Then the cunning Hafsa took Namir by the hand and, with a piece of dried lamb she kept in her pocket, put him on her side as usual. “Search, Namir. Search for the hidden prince,” she ordered, and the little tiger, with his nose like a bloodhound, sniffed him out. Namir lowered his head, snorted, and began to trot determinedly toward the west wing, Hafsa following behind him, tracking a scent invisible to humans. He stopped in front of a huge terracotta vase that was supposed to contain only sand for putting out fires.