What puzzled and troubled me somewhat: We met no caravans coming from the east. The road stretched empty and bleak. We did find watering places; on occasion, a little oasis. Caravanserais were few, not especially happy or welcoming.

  The last one, where we hoped to shelter and replenish our dwindling store of provisions, tried to turn us away.

  Shira had ridden on ahead. She dismounted and stopped at the entrance. When we joined her, I saw that a heavy chain had been drawn across the gateway. This, as I had learned, was done at night to bar unwanted arrivals. It was still broad daylight. Shira, frowning, turned to me.

  “He says they’re full.”

  “Full of what?” Baksheesh muttered. “Not travelers. We haven’t seen any for days.”

  “Quite astonishing,” Salamon said, undismayed. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. I must make a note of that.”

  Shira tried to persuade the porter to let us in, assuring him we had money to pay for all we wanted. By now, the innkeeper himself had appeared.

  “Your money’s worthless here,” he said. “Food and lodging? I have neither.”

  The best he would do, as he finally agreed, was to let our animals drink and let us fill our water bags at the well. He could offer no more than that. We would have to keep on our way.

  I did not understand this. Every caravanserai I had seen was near a town or village that supplied meat and vegetables and whatever else was needed. When I asked him about it, his face darkened.

  “What village?” he said. “Raïs, it’s here.”

  He ordered the porter to lower the chain. We went into the courtyard.

  I had never seen so much misery in such a small space. Heaps of rags and refuse littered the courtyard and the arcades that circled it. When I looked closer, I realized these were men and women, their young ones and babes in arms. They squatted dazed and silent. I could scarcely tell the difference between them and their piles of belongings.

  “There’s the village. The ones who lived through it.” He spread his hands. “I took them in. What else could I do?

  “The tribes are at each other’s throats again,” he went on, seeing my confusion. “Kajiks. Karakits. Sworn enemies for generations. Who knows why? It has always been so.

  “This time, the worst. Because of the fire. The Kajik warlord and his men rode in and burned half the village. No one had seen anything like it. They could not put out the flames. Water only spread the blaze. The ones who did not escape— their ashes still smolder.”

  “So these folk are Karakits?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “Nor Kajiks. They are Aftabis, as I am. They have no quarrel with either side. Indeed, next day, the Karakits attacked and set fire to what was left. Why? So neither tribe could have it.

  “They have been here three days now. How long can I keep them?” he went on, as we picked our way through the bundles of clothing and household goods to reach the watering troughs. “My provisions are exhausted. Shall we all starve together? And who knows if one warlord or the other will take it into his head to burn down my caravanserai for the joy of watching it go up in smoke?

  “Fill your water bags, raïs, and go your way,” he said. “Peace be with you. It is surely not with us.”

  I had made up my mind to put off my own search and stay with Shira until she reached home safely. The treasure, wherever it was, had been sitting there for who knows how long. It could sit a little longer.

  As I recalled from my map, two or three days’ journey should bring us to a road crossing this one. We needed only to follow it southward. Simple enough. I should have known nothing in Keshavar is simple.

  No sooner had we set foot outside the caravanserai than a ragged column of folk from yet another village arrived, pleading for shelter. When they saw which way we were heading, they warned us that fighting had spread all along the road. They were carrying their lives on their backs. I feared we might be taking our lives in our hands.

  The last thing in the world I wanted was to run afoul of battle-drunken Kajiks and Karakits. In case Shira was any way tempted to risk it and keep on, I mentioned what I judged a certainty: “If we fall in with either side, whatever else they do to us, one thing’s sure. They’ll take your horse.”

  That convinced her.

  Our best course, then, was to get off this accursed road as soon as possible. I found a way to do it. Not far from the caravanserai, we came upon a narrow trail. While hardly an inviting path, at least it bore southward. My map hadn’t shown it, but I wasn’t going to quibble over small details. I proposed following it. Sooner or later, it would have to lead us to one of the better-traveled roadways. There would surely be way stations, towns, or trading centers.

  “And if not?” said Baksheesh.

  “Then,” I said, “I’ll think of something else.”

  “Of course you will, O Intrepid One,” he muttered. “That’s what worries me.”

  Salamon offered to go ahead by himself, see what we had to deal with, then come back and report what he found. I urged against it. I did not want us to be separated. Further, should anyone scout ahead, it was the duty of the karwan-bushi. If I had assumed the title, I should try to earn it.

  Shira, without waiting for us to chew over the question, had already gone a little distance through the underbrush.

  “The animals can manage well enough,” she said when she rejoined us. “It’s passable. Others have gone this way.”

  “You call that good news?” Baksheesh put in. “What others? I’d rather nobody was here before. If you ask me, this is just the sort of hole-and-corner nest for bandits and who knows what else.”

  I wished he hadn’t said that.

  “On the other hand,” he went on, “I’ve never met a Kajik, let alone a Karakit. I’m sure their mothers love them, but I shall strive hard to live without that pleasure.

  “To make up for the disappointment,” he added, “I do find one attractive aspect about this pitiful excuse for a road.”

  “Excellent. I’m gratified to hear you say so,” Salamon told him. “Your true nature is definitely blossoming. In spite of difficult circumstances, you are able to appreciate what is interesting and enjoyable.”

  “Right you are, old Salazar,” replied Baksheesh. “What I’ll enjoy most about this dismal path: It’s downhill.”

  As karwan-bushi of what had to be the smallest caravan in Keshavar, I learned two great but simple truths. First, a caravan goes no faster than its slowest camel. And, second, the slowest camel goes no faster than its most reluctant camel-puller.

  Shira’s judgment had been correct. The trail was passable, though barely so. Our donkey was sure-footed, Shira’s mare likewise. The camels trudged on, resigned to yet another misery added to their daily lives. Baksheesh, however, constantly lagged behind. Also, during the time we spent picking our way down the tangled slope, he left off grumbling only when he was asleep. At least there were no lurking robbers. I was glad of that. But I half wished we had taken our chances with the Kajiks and Karakits.

  We reached the valley floor around noon. Was it the second or third day of our downward climb? I can’t be certain. I had come to calculate the difference between day and night according to whether Baksheesh was complaining or snoring.

  Here, a wide corridor of coarse sand stretched along the edge of high, jagged hills. I had never seen such a vast amount of nothing. My heart sank. Salamon was enraptured.

  “Amazing!” He shaded his eyes against the raw sunlight. “Absolutely astonishing!”

  “Old coot,” Baksheesh said under his breath. “He’d find a skin rash fascinating.”

  Had I known where I was, had my head not been full of such questions as how we would stay alive, I would have agreed with Salamon. Yes, it was astonishing. The color, above all. It may have been a trick of the light, but the bare hills glowed as yellow-orange as a cantaloupe. Round openings pitted the whole flank of the farther slope like a honeycomb for a swarm of gigantic bees.

  Shira stood, hands on hips, scanning the barren valley. Baksheesh sidled over to me.

  “O Monarch of All You Survey,” he said, “allow your devoted servant to inquire: Do you see a town? A village? A small hamlet, perhaps? This sun has blinded me; my eyes are full of grit. My vision is not as keen as usual. But you, Farsighted Eagle, surely you can observe a caravanserai? An oasis? A mud puddle?”

  I told him to shut up. He kept on anyway.

  “I am not a person of great learning. I must rack my brain for the precise word that expresses our situation eloquently. What would it be? Ah—something like: Lost.”

  I lied. I said I knew exactly where we were.

  “So do I, Geographical Excellence,” he said. “We are in the veritable center of the middle of nowhere.”

  “Did you ask the raïs for directions?” Shira broke in. “The innkeeper? Anybody?”

  I said I didn’t think I needed to.

  I was afraid she would cloud up and rain all over me like those thunderstorms that occasionally batter Magenta. She only glanced at me with long-suffering annoyance. But there were no lightning bolts.

  “Let me see the map,” she said.

  Until now, she had never asked and I had never offered. It hadn’t seemed necessary. Baksheesh had poked his nose into all my belongings that day he made off with them. I was reluctant to show it to anyone else. Not that I mistrusted Shira. After all, I was in love with her. No, I simply kept it to myself.

  We Magentans are brought up to be closemouthed about our business. Outside the family, we don’t even like to admit what we ate for lunch.

  I hiked up my shirt and fished out the parchment from its pouch at my waist. I carefully unfolded it and spread it on the ground.

  Shira knelt and peered at it, tracing a finger from one edge to the other.

  “This is what you found in the book?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Just as I told you.”

  She studied it still more closely. She looked up at me.

  “Kharr-loh,” she said, “your map is wrong.”

  III

  The

  Bazaar

  of

  All Dreams

  I sat down fast. I had to, if I didn’t want to fall in a heap. I tried not to be seasick in the middle of a desert. Not easy, for the ground kept opening beneath me and tilting back and forth. Uncle Evariste had been right from the start. The whole business was a fraud. And I, Carlo the Chooch, was stupid enough to be caught up in it.

  “So,” I said, when I stopped shaking and was able to say anything at all, “it’s a forgery. Trash.”

  Shira shook her head. “No. Not exactly. It’s old. Very old. I’m sure of that. I think it’s real—for what it is. But—what is it?

  “There’s no sense in it,” she went on. “It’s half right—in some ways. Wrong in others. Things aren’t where they’re supposed to be. From what I can see, my caravanserai should be in a valley—here.” She laid a finger on the map. “There’s no valley. There should be a river nearby, but it’s somewhere else. As if everything has shifted around. And here—whoever made the map tried to draw what looks like a fortress. I grew up in these parts and there’s no fortress, let alone a royal treasury.

  “Some places look right,” she said. “Here—Marakand’s where it ought to be. But the rest? No. I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “I do,” I said. “What I make of it—it’s useless.”

  I picked up the map and climbed to my feet—as best I could, considering everything was falling to pieces around me. I would have ripped the thing to shreds then and there. I was angry enough to do it. Not that it would have done any good. Angry at what? At the map for being wrong? At Shira for telling me so? But being angry, at least, felt better than being seasick.

  I turned the parchment back and forth. I remembered that night at home when I came close to tearing it up. And didn’t. Because I believed it was real. Despite all, I suppose I still did. Who draws a map that’s wrong on purpose? There must be a reasonable answer. In any case, I had no heart to destroy it. I folded the parchment and slipped it back into its pouch.

  “We’re going to Marakand,” I said at last.

  “O Clear Voice of Wisdom,” said Baksheesh, who had been eavesdropping on every word. “As I recall suggesting to you, we never should have left there in the first place.”

  “You’re coming with me,” I told Shira in my firmest karwan-bushi tone, hoping to head off any objections she might come up with. She made no comments one way or the other, which made me a little uneasy. Baksheesh, however, had brightened. Until he heard the rest of what I had to say.

  “We start all over again,” I went on, as Baksheesh groaned. “This time, we’ll do better.”

  If I hoped to find the treasure, I needed a more accurate map. Caravan masters would surely have one. Or merchants, or other travelers. Or, for that matter, the Thieves’ Market.

  “I said I’d see you home first,” I added to Shira. “And so I will.”

  “But then, Most Resolute of Karwan-bushis,” put in Baksheesh, resigned though not at all happy, “how shall we do this? It would be senseless, as you so shrewdly perceive, to wander through this boneyard of a desert. Especially—forgive me for calling this to Your Worthy Attention—since you have no idea where you are. And, Shining Lamp of Intelligence, if you have no idea where you are, it follows you have no idea where you’re going.”

  “I do,” I said. “The way we came. We’ll retrace our steps.”

  “What?” blurted Baksheesh. “We turned off to keep clear of the fighting. The Kajiks—”

  “Well, then, damn the Kajiks,” I burst out. “And the Kara-kits. And the caravan robbers. To Jehannum with the lot! If we have to deal with them, we’ll deal with them.”

  Some of this—most of it, all of it—was bravado and a good measure of sheer wind. Since I saw no other choice, I might as well put a bold face on it.

  “To Jehannum?” Baksheesh retorted. “We’ll soon be there ourselves. Before that, can we at least eat breakfast?”

  So unsettled was I by Shira’s opinion of the map, only then did I notice an obvious absence.

  Salamon was missing.

  I looked toward the animals. He was not with them. Nor anywhere else I could see.

  I took Baksheesh by the arm. “Where is he? Where did he go?”

  “How should I know?” Baksheesh shrugged. “He can’t be far. No doubt the old buzzard spied an irresistibly charming fungus and had to make a note of it. Not that there’s so much as a toadstool to be found here.”

  I should have kept a better eye on him. I went back a little way up the trail, calling out; then turned and started across the desert floor. I saw no one in either direction. Only echoes answered my shouts.

  “Could he have gone in there?” Shira pointed to the honeycomb of chambers in the rocky slope.

  Of course. How could he have resisted? Yes, and got himself into who knows what mischief. I told Baksheesh to bring the animals. With Shira leading her mare, we set off across a flat table of sand up to our ankles. At close range, the openings were bigger than I’d first calculated, stretching in a long row to form something like an arcade or open-fronted gallery. Shira had guessed right. Moments later, Salamon popped out from one of them, waving his arms, beckoning us to hurry.

  I had prepared a few words to say to him about wandering off. I had no heart to reproach him, I was too relieved to find him safe; besides, he was beaming like the happiest child in the world.

  “Come. Quickly!” he called. “Most remarkable. There’s water—I found a pool deeper inside. I didn’t venture much beyond. But—marvelous!”

  The cavern was not as dark as I’d expected. Shafts of sunlight fell from circular holes higher up in the wall. I had no time to look around, for Salamon kept nudging us along a corridor of beaten earth. As he had said, in the middle of a high-domed grotto was a pool of clear water. I scooped up some in my cupped palm and cautiously tasted. It was fresh and ice cold.

  I would have filled our water bags then and there, but Salamon pressed us to go farther. We left the animals to drink and followed him.

  “Amazing!” he said. “I’ve never seen anything more astonishing.”

  “So, astonish me,” Baksheesh retorted. “Amaze me with a ten-course feast laid out and waiting for us.”

  “Better than that,” Salamon said. “Marvelous pictures.”

  “Pictures?” squawked Baksheesh. “I haven’t had a night’s sleep or a decent meal, I’m falling away to a shadow of my former self—and you’re jabbering about pictures? In a cave? In the middle of a desert? Now I know for sure the sun has fried your wits.”

  The light dimmed as we made our way deeper into the cavern. On a smooth stretch of wall, a painting covered the surface with such brilliant colors that it glowed of itself.

  It wasn’t the style of picture I was used to. At first, I saw only a hodgepodge of flat shapes, one crowding against another. I looked closer and they suddenly came clear. As if the painter had viewed it from a hilltop overlooking a half-moon of bright blue water.

  Ships were tied up at the docks. And, past the breakwater, a boat with a shredded sail—it reminded me of the leaky tub I practically rowed to Sidya. A jumble of buildings along the quayside. A marketplace—I swear I saw the bookstall where everything had begun.

  The cold air must have given me chills. I was trembling all over and aching down to the marrow of my bones.

  Shira stepped beside me. “What’s wrong, Kharr-loh?”

  “This can’t be,” I said. “But it is. See there? The Casa Galliardi. And there—my uncle’s house. It’s the port of Magenta.”

  Baksheesh had come to squint at the picture. “Extreme Worthiness, I very much doubt that. Like Saltimbocca here, you’ve had a touch of sun. One port’s the same as another.”