So Salamon had guessed right. Charkosh was up to devilry of some sort. Whatever his scheme, it made no difference to me. I had to deal with first things first.

  The first of first things: Shira. Had she found out where Zuski-the-Cockroach had taken me? If so, would she come looking for me? Would she realize the danger? Or was she cautious enough to keep her distance? Somehow, I doubted that. What would Salamon advise? Too many questions and no answers. I had to head her off.

  “Kuchik,” I said, “you told me you could let me out.”

  “Yes, but you shall wait for dark. If you are being seen—”

  “I can’t wait,” I said. “Do it now.”

  “Not possible, mirza.”

  “Why?” I said. “You got in here. I’ll go out the same way.”

  “I think not,” he said. “You are a too-big ferenghi.”

  He helped me to my feet and drew me to a corner of the room. When he showed me a narrow gap, I understood what he meant. I would have to be skinnier than a weasel. It was barely wide enough for him to squeeze through.

  “When all is quiet, I come unbar the door,” he said. “I shall go with you, or you never find your way.”

  “We don’t have time for that,” I said. “Do you know which road she and my friends will follow if they come here from Talaya?”

  “Yes. There is only one.”

  “Good,” I said. “Go there. Keep watch. Warn them to stay away.”

  “And you? This is not a good place for you to be.”

  “Just go,” I told him. “After that, we’ll see.”

  He pondered a moment before he agreed that we had no other choice.

  “As you say. Peace be upon you, mirza.” He started wriggling through the gap.

  “Kuchik,” I called after him, “I love your sister.”

  By then, he was gone.

  The last thing in the world I wanted was to sit like a penned-up sheep waiting to find out what Zuski-the-Cockroach, or Charkosh himself, had in mind. The only certainty: it would not be pleasant.

  What little light there was had begun fading. In those dim remaining moments, I took stock of my situation. I had been tossed into what I supposed to be a kind of lumber room, a catchall for oddments too useless to be stored anywhere else, and too useful to be thrown away.

  If I could lay hands on any kind of tool, I might be able to chip at the masonry and widen the gap. I groped through the heap of what felt like rags and old rope and unidentifiable junk, finding nothing that would serve.

  For lack of anything better to do, I scrabbled and scratched at the brickwork, only succeeding in leaving some portions of my skin there. The floor of beaten earth was too hard to dig, impossible to burrow into. The heavy wooden door, of course, was barred; no telling what was on the other side, but I heaved and flung myself against it anyway.

  I was only wasting my strength. Short of the ground opening at my feet and a genie with a lamp popping up to whisk me away or guide me through a secret tunnel, I was well locked in.

  I sat down, at last, and leaned my back against the wall, hoping something else might occur to me. It didn’t. In the darkness, I couldn’t be sure if my eyes were open or shut. It made no difference, in any case.

  The dream I had bought from Khabib—he had assured me I could summon it up on any occasion. This seemed a good one; and so I did, glad to be with Shira in some happier place.

  I may have drowsed. Again, I couldn’t be certain. Sunlight glinted through the cracks. I heard sounds at the door. I jumped to my feet. Kuchik had done his work, Shira was safe, he was coming to lead me to her.

  No, of course not. The door banged open. I was taken on either side by the pair of thugs I recognized as the ones who had lured me away with talk of life or death—neglecting to mention it was my own.

  They shoved me down a corridor lined with what I supposed were sleeping quarters and into a large eating room set about with tables and benches. At their ease, munching dates or fingering their calmative beads, sat ten or a dozen men in travel garb.

  I gave them only a glance, but enough to see they had to be the finest collection of villains ever gathered in one place at the same time.

  Oh, they were no light-fingered pickpockets or everyday bazaar ruffians. These were first-rate villains of weight and substance, who gave orders and were used to being obeyed. Changing a few details of their costumes, it could as well have been a meeting of the Magenta Grand Council.

  Except they had killers’ eyes. Apart from that, they seemed on the best of terms all around. It chilled me to realize they were warlords who had fought one another and knew one another very well.

  Zuski-the-Cockroach was there, standing in front of a table. His face was blotchy and he was sweating heavily, choking on his own rage. I grasped the situation straightaway. I had been in it myself, when Uncle Evariste gave me a public dressing-down in front of my fellow clerks. But this must have been worse than any shame or humiliation Uncle Evariste laid on me. Zuski-the-Cockroach looked as if he were having his skin peeled off. I almost felt sorry for him.

  What froze my blood was the man sitting behind the table. I had never set eyes on Charkosh until now. But I knew him. Cheshim, the hermit-artist, had rendered a pretty good likeness in the painting he had shown us. But he had not done the man full justice.

  Charkosh, in the flesh, was a lot scarier. No mere painter could have caught that air of brutality. If Charkosh ever smiled at you, you’d wish he hadn’t.

  If I had felt uneasy or disapproving of Shira for wanting to put a knife in him, I took it all back. Now that I saw him, I wanted to do the same.

  Charkosh glanced at me with as much curiosity as he would have given to a slab of meat, then went back to bully-ragging Zuski-the-Cockroach.

  “So? This is what you brought me? And why, you fool? Because he once offended your tender sensibilities? You knew I wanted that half-breed she-devil. I told you I had word she was traveling with him. You should have taken her before now. Or did you think you’d keep her for yourself? No, you let her slip away. And what do I have? A nothing.”

  “The half-breed will follow him,” Zuski-the-Cockroach flung back. “It was my plan to get them both—”

  “Your plan? Are you the one to make plans? You disobeyed my orders. I put you in charge of Talaya. And then what? You swaggered around with your gang of ruffians. Half the folk left, thanks to you. The town brings no profit. I put up with your strutting stupidity as long as you are useful. But not when it costs me money. Are you holding back a little something for your own purse? Do you have other clever schemes?”

  As quarrels so often go, his rage overflowed into everything else Charkosh could dredge up, far beyond the failure to lay hands on Shira. He ticked off every mistake Zuski-theCockroach had made.

  “You fly too high for the size of your wings.” His voice had turned stone cold, which was worse than when it had been on the boil. “You need to be brought down a little.”

  Zuski-the-Cockroach had his fill of browbeating; I couldn’t blame him. He took a step toward Charkosh.

  “Are you the one to do it?” he said between clenched teeth. He pulled a dagger from his belt and pointed it at Charkosh. “Will you try, mirza?”

  Charkosh never moved, only gave him a flat-eyed stare and slightly raised an eyebrow.

  A couple of his henchmen had sauntered behind Zuskithe-Cockroach. One of them had already unsheathed his blade. In an efficient, businesslike way, he made a quick thrust. Zuski-the-Cockroach stopped short. His jaw dropped, he made gargling noises. The one who stabbed him gave the knife a good twist and wrenched it free. The two men caught him under the arms before he fell.

  Charkosh motioned curtly with his head. Zuski-theCockroach’s eyes were glazing over, his face still had an air of astonishment. The men hauled him away, his heels scraping across the floor. Charkosh chose a few dates from the bowl beside him, chewed them up, and spat out the stones.

  Not one of that distinguished company of villains turned so much as a hair. I suspected they had all been in the same situation and had done the same thing. They probably admired and respected Charkosh for acting correctly.

  For myself, it left me shaken. I had seen dead men enough to last me a lifetime; but never one murdered in front of me and in such a matter-of-fact way. As far as I was concerned, Zuski-the-Cockroach would not be missed; but I took no joy in that. Not that I was exactly grief-stricken. I had troubles of my own.

  After the body had been dragged out and disposed of, they got down to serious business. I was surprised that Charkosh kept me around, since he thought so little of me. I had, for a second, the wild hope he would let me go. Then wild despair, for I realized I made no difference to him one way or the other. He would get around to me whenever he pleased. At the moment, he had other concerns.

  Charkosh did most of the talking, with his colleagues occasionally chiming in to comment or question. In its own way, this was not too different from my uncle and Messire Bagatìn going over the accounts item by item. It would have been boring had it not been horrifying.

  Again, Salamon had it right. What they discussed was nothing less than taking power over the best stretches of the Road of Golden Dreams; and squeezing tribute from the towns along the way. Caravans, as well, would pay for protection against roving gangs of bandits; which was to say, the warlords themselves. There was even talk of tolls for the use of the larger oases.

  For their part, the warlords would stop fighting one another and join forces under Charkosh as villain-in-chief. It was a nice arrangement for everyone except those who weren’t robbers. I had to give Charkosh credit. He thought in large terms.

  For his part of the bargain, in exchange for a share in the profits, he would provide the newest and best quality of arms.

  More than the promise of weapons, what caught the warlords’ excited attention was a clay pot. Charkosh held it up for all to see. “Among ferenghis,” he said, “it is called ‘Greek Fire.’”

  Murmurs rippled through the company. One of the warlords spoke up. “I have heard old tales of such a fire,” he said. “But, Charkosh Agha, it no longer exists—if ever it did.”

  “It exists,” Charkosh said. “Not long ago, I offered a small amount to the Kajiks and Karakits during their recent disagreement. They were kind enough to test it for me. Their chieftains are here with us today. They will assure you of its effectiveness.

  “But, yes,” he continued, “the formula was lost. And found. It has come into my hands. I obtained it from a journeyer returning from Cathai. The poor fool knew nothing of what he had; he could not read the language. He believed it was a valuable recipe for meat sauce. The price was high, but it was the journeyer who paid. With his life.”

  The warlords chuckled appreciatively, as if he had come out with an especially clever witticism.

  “I destroyed the scroll it was written on. But the formula is safe,” he quickly added. “Locked in my memory. No one else shall ever gain possession of it.”

  He droned on at length, explaining how the substance could be ignited in a vessel of any size, with a wick or long fuse; thrown by hand or launched from a catapult. It would stick like pitch to any surface—stone, wood, or flesh.

  Water, he told them, would not quench it, only sand could smother it. At the moment, he had no more than a small amount; but, he assured them, he would soon have the ingredients in quantity, easily stored and shipped as needed, by camelback or horse and wagon.

  The warlords listened intently. They were military men and these details were of professional concern to them. Frankly, I lost interest. Escape was my overriding thought, but I saw no way to do it.

  When he finished, they nodded approval. Business over, I expected them to leave. But, at every meeting, after all is said, done, and settled, there has to be somebody who muddies the waters by asking an intelligent question.

  “Charkosh Agha,” said one, “with respect, would it be possible for you to favor us with a demonstration?”

  Charkosh pondered a moment. “If you wish, that can be arranged. Ah. Yes. We have with us an excellent subject. I would have disposed of him in any case. But why be wasteful? He can serve the purpose admirably, as you shall see for yourselves.”

  All eyes turned to me.

  I’ve heard it told that a drowning man sees all his past life flash before his eyes. Never having been in that position, I can’t say if it’s true or not. As for the prospect of being burned to a crisp within the next few moments—in my case, at least, it didn’t apply.

  I had no time for useless recollections. My concern wasn’t with the past but the immediate future. Of which, it would seem, I had very little.

  If anything, I was angry. No. Furious. I was certainly not going to go quietly. If Charkosh wanted my life, he would have to work for it. I could only make things as disagreeable and messy as possible.

  “Take him into the courtyard,” Charkosh ordered the ruffians at my side.

  He motioned for his pair of thugs to haul me outside. I had made up my mind to sell my life dearly; but, much as I struggled and flung myself about, it made no difference to them. They had their work to do, and meant to do it with the least effort. They weren’t even annoyed at me. One simply punched me in the head, the other kicked my legs from under me and sent me tumbling through the door.

  Charkosh, with the clay pot in his hands, followed. The company trailed after him, glad for some entertainment to lighten a night of tiresome business.

  I blinked in the morning sunlight. The caravanserai was much like all the others we had stayed in, but the flagstoned courtyard was larger than I had imagined. The usual arcades at ground level, stables at the far side, a well in the middle. The difference: Shira had grown up here. A lovely setting, with mountains, still brushed with snow, towering in the distance. I hoped she would never set foot here again.

  His guests gathered around him. There was no sport in killing a sitting bird, so I expected Charkosh would tell his ruffians to turn me loose. I was already casting about to see where I might run, and wondering how long before he decided to end the amusement.

  At that moment, one of the guards came hurrying from the gate and spoke hastily in his ear. I could not hear the man’s words. Charkosh frowned. He looked as pleased as if uninvited guests were arriving at his party.

  “A war band rides here,” he said. “Whose people are they?”

  No one answered. The company exchanged unhappy glances. “Are they yours, mirza?” he demanded, his eyes on the one who had asked for a demonstration. The warlord shook his head. “Yours, then?” Charkosh turned to the next. “Or yours?”

  “They are not my people.” The man’s chin went up. “No others were part of our agreement.”

  “Or perhaps, mirza,” Charkosh said, eyes narrowing, “you had some reason not to mention—”

  “I have told you, Agha.” The man bristled. “Do you doubt my word? Do you call me a liar?”

  “Only if you are not speaking the truth, mirza,” Charkosh said.

  I heard the warlord suck in a sharp breath. His colleagues scowled. They were a prickly, touchy lot of killers, especially sensitive when their honor was questioned.

  I don’t know what came over me. Pressed hard enough, I suppose even a chooch will snatch at anything to save his neck.

  “They are his own men!” I blurted out.

  All stared at me. As we say in Magenta, I had set the cat among the pigeons. Or, rather, I had set a big, flapping goose amid a pack of wolves. They puzzled over what to make of it.

  “He called you here to betray you,” I rushed on, as if I earnestly believed what I was saying. “All of you here at the same time. So he can slaughter every one of you—”

  “Silence him,” commanded Charkosh, his face livid. “Cut out that liar’s tongue.” He took a step toward me, as if he meant to do that operation himself.

  “Let him speak,” cried one of the warlords. “He says what you do not wish us to hear.”

  In fact, I needed to say no more. As far as they were concerned, everything fell into place. They were on familiar ground. It made perfect sense to them. They had probably done the same thing.

  “I wondered, Agha,” said one, “why you were so willing to sacrifice one of your own men.”

  “Not one of mine,” Charkosh flung back. “I never laid eyes on him before.”

  “How, then, does he know your secret scheme?” demanded another.

  It may take some vigorous twisting of the facts; but, if you’re so inclined, I suppose it’s always possible to see things in the worst possible light. A dishonest camel-dealer is convinced his customers are out to cheat him. All the more so with professional robbers and murderers. Once they had that bone in their teeth, they weren’t going to let go of it.

  They pressed closer to Charkosh. My two ruffians lost interest in keeping hold of me and drew nearer to their master.

  “It would suit you well,” one of the warlords cried out. “Trap us here and kill us all? So you alone are in command—”

  He and Charkosh stood glaring at each other. I wondered if this was the moment to put my head down, act as if I weren’t there, and quietly walk away. Meantime, some of Charkosh’s people came to gather around, blocking my path to the gate.

  “Did you take us for fools?” The warrior drew his tulwar.

  “I take you for what you are.” Charkosh bared his teeth. He held up the pot of Greek Fire, struck a light, and set the wick smoldering.

  “Have a care or this will be for you,” he spat out. “I never trusted you from the first. Stand away, son of pigs.”

  For an instant, there was shocked silence. Then I heard other blades come hissing out of their scabbards.

  “Treachery!” someone shouted—one of Charkosh’s men or a warlord, I couldn’t tell. A wave of fury swept over the courtyard. Flames burst from the clay pot as Charkosh raised it above his head. It flashed into my mind—I had seen that same gesture before, in Cheshim’s picture in the cave. The blazing globe, the face of Charkosh twisted with rage—