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.”

“I know that, you wretch!” I burst out. “Where is it? What have you done with it?”

“A traveler who carries gold carries his own death warrant,” said Baksheesh. “It is far too valuable. You would have Your Noble But Unsuspecting Throat cut before you spent a single coin.

“I sought the services of a money-changer,” he went on, “and obtained trade-currency acceptable everywhere—at an excellent rate of exchange. Less my commission, of course.”

Baksheesh produced an oilskin belt fitted with pockets holding much of my new money, and instructed me to loop it around my waist. The rest was in a purse to hang from my neck. The small change left over, he himself would carry.

“To spare you the added burden,” he explained. “I shall see to our incidental expenses.”

I told him that was all very well, but there was something else.

“This, Fountainhead of Learning?” He fished out my book from the pile. “These are tales of silliness to amuse the young and innocent. Nevertheless, in Your Infinite Wisdom, I assume you have some reason for keeping it.”

“So I do,” I said. “And one thing more.”

“Oh—ah, yes, yes, there is.” Baksheesh smacked himself on the forehead. “It slipped my mind. I quite forgot about it.”

He extracted my map from one of his coats and handed it over to me. I slid it into my money belt. Baksheesh gave me a wounded look.

“Alas, does this betoken some lack of confidence in your honest, upright servant? Your Worthiness saw fit to withhold your true purpose. Treasure is what you seek. I am more than eager to help you find it. With my assistance, I am certain we shall discover these riches. And you, O Generous One, will surely insist on offering me a modest share—which I shall reluctantly accept.

“But this must be a deep secret between us.” He laid a forefinger on his lips. “Not a word is to be spoken.”

“Starting with yourself,” I said.

Baksheesh, hand on heart, swore agreement; then, piece by piece, hauled items from the bundle which also held a cook pot, a pan, a large butcher knife, and various other utensils. He helped me into loose-fitting trousers, then high boots of leather soft as butter, the most comfortable I had ever worn. He added a shirt and embroidered vest, and a sash for my waist. He showed me how to tie my head cloth, and stood back to judge the result.

It made me a little squeamish, wearing dead men’s garments. I shrugged that away. All in all, I was pleased at the effect.

Finally, he handed me a dagger to put in my sash; then held out a long, gracefully curving sword. A “tulwar,” as he named it, much like what we in Magenta called a saber.

I could not resist immediately unsheathing the blade, nicked here and there, spotted with rust. Or blood? I brandished it fiercely. No one, I declared, would mistake me for a ferenghi now.

“I wouldn’t go that far. But, close enough,” replied Baksheesh, dodging out of the way. “And I advise you: Should you ever find yourself in circumstances where weapons are required, never draw your blade. You would only do yourself a mischief. By that, I mean your opponent would slice you to bits.”

Not that I had ever done so, but I assured Baksheesh that I could, if need be, give a good, sharp account of myself.

“If you’re so sure, then no need to prove it,” he said. “Instead, follow the wisest course: Take to your heels. Run like the wind.”

I told him I did not consider myself a coward.

“If you will permit me to observe,” Baksheesh said, “O Yet Unripe Persimmon, you are too young to know. With luck, may you live to be an old and happy coward. As the saying goes: Better a live jackass than a dead lion.”

At his urging, I sheathed the tulwar. One thing, in all fairness, I felt compelled to do:

“Baksheesh, I beg your pardon,” I said. “I first believed you had tricked and robbed me. For that, I’m sorry. Forgive me for thinking ill of you.”

“An understandable error. But even your reproaches are as precious jewels. I treasure every one. Now let me reveal that I have done yet another invaluable service.

“For your benefit and well-being,” he went on, beckoning me to follow him into the gallery, “I have taken it upon myself to hire an assistant.”

I halted in midstride. “You did what? A servant to serve a servant? Ridiculous! An assistant camel-puller? I don’t need one and neither do you.”

“But, yes!” Baksheesh protested. “It is essential. Nay, vital. A matter of life and death.

“Let the Keen-edged Razor of Your Intelligence envision this,” he pressed on. “Suppose—heaven forfend, but imagine it nonetheless—you are dangling from a rope over the edge of a cliff. A sandstorm is blowing, ferocious gales are rising. The toe of your boot is cramped between the rocks. You struggle with all your might, you twist and turn, you cannot break free. As my sworn duty, I climb down to save you.”

I remarked that I was grateful for his efforts. “And so?”

“Aha!” Baksheesh triumphantly exclaimed. “O Perceptive One, do you now grasp the situation? Think carefully. Who holds the other end of the rope? My assistant.

“And what if some gigantic fish swallows you? And I must crawl into the creature’s gullet and haul you out by the heels. Who, then, hauls out both of us?”

“Your assistant,” I said.

“Exactly.” He hurried on to conjure up scene after scene involving quicksand, snake pits, and so many other dire straits that I begged him to leave off.

“More than that,” he persisted. “While I am busy saving Your Precious Life, who will do the cooking? The washing up? And, on rare occasions, the laundry?”

I told him I understood his point, but he kept piling up still more reasons for the absolute necessity of an assistant camel-puller.

I added, with a touch of sarcasm, that he had surely gone to great pains in singling out this remarkable individual.

“No pains at all,” he admitted. “I was approached this morning. Beseeched, entreated—well, yes, persuaded. By the one who served us dinner. Our conversation must have been overheard. Some people are shameless intruders and eavesdroppers.”

“What, do you mean Rabbit?” I asked.

“So called,” said Baksheesh. “And, best yet, the question of wages. True, I work cheap. But she will gladly work for nothing. She asks little more than a crumb of bread, a sip of water.”

“Hold on a minute,” I put in. “I thought we were talking about Rabbit. You said ‘she.’”

“Correct,” replied Baksheesh. “There is no Rabbit. No such person. Her true name is Shira.

“And, indeed, O Generous Heart,” he added, “she is very much a she.”