Most seemed to be present, in various stages of packing or unpacking. Straw pallets lay in ranks along the walls. A few of my unexpected roommates snored peacefully on them. The rest gave me a nod or wave of the hand and paid no more attention.

  Some wore Western garments. Others, though clearly ferenghis, had adopted the local costume of long caftans and loose pantaloons. All carried a dagger or wickedly curved knife in their waistband.

  My book of tales had led me to expect palaces. If not carpets flying through the air, there should be at least one or two on the floor. Rabbit had promised I would live like a king among kings. If that was so, my fellow kings were a hard-eyed, hard-jawed collection of monarchs.

  Sleeping accommodations appeared to be on the basis of first come, first served. I found a pallet at the far end of the room. No royal body was stretched out there. I claimed it as my own and sat down, my bag between my knees.

  Now followed a difference of opinion between stomach and head. Stomach screamed to be filled with something, anything. Head pleaded to be laid horizontally on the pallet.

  Stomach, in the end, outshouted head. I picked up my bag, slung my cloak over my shoulder—I had no intention of leaving either item alone and undefended—and went downstairs.

  The odor of cooking drew me to the common eating room. I had heard that diners in this part of the world sprawled at ease on piles of soft cushions. Here, no doubt to entice the ferenghi trade with a more familiar setting, were long trestle tables and benches. A cavelike fireplace belched hot, aromatic clouds while slabs of unidentifiable meat roasted on spits. Tall metal urns bubbled and hissed. I squeezed onto the end of a bench. My server eventually arrived: None other than Rabbit carrying a brass tray, having changed the profession of abducting travelers for that of feeding them. We recognized each other. I decided against commenting on my quarters in favor of attacking the meal Rabbit set in front of me.

  Whatever the platter held, I neither knew nor cared. No sooner had I started to engage it than a long-shanked, long-necked fellow detached himself from the crowd milling around the eating room. He sidled over to me. He had a way of glancing furtively in one direction while moving in another.

  About a handsbreadth of space remained on the edge of my bench. My uninvited table companion put one haunch on this area. The other haunch strove to join it. He elbowed me to yield a little more room—he was not only a sidler but a nudger—until he gained most of a seat.

  If I was wearing my fortune on my back, this nudging sidler looked as if he had dressed in every garment he had ever owned. He wore layer upon layer of threadbare shirts, vests, short jackets, and long coats. A scrub of beard started at no definable point and scrawled over his lean face with no particular destination. A round cap of heavy cloth perched on his head. It reminded me of one of our big Serrano mushrooms that somebody had trod on.

  He pointed a hawk’s nose at me and drew closer, pressing a hand to his heart—wherever it lay beneath all his clothing.

  “With your permission and kind indulgence, mirza,” he began, “my name is Baksheesh.”

  I offered my own name. I would have replied that he needed neither my permission nor indulgence to call himself whatever he pleased, but he hurried on:

  “I beg a thousand pardons. What, only a paltry thousand? More than there are stars in the sky. Forgive me for daring to intrude on Your Most Excellent and Worshipful Self, muddying the clear waters of the Oasis of Your Contemplations, disturbing the Majestic Progress of Your Fragrant Digestive Process.

  “How could I help it?” he added. “To see one of such noble bearing, Your Eye of Command flashing as if the sun shone from the Precious Ivory of Your Brow? I was drawn by the Lodestone of Your Presence. You are a ferenghi—”

  “I know I am,” I said. “Now you’re going to tell me I smell like one.”

  “That, too,” said Baksheesh. “But no, I only wish to learn what brings Your Magnificence to a place like this.”

  I wasn’t such a fool that I couldn’t recognize blather when it was poured all over me. On the other hand, it was better than being called a chooch.

  So I answered, only in general terms, that I was traveling on private business to Marakand and perhaps a little distance beyond.

  “Alone?” My table companion’s eyebrows went up. “Then Your Graciousness shall require a camel-puller.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t have a camel.”

  “But you will. You must. A necessity in those parts. Allow me the joy of providing my humble services. It will be the greatest honor, the crowning glory of my existence.”

  I admitted I had no idea what a camel-puller did and why I needed one.

  “As I would be your servant,” explained Baksheesh, “so, likewise, is the camel your servant, and I am the servant of the camel. For loading, unloading, guiding the difficult and temperamental creature, being spat upon—sparing Your Immaculate Person that indignity.”

  During this, I had grown aware that Baksheesh, with deft thumb and long forefinger, was all the while delicately extracting morsels from my platter. A sidler, nudger, and a picker into the bargain. Nevertheless, I realized I knew nothing whatever of the mysteries of the camel-pulling profession. I thought it over for a time and nodded agreement.

  “O Compassionate One!” cried Baksheesh. “You have my sacred vow, my solemn oath. I swear on the head of my venerable father—whoever he is. I am, from this moment, your faithful servant in all hardships and adversities, shielding and defending you even unto death. Yours or mine. Also, I work cheap.”

  Rabbit, standing nearby, brought glasses of mint tea. Baksheesh lifted a finger:

  “If you could procure a few of those delicious honeyed pastries, the kind with chopped almonds on top. Charge them to the account of my master and dearest friend—what was the name again? al-Chooch?—plus a little gratuity for yourself. Less my commission.”

  He turned back to me. “Leave all in my hands, Prince of Perfection. The sooner on our way, the better. You shall be eager to go about your business, may it profit a thousandfold.”

  “Less your commission?” I said.

  “Naturally. As for myself,” Baksheesh went on, “I would prefer to be unnoticed in Sidya, and I can best be unnoticed if I am not here at all. As the saying goes, the law ends where the walls of Marakand begin. Beyond them, you could slit a fellow’s throat a dozen times over. Who’s to care? . . . And so, Navel of the Universe, I bless the very shadow you cast. I kiss your footprints in the sand. You have saved my wretched life at the risk of your own.”

  This, I thought, was going a little too far by way of gratitude.

  “Baksheesh,” I said, “all I did was give you a job. I hardly call that risking my life.”

  “As we are companions, I must be honest with you,” Baksheesh said behind his hand. “You may find this hard to believe, Most Exalted Among All Ferenghis, but I have enemies. The latest one—a wart on the nose of humanity! A festering boil! A running sore!

  “You must understand, Fountain of Benevolence, the laws of Keshavar are severe. For the least offense, the harshest punishment is exacted. Ears and nose cut off. And other bodily appendages.

  “That’s before the trial begins,” he added. “Found guilty— and one is always found guilty—it gets seriously worse.”

  Baksheesh was squirming around—a squirmer on top of everything else—in such discomfort I suspected he had a direct, personal concern. I asked him straight out if he was in trouble with the law.

  “A mere technicality.” He shrugged. “But, yes, that worm, that scorpion had the impudence to complain to the magistrate that I stole a clove of his garlic.”

  I was relieved to hear that. No law in the world would go to such length over so small a matter. Baksheesh, I realized, had a tendency to exaggerate. I almost laughed in spite of his heartfelt indignation. Still, to satisfy my curiosity, I frankly asked if he had, in fact, stolen the garlic.

  “No, no,” he protested. “That is to say: Not exactly. It was, you see, along with a handful of other spices, stuffed inside a roasted chicken. Unfortunately, the chicken was accidentally reposing on a silver platter. And the platter, by strange coincidence, happened to rest on a silver tray. I had no heart to break up such a tasteful arrangement. To keep them together, what could I do but take them all?

  “Before I was able to perform that service, the householder thoughtlessly came into the room. That mean-spirited descendant of baboons actually tried to lay hands on me. I might have been injured! I ran like a gazelle. What if I had sprained an ankle?

  “Those are insignificant details.” Baksheesh waved them away. “The point is, Noble Benefactor, our lives and fates are bound together. As you are my master, the law judges you an accomplice and holds you equally responsible. The same punishments apply. Alas, we could both end up like kebabs on a stick.

  “Never fear,” he added. “Under the Sheltering Wing of Your Innocent Countenance, we shall sneak boldly from Sidya. Once in Marakand, we complete our profitable business and remain there in ease and luxury until the case is forgotten. As it will surely be.”

  “Baksheesh,” I said, “thank you for confiding in me. Since you have been so honest and forthcoming, I can be no less. I am going far beyond Marakand. I intend to follow the Road of Golden Dreams.”

  “What are you saying?” Baksheesh nearly toppled off the bench. He stared horrified at me. “Ah. Now I understand. You frightened me for a moment. Paragon of Sly Wit, you are jesting with me. Ha-hah! I laugh with appreciation of Your Ineffable Humor.”

  His jaw dropped when I assured him I was serious. “Road of Golden Dreams? Road of Nightmares! Say, instead, the Road to Jehannum, lowest pit of Hell! Deserts of salt, deserts of stone, mountains of fire—”

  “You’ve been there?” I asked.

  “Of course not. Thief I may be—on occasion. A fool? Never. Furthermore, there is no such road.

  “That is to say, no single Road of Golden Dreams,” he went on. “No one straight path. Dozens. Like a spider’s web, crossing and crisscrossing. Some trails are usable, some near impossible, all of them bad.

  “Once—who knows how long ago?—the Land of Keshavar was a grand empire. Parzya, it was called. But it grew too large and stretched too far. It couldn’t defend its borders against so many tribes nibbling away at them. Parzya fell of its own weight. What’s left of it? Nothing. Ruins in the sand.

  “The tribes have never stopped bickering. The Road? It depends on which warlord’s fighting his neighbor for some stretch of it, and squeezing tolls from passing caravans. Try skirting the warlords and their strongholds? Then you have robbers in business for themselves. Roving bandits. Packs of murderers.

  “Trust me,” Baksheesh urged. “We shall be happy in Marakand. I beg you, Excellence in All Things, venture no farther. I say this for your own good. Take my advice. You’ll live to thank me.”

  I thought this over while Baksheesh calmed down enough to gobble the pastries Rabbit brought. If the roads were as bad as he claimed, I truly would be a chooch to go alone. Finding another camel-puller? The next might be a worse rascal.

  “Baksheesh,” I said, “you have a choice. Go with me or not, as you please.” I told him we could part company here and now with no hard feelings. I pointed out, however, he had given his solemn oath and sworn on his father’s head.

  “Did I say that?” He chewed his lip. “Perhaps so. I must have forgotten. Bless you for reminding me. I am nothing if not a man of my word. Within reasonable limits.”

  I suggested something else he might want to take into account. I made slicing motions at my nose and ears. Had he mentioned being turned into kebabs on a stick?

  Baksheesh squirmed. “Ah—now that you bring that up. Yes, well, for your sake, O Peak of Perfection. So be it.”

  That matter settled, one thing puzzled me. If the Road of Golden Dreams was so dreadful, I asked, why would anyone wish to follow it?

  “O Radiant Youthfulness”—Baksheesh sighed and shook his head—“the world is a terrible place. You’d be astonished at what some people do for money.”

  He stowed the couple of surviving pastries somewhere about his person, licked his fingers, and followed me upstairs to my royal chamber.

  There was as much racket at night as during the day. My fellow kings were asleep. I had never heard such snoring, coughing, groaning, and gargling all at once in the same place.

  I found my chosen pallet still available. I lay down on it while Baksheesh, luxuriously scratching himself, occupied the floor. To safeguard my map and hidden fortune, I put my bag and cloak under my head and slept in my clothes.

  That is to say, I didn’t sleep. I tossed and turned on the straw. Baksheesh’s warnings spun in my brain. Assuming only half of what he said was true—which half? I forced myself to close my eyelids. They sprang open again.

  Baksheesh crept in beside me, whining that hard surfaces made his elbows ache. I was too tired to push him out. He nudged and squirmed until I clung to the edge of the pallet. He did not snore. He was a wheezer.

  I pulled my cloak over my head. With no way of sorting fact from falsity, I decided it was all wild nonsense, overblown travelers’ tales.

  That eased my mind. I finally slept, as deeply and solidly as I had ever done. I woke refreshed, strengthened, in the best of spirits.

  Until I realized one thing. I was naked except for my underdrawers. My cloak, bag, every other stitch of clothing— gone.

  So was Baksheesh.

  Isprang to my feet. The room was empty, the other travelers had gone about their business. I ran to the gallery. The sun was high; I must have heavily overslept. I tried to keep my wits, but I was jumping back and forth over the edge of panic. My trove of money, my present belongings, my future hopes had all vanished in the blink of an eye, and Baksheesh along with them. I threw modesty to the winds and raced three steps at a time down the stairs.

  In his alcove, the innkeeper sat massaging a string of beads. The Keshavaris, I gathered, employed this device to calm themselves. And very effective it was. When I babbled what had happened, he seemed in no way upset; and, indeed, appeared used to this as all in a day’s work.

  I noticed Rabbit leaning against the kitchen door, looking on with amusement, finding the sight of myself and my underdrawers highly entertaining.

  “You claim your camel-puller robbed you?” said the innkeeper, ignoring my state of undress. He pondered a moment. “Mirza, let us assume you are speaking truth,” he said. “In which case, you should have been more prudent in choosing a servant. I must conclude, therefore, you have brought this upon yourself.

  “However, since you are a young ferenghi,” he added, with a measure of forbearance, as if not much better was to be expected, “and a guest under my roof, I shall do all I can to help you. Travelers often leave worn-out garments behind. I have bags filled with castoffs and can provide what little you need. One shirt or another? Easily replaceable, of no great worth.”

  I did not tell him of the gold coins and treasure map. That struck me as unwise. For an innkeeper, he had made a generous gesture. I thanked him and said no more.

  “At the earliest opportunity, one of my people will sort through the rag bags,” he said. “I advise you to go back to your room and remain calm.”

  I had no other choice. I followed his advice. That is, I went to my room. I did not remain calm. I slumped on my pallet, head in my hands, my thoughts racing to no purpose. The law would be no help. On the contrary. Given that I was an accomplice in crime, I might at best lose my nose and ears; at worst, be impaled on a stick. Either prospect made my flesh crawl. Yet, how could I track down that treacherous camel-puller on my own?

  In seafaring terms, I was dead in the water. I could do nothing until I had some rags on my back. In my present halfway naked and wholly impoverished state, I saw no means of— doing what? Making my way home? I would rather be an earless, noseless kebab. Robbed, ruined, a beggar at my uncle’s door? Never.

  And so I sat and stewed, trying not to lose my mind along with my fortune. I got up, after a time, and paced aimlessly back and forth, as if any kind of activity would clear my thoughts. It did not. I heard footsteps outside. My spirits rose. One of the innkeeper’s servants with some clothing—

  Baksheesh calmly stepped in.

  As soon as I laid eyes on him, I started yelling louder than Uncle Evariste had ever yelled at me. I addressed him in words and terms I didn’t know I knew.

  Baksheesh, unruffled, dropped a large and lumpy bundle to the ground. He untied the ropes holding together what might have been a sack of doorknobs for all I could tell.

  “O Most Fortunate One, how blessed you are to have a servant like my humble self,” he said, as if he had never been absent. “Ah—by the way, a camel will be available.”

  The camel, I suggested, could pull itself from here to Jehannum. I yelled some more, demanding to know where he had gone and what the devil he had been up to.

  “Tending to my master’s business.” He smiled blandly. “As any faithful servant should do.”

  “My clothes?” I shouted. “What have you done with them?”

  “Behold, O Needlessly Perturbed Prince.” Baksheesh spread the contents of the bundle. “Lo, all you require is here.”

  I stared at the pile. I feared the top of my head would fly off. “Those aren’t mine.”

  “They are now,” Baksheesh said. “In the bazaar there is a little shop I occasionally visit. I purchased these for next to nothing. Their owners, alas, are no longer among the living, but their garments are in splendid condition. You can hardly see the bloodstains.”

  “No, you fool!” It was all I could do to keep from seizing him by the collar of one of his numerous shirts. “My own—”

  “Sold to a passing ferenghi,” said Baksheesh. “At a good price. Less my commission. No, no, yours were not suitable for rough travel.

  “I observed your garments were heavy, Worthy Master. Remarkably, most unusually so. Out of curiosity, I had to examine them. Miracle of miracles! Every seam was filled with gold.”