by Paul Haven
“And then, of course, there was the small matter of the tomb,” he added.
“Tomb?” said Mr. Haji.
“That's right, tomb,” said Schleim. “The tomb of Bahauddin Shah.”
“Who is Bahauddin Shah?” said Alamai. She looked from Schleim to Mr. Haji, who was shaking his head in disbelief.
“He is, or was—God rest his clever soul—the only man other than Agamon himself who knew where the riches of Arachosia were buried. You see, what Aziz Aziz didn't know, what none of the members of the Brotherhood knows, is where Agamon hid the treasure, or how to go about finding it. All they have been told is that before his death, Agamon entrusted the information to a confidant named Bahauddin Shah, a carpet trader who had helped him defeat King Tol in the early days of his rule, and whom Agamon trusted with his life.
“After Agamon was overthrown, Shah returned to the village of his birth. No record exists of how or where he kept the secret, but many felt he had passed it on to an heir. Nobody knew for sure.”
Schleim's eyes flashed with excitement.
“The amazing thing is that I came across the tomb completely by accident. I was actually searching for the lost temple of Micos XII on a dig up in Ghot- e- Bhari, when one of my men stumbled upon the opening to an unmarked crypt.
“As we dug, I soon realized that it was no ordinary tomb. There was a long passageway that cut deep into the earth, leading to a large burial chamber filled with golden goblets, tattered old carpets, and waist- high stone statues. Quite a beautiful sight, really.
“The body lay in a marble sarcophagus in the center of the chamber, and it took five men to lift up the cover and push it aside. Inside was a male skeleton lying on his back, his legs bound by white gauze and his arms folded over his chest. In his hand, he clutched a small piece of parchment, rolled up and tied with a thin bow.”
“What was it?” said Oliver. “A will?”
“It was a poem,” said Schleim. “It was written in the ancient Mensho dialect of the area, and by an expert hand. The words were penned in fine calligraphy, the lines curving around the page in the shape of a perfect heptagon. And you'll never guess what it said.”
Schleim paused and inhaled deeply.
When he spoke, it was in a spray of coarse and guttural sounds that Oliver had only heard once before. He sounded like he was having a disagreement with his tongue.
Mr. Haji's mouth dropped, and his eyes opened wide.
“Good lord,” said the carpet salesman. “It cannot be.”
“Luckily, I am one of the few Westerners to speak ancient Mensho fluently,” Schleim explained, smiling broadly. “I'm sure you will agree, Mr. Haji, that the poem loses something in translation, but I'll do my best. It read:
In life's rich tapestry, the secret lies—
The dragon's gaze, his fourteen eyes.
The last-born s first will guard the prize,
Through the distant age, the weave of time.
The entrance, under sovereign stone
But without the guide, a path to doom.
“Kind of catchy, no?” said Schleim.
“But what does it mean?” Oliver asked.
“I have to admit,” said Schleim, “I had no idea what it meant at first. I pocketed the parchment and told myself I'd look into it later.
“As for the rest of the dig, I handed a few trinkets over to the Culture Ministry and took the rest of the loot for myself,” Schleim explained. “That's how it's done, you know. Everyone gets a piece of the action. Everyone is happy.”
“But when I got back to Balabad City, I received a message from Aziz Aziz. He said he might have an offer to make me. You see, when Aziz Aziz heard that I had found Bahauddin Shah's tomb, he got quite excited. He was convinced it must contain some clue about the treasure. He wanted to know whether I had come across anything ‘unusual.’ A letter, or a map, perhaps.
“I soon realized I must have had the answer in my pocket,” said Schleim. “After some heated negotiations, we struck a deal. For a fifty-percent cut, Aziz Aziz would give me the names and addresses of the other members of the Brotherhood, and I would use my expertise to decipher the poem and figure out who was guarding the secret of the treasure's location.”
Schleim shot a glance at Mr. Haji.
“I must admit it wasn't easy. I mulled over the words on the parchment for several days until suddenly it came to me. The poem talks about the path to the treasure lying under ‘sovereign stone.’ I figured that must be a reference to the palace. Hence the fact I chose this wreck of a building as my headquarters.
“And the first line of the poem, about the secret being hidden in life's rich tapestry was clearly a reference to a carpet, but which carpet could it be? ‘Dragons gaze… fourteen eyes.’ That's when I remembered the myth of the seven-headed dragon, one of the most powerful of the ancient world. Fourteen eyes! Seven heads!” said Schleim. “So, I was looking for a carpet with seven sides. It was not hard to find after that, for there is only one in Balabad, and it was made in honor of Agamon himself.
“So, we arranged for that beauty to disappear,” said Schleim, gesturing toward the huge carpet rolled against a wall of the room. “Aziz Aziz and a bit of cash were all we needed to ensure we didn't have any trouble with the local police. But as soon as we had the carpet in our possession, we realized there was no way to decipher it unless we had the right person to explain it to us. We needed a guide.”
Schleim gestured toward Mr. Haji.
“Voilà!” he said.
“Mr. Haji?” said Oliver. “But he's just a carpet salesman.”
“He's just a carpet salesman like I'm just an archaeologist!” said Schleim with a chuckle. “I must admit the secret of the guide's identity was very well concealed.
“Bahauddin Shah knew the guide would be the most powerful link to Agamon's treasure. He alone would know how to find the treasure. He alone would know when to call the Brotherhood back together.
“Bahauddin Shah had to devise a clever way to pass the secret down from generation to generation, so that whoever carried it would never be discovered. Having it pass from father to son would have been too obvious. The system he came up with was ingenious, and it is laid out in the third line of the poem.
“It says: ‘The last-born s first will guard the prize.’ Do you see? The firstborn son of the youngest sibling of each generation would hold the secret, the duty passed from uncle to nephew through the ages. What I had to do was track down Bahauddin Shah's youngest brother, then figure out who his eldest son was, and go from there. It was no mean task. I followed the pattern of the past five hundred years, and behold—Haji Majeed ul- Ghoti Shah. The firstborn of the last sits before us in that chair. The great- great- great- great-great-great-nephew of Bahauddin Shah.”
ugo Schleim turned to Mr. Haji, who looked back at him in stunned despair.
“So, Mr. Haji, as you see, I have everything now,” Schleim said. “The carpet. The keys. All I lack is your cooperation.”
The carpet salesman stared up at him from the chair.
“You shall never have that,” he spat.
“No?” said Schleim. He walked over to the chair and leaned down low so that his face was only inches from Mr. Haji's nose. “Well, that would be a shame. It really would. Particularly for your young friends.”
“You wouldn't dare harm them,” said Mr. Haji.
“Wouldn't I?” asked Schleim. He popped back up and began to pace up and down in front of the chair, patting the revolver in his belt. He looked from Oliver to Alamai to Zee.
“They seem like perfectly adequate children,” said Schleim. “But not so special to be worth giving up on Agamon's treasure. Not after all I have been through.”
“Don't do it!” pleaded Alamai.
“Tell him to get lost!” said Oliver.
“I have no choice,” Mr. Haji explained.
Then he turned to Schleim.
“Though it breaks my heart, I will lead you to the
trea sure,” said Mr. Haji. “But you must promise me no harm will come to the children.”
Schleim pressed the tips of his long fingers together, bending the joints backward at an impossible angle until each let out a hollow crack.
“On that, I give you my word,” he said. “I am not a violent man, or at least, not especially violent. Once I have the treasure, you and the children will be free to go.”
Schleim nodded at Suavec, who strode over to the carpet salesman. He removed a switchblade from the pocket of his shalwar kameez and quickly cut away his binds. Mr. Haji rubbed the blood back into his hands and shook the soreness out of his old shoulders. Then he straightened his turban and rose to his feet.
“Excellent,” said Schleim. “I knew you'd see reason eventually. So was I right in thinking ‘sovereign stone’ referred to the palace? Are we near the beginning of the path?”
Mr. Haji nodded his head somberly.
“The treasure is indeed buried nearby,” said the carpet salesman. “It lies in the ancient passages of the Salt Caverns, under this very hillside. But finding it will not be as simple as you may wish. I will need something to write with, and I will need you to unfurl the Sacred Carpet for me.”
“Very well,” said Schleim. “All right, everyone. Get the carpet. Chop- chop.”
Oliver, Alamai, and Zee looked to Mr. Haji nervously, unsure what they should do. He nodded.
“Do as he says,” he whispered.
With Schleim barking commands, the children moved the heavy desk against the wall. Suavec gathered a half dozen lanterns from around the room and hung them from hooks hammered into the ceiling, casting the room in a warm glow.
When everything was ready, the children, Mr. Haji, and Suavec joined together in the backbreaking task of unrolling the enormous carpet, while Schleim stood off to the side. It took several heaves to get the carpet to budge at all, but once it did, it rolled out quickly and evenly, the children pushing it along in front of them.
When it was fully unfurled, the carpet reached all the way from one corner of the cellar to the other. Oliver, Alamai, and Zee turned around to look at it. What they saw made them gasp. Lying before them was the most magnificent carpet that any of them had ever seen. Its colors were as vivid as the day it was woven, deep red and gold, bright green and charcoal black.
The fighting horses, seven- headed dragons, and roaring lions that twisted around the wide border were so vivid they seemed to leap off the floor, and you could almost taste the fruit of the great pomegranate tree in the center. It would be easy to imagine its thick and knotted branches reaching up to embrace them.
“It is so … so … beautiful,” said Alamai, her voice a hushed whisper.
“The most beautiful carpet ever made,” said Zee.
Oliver kneeled down and ran his fingers over the wool. It was as soft as a cloud, the knots as sturdy as steel.
Schleim sidled up behind him.
“It is indeed stunning,” he said. “One of the nicest things I've ever stolen. I have stood here and stared at it for hours, but for the life of me I cannot see the secret it contains.”
Mr. Haji had not said a word up until that point. He was standing on the edge of the carpet, staring intently at the tangle of vines at the base of the tree.
“That is because you do not know what to look for,” he said.
Mr. Haji lowered himself slowly onto his hands and knees. With a trembling finger he began to trace the path of a tiny thread of gold woven into the thinnest vine. It twisted and coiled back and forth, wrapping itself around the thick trunk and up into the knotted branches.
“Pass me the pencil and paper,” whispered the carpet salesman without taking his gaze off the golden thread. “And I will draw you a map to King Agamon's treasure.”
ll through the night Mr. Haji drew. Oliver, Alamai, and Zee looked over his shoulder as he went. Schleim, too, watched him at his task, hovering at his elbow until Mr. Haji waved him away.
The vine that Mr. Haji had to follow was so narrow, and the carpet so vast, that it was easy to lose track of it in the dingy light of the cellar. Haji kept one finger on the golden thread at all times, using his other hand to trace the route onto the pad of paper.
To help him work faster, Schleim ordered Oliver to stand directly over the carpet salesman with a lantern, its flame turned up high. When Mr. Haji's pencil became blunt, Alamai or Zee would take it to Suavec to sharpen with a knife.
“Thank you, my dear,” Mr. Haji would say, but he never, ever looked up.
Schleim paced back and forth across the room, glancing down at his wristwatch nervously. Suavec slouched in a chair, picking the dirt out from underneath his fingernails.
Slowly, a winding path began to take shape on Mr. Haji's page.
“Are you nearly finished?” said Schleim when the sounds of early-morning prayer drifted up to the palace from the city below.
“Nearly,” said Mr. Haji, his eyes locked on the carpet. “Perhaps another hour.”
“Why didn't you tell me before that it would take this long?” Schleim hissed.
“You didn't ask me,” Mr. Haji replied.
By six o'clock in the morning, Mr. Haji had traced the golden vine up the trunk and deep into the thick branches of the enormous tree.
“There must be something you could do to go faster,” snapped Schleim.
But Mr. Haji shook his head.
“If you rush me, we will never come out alive,” he said. “There will be nothing down there to help us get our bearings if we become lost. I must get every twist and turn exactly right.”
Oliver shivered at the thought of his final hours on earth spent wandering aimlessly in the dark with the droopy- eyed Suavec and the creepy- fingered Hugo Schleim. This was definitely not the way he wanted to go out.
“Take your time, Mr. Haji,” he whispered.
By six o'clock, the carpet salesman had followed the vine all the way to the top of the tree, and his map filled the entire page. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow, and the front of his turban was soaked through. As he drew the last thin line and marked a cross where the tunnel would end, he let out a long sigh.
“It is finished,” he said.
“Finished!” shouted Schleim. He rushed over and crouched down next to the carpet salesman, pushing the children aside. Even Suavec got up and ambled over.
Oliver stared at the map in wonder. It looked like a cross between a New York City subway map and one of those elaborate mazes they make mice run through in scientific experiments.
“The mission will be long and difficult,” warned Mr. Haji. “We will need lanterns and water and some food as well, and we will need something strong to pry open the door to the Salt Caverns.”
Schleim stalked off to the far corner of the room, returning with several sturdy duffel bags over his shoulder. Suavec fetched a backpack and stuffed it with bottled water and stale Baladi bread, then he retrieved a pair of crowbars from a trunk against the wall.
“We do come prepared,” said Schleim. “I am an archaeologist, after all.”
Mr. Haji pushed himself off the floor, his old knees cracking as he rose to his feet. He tousled Oliver's and Zee's hair, then patted Alamai on the shoulder.
“Come along, children,” he said softly. “There's nothing to be afraid of.”
The carpet salesman rolled the map up carefully and tucked it into the pocket of his shalwar kameez.
Then he turned to Schleim.
“Better get your wretched keys,” he spat. “Our journey starts in the Gardens of Paradise, under the tomb of Hagur the Magnificent.”
uavec led the children up the stairs to the reception hall, with Schleim and Mr. Haji right behind them. Schleim wore the key ring looped around his belt, the keys jangling at his hip as he climbed the steps.
Oliver remembered how spooky he'd found the palace when they had arrived the night before. If somebody had told him at the time how happy he would be to be standing in the crumbling
hall again, next to the wrecked chandelier and under the gaping hole in the ceiling, he would never have believed them.
But Oliver couldn't help feeling a flicker of relief to be aboveground again after one of the longest nights of his life. The sun was streaming through the doorway, and Oliver could hear the hum of the city below.
He looked at his wristwatch. It was seven o'clock, nearly twenty- four hours since he left home for the Thieves Market. He wondered what his parents would be doing. By now, surely the police would be hunting for them, he thought. But how would the police ever know to look in this ruined palace?
“Let's go, kids,” said Suavec. “Move it.”
Waiting just outside the palace's open front door were four more of Schleim's men, a ragtag bunch with rotting black teeth and tattered shalwar kameez who looked like they had been trucked in directly from the seediest corner of the Thieves Market. Each had the bleary eyes and ruffled hair of someone who had slept outside most of the night.
Mr. Haji eyed them with disgust.
“Grab a bag, you lot,” said Suavec.
As the men lined up to get their duffel bags and relieve Suavec of his supplies, Schleim glanced up at the blue sky. He took in a deep breath of fresh air.
Then he turned to Mr. Haji.
“Well, Mr. Haji. Lead on,” he said.
Without a word, the carpet salesman descended the marble staircase that led to the palace gardens, his shoulders hunched and his eyes staring down at the ground. It was hard for Oliver to imagine this was the same man who could sell a five- dollar carpet for a small fortune. He leaned over and whispered in Zee's ear.
“Dude, how are we going to get out of this?” he said.
Zee put his hand on Oliver's shoulder, but he wasn't exactly reassuring.
“I don't know,” he whispered. “Maybe Mr. Haji has some trick up his sleeve.”
“It sure doesn't look like it,” said Oliver.
At the bottom of the stairs, Mr. Haji cut across the knee-high grass that was once a pristine lawn and walked toward the crumbling mausoleum. Hagur's tomb lay surrounded by flagstones, under an intricately carved marble roof.
