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:
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?
“But I’m a good-natured, easygoing genie. That’s what you want? Very well, we have a bargain.”
“I get three wishes?” said Zameen.
“Why only three? I’ll be generous with you. Wish away. I’ll tell you when to stop.”
“First,” Zameen declared, “I wish for vast wealth. Riches more than I can count—”
“Wait a moment,” broke in Radobarg. “I’m beginning to suspect you are a person of limited imagination. Yes, I’ll grant that. But where will you store it? In this wretched hovel? Let me suggest a suitable palace.”
“Of course!” Zameen exclaimed. “I should have thought of that.”
“But, then,” Radobarg went on, “who’s to clean it? Polish the silverware? Wash the golden dishes? Sweep the silken carpets?”
“Servants! Yes, an army of them!” cried Zameen. “And stables. A dozen camels and horses—”
“Why not hundreds?” the genie said. “Consider it done.”
Zameen cocked a suspicious eye. “How do I know you’ll keep your end of the bargain?”
“Genies always keep their word,” said Radobarg. “More than can be said for you pitiful mortals.”
At that, he took Zameen by the scruff of the neck; and, next thing Zameen knew, they were soaring high above the clouds. They landed, a moment later, amid the hills near Zameen’s town. In a palace of glittering domes and towers, servants scurried everywhere. Magnificent horses and white racing camels filled the stables.
“You’re an eyesore in a place like this,” the genie said. “Here, now, have some fine clothing.”
Zameen suddenly found himself arrayed in the richest silken robes and a turban with several peacock feathers. He was about to hand over the bottle, then hesitated.
“Uh—one thing more,” he said. “Of a personal nature. I’ve been told I’m not a bad-looking fellow. But—can you do a little something for me in the way of, ah, improvement?”
Radobarg shrugged. He produced a mirror and passed it to Zameen, whose eyes popped at what he saw. He was handsomer than he ever dreamed. In addition, the genie had given him a gloriously curling mustache.
“A nice finishing touch, wouldn’t you agree?” said Radobarg. “Now let’s have that bottle.”
Zameen gladly handed it over. By the time he left off admiring his reflection and twirling his mustache, the genie had vanished without so much as a salaam.
“At last,” cried Zameen, “I’m in a position exalted enough to confess my love to Princess Aziza and ask for her hand.”
He ordered his servants to load a dozen camels with riches from his limitless treasury. Zameen, on a magnificent steed, led the procession through the town, to the awe and wonder of the onlookers. He intended, as custom required, to ask her parents’ permission to woo their daughter. At the palace, the chief steward greeted him with utmost courtesy.
“I am—uh, Prince Neemaz,” announced Zameen. “I desire an audience with the king and queen.”
Seeing the costly gifts he had brought, the chief steward immediately ushered him into the royal chambers.
“My dearest Prince Neemaz,” said the king when Zameen declared his purpose, “I can tell at a glance you will make a perfect son-in-law.”
“Go to our daughter,” added the queen, after ordering the steward to notify Aziza. “I am certain she will eagerly receive you.”
Attendants conducted him to Aziza’s apartments. Zameen, sending ahead coffers of his choicest treasures, found her admiring the rings, bracelets, necklaces, and brooches set with precious gems.
“Prince Neemaz,” she said, “I am flattered by your gifts, as any maiden would be. You are, beyond a doubt, the richest, handsomest of suitors; and your mustache is altogether captivating.
“However,” she went on, “you come in vain. Though I dare not tell him, my heart belongs to another.
“My one true love is Zameen the well-digger.”