Baksheesh kept nudging me, warning it was getting late and the best bargains in pack animals would be gone. Something about the storyteller puzzled me. Besides, I wanted to hear more. So did Shira.

“Is that all?” she said. “No better ending?”

If there was, I said, we’d never know. Thanks to Baksheesh.

“Of course you will, O Wonder of the Ages,” he protested while we left the storyteller’s booth behind us and crossed the Great Souk. “Any idiot can spin a tale of one sort or another. I prefer my own profession—whatever it may be at a given moment, it’s surely more respectable than what that babbling blemish does to scrape a living.

“Do you want an ending? Here, I’ll cobble one up for you straightaway. You’ll see how easy it is.

“Very well, what happened was this. The well-digger, what’s-his-name, was overjoyed to know the princess secretly loved him; but in despair that she didn’t recognize him.

“And so,” said Baksheesh, “ah, umm, what did he do? What happened next?”

“How should I know?” I said. “You’re the one telling the story.”

“Ah, so I am, so I am,” said Baksheesh. “What happened— he begged the princess to wait and promised he’d be back momentarily.

“He dashed out of her chamber and out of the palace as fast as he could. He jumped on his horse, for he meant to rush home, put on his everyday clothes, shave off his mustache—though he was fond of twirling it—and return as himself.

“So he went galloping down the street, impatient to straighten out the mess he’d put himself into.

“ ‘I wish I’d never found that bottle,’ he said. ‘I wish I’d never got mixed up with that treacherous genie in the first place.’

“No sooner did he breathe those words than he was sitting in the dust. The magnificent horse had vanished from under him. He was in his same old rags. His mustache—gone.

“Delighted things were as usual, he climbed to his feet and ran to the palace. Everyone was milling around in confusion. His camels had disappeared, so had all the treasures he had brought. The chief steward was holding his head in consternation, the king and queen were bewildered as all the riches went up in a puff of smoke. And furious about it.

“The only one glad to see him was the princess. They flew joyfully into each other’s arms, vowing eternal love. Her parents were horrified and outraged. They had lost a fortune and gained a well-digger.

“But there was nothing they could do. So what’s-his-name and the princess went away together and lived more or less happily ever after.

“And there you have it,” Baksheesh concluded. “You see how easy it was?”

But then, I asked, what about the palace in the hills?

“Why—it disappeared,” said Baksheesh, “like everything else.”

“And the well he was digging?” I said. “Did he ever finish it?”

“Who knows? Who cares?” Baksheesh said. “You wanted an ending? I gave you one.”

I still wasn’t altogether satisfied. Shira thought it good enough.

“Stories should all have happy endings,” she said.

We really needed no instructions to find the livestock market. It was simply a matter of following our noses. And following the flies swarming toward our destination. They looked nearly as big as hummingbirds, and there were so many I thought they should have a bazaar of their own.

I had never seen a camel at point-blank range, let alone dozens all at the same time; nor heard worse honking and groaning since the day Uncle Evariste sprained his back.

“Pay no mind,” Baksheesh told me, as I wondered if they were in the last throes of a painful and fatal illness. “They do it on purpose. Frauds! Fakers! Anything to escape working. What a world, where an honest man can’t even trust an animal.”

He stood gawking at them, shuffling his feet, scratching his chin—to such an extent that I had to ask if he truly understood the business of camel-pulling.

“You see a camel, so you pull it,” he said. “What more to know? You can, O Paragon of Worthiness, have every confidence.”

Shira had already gone into the pen. She walked briskly among the livestock, casting a shrewd eye on each one. She stopped now and then to study certain of them. She peered into their nostrils and mouths, felt their humps, appraised the size of their feet; she had them kneel and stand up again. Exchanging some words with the dealer, she chose two and led them out. The man followed, protesting as loudly as the camels, swearing he would rather stab himself in the heart than go bankrupt letting priceless stock go for a pittance.

“Pay him what I offered,” Shira said aside to me. “When a camel-seller smiles, be wary. When he weeps, you know the price is fair.”

“Yes,” put in Baksheesh, “and when he says he’s doing you a favor because he likes you, depart immediately.”

Judging from the rivers of tears streaming down the dealer’s cheeks and soaking his beard, Shira had struck an excellent bargain. I had previously dipped into my money belt, as if it were the Casa Galliardi bank, and withdrew what I guessed would be enough for any transaction. Shira haggled so well that I had a good bit left over.

Considering how much we had saved, she urged me to buy a horse. Depending on the nature of the roads, we would need one to ride or as a pack animal. Since she suggested it, of course I agreed. Only Baksheesh grumbled.

“You’ll do so without my advice and guidance,” he warned. “Horse-traders are worse than camel-sellers. Worse than public storytellers. They’ll try to sell you a three-legged mule and tell you it’s a rare and special breed. I want no part of them. They offend my sense of decency.”

Leaving Baksheesh struggling with our camels—had they been able to speak, I felt sure their hawking and spitting were meant to insult him—we walked farther on to the horse market. There were a dozen or more mounts in varying states of disrepair. Shira’s eyes lighted on a white mare.

The animal, I saw, had been hard-ridden and ill-fed; mane and tail hung in tangles; and it bore marks of the whip.

“That one,” Shira said.

The horse-trader had been lounging by the railing. At her sign of interest, he brightened and came over with many welcoming salaams.

“Best of my whole string,” he said. “Dushizéh, you have a keen eye for horseflesh.”

“And for other things,” Shira said. “Mirza, this mare has been stolen.”

“What? I? A receiver of stolen goods?” he burst out. “You insult me! You insult all my ancestors! You come out of nowhere and accuse me, a man of supreme honesty—How dare you suggest such a thing?”

“Because I know,” said Shira, “and I know because I stole her.”

“Did you, indeed?” The horse-trader cocked an eye at her. “In that case, get out of here. I don’t deal with thieves.”

“How you came by her is none of my business,” Shira went on. “But I can tell you this: She belongs to a rich and powerful nobleman. He will be most eager to have her back.

“But I like you, mirza. To keep you from harm, I mean to do you a favor. My friends and I will soon leave Marakand and take her away with us. Who’s to know what became of her?

“Or,” she added, “I need only pass along word that you have her. This mighty personage—his name does not concern you—is a man of wrath and vengeance. He and his retainers will gallop here to claim her. And you—your payment will be short and your punishment lengthy.”

“I’m no fool,” the horse-trader flung at her. “But you’re a liar.”

“Am I?” replied Shira. “Will you wager your head on that? Will you call me a liar when they tie you down, take out their knives, and begin peeling the hide off you one strip at a time? And, after that—”

“Take the accursed beast,” blurted the horse-trader, whose face had gone dead white. “I give her to you. There is no such horse. She was never here. I never saw her. And I never want to see her again.”

“No,” Shira said. “On second thought, we would put ourselves too much at risk. Best for all—except you—if I send that message. Her owner may be generous enough to offer us a reward.”

“Take her! I beg you!” The desperate horse-trader began pressing coins into Shira’s hands. “For the sake of mercy!”

“If you insist,” she said at last. “I hope, mirza, you will always think of us with gratitude.”

With our little caravan in tow, and nearly as much money as when we started, we passed again through the Great Souk. I told Shira and Baksheesh to go on ahead, I would catch up with them.

I still had one thing to settle. I wanted to find the storyteller. I retraced my steps to where his booth had stood. The spot was empty.

I questioned the passersby, getting only shrugs and blank stares. Finally, I gave up. I elbowed my way out of the crowd, as perplexed as I had been when I stopped to listen to him.

Perhaps it was the appraising glance he had given me. Whatever it was, he had turned my thoughts to Magenta, to a sunny afternoon that now seemed years ago. And the map; Uncle Evariste throwing me out; and the start of the whole business that had brought me here.

He reminded me of the bookseller.

By the time I reached the khan, Shira and Baksheesh were already leading our caravan to the stables. That same instant, Baksheesh dropped the camels’ ropes.

“Thief!” he burst out. “Desist! Skulking villain! Donkey-robber!”