“Get out,” I said. “Let me be.”

  I fell back on my cot and slept. Badly. Next morning, I went to the market square with the map in my pocket.

  The fruit and vegetable dealers had just set up their stands. I walked—not quickly—past the old woman and her display of melons. I had my hand on the map, ready to give it to the bookseller.

  I saw no sign of him.

  It must have been too early. I asked the melon vendor what time her neighbor would arrive. She recognized me, she had seen me on my errands; and, in Magenta, everyone knows everyone else’s business.

  “Bookseller?” She gave me an odd look. “What bookseller?”

  The one, I said, with a stall next to her own.

  “Nobody like that.” She kept shaking her head as I insisted I had been there only yesterday. Had he moved somewhere else? Where could I find him?

  “What are you blabbering about?” she said. “No bookseller. I’m here thirty years. I should know if there’s a bookseller. No such person. Not yesterday. Not now. Never.”

  I was running short of patience. “I bought something from him—that is, he gave me something. Right there. That very spot.”

  “Don’t waste my time.” She went back to arranging the melons. “What a fool,” she said under her breath. “Poor uncle, such a burden for him. But, nothing to be done about it. There’s a chooch in every family.”

  What she had told me puzzled and, at first, troubled me. I thought it over and finally understood. There was a simple explanation: The bookseller had opened his stall within the past day or two. She hadn’t noticed. His trade had been too slow; he changed to a better location. I walked all around the marketplace, up and down the side streets. Not a trace. No question, he was gone. He could have left Magenta altogether.

  Satisfied I had done my duty—my conscience was keeping its mouth shut—I hurried to the office, eager to put my plans in motion.

  No sooner did I set foot inside than Melchiorre stepped up. My uncle, he announced, demanded my presence immediately. He was grinning so happily I expected to be yelled at, though it was only Thursday. I was unworried. As soon as he learned what I had in mind, my offense, whatever it was, would be forgotten.

  I found Uncle Evariste hunched over the table in his counting room. Beside him, black-robed, looking like a melancholy crow, stood Messire Bagatìn, his accountant.

  Since Uncle Evariste didn’t pull his beard or yell, I suspected this might be serious.

  “You,” he said, in a voice icy enough to give me gooseflesh, “you’ve ruined me.”

  Before I could ask what he meant, he pressed on:

  “You’ve made mistakes before. I put up with them for the sake of your parents. But not this time. With your daydreaming and woolgathering—do you know what you’ve done? Of course not.

  “I’ll tell you,” he said between his teeth. “You mixed up the accounts. Idiot. You got them backward.

  “You wrote down the money I made as if it were money I owed. Yesterday, when you took the receipts to Casa Galliardi, you listed my assets as liabilities. Do you have the least glimmer of the mess you made? Bagatìn can straighten it out—but who knows how long it will take? As far as the bankers are concerned, my account stands at zero. My assets will be frozen. I’ll have to borrow money. At ruinous interest. Meantime, I have nothing.”

  That was all? I gave a sigh of relief. Only a temporary disaster.

  “Uncle,” I said, “never mind that. I’ll make a fortune for us. A thousand times over.”

  I brought out the map and handed it to him.

  He squinted at it for a moment. In a pinched voice, he said: “Where did you get it?”

  “From a bookseller,” I began. “What happened, you see—”

  “Happened? Happened? Who cares?” Uncle Evariste flung at me. “Where is this fellow?”

  “In the marketplace,” I said. “That is, he was. I went back and looked all over for him. I couldn’t find him again. He’s gone somewhere else.”

  “Naturally.”

  Now the yelling began.

  “Make a fortune?” Uncle Evariste cried. “With this? If I had a ducat for every one of these I’ve seen in my time, I’d be a rich man. A fraud! A ridiculous fake! Trash like this is floating everywhere. For sale to gullible jackasses. How much did you pay?”

  “Well, nothing—”

  “Exactly what it’s worth.”

  He crumpled the parchment and threw it at my head. And missed. I scooped it up from the floor.

  “This can’t keep on.” My uncle’s face glowed crimson all the way to the end of his nose—an effect I had never before produced on him.

  “Enough is enough,” he said, struggling for breath. “You’re no longer in my employ.”

  This set me back on my heels. Not that I was sorry to be free of my tedious work, but I was also confused. I murmured something about my lodging. I supposed I would still be living in the house.

  “No. You will not.” My uncle snapped off the words. He was calmer now, which upset me more than his yelling.

  “You are a walking catastrophe,” he said. “An embarrassment on two legs. I want you to be gone. Away from here. Out of Magenta. Out of Serrano.”

  I said I didn’t understand.

  “I don’t want you anywhere near me. After what you’ve done—to have you here? A thorn in my side? You’d make me a laughingstock. My trade would suffer. Who’d want to deal with me? It would cost me more to keep you than to let you go.”

  My uncle was not a cruel person, neither wicked nor heartless. He was simply a man of business. I saw his point. In his place, I probably would have done the same.

  “Even so,” he went on, “family is family.” He motioned to Messire Bagatìn, who took a leather purse from the folds of his robe and passed it over to me.

  “The best I can do with what cash I have on hand,” Uncle Evariste said. “It should be enough to tide you over until you get on your feet. Oh, very well, you can have your dinner and stay the night here.”

  I thought I saw a passing shadow of sadness on his face. In any case, he wasn’t gloating.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “you’ll go to Campania.” Back to his everyday gruffness, he added:

  “With so many fools there, one more won’t be noticed.”

  Again, thanks to Silvana, I had dinner on a tray in my attic. Also, at my request, she kindly gave me a needle, thread, and a pair of scissors. I had a night’s work ahead of me. Not in the way of packing: My few extra garments fit easily into a canvas shoulder bag; along, of course, with my book of tales.

  The purse—Uncle Evariste had been more generous than I expected. I found a good number of gold pieces as well as a quantity of lesser coins.

  The small change I left in the purse, ready to hand. The gold pieces—I had the clever idea of stitching them into the hem of my cloak and traveling clothes. It took longer than I thought, since I kept stabbing myself each time I plied the needle.

  Finished at last, I had to admire my work. I was, so to speak, wearing my fortune on my back. I would not be the most fashionably dressed; but, no doubt, the most expensively.

  As for the map: I smoothed out the wrinkles and sat staring at it a long time. Uncle Evariste judged it worthless; he, if anyone, recognized worthless when he saw it. If a fraud and forgery, I might as well tear it into confetti and toss it out the window.

  So I would have done. I stopped short each time I began. Yet against my uncle’s opinion, against all reason and logic, I believed it was real. Knew in my heart it was real. Anyway, there was no harm in taking it with me. I slid it into the lining of my jacket, slung my bag and cloak over my shoulder, and went downstairs.

  The rest of the household lay sound asleep. I did see a light from under the door of the counting room. My uncle and Messire Bagatìn had no doubt been toiling the night away to clear up the mess I’d made.

  I had no stomach for leavetaking. I stepped quietly into the street.

  The cobblestones were slick and wet. It was well before daybreak. Too early for the fruit and vegetable sellers, the marketplace stood empty. I headed for the docks. I felt glad enough to be free of the office, counting room, Casa Galliardi, the whole business. Not, however, as glad as I expected to be. It was, it occurred to me, the first time in my life I had been without a home.

  I cheered up considerably as I neared the quay. This could, I told myself, be all for the best. In fact, I already had a plan.

  If, as my uncle claimed, there were so many fools in Campania, surely I could find one to hire me. For something. This time, I resolved to do well. If I was diligent, seriously buckled down and paid attention to my work, my career—whatever my career might be—was bound to prosper. Uncle Evariste would have nodded approval at my common sense. He had, unwittingly, done me a favor by throwing me into the street. I thanked him for it.

  As soon as I gained sufficient wealth—it shouldn’t take long—I would lead my own expedition eastward and prove the map real.

  There was no doubt in my mind, I would discover the treasure. Then I would sail triumphantly home, gloriously rich, to the awe and admiration of Uncle Evariste, Messire Bagatìn, Silvana, Melchiorre, Simone, every citizen of Magenta, every inhabitant of Serrano, Campania, and far beyond. Carlo Milione.

  At the moment, I needed cheap transportation north to the mainland. I walked along the docks, hoping to find a fishing boat or small coasting vessel.

  I saw one likely craft and hailed a burly man who had the air of being the captain.

  “Where away?” I called.

  “Bound east,” he called back. “Bound east for Sidya.”

  I knew that name. Most of my uncle’s goods came through this port, the busiest in Keshavar. If Marakand was the gateway to the Road of Golden Dreams, Sidya was the doorstep.

  “Want passage?” The captain held up a lantern. “You look like a strong lad. Listen, I’m shorthanded. Help with the bailing, a few light duties, and I’ll take you there free. How’s that suit you? We have a bargain?” He added, “I want to catch the tide, so be quick about it. Come aboard.”

  I did.

  The captain’s offer of passage to Sidya in exchange for my work turned out to be no great bargain for either of us. I spent most of the voyage being seasick. I rendered up what seemed to be every morsel of food I had eaten during my entire lifetime. At least, I provided good-natured merriment for the crew. They assured me they had never seen a living human being turn such a bright shade of green.

  Our little cockleshell of a boat leaked so much I was amazed it floated. I helped as best I could with the endless bailing. When the wind died and the sail hung limp as a dishrag, I lent a hand at the oars. Sometimes we made no headway at all. I doubted I would ever set foot on dry land.

  Seeing me in despair, the captain promised landfall the next day. I had noticed he never consulted his compass or any other navigating device. How, I asked, could he be sure? He pointed upward.

  “The sun. The stars. Better than any of your fancy compasses. Above all, this.” He tapped his nose. “Every port has its own stench. Set me blindfolded in a rowboat, I’d make my way straight to Sidya. No mistake. I smell it already.”

  He was right. After a time, I, too, sniffed an odor in the wind. Not, as I expected, the heady aroma of precious spices. More like garbage. And we did, in fact, reach Sidya Harbor late the next afternoon. As we tied up at the dock, I made ready to climb the stone steps from the landing stage to the quay. The captain held me a moment by the elbow.

  “Tell me, lad,” he said confidentially. “Ever thought of following the mariner’s trade?”

  I answered that I hadn’t really considered it.

  “Take an old sea dog’s advice,” he said. “Don’t.”

  Even so, we parted company on good terms. Despite the wreckage of my digestive equipment, and not remembering when last I had a night’s sleep, once on solid ground I felt in fine fettle and eager spirits. However, the din along the quayside split my ears and rattled my brains. I was hardly able to collect my wits, let alone decide what next to do.

  If Magenta was a bustling port, Sidya bustled a dozen times louder and faster. Never had I seen so many comings and goings, embarkings and debarkings, sailors, dock hands, merchants in turbans and long robes or garbed in the fashion of my own part of the world. And all shouting at the top of their voices—not in their mother tongues but in trade-lingo.

  Cobbled together from just about every language, trade-lingo was common coin where goods and money changed hands. Not only in all ports, but from Marakand, throughout the Land of Keshavar, the Road of Golden Dreams, and beyond the borders of Cathai.

  Idling around Magenta harbor, I had picked up a good bit of it. (In time, I came to patter the lingo as well as anyone; and spoke it as if by second nature.)

  At the moment, however, I was not concerned with trade-lingo but with saving my neck. Barely had I taken two paces when a mighty army of street urchins besieged me. They wore hardly enough rags among them to put together one suit of clothes. I first thought they meant to murder and rob me then and there in broad daylight. They had higher ambitions.

  Pulling and pushing me in all directions, they implored me—for the sake of my comfort, well-being, and the health of my immortal soul—to follow them to one inn or another. I later learned they scraped out a living by hustling travelers to these lodging houses; for which service they received a coin or two as commission.

  The choice was not mine to make, the decision taken out of my hands when yet another ragamuffin appeared. Taller than the rest, nearly my own height, this new arrival scattered the army like so many ninepins and shooed them away when they tried to regroup.

  “Do not listen to them,” warned the newcomer. “They are shameless liars and riffraff.” Every bit as ragged and grimy as the others, the youngster sported a head cloth that looked as if it had wrapped countless generations of previous heads. “Bless your good fortune I came in time to save you from being cheated. I shall be taking you to the finest lodgings in Sidya.”

  Quick as a conjuring trick, this individual relieved me of my shoulder bag. My cloak would have joined it if I hadn’t wrestled it away.

  Since my bag had already been kidnapped, and seeing not much difference among the urchins, I thought I could do no worse than to follow this one.

  “My name is Khargush. ‘Rabbit,’ as you would call it,” my self-appointed benefactor went on. “And you, mirza, will be grateful and thank me generously.”

  Rabbit, I noticed, used the respectful address “mirza,” all the while towing me disrespectfully along one of the streets leading from the dockside. I appreciated the courtesy.

  “The Joyful Garden of Happy Travelers,” Rabbit continued. “There is no inn like it. You shall have the biggest room in the house and live like a king.”

  My guide—or abductor—chattered on about the luxuries in store for me: the sumptuous meals, the delights of the hammam, which I understood to be some kind of sweat bath or steam chamber.

  If this Joyful Garden of Happy Travelers turned out half as good as he claimed, my journey would have begun well. And Rabbit, under the various layers of grime, seemed a likable sort.

  At last, running out of attractions to praise, my conductor added:

  “Wherever else your journey takes you, mirza, you will not forget your days there. Your home away from home. Indeed, many of you ferenghis lodge with us.”

  The word ferenghi, I knew, applied to any Westerner. Not an especially complimentary term, it was common usage. I took no offense. Still, I bridled a little, hearing it applied to myself. I could not help replying, in a bantering tone:

  “Well, now, Messire Rabbit, I’m glad to have made your acquaintance and I thank you for all your heartfelt concern. I ask, only out of passing curiosity, what makes you so sure I’m a ferenghi?”

  Rabbit grinned. “Mirza, you smell like one.”

  I let that pass. We had come into the courtyard of a rambling structure of timber and mud brick. A balcony ran the length of the upper story. I glimpsed sheds, outbuildings, and, judging by the aroma, stables.

  Rabbit ushered me inside. If someone had put the port of Sidya under one roof, the effect, as far as noise and confusion were concerned, would have been the same. Rabbit motioned toward a large alcove. There, the landlord bent over a wooden counter barricaded with piles of account books and cash boxes.

  I first thought to ask his professional opinion and advice on how best to make my way to Marakand. I decided to put that off for a quieter moment when I could hope for his closer attention. My turbaned, heavily-bearded host was overoccupied in dealing with arriving and departing guests. He barely had time to accept my payment for several days in advance, flick the beads of an abacus to calculate the exchange rate of my Magentan currency, subtract his commission, scribble an unreadable receipt, and note the transaction in one of his ledgers—all of which he did with lightning speed—and wave me away.

  Rabbit led me up a rickety flight of stairs to a long, open-sided gallery. At the far end, a door hung ajar, relaxed on one hinge. I ransomed my bag with a couple of the coins I had received in change—probably too much, for I had no idea what they were worth.

  Rabbit showered me with blessings, more salaams and gestures of gratitude than the situation required—which made me suspect I had, in fact, vastly overpaid—and then vanished, leaving me to fend for myself.

  My sea voyage, though relatively short, had exhausted me. My muscles began aching all at once, the aftereffects of rowing and bailing. My stomach, thoroughly emptied, growled and grumbled. I could hardly keep my eyes open.

  I squeezed my way through the sagging door and stepped gladly into my room.

  First, I thought I had been mistakenly led to the steam bath. Stifling, drowning in a sea of hot air, I began dripping with sweat. But Rabbit had told me the truth. Windowless, lit by the glow of oil lamps on low tables here and there, this surely had to be the biggest room in the house. What Rabbit had neglected to mention: There was space enough for several dozen occupants.