“Certainly,” said Abdullah. “Such a mighty magician am I that the Sultan of Zanzib himself loaded me with chains for very fear of what I could do. Only strike these chains apart and undo these handcuffs and you will see great things.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw the two men returning, carrying the carpet between them. He hoped very much that this was a good thing to happen. “Iron, as you know, inhibits a magician in the use of magic,” he said earnestly. “Feel free to strike it off me and see a new life open before you.”

The rest of the bandits looked at him dubiously. “We haven’t got a cold chisel,” said one. “Or a mallet.”

Kabul Aqba turned to the two men with the carpet. “There was only this,” they reported. “No sign of anything to ride. No tracks.”

At this the chief bandit stroked his mustache. Abdullah found himself wondering if it ever got tangled with his nose ring. “Hmm,” he said. “Then I’ll lay odds it’s a magic carpet. I’ll have it here.” He turned sneeringly to Abdullah. “Sorry to disappoint you, magician,” he said, “but since you delivered yourself so conveniently in chains, I’m going to leave you that way and take charge of your carpet, just to prevent accidents. If you really want to join us, you can make yourself useful first.”

Somewhat to his surprise, Abdullah found he was far more angry than frightened. Perhaps it was that he had exhausted all his fear that morning in front of the Sultan. Or perhaps it was just because he ached all over. He was sore and scraped from sliding down the sand dune, and one of his ankle bands was chafing brutally. “But I have told you,” he said haughtily, “that I shall be no use to you until my chains are off.”

“It is not magic we want from you. It is knowledge,” said Kabul Aqba. He beckoned to the man who had gone wading into the pool. “Tell us what manner of thing this is,” he said, “and we may let your legs loose as a reward.”

The man who had been in the pool squatted down and held out a smoky blue bottle with a rounded belly. Abdullah levered himself to his elbows and looked at it resentfully. It seemed to be new. There was a clean new cork showing through the smoky glass of the neck, which had been sealed over with a stamped lead seal, again new-looking. It looked like a bottle of perfume that had lost its label. “It’s quite light,” said the squatting man, shaking the bottle about, “and it neither rattles nor sloshes.”