I’ve warned you. Who would throw a thousand tumans to the wind!"

As soon as the villains heard about a thousand tumans, they shouted in unison:

"Tomorrow night we’ll bring the master to measure everything precisely."

The queen sent the very pleased bandits away, assigning servants to secretly follow them... The next night, they brought the disguised king to the palace as the master weaver...

They entered the darbazi hall. The king began measuring its length and width, then went to the bedchamber, supposedly to check if the sold carpet fit the measurements. There, he removed his simple clothes, donned his royal attire, and returned to the hall:

"Did you bring the carpet?"

"We did, Your Majesty."

"Are you the ones receiving the queen’s order for a thousand tumans?"

"We are, Your Majesty!"

"Do you know who I am?"

"We know, Your Majesty! You are the king."

"Do you know anything else about me?"

"What else could we know?"

"That I am the very carpet weaver who wove your carpet, and you are the villains, cannibals, and bandits!"

The king ordered them seized. The viziers and nobles gathered, the mourav with his troops, and all the conspirators were captured and sentenced to be hanged. The unfortunate prisoners, doomed to death, were freed. And then the queen asked her husband:

"Did I do wrong by making you learn a craft?"

"Thanks to you, I am alive. If I didn’t have a craft, my royal title wouldn’t have saved me—I would have perished. You are my life, may you live long! If not for my craft, I would no longer be in this world. My royal title didn’t help me, but my craft saved me."

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Being a Tsar is Not a Craft

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