I was beginning to think not too highly of ancient custom. It reminded me of Messire Maldonato, our family lawyer.

  “You give feast in exchange?” Bashir said. “Nah, that you cannot. So what else?”

  “My heartfelt thanks?” I suggested.

  “Bashir take that anyway,” he said. “From you, money is easiest. Never worry. No extra ransom, no charge for companions. Bashir is openhanded. So, you be same.”

  “Gladly,” I said, “but there’s no way I can repay you enough to make up for all the good things you’ve given us. I have nothing like that amount.”

  “Of course not. Bashir understands.”

  I heaved a sigh of relief. I told him I was happy he saw things my way.

  Then he added: “You, Crown Prince. Father, King. Rich king, yes? Was ever such thing as poor one? He pays for you.”

  “I’m sure he would,” I said, “but his kingdom is far away. Too far for word ever to reach him.”

  “Is nothing. Bashir sends best galloper.”

  My reasonable discussion was only setting us at loggerheads. A picture irresistibly popped into my head. A BashiBazouk horseman, big woolly hat, shaggy vest, jingling baubles and all, charging into Uncle Evariste’s counting room, demanding a fortune to regain his son—not even his son, but the family chooch.

  “Bashir,” I said, with what I hoped was convincing regret, “I’m sorry. It won’t do. It will take too long. It could be years—”

  “So?” Instead of giving up his impossible scheme, he persisted. “How long? Who cares? No hurry. You live with Bashi-Bazouks. Sing, dance, ride horses. Be happy. Raise family.”

  “No,” I said, firmly and flatly, so there would be no mistaking my determination. “I can’t do that. I won’t.”

  “You will.” He glowered at me. “Bashir has spoken. No one goes against word of Horse Master. That is custom. That is law.”

  A dangerous glint came into his eyes. His jaw was set. I knew he wouldn’t budge. I had to try another way.

  “All right, I’ll stay here,” I said, while he nodded happily. “But you let the others go.”

  This was not so much a noble gesture as a practical one. If it came to that, yes, I’d have given my life for Shira. Though, if at all possible, I would have preferred not to. I would rather be alive with her than dead without her. The simple reality: If I stayed behind, I stood a better chance of escaping on my own, and finding her later.

  Bashir chewed his beard. He looked slightly less menacing for a moment. But only for a moment.

  “Nah, nah. Bashir has no heart to keep you from companions, least of all from Kirkassi girl. Lovers, not so?” He nodded. “Yes. Bashir sees what he sees. Settled, then. As Bashir wills.”

  We were at the end of it. I had held back one last thing, reluctant even now to tell him.

  “There is no crown—” I began.

  “What, you wear hat?”

  “No crown. No prince. No ransom. There will never be a ransom,” I said. “I’m what you see. Nothing more.”

  Bashir jolted back. He sucked in a long breath. When he blew it out again, it seemed to come from the soles of his feet, winding up through the rest of him as part groan, part growl.

  “Is bad,” he finally said. “Very, very bad. Your servant— truth not in him. But had he no better sense than play false with Bashi-Bazouks? Worse, with Bashir himself?”

  “For all he knew, you meant to rob us,” I hurried to explain. “He was only protecting me. A lie? Yes, but such a small one. In Ferenghi-Land, we do it all the time.”

  “Not in Ferenghi-Land now.” Bashir glared. “With BashiBazouks. You are liar.

  “Servant speaks for master,” he went on. “Master must answer for what servant does. Servant and master are one. If servant lying, same as you lying. That is ancient code.”

  I wished he would stop flinging ancient codes at me. “Bashir,” I said, “Bashi-Bazouks are horse dealers. Do you mean to tell me you don’t bend the truth from time to time?”

  “Only with gorgios. And who counts gorgios? Not speaking truth is mortal insult.”

  “I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” I said. “But now I’ve told you the truth.”

  “Have you?” Bashir laid a shrewd eye on me, and frowned so deeply his face folded in on itself. “Maybe you take Bashir for fool? Maybe you lie now. So not pay ransom. Maybe really Crown Prince after all.

  “Makes no difference,” he went on. “One way or other, at heart of matter is lie. Big, big offense. One of worst. Against law, against custom, against honor.”

  I was caught in a cleft stick and couldn’t wiggle out of it. “Let us go our way. No hard feelings. All I can do is beg forgiveness.”

  “Not possible,” he said. “Insult so big can only be washed out.”

  “Then I’ll gladly wash it out,” I said. “How?”

  “With blood,” he said. “Yours. Or mine. You offend Bashir, you fight Bashir. To death.”

  I don’t know if I turned pea-green or ash-white.

  Bashir had his high spirits back again. He could just as well have been looking forward to another feast. He gave me a good-natured slap on the back that would have shaken my bones if they hadn’t been shaking already.

  “Tomorrow we fight. Till one of us be dead,” he said cheerily. “Tonight, sleep good. Peace be upon you.”

  Bashir ordered a couple of his people to lash up a yurta. He was practically licking his chops; he could hardly wait for whatever he had in mind. I could. Looking forward to disaster can be difficult, especially if you happen to be the object of it. I ducked inside, glad to be away from him.

  I slumped down on a pile of blankets. I wondered how to break the news to Shira. To Salamon. To Baksheesh, though I was less than happy with him for putting me—and all of us— in this mess to begin with.

  They soon crowded in, laughing and chattering, still excited by the festivities. I would have to do this gently, carefully, a little bit at a time.

  “Bashir’s going to kill me,” I said.

  That put a quick end to the small talk. Shira stared at me. She probably supposed I had drunk too much of the BashiBazouks’ refreshments.

  “It’s an ancient custom,” I said.

  “That’s hospitality?” Baksheesh put in.

  “Be quiet,” Shira told him, realizing I was sober and serious.

  “Remarkable. Remarkably bad,” Salamon said, after I explained how things had fallen out between Bashir and me. “One thing is clear. Not to belittle your abilities, my boy, but if you fight him, I fear you are bound to lose.”

  I had, ruefully, come to the same conclusion.

  “Therefore,” he went on, “you must not face him. In fact, you must be gone from here. If Bashir has no opponent, he has no one to kill.”

  “I can’t get out of it,” I said. “I have to fight him. What else?”

  Shira put a finger to her lips. She went to peer around the curtain at the entrance of the yurta. She warned us to keep our voices down; one of the horsemen was sitting there. And so we gathered close around the tiny oil lamp.

  “You have your knife and your tulwar,” she said. “Cut through the far wall. Once out, we scatter. We are not far from my caravanserai. We meet there. You can find your way somehow.”

  I shook my head. I had thought of something like that, I explained. I didn’t see it working. I had, as well, tried to bargain with Bashir to let her—all of them—go free while I stayed behind.

  “You would have done that?” she said. “Yes. You would.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  She gave me what I believed was a melting glance. “Diváneh,” she said.

  I took it as a term of endearment.

  “It means ‘crazy,’” said Baksheesh.

  “You have it backward, Kharr-loh,” she went on. “You are the one he means to fight. If anyone escapes, you do. He has no quarrel with the rest of us. If anyone stays, we do.”

  She added something that dazzled me more than any melting glance: “You take my horse.”

  I turned down that offer straight out. “How do we know he won’t come up with another ancient custom to let him do something just as bad to you? I won’t let you take the chance.”

  That put us back to where we started. We sat awhile, not saying much of anything. I did not mention that Charkosh had been there to buy horses. For the immediate future— assuming I had one—it was far down on my list of things to worry about.

  More than that, I didn’t want to get Shira stirred up again. It had been a good while since she showed any enthusiasm for going after that villain with one of our knives.

  Baksheesh had been unusually silent. I had never seen him so downcast.

  “Exalted Worthiness,” he began, when he finally spoke up. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Can you forgive me?”

  Apart from a passing moment when I would have enthusiastically wrung his neck—of course I forgave him. It only surprised me that it troubled him so much.

  He perked up a lot after that. “Blessings on you, O Marvel of Mercy,” he said. “Do you remember, long ago, I swore to defend you unto death? I gave you my word—”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I never expected you to keep it.”

  “Neither did I,” he said. “But now I see only one thing. Since I put Your Entirely Admirable Head at risk in these perilous straits, leave it to me. I will pluck you out.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that.

  “The only one to fight,” he said, “must be: myself.”

  “Diváneh. Crazy as Kharr-loh,” Shira said. But her voice had a fond tone; I knew she was as touched as I was. “If it comes to that, I stand a better chance than you. Bashir will kill you before you have time to scratch yourself.”

  “Has anybody killed me yet?” Baksheesh said. “A few have tried, none succeeded.”

  “No,” I said. “I won’t let you. I can’t, even if I wanted to. Bashir won’t accept it.”

  I explained to him that as Bashir was following one of the Bashi-Bazouks’ ancient rules, there was no way he would go against it.

  “I see a reasonable possibility,” said Salamon.

  “That’s more than I do,” said Baksheesh. “Go ahead, Saltimbanco. Let’s hear this scheme of yours.”

  I listened carefully while Salamon explained what he had in mind. I understood his reasoning. It did make sense—of a sort and up to a point. But I wasn’t sure it could work.

  “Nor am I,” he admitted. “But it is not impossible. And if it is not impossible, then, logically, a measure of possibility exists.”

  “That’s your best logic?” Baksheesh muttered. “I could have come up with that myself.”

  “A small measure of possibility,” Shira said. “For Kharr-loh most of all, a great measure of danger.”

  “But it is something of a plan,” Salamon said. “And, therefore, a little better than nothing.”

  I took some hard moments to think it over. “I’ll try it,” I said at last. “I’ll have to.”

  I looked from Shira to Baksheesh. They nodded, no happier than I.

  I hoped we would sleep. None of us did, not even Baksheesh. We huddled there with little more to say, alternating between tense and glum. By the time dawn trickled through the crown of the yurta, my eyelids had begun shutting down.

  They opened fast. In rolled Bashir, delighted to see us awake.

  “Come, come, dear friend,” he boomed. “Bashi-Bazouks all up and waiting.”

  I was in no hurry. I suggested starting later in the day.

  “Nah, nah.” He gave me a cordial jab in the ribs. “Sooner is better. Why spoil afternoon?”

  I asked about breakfast, preferably long and leisurely.

  He shook his head. “No eating before fighting. Not good. You throw up. If you die, worse than that. Bowels go loose, you disgrace yourself.”

  He started herding us out of the yurta. I barely had time to snatch my tulwar. At the entrance, Shira held me back.

  “Give me your knife, Kharr-loh.”

  I did. I was being hustled along too much to ask why.

  The sun was rising quickly. It did nothing to take away the chill. As Bashir said, the whole camp had gathered in a half circle a short distance away. No one seemed any the worse for the night’s festivities. Bashir’s black stallion, looking big as an elephant, stamped the ground.

  I should have known horses would be involved. But where was Shira’s? I saw only a piebald mare, lean, leggy, with a long, narrow head. She rolled her eyes and curled her lips, as if smiling or getting ready to bite me.

  “Good mount, high spirits. One of best,” Bashir said. “Win, you keep her. Lose, you not care.”

  When I asked about the rules, he shrugged. “Only one: No rules.”

  With that, he swung astride. Roaring “Yah! Yah!” at the top of his voice, he galloped into the clear space amid the yurtas.

  Baksheesh gave me a leg up. He handed me a slender lance that Bashir had provided. Shira whispered to me, “You understand what to do?”

  I hoped so.

  Bashir had called my horse high-spirited. I would have called her a disgruntled crocodile.

  No sooner had I swung astride than she reared and nearly sent me sailing heels over head; then kicked up her hindquarters. At one point, I swear she had all hooves off the ground, for she landed with a jolt that made my teeth clack. I could barely keep hold of my lance with one hand and grab the saddle horn with the other.

  I was glad Bashir had declined to serve a meal. My breakfast and I would already have parted company. To make matters worse, Baksheesh gave the mare a good smack on the rear. She plunged forward, galloping full stretch into the clearing hemmed around by eager onlookers.

  When Bashir saw me bearing down on him, his face lit up. He gave a couple of joyful whoops and waved me on. He could have been welcoming a long-lost relative. Except for the lance he pointed at me.

  My long-legged crocodile of a horse headed straight at him. I flung away my lance and hauled at the reins with both hands. No more than a foot from Bashir, I was able to turn the mare aside; but not before our mounts collided with a jolt that nearly sent Bashir himself out of his saddle.

  For a moment, we were flank to flank, practically knee to knee—a good thing, too. At such close quarters, Bashir could not bring his lance into play. With no suggestion from me, the mare slewed around and streaked ahead of Bashir’s mount.

  He galloped after us. Afraid he might decide to throw his lance at me like a spear, I bent so low in the saddle that half my face pressed flat against the mare’s neck. Some lengths behind, Bashir was yelling indignantly for me to turn and confront him and be skewered like any self-respecting warrior.

  This was the last thing I intended. The night before, in the yurta, we had agreed that I must, at all cost, stay away and make no attempt to engage him.

  And so I tried to keep my distance. Easier said than done. As we circled around, Bashir, in hot pursuit, kept gaining on me.

  Pounding over the turf, I had one flash of completely useless regret, and cursed myself for a chooch. Better for Shira and all of us had I stayed Crown Prince of Ferenghi-Land, awaiting the arrival of a nonexistent ransom. We would, at this very instant, be stuffing ourselves with Bashi-Bazouk delicacies instead of my being chased by an irate Horse Master bent on doing me in; and coming ever closer to succeeding.

  Well, so much for that part of Salamon’s plan. I didn’t blame him, he had assured me it would be dangerous. I hadn’t expected it to unravel so quickly.

  As for the rest—I dared a glance behind me. What looked like an animated bundle of rags came streaking into Bashir’s path. Despite all his bunions, lumbago, and everything else ailing him, Baksheesh moved faster than I had ever seen him.

  He vaulted up behind the astonished Bashir and grappled him around the waist. Bashir could not shake him loose. The two of them, struggling, tumbled off the stallion’s back. Baksheesh nimbly rolled away to avoid being squashed. The Horse Master had fallen heavily as a load of rocks; he sprawled, stunned. I hauled on my reins, and leaped—though it was more of a lurch—off the mare.

  The onlookers began shouting furiously, shaking their fists. Some of Bashir’s riders started forward to defend their fallen chieftain. Shira ran to pick up my lance and warn them away. Beside her, Salamon called out to the angry crowd, insisting all had been done properly according to their customs.

  Despite his assurances, I was afraid they might come rushing at us. His words, at least, were enough to puzzle them; and they held back, muttering among themselves.

  Bashir sat up, still dazed, rubbing his head. As soon as he saw me come near Baksheesh, who was warily keeping his distance, he began roaring at me. “Cheat! Treacherous ferenghi! Cowardly gorgio! How dare break rules of combat? Take horse. Face Bashir again. Alone.”

  He tried to get to his feet, with a view to breaking me in half. To quiet him down, I had to draw my tulwar and set the point under his chin.

  He was clear enough in his wits to realize I had him at a fatal disadvantage. I ordered him to stay where he was and listen carefully.

  “For one thing,” I began, “didn’t you tell me there were no rules?”

  “But not two against one in combat of honor,” he burst out. “Any fool knows that.”

  “I’m following your own law,” I hurried on, as he ground his teeth and glared at me. “There weren’t two of us.”

  “A ferenghi and also crazy?” he flung back. “You tell Bashir: Who is sorry bag of bones with you?”

  “My servant. You know that,” I said. “You told me only yesterday: What the servant does is like the master doing it himself. Baksheesh followed my orders. I’m responsible. Servant and master are one and the same.”

  “Is so,” said Bashir. “What difference does that make?”

  “All the difference,” I said. “If servant and master are the same, there weren’t two of us. Only one. Me.”

  Bashir’s brow twisted into gnarls and knots. He chewed over my words for a little while. “Is trick somewhere in this. Deep inside. Too deep for Bashir. But there.”