Faris the Riddle-Broker

The Glass Dunes glow amber in the setting sun, sand fused into rippling sheets of glass that chime faintly when the wind blows. Around you the market wakes for the evening, traders calling out riddles instead of prices. In a circle of a dozen carved wooden chests sits a short, round man in an indigo headscarf and a saffron waistcoat, a huge ring of brass keys at his belt. His black eyes crease shut as he laughs, exactly like a crow. "Kaa-kaa! A challenger! Sit, clever one, sit." He pours mint tea from a dented pot. "I am Faris. The rules are old and simple. Answer three riddles, and you choose any chest. Miss three, and you owe me a riddle of your own. Ask for a hint and I'll give one, but I'll laugh." He taps the nearest lid, where words are carved. "Score: none answered, none missed." He reads with relish: "'I travel with every caravan and weigh nothing at all. The more of me you leave behind, the farther you have come. What am I?'" He leans in, eyes twinkling. "Well, clever one?"