Salamon had led the donkey to drink at a nearby streamlet. Shira and I were busy setting out our midday meal. Baksheesh should have been pitching our tents; but I heard him yelling at the top of his voice, calling down every dire threat he could come up with.

  One of the camels had slipped its tether and was ambling across the pebbly ground toward the edge of the underbrush. I ran to help Baksheesh, who was flapping his arms and shaking his fists. Out of natural contrariness or deliberate mischief—I swear it had a wicked glint in its eyes—the creature would change course and lurch a handsbreadth from our grasp.

  We were both winded by the time we got hold of that humpy, knobby-kneed prankster. Baksheesh began flinging insults at the creature and all its ancestors. He choked on his words. I froze where I stood.

  I had been too busy chasing the camel to pay attention to anything else. I hadn’t noticed a string of horsemen, six or eight of them, bearing down on us at an easy canter. I learned, later, they had been following along, observing us from the screen of woodland. At the time, they seemed to have sprung out of the ground.

  They reined up a little way from us. Big, loose-limbed, in sheepskin vests, they sat their magnificent mounts as if they had drawn their first breath astride a saddle. The horses whickered and tossed their heads; the riders studied us through narrowed eyes long accustomed to looking into great distances.

  They showed no inclination to attack. I would have gone to greet them. Baksheesh took my arm.

  “Make no sudden moves,” he warned. “If you value your Most Esteemed and Precious Life—and especially mine— don’t put so much as a finger on that tulwar you’ve been dragging around.” In a low voice, he added, “Mercy be upon us, they’re Bashi-Bazouks.”

  I admitted I’d never heard of them.

  “Then, O Blissfully Unaware,” he said, “you’re the only one in Keshavar who hasn’t. Nomads. Wanderers. Here today, somewhere else tomorrow.

  “Horse-breeders,” he went on. “The best in the country— in the world, most likely.”

  That seemed a harmless enough occupation. What, I asked, could they want from us?

  “Only all we’ve got,” Baksheesh said. “They are a tribe with a very odd way of looking at things. They believe any outsider who sets foot on their lands—and their lands are wherever they happen to be—well, to put it plainly, these Bashi-Bazouks claim the right to whatever the outsider brings with him. It belongs to them. Goods, animals, everything. They have other customs, as well. Best not think of them.”

  In spite of his warning, I would have drawn my tulwar.

  “No, no,” Baksheesh pleaded. “They’d dice you up before you could blink. Stand fast. Smile a lot. Look happy. I’ll deal with this.”

  He was off, then, heading toward the riders, making great salaams at every step.

  The leading horseman had already dismounted: a black-bearded man who looked as if he had swallowed a barrel, with arms thicker than a pair of Magenta hams. Hoops of gold dangled from his ears; he wore a jewelry shop of gold chains around his neck, and heavy bracelets on his wrists.

  I decided to leave my blade in its sheath.

  The bearded man stood, arms folded, while Baksheesh made expansive gestures in my direction. Shira and Salamon had, meantime, come beside me.

  He nodded, finally, and strode after Baksheesh, who was hurrying to us.

  “Bashir, the Horse Master,” Baksheesh said in my ear. “The sar, tribal chieftain, and everything else in these parts. Be calm and dignified, Glorious Nobility. I’ll speak for you.”

  Baksheesh stepped aside as the big fellow approached. With all his ornaments, he jingled as he walked. He bowed deeply, then took my hand and pressed it to his massive brow.

  “Be gracious,” Baksheesh whispered. “Accept his courtesy as if you deserved it.

  “I told him you were Chooch Mirza,” he added, “Crown Prince of Ferenghi-Land.”

  It wouldn’t have surprised me too much if Baksheesh had once again fobbed me off as the dauntless warrior al-Chooch. By no stretch of the imagination, however, had I expected him to come up with a claim so breathtakingly ridiculous.

  Bashir’s troop had, by now, walked their mounts closer and drifted into a loose circle. For a better look at the Crown Prince of Ferenghi-Land? Or to surround us?

  True, Bashir had offered a courteous welcome. He did not draw the enormous, wavy-bladed knife at his belt; nor did his riders point their lances. Still, I was far from comfortable with the royal rank suddenly bestowed on me.

  I silently cursed Baksheesh, as I felt threatened more by Bashir’s narrow-eyed scrutiny than by any weapon.

  “Bashi-Bazouks are folk of honor,” he declared, after he finished inspecting us as if we were livestock; and I had done my best not to squirm during the course of it. “To speak truth is law and custom. Lie to Bashir at your peril.

  “Now, this one who claims to be your servant, this swaybacked, spavined bag of bones: Winged Mare of Truth has never set foot inside his tent.

  “Bashir knows judging of horseflesh. But judging of Crown Prince? Where are jewels? Fine garments? Scarecrows are better dressed.”

  “My royal master does not wish to call attention to himself,” Baksheesh put in. “He travels modestly, to further his education among the commoners.”

  “Hold tongue when Bashir speaks,” our host—or captor— commanded. “What can be seen cannot be concealed.

  “Your camels are well tended,” he went on, “and handsome donkey. This gladdens heart of Bashir, for outlanders treat their beasts of burden like dumb brutes.

  “That much is in your favor, and recommends you more highly than babblings of flyblown servant. But what seals Bashir’s judgment is: horse. It strikes eye. Who but prince would possess such a steed?”

  Shira looked ready to protest that the mare belonged to her, thought better of it, and kept silent.

  “Only Bashi-Bazouks breed horses like that,” Bashir declared. “Famous through all Keshavar. Lineage cannot be mistaken. She comes from bloodline of Great Mare. As do we.”

  “Indeed?” Salamon put in. “Your people believe they are descended from a horse?”

  “Yes. Long time back,” said Bashir. “Before ancient sires journeyed from Hinda, on other side of mountains. We journey ever since. We call ourselves ‘Children of the Wind.’”

  “Fascinating,” Salamon said. “I must make a note of that.”

  “You,” Bashir said to him, “judging from gray hair—what you have left of it—you are prince’s wise counselor and adviser. Is correct?”

  “Alas, no,” Salamon said. “I have scarcely any wisdom. Advice? I prefer to give none at all.”

  “There speaks greatest wisdom,” replied Bashir. “Anything else is ignorance.

  “But you?” Bashir turned to Shira. “Only half ferenghi. The rest, Kirkassi, plain to see. So, then, you are his guide?” Bashir raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps a little more, yes?”

  “Horse Master,” Shira said, looking squarely at him, “what I am is my own business.”

  “Well answered!” Bashir clapped his hands. “Filly of spirit, bold as women of Bashi-Bazouk. That is pleasing to Bashir.”

  Nodding approval, satisfied by his opinion of us, he turned to me again.

  “Bashi-Bazouks are free people. Go and come as we choose. Live by our own ancient laws. Crowns? Princes? Their words command us no more than mule breaking wind. Bashir says ‘Pfui!’ on them all.

  “You, Chooch Mirza, you need a little more meat on bones. But heart is good. So Bashir gives you welcome.”

  I thanked him several times, which seemed the wise thing to do. In a language I had never heard, he called out orders to one of the riders who galloped off into the woodlands.

  “Now you come feast with Bashir,” he declared. “Sing. Dance. Good times. You stay awhile, grow big and strong.”

  I thanked him once more and told him we deeply appreciated his generosity, we were honored by it. I added we had pressing business elsewhere.

  The Horse Master’s bearded chin shot up. He leveled a hard eye on me. “Hospitality offered is not refused. That is law. Or do you fling insult in face of Bashir?”

  “What my noble master was about to say,” Baksheesh hastily put in, nudging my leg with his knee, “yes, we have urgent business, but he is more than delighted to lay it aside. Behold his impatience. He can hardly wait to feast with you. A privilege, an opportunity not to be missed. He is carried away by joy.”

  “Is so? Good,” said Bashir. “At first he does not look like it. But, with ferenghis, who knows what goes on in their heads?”

  Shira, with Baksheesh and Salamon, went to collect our gear and animals. I did my best to appear joyful, hoping it would be joyful enough.

  We started off through the woodlands. Bashir walked his horse beside me—either out of companionship or to keep me within arm’s reach. He had given his opinion of us. I was glad it had been favorable. As for my private opinion of him, I had the impression he was capable, one moment, of clapping me on the back out of good fellowship; or, the next, punching me in the nose.

  I wondered if Baksheesh had overblown the Bashi-Bazouk custom of stripping outsiders of their belongings. It seemed unlikely Bashir would invite us for dinner only to rob us for dessert.

  I raised that question, but trod very gingerly around it.

  “Not true,” Bashir indignantly protested. He shrugged. “Oh, well, from time to time. It depends.”

  Depends on what? I wondered. The state of his digestion? The weather? The phase of the moon? It did not make me any easier. What he next told me started my blood running cold.

  “Two ferenghis come not long ago. Red one with crooked nose. Dark one strutting like king of world. He wants to buy horses. Does Bashir sell?”

  Since that was his profession, I said I supposed he did.

  “Nah!” Bashir cried. “Why? Because he does not please Bashir. Let him buy horses in bazaar somewhere. He does not deserve horses of Bashi-Bazouks.

  “Minds of ferenghis are twisted,” he went on. “Bashir not understand them, but knows villain when he sees one. Dark one is up to no good. Bashir has sharp ears, and hears when he talks aside to red one. Of tribute from robber bands in trade for allegiance, for new kinds of weapons, for pots of fire. Who knows what that means? Does he set himself up to be chief of all bandits? Warlord?”

  Bashir snorted. “Those like him come and go, try to make themselves master of Road of Golden Dreams. They are fools. No interest to Bashi-Bazouks.”

  So, I asked, he took nothing from this man?

  “Should have. To teach lesson.” He shrugged. “Bashir has better things to do. Pfui! Let him go to Jehannum. Play warlord there.”

  “What if it happens?” I said. “What if one day they come against you? Burn your grasslands, take your herds?”

  “Come against Bashi-Bazouks?” He boomed out a laugh. “Chto! Our horses will squash them under their hooves like little bugs.”

  Bashir looked so pleased and satisfied with himself that I couldn’t help being nettled. As Crown Prince of FerenghiLand, I decided I was entitled to answer him back.

  “That may be so,” I said in what I hoped was a princely tone. “Do you care only for yourselves? Let me put it another way. If your neighbor’s house caught fire, wouldn’t you help put it out? As a matter of honor? Or at least to keep the fire from spreading to your own house?”

  “Ha! Wrong!” he burst out. “You know nothing. BashiBazouks have no neighbors. Not live in house. Live in yurta.”

  What a yurta was, I had no idea. Bashir snapped his jaw shut, delighted he had trapped me in my ignorance. There was something else, but I was afraid to ask. I didn’t want to hear the answer. I asked anyway.

  “Did this man tell his name?”

  “Nah. Who cares? Ferenghi names sound like coughing and spitting. But—yes, red one speaks to him as—what was it? Charkosh.”

  I knew it in my bones; and with him was the ruffian we had faced on the way to Marakand. I had to talk to Shira and Salamon. They, and Baksheesh, were behind us leading the animals. I would have gone to them, but Bashir draped an arm across my shoulders.

  “Forget them, my princely friend,” he said, more as a command than a suggestion. “Who cares about gorgios?”

  I had not heard that word before. I understood, later, it was not a compliment. It applied to anyone who had the terrible misfortune not to be a Bashi-Bazouk.

  We had, by now, come out of the woodlands; and there spread the grasslands I had only glimpsed in passing. They stretched as far as I could see, hemmed by the distant, snowcapped mountains.

  The encampment lay just ahead. I had expected a few tents, but it was nearly the size of a small village. The yurtas Bashir had spoken of looked like big beehives wrapped around with blankets of felt; wisps of smoke threaded from holes in the tops. There were spacious pens for livestock; and an open area amid the ring of yurtas—the biggest surely Bashir’s, where sat a thronelike stool in the shape of a saddle.

  If these folk were wanderers, as Baksheesh claimed, it surprised me they could move so quickly. As we drew closer, I realized the yurtas had been raised around frameworks of slender poles, and the pens were of the lightest wooden laths. The whole camp could be struck, rolled up, loaded on pack animals, and vanish in a twinkling.

  Bashir’s outrider had spread word of our arrival. All in the encampment must have dropped what they were doing and crowded the open space: the men in sheepskins, bucket-shaped hats of fleece with horsetail trimming; the women, long-boned, in rainbows of swirling skirts, decked out in almost as many bangles and bracelets as the men; youngsters garbed like their elders, dashing about and getting underfoot; and all of them whooping and whistling.

  Our escort joined other horsemen lined up by Bashir’s yurta. I thought of the Magenta City Troop turned out for a special occasion; except this was a lot more colorful and wilder. It was a grand welcome in honor of visiting royalty; though Bashir took some of the wind out of my princely sails when he admitted his folk seized on any excuse for a feast.

  While Bashir flung himself onto his saddle throne, his wife hurried to greet us, with eight or nine young ones peering from behind her skirts.

  There was no way I could have a quiet word with Shira. As soon as our animals had been tended to, we sat on piles of blankets on either side of Bashir, myself at his right hand. Some of the smaller girls brought us wooden bowls with carved horseheads for handles. A couple of older ones filled them with a foaming, milky liquid they poured from leather bags.

  “Drink, dear friend. Drink!” Bashir cried. “Make you strong like Bashi-Bazouks!”

  He downed his bowlful in one gulp. Not to risk offending against custom, I did the same. I found it to be a sweetish-sourish, sharp-edged concoction with a definite aroma of horse. I was glad to be sitting, for my legs felt suddenly packed with pins and needles, my head about to come loose and spin away on its own. All in all, not too bad.

  At the same time, we were being stuffed with food, so much of it I feared I might never stand up again.

  “And now,” Bashir proclaimed, “and now we dance.”

  My feet felt too big for my boots. I suggested waiting a little while, maybe a good long while. Bashir took me by the collar. Next thing I knew, I had joined a circle of men whirling around in one direction, women in another.

  I caught sight of Baksheesh cavorting for all he was worth. Even Salamon was happily kicking up his heels with everyone else. Shira, flushed and bright-eyed, had linked arms with the wreath of women. It occurred to me, in a fogbound sort of way, I had never seen her dance.

  After a time, I pleaded for a rest. Bashir had mercy on me. We stumbled back to his yurta. He hunkered down beside me on the ground. I was winded and sweating. Bashir himself looked somewhat woogly.

  He rubbed his face with a big hand and knit his brow as he leaned closer.

  “Dear friend,” he said, “we talk now a little business. You tell Bashir: What shall your ransom be worth?”

  I had been in peculiar situations, a few more than I ever bargained for. Excepting Shira, I’d have been just as glad to do without them. Now here was the Horse Master of the Bashi-Bazouks, himself big as a horse, who had called me dear friend, earnestly talking about a ransom. As if I were a prize catch.

  This would have been bad enough. What made it worse was that everyone else was having a marvelous time.

  The dancing had stopped. The revelers, of one accord, began singing, in natural harmony, what must have been their old, familiar songs. Very wild and beautiful they were; merry and melancholy both at once.

  And all this going on while Bashir was inquiring what I was worth, as matter-of-fact as reckoning the price a pack mule would fetch.

  I decided he was joking.

  “You’re joking,” I said.

  “Bashir not joke.”

  No, I guessed he didn’t. The hairs at the back of my neck started rising. Meantime, with night coming on, torches were being lit. Some of the young men had brought out their horses. They galloped around, standing with one foot on their saddles, doing backflips and somersaults while going full tilt, springing to the ground, running a few paces beside their mounts, then leaping astride again. They were amazingly skillful; despite my present circumstances, I couldn’t help but marvel at them. The onlookers cheered and whistled through their teeth. Shira, Salamon, and Baksheesh were somewhere in the crowd, happily unaware of my predicament, probably cheering, too.

  Was there, I wondered, any way we could simply cut and run? Our animals were—where? Penned among the livestock? Without them, we had no chance. With them, we had no chance. The horsemen would have ridden us down before we got clear of the camp.

  Bashir was not as fuddled as he had seemed. He kept a very clear eye on me. So I tried speaking quietly and reasonably, no doubt my first mistake.

  “Bashir,” I said, “you offered us hospitality. Is this the hospitality of the Bashi-Bazouks?”

  “Hospitality accepted must be returned equal measure. Is ancient custom.”