by Paul Haven
He stared hard at the carpet for so long that his eyes began to ache. His gaze moved from one vine to another, trying to pick out the one that made this carpet so priceless to the people of Balabad.
Finally, his eyes settled on an exceedingly thin vine that started at the base of the tree. It had the narrowest of gold strands running through it, a single knot's width in an endless universe of stitches. It ran up the trunk of the tree and out onto one of the lower branches.
Bahauddin lowered himself slowly onto his hands and knees. With a trembling finger, he traced the path of the vine as it twisted and coiled back and forth through the branches, until it reached the very tip of the highest twig.
Bahauddin closed his eyes, and his mind flooded with ancient memories.
This was a path he knew well.
It was the path through the bowels of the Salt Caverns.
It was a map to King Agamon's treasure.
liver had never been anywhere near the Thieves Market before, and as he turned the corner onto Mansur Street, he realized why. The farther he pressed down the street, the narrower it became, and the narrower became the shopkeepers’ eyes.
Oliver had left his baseball cap and ripped jeans at home, just as Alamai had suggested, and was instead wearing a gray shalwar kameez and a traditional flat wool hat borrowed from Zee the night before. It made him feel slightly ridiculous, and had prompted some quizzical looks when Oliver had left the house that morning.
“Gosh, you've gone native,” said Silas with a chuckle, looking up from his keyboard.
“It was a present from Zee's mother,” Oliver said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. “I'm just wearing it to be polite.”
“That's very kind of her,” said Silas. “We're going to save a fortune in blue jeans if this trend holds.”
“Oh, stop teasing him!” Scarlett chimed in excitedly, rushing over to take a closer look. “It's about time you started to get into the local culture. I think you look wonderful, honey.”
If anybody on Mansur Street had taken a closer look, or had stopped to ask Oliver a question in Baladi, they would have realized at once that he was a foreigner. But nobody in the cramped thoroughfare did take a closer look, and Oliver was able to walk through the crowd undisturbed.
The kebab stand was about halfway down the street, behind a dusty shop window with a picture of chunks of chicken wrapped in long Baladi bread. There were two tiny wooden tables outside the shop, and Alamai and Zee were seated at one of them, each slurping from a bottle of water. A turbanned man was at the next table, reading a news paper with his back to them.
“I'm glad you could make it,” said Zee. He looked Oliver up and down approvingly. “That outfit is very becoming on you, OI. You should have been born a Baladi.”
Zee had made his own fashion concession that morning, as it would be no wiser in the Thieves Market to look like a wealthy Baladi than a foreigner. His designer sunglasses were nowhere to be seen, and he, too, was wearing a shalwar kameez, albeit one with a delicately embroidered collar that did somewhat give him away as a man of means.
“Did you bring the key?” Oliver whispered.
“Right here,” said Zee, patting his chest. “I wouldn't go anywhere without it.”
“Are you both ready?” said Alamai softly, raising her gaze ever so slightly. Alamai always wore a scarf over her head when she was outside, but for this trip she had wrapped it around her nose and mouth so that all you could see were her eyes. Young women were not banned from the Thieves Market, but their presence there was unusual, and she did not want to cause herself any problems.
“Is it far?” asked Oliver.
“The Thieves Market starts just over there,” Alamai said, gesturing over her shoulder at a narrow archway in a mud-brick wall a little way down the street that Oliver hadn't noticed before. Swarthy men with black kohl painted under their eyes squeezed in and out of it like ants at a picnic. Occasionally they shouted at each other as they jostled through, so close together they must have been stepping on each other's toes. Oliver couldn't imagine trying to press through such a crowd.
“Through there?” Oliver gasped. “Are you sure?”
“It'll be fine,” Alamai replied. “Just make sure you don't talk to anyone before we get to Rahimullah's shop. And try not to look like you are lost. The less attention we draw to ourselves, the better.”
Alamai pulled the scarf down even farther over her forehead and tightened it around her mouth. She could have been anybody if not for those marvelous green eyes.
“How do I not look lost?” asked Oliver.
“You just follow me,” she said.
And with that, Alamai got up and walked off down the street.
Zee threw some coins down on the table and got to his feet.
Oliver glanced again at the crowd of men trying to get into the Thieves Market, and at the crumbling archway. It looked like a gateway to trouble.
“Are you sure we should be doing this?” Oliver whispered, and Zee shook his head from side to side.
“Not by a long shot,” he replied. “But she is.”
It took a few minutes to get through the archway. Oliver was pulled, pushed, jostled, and poked from all sides, and he soon figured out that he had to pull, push, jostle, and poke right back if he wanted to make any headway. He stayed close behind Zee, with one hand on his friend's shoulder. Alamai took the lead, shouting in Baladi and gesturing with her hands. Whatever she said worked, because the men parted for her as best they could.
When they finally got through to the other side, Oliver found himself in a world unlike any he had ever seen.
They were standing at the mouth of an enormous bazaar, perhaps as big as a New York City block, surrounded on all sides by crumbling mud- brick buildings. A giant canopy was stretched across the bazaar like a circus tent, and underneath it were hundreds upon hundreds of wooden stalls selling anything and everything one could beg, borrow, or steal.
People from every tribe in Balabad packed the bazaar. Some wore the brightly colored round hats and gauzy robes of the western plains, others the leather sandals and starched yellow turbans of the desert south, and others still the rugged shalwar kameez and woolen caps of the mountainous east.
Acquaintances laughed heartily and clasped each other's hands when they bumped into each other in the chaos. Strangers regarded each other warily, like boxers circling each other in the ring. Nearly everyone kept their gaze on Oliver, Alamai, and Zee for a bit too long as they moved past. Finding three children in such a place was an unusual sight.
“Welcome to the Thieves Market,” whispered Alamai, leaning in tight so that nobody else could hear her speaking in English. She was so close that Oliver could feel the tickle of her breath on his ear and smell the perfume of her hair through the scarf. He gulped.
“Remember to watch your pockets,” Alamai continued. “They'd rather get your money without having to sell you anything.”
Suddenly, there was a whoosh of metal to Oliver's right. He turned his head just in time to see an old man with a long white beard pull a golden scimitar from its sheath and examine the blade with his finger. A shopkeeper in a long black robe regarded him coldly.
A moment later, there was a squawk and a flutter of feathers from a stall to Oliver's left, where dozens of fighting partridges and colorful exotic birds were being held in dome- shaped wooden cages. Tiny rhesus monkeys scurried about in larger cages behind the birds, and above them hung the pelts of rare snow leopards and the skins of giant snakes. A shopkeeper with a painted- on smile and a large gold tooth beckoned them over, but Alamai hissed at him and pulled Oliver away.
“Animal trafficker,” she explained, her voice a whisper through the black scarf. “The worst kind of thief.”
Zee had walked up ahead, and Oliver and Alamai rushed to catch up, trotting past a stall selling carpets and another hawking stolen DVD players and flat- screen plasma TVs.
As Oliver walked through the crowd, he co
uld picture Mr. Haji making his way about the bazaar, a smile on his old face at the thought of being surrounded by so many hagglers and schemers. As he looked out at the sea of faces, he wondered if any of them knew the carpet salesman or had any idea what had become of him.
Oliver and Alamai caught up with Zee at a stall selling jewelry. It was run by three of the most extraordinary-looking women Oliver had ever seen.
They were dressed in bright green and gold dresses, with long, wide skirts and wide, open sleeves. The necks and sleeves of the dresses were embroidered with gilded thread, while mirrors, pendants, and tassels adorned the bodices. The women wore their hair braided, their deep brown eyes lined by kohl. Two of the women wore small, looping nose rings, and their hands and feet were elaborately painted with henna.
Most women in Balabad went around covered up, in keeping with the local tradition, but these women wore nothing on their heads, and they smiled freely and held out their hands for Oliver to come over, speaking in Baladi.
“These are the Zuxi,” Alamai explained. “Nomads.”
“What are they saying?” Oliver whispered.
“They are telling you to buy a necklace for me,” Alamai replied. “They think you are, you know, my husband.”
Oliver felt his stomach flutter and his face go red. He was walking over to the stall to examine a teardrop- shaped silver pendant when Alamai caught his hand.
“Don't touch it or you will have to buy it,” she warned. “They may look friendly, but the Zuxi are fierce negotiators, and rule number one is ‘hands off the merchandise.’ Come, we have lingered here long enough. It is time to find Rahimullah.”
Alamai grabbed hold of Oliver's and Zee's sleeves and pulled them through the crowd toward the far corner of the bazaar, where a group of men were doing business in a gap between two stalls. A large man with dead, droopy eyes emptied the brilliant green contents of a small white pouch into his hand, then held it up to the light. Another pulled an enormous wad of Baladi bills out of his pocket and started counting it methodically. He had the uncanny ability to keep his wary eyes on the money and the crowd at the same time.
“Those are emerald traders,” said Alamai under her breath. “It is one of the most dangerous businesses on earth. The gems are extremely valuable, but they are also tiny and untraceable. They belong to he who carries them, but only so long as he can keep hold of them.”
“Possession is nine- tenths of the law,” Oliver mumbled, but Alamai had never heard the expression before.
“There is no law,” she replied, and pulled Oliver and Zee away.
At the very edge of the bazaar were a series of dusty shops. Oliver peered through the first door they passed and saw a group of hulking men counting out money. Even bigger men with bulging arms stood guard at the door. The smell of sweet tobacco wafted out of the next door, and Oliver looked in to see a group of middle- aged men in silk suits smoking hookah pipes. Nervous underlings ran in and out of the shop, whispering messages in their ears and receiving instructions in return.
“Who are they?” Zee whispered.
“They are the overlords of the Thieves Market,” Alamai explained as they walked quickly along. “The shops on the edge of the bazaar are extremely coveted. Only the most successful thieves can ever hope to attain one.”
A few shops down, the three friends reached a narrow alleyway: damp, dark, and uninviting. Halfway down the alley was a small black door.
“This is it,” said Alamai quickly. “You two wait here. I'm just going to make sure that he is in, and that he is prepared to meet with us. A man like Rahimullah Sadeq does not like surprises.”
And with that, she pulled the scarf tight around her head and disappeared down the alley, leaving Oliver and Zee by themselves. It was the first time since they had entered the Thieves Market that they were far enough out of earshot to have a proper conversation, but even so, both kept their voices low.
“This place is unbelievable,” whispered Oliver, shaking his head.
“I know,” said Zee. “Even as a Baladi, I've never seen anything quite like it.”
Oliver leaned his back against the wall and looked back at the teeming crowd.
About twenty feet away was a stall selling stone Buddha statues and other artifacts. Oliver's eyes were drawn to a short, pasty man in a beige shalwar kameez and gray turban standing at the stall, holding one of the statues up to his face as if he were inspecting it for blemishes. His blond hair poked out from underneath the turban in all directions, as if he hadn't combed it in a week.
Oliver tugged hard on Zee's sleeve. He gestured with his eyebrows to the spot where the man was standing.
“Have you seen that guy before?” he whispered.
“No, why?” said Zee.
“Oh, it's probably nothing,” Oliver whispered. “It's just that I could swear he was at the kebab stand when I met you guys this morning. And then I think I saw him again at the stall where they were selling those exotic birds.”
“Really?” said Zee. “You don't think he's following us, do you?”
His hand crept to his neck and he nervously fingered the key underneath his shalwar kameez.
The man's eyes flicked up from the statue in his hand and for the briefest of moments met Oliver's. His eyes were as cold and blue as the deep sea, and his gaze made the hair on the back of Oliver's neck stand on end.
Two hands grabbed Oliver and Zee by the shoulder and tugged them backward down the alley.
“Quick, come inside,” said Alamai. “Rahimullah is waiting for us.”
ahimullah's shop was as dark as a closet, and not much bigger. A life- sized stone statue of a Greek warrior stood in the narrow entrance, and Oliver, Alamai, and Zee had to squeeze past it to get in. The shelves on the shop's grimy walls were filled with some of the most beautiful objects Oliver had ever seen, all packed in tight like toys in a child's playroom.
There were centuries- old muskets sitting atop heavy clay bowls, and emerald- encrusted goblets stuffed with ancient gold necklaces. There were bronze dragons and carved ivory medallions, ruby- encrusted daggers and magnificent wooden crossbows, their arrows still in place. Oliver was no expert, but he could tell that these items were a cut above anything they had seen in the market outside.
But the most extraordinary object of all was the warlord himself. His hair and beard were dyed bright orange, and his stomach was so round you could have served drinks off it. He was sitting on a stool behind a narrow counter, the fingers on his left hand tapping slowly. Each finger was adorned with a thick gold ring, a show of opulence that nearly compensated for the warlord's lack of a right hand.
Where the missing appendage had been, Rahimullah now sported a two- pronged metal hook, which he snapped open and shut absentmindedly as the three children approached, like an alligator anticipating its next meal.
A young man sat blank-faced in the corner of the shop, waiting on the warlord's instructions.
Alamai stepped forward, keeping the scarf pulled low over her eyes.
She spoke softly in Baladi, gesturing first toward Zee and then Oliver. Oliver thought he heard her use the word khareji, which meant “foreigner” in Baladi. It was one of the fifty or so Baladi words Oliver had managed to pick up in his time there, since it was always used to refer to him in introductions.
“We are most honored you have agreed to see us, Rahimullah Sadeq,” said Alamai, switching to English and tilting her head slightly to acknowledge his greatness.
“An unexpected but welcome surprise, daughter of Halabala,” the warlord replied. “How is your father? And what brings his only child to my shop outside the warmth of his protection?”
“My father is very well, but he could not get away,” Alamai lied. “He is in need of some information, and so he sent us to you.”
Rahimullah's gaze fell like a weight on Oliver and Zee.
“You can trust them,” Alamai assured. “They are friends.”
“Friends?” Rahimullah said wi
th a chuckle. “Those are the most untrustworthy people of all.”
Alamai clasped her hands in front of her
“My father has taught me to choose my friends wisely,” she said, leveling her gaze on the warlord. “And once chosen, to defend those friends to the grave. But this is not something I need to tell you, Rahimullah Sadeq.”
Rahimullah nodded solemnly and let the matter drop.
“You are all welcome,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“A dear friend of my father's has disappeared,” Alamai replied. “A carpet salesman by the name of Haji Majeed ul-Ghoti Shah. We are trying to find him.”
The warrior scratched his beard with his bejeweled hand and shrugged his shoulders.
“I am sorry to hear about your father's friend,” he said. “But what would I know about it?”
Alamai picked her words very carefully.
“My father has told me that nothing happens in Balabad without your knowledge,” she said.
“Your father flatters me,” said the warlord. “But I am just a simple trader, sitting in my simple shop.”
“Perhaps you know someone who knows someone,” Alamai insisted. “Perhaps you have overheard a whisper.”
But Rahimullah shook his head.
“Nothing,” he said.
Oliver glanced over at Zee. They were both beginning to wonder if they had come to the wrong place. But Alamai pressed on.
“This man's fate is very important to us, Rahimullah Sadeq,” she said. “My father would make sure that anyone who helped us find him would be greatly rewarded.”
The warrior's eyes narrowed and his voice grew sharp. He leaned down and pointed his hook at Alamai.
“Young lady,” he hissed. “I am not in the business of kidnapping carpet salesmen. If your father told you that I was, he was very much mistaken. If you have come to insult me, I suggest that it is time you and your friends leave.”
Oliver's feet hadn't waited for the warlord's instructions. They had been slowly shuffling backward ever since Mr. Haji's name had come up. Zee was also backpedaling, his hand instinctively clutching the key beneath his shirt.
