“No,” I said. “I was born there. It’s my home.”

  I heard footsteps scraping over the rough floor behind me. I swung around, reaching for my tulwar.

  “Peace be upon you, friends.”

  A bandy-legged little man stood holding a torch in one hand. His beard was so spattered and stained I could not guess its original color. Knotted around his waist, a length of rope secured his trousers. Splotches of dried paint seemed the only things keeping his clothing from parting company.

  “I thought I heard voices. I’m delighted that you came to visit.”

  “Not on purpose,” grumbled Baksheesh.

  “Even so,” the man said, “I hope you have found something of interest.”

  “Remarkable,” put in Salamon. “Absolutely fascinating.”

  “This is your work?” Shira said.

  The little man bobbed his head. “Such as it is.”

  “Oh no,” Baksheesh said aside to me. “A dauber! A paintsplasher! How did we come to fall in with one of them? Here, of all places? Rascals! Bad as public storytellers. Worse! They fling colors every which way and fool us into thinking they mean something. That’s an honest living?”

  “Honest as anything else in the world, and a living like another,” said our host, whose ears must have been as sharp as his eyes.

  “I am called Cheshim,” he went on, taking no offense at Baksheesh’s mumblings, smiling agreeably as I named each of us to him.

  “And you,” he said, turning his glance back to me—very cordially, as much at ease as if we had been old acquaintances. And for an instant I had half a notion we had met somewhere before. “This seems to have caught your attention. I take that as a compliment.”

  “The town, the harbor—” I said. “You’ve been to Magenta.”

  “Been to where?” Cheshim raised a paint-crusted eyebrow. “No, my young friend, I’ve not set foot beyond this place for—how many years? So many I hardly remember where I was before I came here.”

  “He’s beginning to natter like old Salonica,” Baksheesh said under his breath. “Two of a kind, if you ask me. One worse than the other. But which?”

  “Mirza Cheshim, you may have forgotten,” I said, “but surely you were there. You had to be. You saw the port. You painted it.”

  “I did?” Cheshim blinked. “Yes, yes, indeed so. If you believe you recognize it, I couldn’t be better pleased. But, you see, I only paint whatever fancies float into my head. I haven’t the least idea what’s coming along, or when. How could I know what I’m doing until I’ve done it? In a manner of speaking, then, I really have nothing to do with them. They more or less decide for themselves, and always surprise me.”

  “But, mirza,” Shira put in, “why do your work where no one sees it?”

  “On the contrary,” said Cheshim, “they are here for all who are meant to see them. And those who are meant to see them will unmistakably find them.

  “I have others,” he added. “You are welcome to look.”

  “Marvelous,” said Salamon. “It would be a pleasure.”

  “I can hardly wait,” said Baksheesh. “But, before I’m able to devote my full attention and admiration for—for whatever it is you do, I have to build up my strength. I suppose you must eat like everyone else—except for old Salami here,” Baksheesh added. “Would you possibly have a little something in the way of food?”

  “I have ample provisions,” Cheshim replied. “I shall happily share them.”

  Baksheesh licked his lips and perked up. “I’m glad to hear that. I was afraid you wouldn’t have much of a larder in this barren nowhere.”

  “The birds bring everything I need,” Cheshim said. “Eagles, hawks, ravens—they fly over quite often. I gather what they drop.”

  “You eat bird droppings?” Baksheesh eyed him queasily. “Not to disrespect your hospitality, but never mind about offering refreshments.”

  “No, no,” Cheshim corrected. “They leave off tidbits, odds and ends of all sorts. Only the other day, a seagull passed by—”

  “Astonishing,” put in Salamon. “So far inland—wherever this part of inland may be? I definitely must make a note of that.”

  “Yes, and left a very tasty fish head,” Cheshim went on. “Not long ago, a charming little bulbul flew by. Too small to carry much, but he perched up in the rocks and sang sweetly all night. That was better than a meal.”

  “In other words,” Baksheesh said, “the pickings here are rather slim.” He shrugged. “Eh, well, I suppose something is better than nothing. The fish head—I’m not so sure about that.”

  “And your marvelous colors, mirza?” Salamon asked, as Cheshim led us farther down the passageway. “Where do you manage to find them?”

  “Here,” Cheshim said, lighting lamps set in niches along the wall. “Dig deep enough, you’re likely to turn up anything you want. Raw pigments I grind for my paints. Brushes?” He chuckled and pointed a gnarled finger at his beard. “Those, I grow myself.”

  My shock at seeing Magenta had begun draining away. I had pretty much decided Baksheesh was right. One port was like another. My imagination had misled me.

  But, if I had been taken aback, now it was Shira’s turn. I heard her draw in her breath. She went closer to the next picture. From what I could see, it simply showed a wide river lined with willow trees. Snow-covered mountains dwarfed the rest of the scene.

  “We call those mountains the ‘Roof of the World,’” she murmured. “That river is near my inn. The last crossing before the borders of Cathai. I know the spot.

  “My brother and I played there. Yes, exactly—there. We called it ‘our’ river. We made believe it belonged to us and no one else.

  “See the long slope to the water’s edge?” Shira said. “That’s where my father taught me to swim. I loved that spot. Sometimes I would go to sit there by myself, always wondering what was on the far shore and beyond. There was a bridge a little way downstream, but I was afraid to cross it.

  “When I grew older, I was too busy with my work. I still dreamed of reaching the other side; but I went there no longer.”

  She turned from the picture. Her eyes shone with tears.

  I said I had never seen her cry.

  “Nor will you again.”

  Salamon was urging us to see more of Cheshim’s pictures.

  I was sorry I did.

  The next painting showed a caravan under attack, camels butchered, fallen to their knees, horsemen galloping on shaggy ponies. In an upper corner of the picture were the faces of dead men, eye sockets empty, mouths gaping; patches of flesh had rotted away to show the white glint of skulls.

  Cheshim stood waiting behind me.

  “Mirza,” I said, “do you paint your nightmares?”

  “Not mine.” He gave me a slantwise look. “Yours, perhaps?”

  “You told me you painted whatever fancies came into your head,” I began. “But you show things that have really happened.”

  “If you say so.” He shrugged. “I have no idea if they ever happened, or will happen. Or may never happen at all. And some I have had to leave unfinished.”

  Shira and Salamon had gone on ahead, with Baksheesh grumbling to himself and anyone who cared to listen. I went quickly to catch up with them.

  Other pictures covered the wall. I gave them not much more than a glance. I did understand what Cheshim meant when he claimed to paint his dreams. Like so many dreams— certainly my own—they had a good many odd bits and pieces; and he had put them all together in one picture. They confused and unsettled me. I had seen enough of them. And, by now, I was starting to agree with Baksheesh. I would have welcomed a little something to put in my stomach, even if it was what the birds had left.

  I found Shira in front of one of the larger pictures; and, to me, the most perplexing. She had put her hand to her mouth and was staring wide-eyed. Cheshim had depicted what appeared to be a fortress under siege. Warriors had breached the walls and streamed into an open square, putting men, women, and children to the sword. At one side, within a chamber, a man in royal robes flung jewels and golden objects into a deep pit.

  “I know what this is,” she said. “But not as it’s shown here. Not with—him.”

  I followed her gaze. In the upper portion of the scene, against a crimson sky, a towering figure dominated the slaughter below. In an upraised hand, he held a blazing globe.

  I could not read the expression on Shira’s face. It may have been part fury, part fear.

  She said one word.

  “Charkosh.”

  She swung around to confront Cheshim, who had been watching her closely.

  “You know this man?” she said, more an accusation than a question. “You’ve seen him. He was here—”

  “No, dushizéh.” Cheshim spread his hands. “I assure you he was not. Seen him? Only in a manner of speaking. As the picture came to mind.”

  I put a hand on her shoulder. “These are his dreams. Not yours, not mine. We see what we want to see.”

  I meant to calm her. I didn’t believe a word of what I was saying.

  “Those are his dreams?” Baksheesh put in. “How does he sleep at night? I can tell you all his daubs and spatters have taken away my appetite.”

  “Forgive me, mirza,” Cheshim said. “That was not my intention.”

  “What was your intention, then?” I asked.

  Cheshim smiled. “What was yours?”

  “I had none,” I said. “You were the one who showed us these things.”

  “I offered. You looked,” Cheshim said pleasantly. “You saw what you saw.”

  “I warned you against these paint-daubers,” Baksheesh whispered. “Admirable Excellence, they do nothing but confuse the brain.”

  In this the hermit-artist had amply succeeded. At least, I had a glimpse of the man Shira would have gone after with a carving knife. Assuming it was a good likeness, the face was as cruel as any I had ever seen.

  Salamon turned to Shira. “Did I hear you say you found the scene familiar?”

  “Yes.” Shira had command of herself again. “It makes me think of a story my mother told when my brother and I were children. The tale of Tarik Beg and the Dark Fortress.

  “As the legend goes, in days long gone by, Tarik Beg was the sar, the ruler of the Kashgari folk. Word came to him that the tribe of Hunzuks were on the move, and would, before many days, attack him and his people.

  “Terror struck the hearts of the Kashgaris, for the Hunzuk hordes were known as ruthless pillagers and looters; worse than a swarm of locusts. It was said that where a Hunzuk set foot, grass never grew again.

  “The Kashgaris first thought to flee their town and take with them what valuables they could carry. But Tarik Beg urged against this. ‘The Hunzuks will only track you down and strip you of all you own,’ he told them. ‘Better you should hide your family treasures out of their reach. When they find nothing worth the taking, they will go their way and seek riches elsewhere.

  “ ‘I give you leave to bring your most valued possessions to my stronghold. I will store them for safekeeping in my own treasure chamber. My fortress can withstand any attack. Thus, when the danger is past, you will come and claim what is yours.’

  “The Kashgaris were grateful for the kindness and generosity of Tarik Beg, who then commanded a shaft to be dug in the middle of the treasure chamber, with tunnels and side passages far underground. To assure them further, he declared that he would likewise hide all his treasure along with theirs.

  “The Kashgaris toiled day and night, night and day, and the work was soon completed. Tarik Beg was the first to store his treasures in the farthest reaches of the tunnels. The Kashgaris then bore their possessions to safety. The wealthiest of the merchants brought heirlooms of great worth; the poorest folk carried in their humble belongings, which they prized nonetheless. It surprised Tarik Beg to see such a quantity of goods.

  “ ‘How do they come to have so much of value?’ he said to himself. ‘Are they more prosperous than I thought? Or have they not paid sufficient tribute to me?’

  “When all had been concealed, the mouth of the shaft was covered over with tiles from the chamber floor, so carefully and cleverly it could not be seen that anything lay below.

  “As feared, the day came when Hunzuk pillagers swarmed into the town. What befell the Kashgaris was not what Tarik Beg had foretold.

  “True, his fortress stood fast, the Hunzuks could not breach it. However, finding no booty in the town only enraged them. Instead of going their way, the furious Hunzuks set fire to every house, then turned their vengeance on the townsfolk.

  “The Kashgaris fled to the fortress, pleading to be let in so they could take refuge there. But Tarik Beg turned a deaf ear to their entreaties.

  “ ‘They are too many,’ he said to himself. ‘Do they expect me to save them all? Am I to pick and choose? That would be unfair. Worse, if I open my doors, the Hunzuks will follow after them and overrun my fortress. Thus, we would all perish.’

  “And so, he did not unbar his doors. Many were slain even as they cried for mercy at his gates. When the marauding Hunzuks grew arm-weary and sated with bloodshed, they rode off empty-handed.

  “The folk who lived through the slaughter gathered again at the fortress. They angrily reproached Tarik Beg and railed against him for leaving them to a bloody fate. They clamored for the return of their treasures brought to him for safekeeping.

  “Again, Tarik Beg would hear none of their demands. ‘This cannot be done,’ he declared. ‘It is impossible now for all the goods to be sorted out. Some may even be mixed with my own. How shall the rightful owners be known when many of them are slain? The others may try to profit and claim what is not truly theirs.

  “ ‘That would be a gross injustice and I will have no hand in it,’ he said. ‘Therefore, it is only fitting and proper that I keep it all. Had I not stored it here, the Hunzuks would have taken it and it would have been lost in any case. Besides, I am the sar. Who dares to gainsay me?’

  “The townsfolk, outraged, spoke among themselves:

  “ ‘As this treacherous sar would not let us in,’ they said to one another, ‘we will not let him out.’

  “And so they barred, bolted, and sealed up every means of leaving the fortress. Not so much as a beetle could escape from it. The story goes that Tarik Beg died mad in his own treasure chamber. The Kashgaris left the wreckage of their town and made new lives for themselves elsewhere.”

  This was hardly the most cheerful story I had ever heard. I was half sorry Shira had told it. At the same time, it made me think of my map. I had to admit it was wrong, as she had shown it to be. And yet there was a spot marked as a royal treasury. What to make of that? I had a moment of hope, but it flickered out as she went on.

  “None can be sure if it is true, or only a tale that mothers weave to teach their children to keep their word. The Dark Fortress is long gone. Wind and weather have had their way with it; the earth swallowed it up and buried it—if it ever existed to begin with. Even if it did, who knows where it once stood?”

  “I do,” said Baksheesh.

  Another glimmer of hope winked out faster than the first when he added: “All over the place. Anywhere. Everywhere. I know these Keshavaris. They keep dreaming of what once was a grand empire. Why they waste their time on it, that’s beyond me.”

  “Beyond me, as well,” put in Salamon. “An empire? Rather like keeping an elephant, I should say. An impressive creature, I grant you. But—the effort and expense of tending it? Who would want one?”

  “I’m telling you,” Baksheesh said, “if there’s so much as a bump in the road, they’ll claim it used to be a palace, a castle, the remains of a glorious city—why, they’ll swear their local horse trough’s built on top of some old king’s pleasure garden; and charge you to admire it.

  “You want a fortress? A royal treasury? Seek on, O Paragon of Perseverance. You’ll find dozens. Long buried, of course, so you won’t see them. At least, you can say you found them and go home in triumph.”

  Cheshim then invited us to visit his workroom, promising refreshments afterward. I had no stomach for bird-dropped delicacies. Pictures—I had seen more than I wanted. They unsettled, even frightened me; and, despite his good nature, so did Cheshim.

  As the others followed him farther into the cavern, I took Shira’s arm. I had something I wanted to say without everyone horning in.

  “I’ve been wondering for a while—now more than ever,” I began, hesitating but finding no better way to put it.

  “Am I a fool to keep looking for something that isn’t there? With a map that leads nowhere?”

  “That,” she said, “would be your decision.”

  “Cheshim showed me my home,” I said. “I was glad to leave, but I miss it. Even so—am I foolish if I never go home at all?”

  “Stay in Keshavar? Why?”

  I shuffled around and finally said, “Well—for you.”

  She hesitated only a long moment. To me, it felt like hours.

  “No,” she said at last. “You are a ferenghi. It would not suit you.”

  Her mother, I reminded her, had wed a ferenghi.

  “They loved each other,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. “So I thought it might be—You. And I—” I was getting knots in my tongue and had to leave off. I was sure she understood exactly what I meant.

  She shook her head. “Kharr-loh,” she said in a voice I scarcely heard, “Kharr-loh, if I could love anyone, it would be you.”

  I wanted to explore Shira’s remark a little further; but here came Salamon, bright-faced from his glimpse of Cheshim’s workplace.

  “Most remarkable how he’s set himself up,” Salamon told us, while the hermit-artist led us back through the passageways into open air and sunlight. “He’s found stones to make mortars and pestles to grind his pigments. He mixes the most astonishing colors. You really should see for yourself.”

  I said I’d be glad to. Next time I was in the neighborhood.

  “Don’t bother. The place is a caravanserai for bats,” Baksheesh said to me. “I hate to think what else lives there.”