“By then, I was no longer thrown over the back of the mule, but allowed to sit astride. Though my hands were still tied, it was more comfortable. A couple of times a day when they stopped to rest, Charkosh unknotted the ropes so I could stretch my legs and rub my sore muscles.

  “He spoke little to me, but his eyes were always on me, as they had been at the caravanserai. Once, close to nightfall, when I had lain down on the ground, he came and squatted beside me. From the look on his face, I guessed what he had in mind. Then he hesitated and seemed to think better of it.

  “ ‘Only a fool spoils his own merchandise before he sells it,’ he said. Then he added, ‘I’m doing you a favor. One day you’ll thank me.’

  “I spat at him and told him I’d kill him before that.

  “I thought he would strike me. He only wiped his cheek and laughed:

  “ ‘So they all say.’

  “Sometime after that, we caught up with his companions who had left the inn ahead of him. Along with them, I saw a dozen men or more and a few half-grown boys roped together in a straggling column. I knew for certain what I already suspected. His trade goods were slaves.

  “I thought, at first, they had been taken by force, as I had been. I was wrong. They were kept apart from me; but, as I pieced together from talk among their guards, most came from villages whose people were glad enough to sell and be rid of them. Some were slow-witted, some had done one crime or another. Some had sold themselves to gain money for the sake of their families. As far as Charkosh was concerned, it was no more nor less than a matter of business.”

  I had heard nothing of such trade beyond a few words dropped here and there in Magenta. I was dismayed and not a little sickened, and I said as much to Shira.

  “The cargo ships from Sidya have oars as well as sails,” Shira answered. “Who plies the oars? Slaves, for the most part. It is not work that many take on willingly.”

  I remembered Baksheesh telling me, when we first met, that the world was a terrible place; and I would be astonished at what people did for money. And I was.

  But—villagers selling their own folk? What kind of men were these?

  “No better nor worse than any others, I would think,” Shira said. “They do what comes to hand. And men like Charkosh find ways to profit from it,” she added.

  I was glad to say that in Magenta we had no part in such a business.

  “Do you tell me your own merchants do not benefit one way or another?” she said. “It is just a little cleaner.”

  I had never thought of Uncle Evariste in that light. It annoyed me that I had no ready answer.

  “And so we kept southward,” Shira went on, “with Charkosh gathering more of his merchandise along the way. We soon had a good number. Nights, they slept on the ground, but Charkosh had put me in a small tent by myself. I was fed well enough, better than his own comrades. Not out of kindness. I realized he wanted me to make a good appearance. Like fattening a chicken before taking it to market. By then, I understood where we were going.

  “Many towns are famous for the goods they sell. Some for their carpets, some for jade, some for handiwork in gold or silver. We were going to Akkar. I had heard travelers tell of it. Near the coast, close to Sidya. It was the biggest slave market in Keshavar.

  “I thought, first, of trying to break free before we reached Akkar. I was no longer guarded all that closely. His men were busy watching their other prisoners, and Charkosh didn’t seem greatly concerned with what I might do. Had I run off, they would have caught me before I went any distance. The countryside itself was the best and harshest of prisons.

  “I knew nothing of the roads or trails in these parts. Even if I made good my escape, I would have been lost among the barren hills. Without food or water, I would surely have died. This I was determined not to do. So I bided my time until I saw what lay in store.

  “After another week or so, we came into Akkar, a big jumble of a town. It was midday by then, hot and dusty. Wooden pens like sheepfolds lined all sides of the hard-packed earth of the marketplace. There seemed as many people in the square as in the pens, many haggling with the dealers but most looking on out of idle curiosity or amusement.

  “Charkosh and his companions herded their merchandise into the largest of the enclosures, which I assumed was his customary place of business. I started to follow them. Charkosh held me back.

  “ ‘Did you think I’d have you muck in with those animals?’ he said. ‘No. You are already spoken for.’

  “Seeing me uncertain about what he meant, he explained, with great satisfaction, that he had sent word to one of the local nobility. The matter had been settled in advance. We stood waiting while buyers and onlookers jostled around us and the dealers hawked their goods at the top of their voices.

  “After some while, the crowd parted to make way for a band of horsemen. I counted four, and one riderless white mare. They dismounted. One of them approached us. He was richly dressed, long-armed, long-legged, without a trace of beard on his bony face. He was not himself the noble I expected, for Charkosh addressed him as ‘mehmandár’—a chief steward’s title. They spoke familiarly to each other. I supposed Charkosh had often dealt with him.

  “Charkosh untied my hands to make me lift up my arms. I pulled away. He shrugged.

  “ ‘These half-breeds are stiff-necked,’ he said. ‘But so much the better, eh?’

  “The mehmandár gestured at me with a twirling motion of his finger. I did not move.

  “ ‘Naughty, naughty,’ he said to me. He and Charkosh laughed. The mehmandár added, ‘His Excellency will find that entertaining.’

  “He nodded approval and took a purse from his robes. Charkosh held out his cupped hands. The mehmandár began counting coins into them. A hush fell over the bystanders. These were not common trade-currency but gold pieces.

  “ ‘Continue,’ said Charkosh as, at one point, the mehmandár stopped. ‘The price agreed on.’

  “ ‘Mirza, you forget my commission,’ the mehmandár said.

  “ ‘Mirza,’ said Charkosh, ‘your commission has already been taken into account, has it not?’

  “ ‘Ah—indeed, so it has,’ the mehmandár said, with a sour twist of his lips.

  “The onlookers stared as he grudgingly doled out one coin after another. Charkosh fixed his eyes on the mounting heap.

  “ ‘More yet,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t please me to be stinted.’

  “With his attention given to keeping close count of the price he demanded for me, I saw my best and only chance.

  “I clenched my fists, thrust them under his outstretched hands, and struck upward.

  “My sharp blow sent the coins flying into the air. The onlookers gasped in happy astonishment as gold pieces rained down on them.

  “Charkosh, cursing, dropped to his knees to scoop up the scattered coins, as did the mehmandár. The guards left their mounts and ran to help their master. The bystanders scuffled among themselves to snatch all they could.

  “Amid this mad scramble, I slipped through the crowd and jumped astride the mare. The startled animal bolted from the marketplace. Passersby stumbled out of her path. Street vendors flung aside their trays and baskets to escape the mare’s hooves. She knew her way better than I did; I clung to her back as she plunged through narrow lanes and twisting alleys until we burst free of the town.

  “Once on the road, I was able to calm the frightened mare and turn her northward to follow the coastline. I hoped to reach Sidya and lose myself there.

  “I glanced back. Far behind, the guards, the mehmandár, and Charkosh himself must have recovered enough of the money and their wits to gallop after me.

  “Sure they had seen me, I urged the mare off the road, sprang down, and sent her streaking into the uplands. I calculated they would follow until they saw she was without a rider. By then, I would be well on my way to Sidya.

  “I slept in the bushes by day and kept in the shadows as I walked by night. In Sidya, I stopped at the first inn I came to and asked for work of any kind. Whatever his suspicions, the landlord did not question me. He was glad for an added pair of hands. Afraid Charkosh might somehow track me down, I thought it safer to dress in men’s clothing, which the landlord was good enough to provide. The rest, you know.”

  Hearing her ordeal, I would gladly have taken her in my arms and comforted her. Exactly how, I was unsure. In any case, she did not appear to wish or need it. She had told me she owed me a debt. She seemed satisfied she had paid it.

  “Kharr-loh,” she said, “something more you should know. Understand it now. One day, I will leave you.”

  This set me on my heels. I began thinking she had a gift for putting me off balance. First, she let me believe she was a boy named Rabbit. Then, she reproached me for defending her. She had let me hold her hand. And now she calmly told me she intended to leave me.

  I asked what I considered a profoundly sensible question:

  “Why?”

  “Because I must,” she said. “Sooner or later, our ways have to part. You must do what you set out to do. As I will. I hope the best for both of us.”

  II

  The

  Karwan-Bushi

  We came to Marakand the next afternoon. Late on purpose, as we waited for the traders to pass by. We watched them from behind the bushes. I wasn’t sorry to see that redheaded ruffian wearing a bandage across his nose.

  When sure they had outdistanced us, we set off again. Baksheesh had promised to dance all the way to Marakand; but he immediately began grieving over his bunions and settled himself on the donkey’s back.

  Shira and I walked ahead. We spoke little, and then only a few words about pack animals and the added provisions we needed.

  Once, she bent closer to me and I had a feeling she was on the verge of telling me something important.

  She didn’t.

  I had recovered, to some degree, from her flat statement that she meant to leave me—though it still felt a little as if she had gone at me, instead of Charkosh, with a carving knife.

  First, she might change her mind. I had heard that girls did that from time to time.

  Second, if she persisted in separating from us and making her own way home, I would seek her out no matter where her caravanserai was. I would, as soon as possible, show her my map to see if she could mark the location.

  Everything, of course, depended on finding the treasure. With it, I could impress her with my new riches. I would offer costly gifts. My own appearance would be irresistible in garments more dazzling and luxurious than what I presently had on my back. I already saw myself in silken robes, gold-embroidered caftans, glittering rings, and bejeweled brooches. To complete the picture, I added a turban with a gem the size of a pigeon’s egg. And—why not?—a peacock feather. Possibly several.

  As for the treasure, I took for granted I would discover it. I had to. Of that, I grew more and more certain.

  And so, as we passed through the great Western Gate of Marakand, I felt in better spirits than when we first set out.

  Marakand—both Magenta and Sidya could fit into it with room to spare. Shira had spoken of towns famous for their different specialties. Marakand specialized in—everything.

  “Behold, O Brightest Star in the Firmament,” Baksheesh declared while we threaded our way along the busiest and most boisterous streets I had ever seen. “Here is all your heart desires—and your purse has money to pay for.

  “Bazaars for sellers of cloth of silk, wool, goat hair. Bazaars for goldsmiths, silversmiths, pot-makers, leather workers— every trade you can imagine and some you’ve never heard of.

  “And,” he added, “the best and biggest Thieves’ Market in the country. Excellent bargains. Should we require any, I shall take it on myself to obtain them.

  “It is as I told you, Wondrous One. We could live here happily, if only you would take up some other line of work and forget—forgive me for calling it thus—the wildest of wild-goose chases.”

  I said that I wanted no further discussion. My mind was made up, more strongly than it had ever been. What we needed now was a place to stay until we could properly outfit ourselves and find a caravan to join.

  “Only a suggestion.” Baksheesh sighed in resignation. Pronouncing his feet temporarily healed, he climbed off the donkey. Shira and I followed.

  To give him credit, he nosed out a small hostelry—a “khan,” as it was called here—away from the most crowded quarters of the town. Pleasant and tidy, with a small courtyard, a fountain bubbling in the middle; clean-swept stables with an acceptably low number of flies. The rooms on the upper floor were tiny, more like pigeonholes for very large pigeons; but airy, almost cool.

  Shira cast an experienced eye over the khan and nodded approval. We engaged three of the pigeonholes, and it was Shira, instead of Baksheesh, who expertly haggled the price with the landlord, one professional to another.

  I was impatient to see about pack animals. And so we left the donkey to be fed and watered, and gave our baggage into the keeping of the porter.

  Following his directions, we first made our way to the Great Souk, the central marketplace, a huge expanse with row on row of stalls and counters. The livestock market was a short distance beyond it. We began elbowing through the crowds. But then I hung back for a moment.

  A rawboned, lanky figure stood at an open-fronted booth, really no more than four tent poles and a canvas top. Behind him hung a painted cloth backdrop. A piece of carpet lay on the ground; some coins had been thrown on it.

  The man was even more raffish and ragged than Baksheesh, which was, in itself, remarkable. Yet something else caught at me. I could not put my finger on it, but it made me want to linger. Baksheesh tugged at my sleeve.

  “Waste not a single one of the Pearls and Rubies of Your Precious Minutes,” he urged. “Not on such a rogue and rascal. That ingrown toenail! That sack of noxious emanations!”

  “A friend of yours?” I asked.

  “Certainly not,” Baksheesh protested. “But I know his kind, and they are all alike. Idlers! Layabouts! Lazy to the marrow of their bones. Notorious liars, without a grain of truth among all of them put together. Pay him no mind, it will only encourage him.”

  When I asked what sort of dreadful person this was, Baksheesh rolled up his eyes.

  “Most Excellent But Unwary—heaven protect us, he is a public storyteller.”

  We had no such occupation in Magenta, apart from the usual scandalous gossip in the marketplace, and I loved a good story, so I was all the more curious.

  This individual, meantime, had started whistling through his teeth, clapping his hands, and beckoning the onlookers to come closer. Shira seemed as intrigued as I, and we stepped to the front of the crowd, Baksheesh grumbling after us.

  The public storyteller glanced around, shrewdly calculating if he had enough of an audience to make it worth his while. For one passing moment, he turned his sharp eyes full on me, looking me up and down as if taking my measure. For what?

  “Hear and attend, O Best Beloved,” he began; which, I guessed, was how these storytellers set about their business. And, to the best of my recollection, this was the tale he told:

  THE WELL-DIGGER AND THE PRINCESS

  Once, there was a young well-digger named Zameen. He was a little bit of a fool, but a most excellent well-digger; so good at his trade that the king himself hired Zameen to dig a splendid well in the royal park for guests to refresh themselves while admiring the gardens and orchards.

  But something unfortunate happened to Zameen. The beautiful princess Aziza had the habit of strolling daily through the fragrance of the flowers and blossoming fruit trees. Zameen hardly dared speak to her beyond offering a respectful good morning. But the poor fellow had fallen hopelessly in love. And nothing could he do about it, for she was a princess and he no more than a well-digger.

  One day, delving away and sighing as if his heart would burst, he unearthed a strange object: a large, long-necked green bottle stoppered by a seal covered with mysterious markings.

  Zameen’s eyes lit up and his jaw dropped, for he had heard that bottles like this always held a genie. Set free, the grateful genie would grant every wish.

  So Zameen struggled mightily to uncork the bottle, but could not pry loose the seal. He gave it some good whacks with his shovel, but only broke the shovel.

  “This could be a little harder than I thought,” he said to himself.

  He tucked the bottle under his arm and ran home to get stronger tools.

  There he found a man sitting at ease in a corner. The unexpected visitor was dressed in ordinary garb, a turban wound neatly around his head, loose pantaloons, and slippers curling up at the toes.

  The only unusual thing about him: He was so huge he took up nearly all the room.

  “Peace be with you, Zameen,” he said. “You may call me Radobarg—not my true name, but use it for the sake of convenience. I am a genie.”

  “If you’re a genie,” said Zameen, choking down his astonishment, “why aren’t you in the bottle?”

  “Why should I be?” said Radobarg. “Waste my time squeezed and cramped? I have better things to do. I buried that bottle for safekeeping while I ran a few errands. You happened to dig it up. So, if you please, give it here.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Zameen. “What’s in it?”

  “A priceless substance, all the more precious because of its rarity,” said the genie. “An elixir containing the concentrated distillation of the essence of common sense.”

  “What?” burst out Zameen. “That’s all?”

  “Nothing, I see, of interest to you,” said Radobarg. “So hand it over and I’ll be on my way.”

  “No.” Zameen clutched the bottle protectively. “Of no value to me,” he added craftily, “but obviously of great value to you. I’ll give it back after you grant my wishes.”

  Radobarg’s face darkened, his eyes flashed. “Pathetic little creature, do you think I couldn’t squash you like a bug if I chose? Or”—the genie raised a huge hand—“simply wrest it away from you?