I could practically see his thoughts wandering down winding pathways and blind alleys. Finally, still puzzled, he said, “Is as you say.”

  The piebald mare, meantime, sidled up and nuzzled my neck.

  “Yours,” Bashir said. “Good horse. Love her, she love you. You win, Chooch Mirza, whoever you are.

  “We staked our lives,” he added. “Bashir lose.”

  “Then it’s over,” I said. “The offense is washed away.”

  “Not yet,” he said. “Strike now. Quick. Make botch and ghost of Bashir comes to haunt you.”

  He seriously expected to be killed. It staggered me how he could sit there, resigned to his fate, in good spirits, no hard feelings.

  “Is good,” he said cheerfully. “Great Mare fly down and carry Bashir away.”

  What he said next staggered me even more.

  “Then, you take Bashir’s place. You be new Horse Master.”

  The mare snorted fondly in my ear. I tried to absorb what Bashir so casually told me.

  “You be leader of Bashi-Bazouks. Oh, not too long.” He waved at the horsemen. “Until one of them challenges you. Then fight. No servant this time. When you be dead, he be chieftain. Very ancient custom.”

  Judging from the look of those fellows, they could hardly wait to get in line. I sheathed my tulwar with a gesture grand enough for all to see I meant him no harm.

  “Get up, Horse Master,” I said. “I already have blood enough on my hands. I didn’t seek it, I didn’t intend it, but it’s there nonetheless. I don’t want yours.”

  Bashir gaped and stared scandalized. “Is ancient custom—”

  “Bashir,” I said, “what you call ancient custom is just a bad habit. Somebody did something stupid long ago and you’ve been doing it ever since. It doesn’t make anything better. It only gets stupider and stupider.”

  Bashir shook his head. “Must do. No other way.”

  “There is,” I insisted. “You declare that this ancient custom is gone. Some of the others, too. No longer followed.”

  “Is true. Lose lot of good men that way,” he admitted. “But—can Bashir do this?”

  “You’re the Horse Master,” I said. “Your word is law, isn’t it?”

  A huge smile shone through his beard. I suspected he wasn’t as eager to see the Great Mare as he let on. “Yes! What Bashir says is how it will be. Start new ancient customs.”

  He got to his feet and stepped a few paces toward the onlookers. Though I understood hardly anything of the language, I was sure he was pronouncing the end of a good many ancient customs. From the outburst of cheers, I gathered some had never been exactly popular.

  He strode back to me. “Not yet done,” he said. “Blood must still be shed. You, Chooch Mirza, no more Bashir’s dear friend.”

  He drew the knife from his belt.

  Bashir clamped one rough hand around my wrist and, with the other, brandished his knife.

  “No more dear friend!” he cried. “Better than friend. Blood brother.”

  Before I understood what he had in mind, he gave me a good sharp nick on my outspread palm. As I yelped, he let me loose and did likewise to himself. He squeezed our palms together. Messy, but a great honor. I appreciated it. Though I would have preferred a cordial handshake.

  “Now, brother,” he declared, “sing, dance, big feast.”

  The crowd had gone wild, whooping and cheering. For the end of the more unpleasant customs? For Bashir and me becoming blood brothers? For the prospect of yet another feast?

  I had to take advantage of our fraternal relationship.

  “Cherished kinsman, blood brother,” I said. “A little light breakfast would be welcome, but we really must be going.”

  Bashir’s face fell. For a moment, I was afraid he was going to fling an ancient custom at me. He reluctantly nodded. “As brother wishes.”

  The Bashi-Bazouks laid out a breakfast nearly as big as last night’s feast. We ate at long trestle tables set up on the ground where Bashir, less than an hour ago, tried to send me to the Great Mare. Shira, Baksheesh, and I were tactful enough not to congratulate Salamon on how well his scheme had worked out.

  When we had all stuffed ourselves, Bashir belched generously and leaned his elbows on the table. “Now, brother, say where you go in such hurry.”

  Without going into details, I simply answered that we were heading for Shira’s caravanserai.

  “Where that?”

  I took out my map and laid the silken square in front of him, pointing to our destination.

  “With this?” Bashir squinted at it. “Pfui! No good. BashiBazouks never need map. Bashir tell you better, faster way.”

  While he did so, a couple of his folk brought our animals to us. Salamon beamed at seeing the donkey again. As for the camels, Baksheesh was not overjoyed.

  Bashir gestured at Shira’s mare, while the piebald snuffled and made googly eyes at me.

  “You have new horse, brother. Fine saddle, harness, all. And heart set on you.” He pulled me closer. In what, for him, was a whisper, which could probably be heard throughout the camp, he said behind his hand: “Be generous, brother. Why not give other to Kirkassi girl? To please her.” He nudged me in the ribs, which nearly made me fall off the bench. “That please you, too?”

  Shira sensibly kept her mouth shut.

  “Why, brother, that’s a wonderful idea,” I said. “I should have thought of it myself.”

  After a few more courses of light breakfast, we packed our gear. Bashir loaded us with extra provisions. We said our farewells then, although it took almost as long to leave the camp as the time we had spent in it. Bashir’s family and everyone else embraced us in turn; lastly, Bashir himself.

  “Brother, Bashi-Bazouks happy for what you do,” he said, hugging the breath out of me. “Ancient custom”—he grinned at this—“to wish you ‘bahtolo drom.’ Follow good road.”

  We set off then, Shira and I riding side by side. She leaned over and handed me my knife. “Yours, Kharr-loh. I didn’t need it.”

  I slid the blade into my sash. Why, I asked, did she want it in the first place?

  She smiled and said, “If Bashir harmed you—it was for him.”

  Bashir’s directions proved better than my map. Leaving the meadowlands, we moved along at a good pace. Now that my attention was no longer fixed on saving my skin, I could tell them about Charkosh trying to buy horses, and Bashir’s opinion of him.

  Salamon listened carefully to my account. It was the first time I had seen him less than cheerful.

  “Bashir understood the situation better than I did,” he said. “Quicker, as well. The bits and pieces start coming together. Things that didn’t fit, that made little sense—like some of Cheshim’s paintings—yes, I see them a little more clearly. If I’m at all correct, I don’t like what I see.

  “Did I not tell you, my lad, you could think your way through a stone wall if you put your mind to it and took enough time? Now, do you remember when bandits attacked the caravan?”

  I nodded. Oh, yes, I most surely did.

  “And their weapons? The caravan master had never seen bandits armed like that. Where did they get them? Stolen? Possibly. But I wonder, now, if Charkosh had a hand in it. What if he turned from trading in slaves to trading in weapons? In exchange for what?”

  For money, of course, I said. A share in the bandits’ plunder.

  “Or something more?” Salamon suggested. “Their loyalty? Is he their master, so to speak?” He shrugged. “If so, we must ask ourselves: Is he raising his own army? Does he mean to control as many trade routes as he can? To make himself a powerful warlord? This fits neatly with what Bashir overheard.

  “And the flaming globes in one of Cheshim’s paintings?” Salamon went on. “The burned-out villages? The thing that came to my mind was Greek Fire. The recipe was long lost. Dare we speculate that Charkosh found it somehow? That, indeed, would be a formidable weapon.

  “The biggest question,” said Salamon, “assuming any of this is correct, is what’s to be done about it?”

  “Well, Saxifrage,” said Baksheesh, “you’re a longheaded old bird with your logic and all, I’ll give you that much. But I can answer you easily: Nothing. Because, there’s nothing we can do. And besides, it’s none of our business. As the ferenghis say, ‘We have other fish to fry.’”

  “And so?” Salamon said.

  “I suggest we set about frying them.”

  While I wasn’t happy to let Charkosh get away with whatever dirty business he was up to, it didn’t concern us.

  I was wrong.

  “Kharr-loh,” Shira said, “I’m afraid.”

  She was. I saw it in her face. With all we had gone through—bandits, warring tribes, howling deserts, and a few others I had gladly forgotten—I had been terrified fairly often. Shira had never so much as flinched. Why now, practically at her doorstep?

  I asked what frightened her.

  “Going home,” she said, in a pale voice. “It was what I wanted from the beginning. I thought I could face what I found. Now I’m afraid of it.”

  Privately, I feared the worst. Yet I told her it was very possible, even probable, her mother and brother were still alive, waiting, hoping she would make her way back to them.

  I was lying. She knew I was lying.

  By afternoon, we reached Talaya: a little market town she had known all her life. Her household, she explained, bought provisions there.

  Instead of going straight to her caravanserai, I suggested stopping here first. The tradespeople should know what had happened. It would, I thought, be a way of softening any bad news. In any case, it could do no harm to find out now. At least it might help her decide what best to do.

  Because it had been part of her girlhood, I wanted to like the town. I couldn’t. It may once have been a pleasant, pretty place. I didn’t find it so.

  The dusty market square had only a handful of stalls. The few passersby seemed to be looking in every direction except at one another. We did attract some attention when we passed through the gate. Probably because of our fine horses, as well as our being strangers. Among the fruit and vegetable sellers, Shira saw none she recognized.

  “This is not as I remember,” she said.

  “Nothing ever is,” Salamon said.

  She did stop at a fruit stand she had known. The present owner could only tell her—and grudgingly—that the old woman who had once ran the business had given it up and now lived alone a few streets beyond the square.

  We set off to find her. As we crossed the square, two men hurried up.

  “You are the great al-Chooch?” said one, with a hasty salaam. “A moment of your precious time. Quickly, for the sake of mercy. A matter of life and death.”

  Shira and Salamon had gone on ahead. I hesitated, but the two men began drawing me toward a shabby inn. I barely had a chance to tell Baksheesh to hold my horse, keep an eye on the camels, and wait for me.

  “Mirza Zuski will bless you,” one said, leading me past the empty common room to a chamber at the rear.

  And there he was, at a table, sipping a glass of mint tea. I hadn’t known his name until now. Zuski—it sounded like trade-lingo for cockroach. The redheaded trader we had run up against near Marakand.

  He grinned. “A kindly fate brings us together again. I had word you were seen on your way to Talaya. It is my good fortune.”

  He set down his glass and stepped toward me. “Well, then, O Fearsome Warrior, peace be upon you.”

  He punched me in the face.

  Mirza?

  A thin voice in my ear, and somebody poking at me. Whoever it was, I wished they would stop. I didn’t feel like being poked at.

  “Mirza? Are you alive?”

  “Probably,” I said.

  I opened the one eye that seemed to be in working condition. Not that it made much difference. I saw mostly darkness. Some shafts of light came from cracks in what I took to be a wall. They made interesting patterns on the ground. When I got used to seeing nothing, I made out a small shape bending over me. I managed to sit up. A big mistake, for my head felt twice its size and about to fall off my neck.

  The boy, as I guessed him to be, crouched on his heels, peering at me with great curiosity.

  “I heard they locked up a famous warrior,” he said. “You don’t look like one. Only some kind of ferenghi.”

  “How do you know?”

  He shrugged. “You smell like one.”

  “So I’ve been told,” I said.

  “What are you called, mirza?”

  “Carlo. Carlo Chuchio,” I said. “Sometimes Kharr-loh. Sometimes al-Chooch. Or Wonder of the World—”

  The boy whistled. “All that?”

  “Other things, too,” I said.

  “Whatever they call you,” he said, “you are one sick ferenghi. Stay here.”

  “I expect to,” I said. “Where is ‘here’?”

  “My house.”

  He vanished. Too bad. He seemed a good-natured boy. I had probably only imagined him. I was still having trouble sorting out my thoughts. Zuski-the-Cockroach had roughed me up a good bit, then his friends had joined in until they lost interest and I lost my senses.

  I took inventory. My money belt was gone, of course. And my tulwar and dagger. They had taken my silk map, but overlooked the bookseller’s useless treasure chart, still in my shirt. For all the good that did me.

  The most important thing missing: Shira. And Salamon and Baksheesh. I didn’t panic. They would be searching for me. I was confident they would find me, sooner or later. So I spent a while hating Zuski-the-Cockroach.

  The boy was back again. I hadn’t imagined him, after all.

  “How did you do that?” I asked. “Where did you go?”

  “Wherever I am wanting to,” he said. “I have my ways.”

  It was too dim to see clearly, but I was sure he had a grin twice the size of his face. Along with the grin, he carried a pot of water. He let me drink some, then soaked a rag and dabbed at my cuts and bruises. “Why are they bringing you here, mirza?”

  “A long story. It doesn’t matter now,” I said. “Listen, my lad, whatever your name is—”

  “Kuchik.”

  “Well, then, Mirza Kuchik,” I said, “what a fine fellow you are. You can do me a good turn. A personal favor. Get me out of this place.”

  “I would not wish even a ferenghi to be locked up here,” he said. “But not now. Wait for night. If they are letting you live so long.”

  I didn’t care for the sound of that. But something had started nibbling at my memory. My wits were still fuzzy, it took me a while to fish it out. Shira had spoken of a little brother Kuchik. There were probably thousands of Kuchiks all over Keshavar. But—in these parts?

  “You have a sister?” I said. “Shira?”

  He shook his head sadly. “Once, but no more. This is our caravanserai. She is not here now.”

  Had I felt better, I’d have been more astonished than I was. Of all places to be locked up! I wondered if I heard him right.

  “A man named Charkosh took her away,” I said.

  “Yes. How do you know this, mirza?” His voice faltered. “So it was. The night he killed our father and mother. She is gone a long time. We hear nothing of her. It may be he killed her, too.”

  “She lives,” I said. I could feel his eyes staring at me.

  “This is true?” he cried. “Where is she?”

  “We were in Talaya together,” I said. “After that, I don’t know. I was stupid enough to let a pair of ruffians trap me. There was a redheaded cockroach named Zuski—”

  “That one?” Kuchik spat. “A bad man. Bad as Charkosh. But stupid. I am sorry, mirza.”

  “So am I. It was my own fault. She was coming home—”

  “No!” he burst out. “She must not. She must never come near this place. Bad things happen since she is gone.

  “That night,” he hurried on, “I am afraid. I run out and hide in the bushes. I see him carry her off. I follow after them, to fight for her. They go too fast. So far ahead of me I have to turn back. I do not dare go into the house. Some of his men are still there. I fear they will catch me and kill me.”

  Once he began his account, he was in such a rush to tell all that had happened that he skipped from one thing to the other, half in Kirkassi, half in a patchwork sort of trade-lingo, and I could scarcely follow him.

  The boy had, for a good while, lived like a stray cat on the outskirts of the caravanserai. Dashtani, the housekeeper, had been spared. Charkosh wasn’t such a fool as to do away with a useful servant; and Dashtani was clever enough to pretend to serve him.

  Clearly, she kept the boy from starving during those early days. She set out plates of scraps and leftovers. During the night, Kuchik would creep from the bushes, fill his belly, then dart back into hiding. If any of the ruffians asked why the provisions dwindled, she would throw up her hands and bewail the storerooms infested with rats.

  When things calmed down, he grew bold enough to venture inside the caravanserai itself.

  “It is a very old house, mirza,” he said. “My mother even thought it was built on top of ancient ruins. Long ago, my sister and I played hide-and-seek in little passages behind the walls. Only Dashtani knows I am there. I hear talk, I know what is happening.

  “Long after, Charkosh comes back. Zuski is with him, they are in business together. Dashtani tries to make him tell what he does with my sister. Where is she?

  “ ‘In Jehannum with all the other she-devils, I hope,’ he says. ‘That vixen cost me money. She hasn’t seen the last of me. She’ll cross my path one day or another. When she does, she’ll pay me back. With interest. I’ll take it out of her blood and bones.’

  “This lets us believe she is alive. When Dashtani begs to know more, he is in such a rage he strikes her. He tells her never to speak that cursed name again.

  “And so, mirza,” he pressed on, “she dare not come here. If she does, he will surely kill her.”

  “Where is Charkosh now?” I asked.

  “Away. Zuski commands in his place. Charkosh makes many journeys. Dashtani says he deals in weapons, and pots of something that burns hotter than fire. She has word he rides here tonight. Men wait for him. They meet to lay plans, mirza. Very big plans.”