“Accursed pit!” he blubbered. “Every evil imp in Keshavar had me by the heels. I was at the gates of Jehannum!”

  “Oh, I very much doubt that,” Salamon said, by way of soothing him. “There’s more Jehannum here aboveground than below it.”

  “That’s what you think,” Baksheesh retorted. “Then, old Spaghettini, answer me this: How did I come close to drowning in the middle of a desert?”

  “There’s water all around us. Sometimes a little of it seeps up to the surface,” explained Salamon. “But there are great rivers and tributaries flowing beneath your feet. Like the veins and arteries under your skin.”

  “Under yours, not mine,” Baksheesh said. “I know when I’ve been to Jehannum and back.”

  “Ungrateful wretch,” I said, as Shira and I got him to his feet. “He saved your life and you don’t give him so much as a word of thanks?”

  “None required,” put in Salamon. “Sooner or later he would have crawled out on his own.”

  “Aha!” cried Baksheesh. “There you hear him. He says so himself. Thank him? I won’t. He insulted me when he called me softhearted. If anything, he owes me an apology.”

  I would have taken Baksheesh by the scruff of his neck and shaken a little gratitude out of him; but I was too thirsty to worry about polite behavior. So I let it pass.

  Apart from having been terrified out of his wits, and covered with mud rapidly drying on him like a brown shell, Baksheesh was none the worse for wear.

  On the contrary: He talked about little else. His horrifying experience crowded out all his previous complaints. He even forgot about his bunions. Each time we halted, he trotted out some new detail he had neglected to mention. The pit, in his recollection, grew deeper and deeper, his struggles all the greater.

  “I can tell you I never thought I’d see the light of day again,” he declared, for the fifth or sixth time. “I was stifling, suffocating, my lungs bursting while the dreadful mess closed around me.

  “How did I find the strength to free myself?” he blathered on. “Only the thought that you, O Noble Benefactor, would be lost without my services, leaving you in hopeless confusion. That gave me new heart as, inch by inch, I fought my way to the surface.”

  One thing had slipped his mind: Salamon, Shira, and I did not figure in his account. We might as well have not been there at all. I would have reminded him and taken him to task for it, but Shira motioned for me to let him ramble on.

  Which he did. On the one hand, it passed the time and took our minds off our thirst. On the other—for an occasional fleeting moment and not in any serious way—I came close to wishing we had left him to fend for himself in the quicksand.

  I blame those less-than-kindly thoughts on my own difficulties. Water flowed through my waking moments—and sleeping ones, such as they were. I had never imagined it in so many enticing forms. Rivers, cascades, bubbling brooks, the public fountain in Magenta. Water in brimming glassfuls, in rain barrels, pitchers, buckets, all of it clear and sparkling.

  Once, I dreamed I had finally discovered the royal treasury and found its endless chambers crammed with enormous jars of—water.

  In reality, what was left at the bottom of our water bags stank. We drank it anyway.

  Midmorning of the next day, I saw the town.

  I gave a glad cry, which came out sounding like a duck in distress. I dropped the camel’s rope and ran toward it. Shira put out a hand to hold me back. I pulled away and stumbled forward.

  Shahryar-eh-Ghermezi was a sight to behold, more glorious than Cheshim had suggested. I stared breathless at sun-gilded towers, terraces of flowers, palm trees gently swaying in the breeze.

  I noticed one unusual thing.

  The town was floating in midair.

  My legs decided I needed to fall down. By the time Shira reached me, my head was going in circles. Hanging just above the peaks, the town had begun receding into the distance.

  I urged all haste. Before it sailed out of reach, we had to find ladders and a lot of rope. I thought I was being sensible and practical. I was probably babbling.

  Shira laid a tender hand on my cheek. Such bliss! I wondered if I could arrange to fall down again.

  “Kharr-loh, it is nothing,” she said. “Only a tasvir.”

  Salamon came to kneel beside her. “What you see, my lad, is not what you think you see.”

  I stared around. “Have I gone mad?”

  “No more than to be expected,” he said. “The folk in your part of the world call it ‘Fata Morgana.’ A mirage, an illusion.”

  “I saw it,” I insisted. “I still see it.”

  “As do we all,” he said. “Yes, an excellent mirage. Very convincing. The golden towers are especially fine, I must make a note of that. But it is no more than the reflection of a town somewhere else, far away. As often as not, the mirage will be an oasis or watering place. A welcome sight. But travelers have lost their lives trying to reach it.

  “There—yet not there,” he added. “A trick of the light, the currents of air, and rays of the sun—”

  “Pay no mind to that bag of bones,” Baksheesh muttered to me. “He had the gall to tell me I had fallen into a mud puddle when I know I plunged into the bowels of the earth.”

  Baksheesh shaded his eyes. “I see what I see. That paint-dauber made fools of us. A town, yes. Did he mention it would be in the middle of the air?”

  “It isn’t.” Shira had gotten to her feet. “You’re looking in the wrong direction.”

  She pointed a little farther down the trail. I feared that she, too, had been caught up in an illusion. But, less than a quarter of a league away, unmistakably solid, rose the walls of Shahryar-eh-Ghermezi.

  Cheshim once more proved to be correct. When my head cleared and I pulled myself together, we set off again. By the time we reached the gates, we had squeezed the last drops from the water bags.

  The town had saved our lives, but I was a shade disappointed. Shahryar-eh-Ghermezi turned out to be far less imposing than the mirage. It struck me as a pleasant little market town not much bigger than its name. Cheshim had called it charming. I suppose it was. At the moment, it made no difference to me. All I wanted was to see our animals tended, to eat, drink, and sleep for a few months, preferably at the same time.

  As far as that went, the town did have an advantage over the mirage. It was real. The streets bustled with water sellers and food vendors. We would have flung ourselves on them, bought out their whole stock, and looked around for more. But Salamon warned us to be cautious, to eat and drink sparingly at first. So we controlled our hunger as best we could. Except for Baksheesh. He waved away Salamon’s advice, drank up most of the contents of a water seller’s urn, stuffed himself with kebabs, pastries, and anything else he could fit into his mouth. He lost all of it soon after.

  We did, without difficulty, find a small khan with well-kept stables and more or less clean rooms. I slept for what seemed a year or so but turned out to be a day and a half. I dimly recall taking a steam bath in the hammam, as did Shira and Salamon. If Baksheesh employed that facility, I couldn’t tell the difference.

  Restored to something close to human, I turned my attention to the reason we had come here in the first place. I wanted a better map.

  At home, I had heard seafarers talk of what they called a “rutter.” I understood it to be more than simply a chart; rather, a book giving details on coastlines, landmarks, shoals, and everything dealing with navigation. I wondered if there might be something like it for the Road of Golden Dreams. Also, in the port of Magenta, ship chandlers made a business of outfitting vessels with everything needed for a voyage. If such a place existed for caravans and overland travelers, it would spare us from having to provision ourselves piecemeal.

  Cheshim had told us we could find everything we wanted in Shahryar-eh-Ghermezi. I took him at his word and we set out to look for this kind of establishment.

  The bazaars here were small compared with those in Marakand. Instead of arranged according to trade and craft— for example, goldsmiths all in one street, rug merchants in another—shops of every kind jammed together higgledy-piggledy. It took some time before we found what I was searching for.

  In the shop, so many saddles, bridles, coils of rope, water bags, and all manner of oddments filled the shelves and covered the floor that there was hardly room for the proprietor.

  He popped up from behind a heap of blankets. Long-jawed, with the bushiest eyebrows I had ever seen, he welcomed us and introduced himself as Daftan. He assured us he could supply all provisions and equipment we wanted, and deliver them to our khan the next day.

  I explained about the rutter and asked if I might buy one from him.

  “What you seek is a ‘ketab,’ as we call it.” He raised his thicket of eyebrows. “Yes, mirza, I understand exactly. Also you may wish to purchase a few phoenix tailfeathers? The recipe for Greek Fire? A sack of powdered unicorn horn?”

  It took me a moment to realize he was joking at my expense. He went on: “Why stop there? Ask to buy my right arm. Or sell you my wife and children.” Daftan snorted a laugh. He rolled up his eyes and addressed the ceiling. “Preserve me! Here comes a young ferenghi demanding a ketab as if ordering a leg of mutton.”

  I told him I got the point: He had none for sale.

  “Never did, never expect to,” he said. “If I did, would I sell it to you? No, mirza, ahead of you would be a line of the richest merchant travelers in Keshavar bidding against one another. You have no idea how rare and priceless it is. Had I such a thing, I would retire from trade, sit in the shade, drink mint tea, and play dominoes for the rest of my days.”

  He rambled about what he would do with the fortune a ketab would bring: dowries for his daughters, jewelry for his wife. Disappointed, I turned away.

  “Wait,” he called. “I have something that may help you in a small way.”

  He rummaged in a heap of oddments, pulled out a square of silk the size of a handkerchief, and spread it on the counter.

  Baksheesh craned his neck over my shoulder. “My Most Fastidious Master does not wish to blow his nose.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Daftan, “but he may wish to see where he is going.”

  It was not a handkerchief but a map of sorts, more a picture than an ordinary chart. Mountains, rivers, valleys were painted in vivid colors. I could even make out the tiny figures of a caravan. No indication of a Royal Treasury, nor had I expected one.

  Shira studied it. “Good enough, Kharr-loh. Better than what you have.”

  It was, in itself, a beautiful piece of work. I asked Daftan how he had come by it.

  “My father, of blessed memory, traded a sack of provisions for it,” he said. “I was only a boy then, learning the business. But I well remember the little old fellow who claimed he painted it. He called himself Cheshim.”

  This took all of us a little aback. Why, I wondered, had Cheshim put so much care and effort into it? What an odd coincidence that we had found it. A lucky accident that we had come to Daftan’s shop. Still, it made my skin tingle.

  “I thought my father was foolish to strike a bargain like that,” Daftan said. “And so he was. It has lain here gathering dust ever since; no demand for such an item.”

  Daftan offered to throw it in with the rest of our purchases, at so modest a price that Baksheesh did not take the trouble to haggle over it.

  I folded it up and stowed it in my jacket. Promising reliable delivery of our supplies, Daftan wished peace upon us and we stepped out into the street.

  As we started back to our khan, I felt a hand grip my arm.

  Hanging on to me, not to be pried off or shaken loose, was a chubby little man, his face round as a full moon, cheeks glistening as if they had been buttered.

  He looked so glad to see me, I assumed he was selling something.

  “Benevolent fate has led you to my door,” he said, smooth as oil mixed with honey. “The stars aligned to light your path. Or did someone recommend me?

  “In any case,” he went on, “you have found your way to my shop. Welcome, dear friends. I, Khabib, stand ready and eager to provide what you require.”

  What I required, I told him, was a ketab. I doubted that he had one.

  “I have something more valuable,” he said. “My clients come from far and wide, seeking the benefit of my excellent services.

  “Dreams,” he added. “As I am proud to call my establishment the Bazaar of All Dreams.”

  “Hold on there a minute, Kaboob or whatever you call yourself.” Baksheesh cocked an eye at him. “Just because we’re strangers in town, don’t take us for a flock of gullible pigeons to be plucked. We’re not innocent simpletons—not all of us, at any rate. You pretend to sell dreams? What, like some sort of fig vendor?”

  “Pretend?” returned Khabib. “Not in the least. Dreams are my stock in trade. Sell? No, I do not sell. I offer the opportunity to buy. And you, my friend—no offense, but you look as if you could use a few.”

  Baksheesh snorted. “I get my dreams free.”

  “Of course you do,” Khabib said, with kindly concern. “Only tell me this—we speak in all confidentiality—don’t you find them, uh, shall we say just a little threadbare? A bit shabby? Worn around the edges, as it were? The same tiresome stuff again and again? And not very durable?

  “I daresay,” he continued, “they fall to shreds as soon as they’ve begun. I’ll wager they barely last you through the night. Am I correct?”

  “Maybe,” Baksheesh grudgingly replied. “But that’s my business.”

  “No, dear friend,” said Khabib. “My business.”

  By now, he had nudged and prodded us a short way down the street. He stopped in front of a narrow-fronted, ramshackle building I hadn’t noticed before.

  “Come, come.” He waved a pudgy hand at the door. “By good fortune—that is to say, your good fortune—I have no appointments at the moment. There are four of you? So much the better. As a special favor, because I like you, I offer a wholesale rate at a most attractive discount.”

  The notion of a dream bazaar sparked my curiosity. The chubby little fellow was no doubt a faker, a charlatan, full of glittering promises more wind than substance—a combination irresistible to any natural-born chooch.

  Baksheesh, however, squinted a suspicious eye on this peculiar merchant. “Assuming you’re not a complete liar, how do I know you won’t try to palm off shoddy goods?”

  “My dear friend, I have a reputation to maintain,” replied Khabib. “You shall choose what you please. With every item, satisfaction is guaranteed.”

  “I, for one, am very interested,” Salamon said, making no attempt to hide his eagerness. He was, in fact, bubbling over. “Whether he is a fraud or an honest dealer, the experience will be unique and surely noteworthy.”

  To please him, we all put aside whatever doubts we had and followed Khabib into his dimly lit shop.

  At home, I had often run errands to the pharmacist— Uncle Evariste suffered onslaughts of indigestion and fluxes, no doubt brought on by me. The tall jars, globes of colored liquid, bunches of dried herbs fascinated me. But, until now, never had I seen such an array of bottles, phials, jugs, and flasks of all shapes and sizes. They filled Khabib’s shelves and covered the walls from floor to ceiling.

  “My inventory.” Khabib spread his arms. “Every dream registered and cataloged.”

  “Mirza Khabib,” Salamon put in, “allow me to inquire. How do you conduct your business? You must have clients who come to sell as well as buy. By what method do you obtain your stock?”

  Khabib winked and laid a finger on the side of his nose. “Trade secrets. Mysteries of the profession, so to speak. I assure you each item is certified to be in working condition.

  “What it comes down to, as do most things in life, is the question of price. Some—I dislike the term secondhand, since hands have nothing to do with it—have been intensively used. Those are at the lower end of my range; but all excellent value for the money.”

  He stepped over to a wall of pigeonholes and waved a hand. “These are the dreams of the dead,” he went on. “Acquired before their demise, of course. Highly colorful and entertaining; with surprising endings, as expected from those about to leave us. But, alas, not greatly in demand.

  “And these, for a little more, are the dreams of an insomniac. Poor fellow, he suffered so much from sleeplessness, they have hardly been touched.

  “And this—” He suddenly wrinkled his nose and pulled down a phial. “Pooah! What’s this nightmare doing here? A small oversight in shelving.”

  He threw it into a corner. “And now, going to the very top of my line. My special, private reserve, of interest to the most discerning clients of exquisite taste and sensitivities.

  “Strictly fresh, pristine condition, never dreamed before. I am proud to say these are available only from myself. If you are hesitant about the expense, I must point out: In my long experience, one gets what one pays for.”

  “Don’t take any of his cheap dreams,” Baksheesh whispered to me. “Who knows where they’ve been?”

  I told Khabib we wished the best he could provide. Yet, with so much variety, I had no idea where to begin or what to choose. I asked him to guide us with recommendations.

  “It will be my pleasure,” he said. “I shall count it an honor of the highest degree if you trust me to pick the product most fitting to your needs.”

  “I wouldn’t trust him to pick my nose,” Baksheesh said under his breath. “But since we’re this deep into it, let him do whatever he does.”

  “One small detail.” Khabib turned to me. “A delicate matter, a subject I always find embarrassing. A little crass, a little vulgar, especially when dealing with clients of such refinement.”