"Cone of silence," she said, pointing to a triangular golden charm hanging from a fluttering pennant of orange chiffon. "I bought it for a gag, but it's turned out to be pretty useful." Shaking my head to clear it, I had to agree. Relief from the noise made it possible for me to think while I surveyed our surroundings.

If at first I wondered how anyone could drop a hundred thousand gold pieces here, I soon changed my mind. The Mall reminded me of the Bazaar, but cleaner, less fragrant, and cooler—much cooler. A chill breeze blew down my neck at intervals as we pushed our way into the hordes of shoppers, mostly female. The greatest majority of visitors looked eager and excited, but a few with dark circles under their eyes trudged in like zombies, pulled inexorably toward the bright lights of the stores.

I'd seen some of these pitiable beings in the Bazaar: they were shopaholics. A few of them looked to be in the last stages of the disease, their trembling, clawed hands clutching canvas or net bags, with no joy in the process, only hard-core need. Where were their friends? Friends don't let friends shop themselves to death.

Business was brisk in The Mall. Ahead of us lay a long avenue lined tightly with stores on either side, reaching up three gallery levels under a vaulted roof held up by thick, carved beams where birds and flying lizards roosted. Their cooing and cheeping added to the cacophony. I couldn't see the end of the passage. It seemed to roll on into infinity.

We found Cartok's with no trouble. A thread of perky, up-tempo music piped out of the ceiling, warring with the local bands, making a piercing counterpoint with the howls and cries of the shoppers, who were climbing over one another to get at the patchwork jackets and shawls that seemed to be the main items of attraction. Massha gave a longing glance, but turned her eyes forward as we moved past.