Who struck him first, I couldn’t tell. In the instant, all the warlords were upon him, their blades slashing. He flung himself one way and another to escape their attack. He stumbled forward. Still clutched in his hand, the vessel shattered as he fell.

  Flames engulfed him. I felt their heat even from where I stood. He had begun screaming, writhing on the flagstones. The warlords drew away and turned to face Charkosh’s people pressing toward them.

  If there was ever a time to slip away, it was now. Black smoke drifted over the couryard. The stench of charred flesh caught in my throat and made me gag. I shouldered my way through the oncoming crowd. No one gave me so much as a glance.

  Clear of the fighting behind me, I broke into a run. Open, unguarded, the gate lay ahead of me.

  I never got that far.

  The leading riders of the war band galloped into the courtyard, whooping and yelling at the top of their voices. I threw myself to the ground, wrapped my arms around my head, and rolled away to escape the plunging hooves. In those first moments of confusion, I had no idea whose people they were, and didn’t much care. My only thought was to lie low, let them pass, then make a dash for the open road. Something was nuzzling at me and snuffling into my ear.

  I ventured to look up, and met the adoring gaze of that long-legged, long-headed crocodile: my piebald mare. I swear she was smiling at me. I realized only then that the ones making such a racket were a troop of Bashir’s horsemen; and Bashir himself was roaring “Yah! Yah!” while his riders at full stretch circled the courtyard. I glimpsed a flash of white— Shira’s steed, with her astride and Kuchik behind, arms around her waist, hanging on for dear life.

  I jumped to my feet and clambered onto my piebald, and she was off into the thick of it. I saw nothing of Salamon or Baksheesh. I was just as glad. This was hardly the place for either of them—hardly the place for Shira. Or myself, for that matter.

  I had never seen the Bashi-Bazouks in action. And hoped I never would again. I had the quick impression these were the younger hotheads from the camp, spoiling for any kind of fight, and this was the nicest thing that could have happened to them. Instead of lances, some carried stubby little double-curved bows. They looked the size of children’s toys. But they were ferocious weapons. Given a choice between the Greek Fire, still blazing away, and Bashi-Bazouk arrows hissing through the air—I believe I’d have taken my chances with the Greek Fire.

  Charkosh’s gang of ruffians must have felt the same way. Their greatest ambition in life, at that moment, was to flee the courtyard. On top of that, Bashir’s riders whistled through their teeth, and yelled enough to terrify the wits out of anyone but a Bashi-Bazouk.

  The company of warlords gave a better account of themselves, but not much better. They were seasoned warriors, long experienced, shrewd in combat—which meant they knew when it was time to vacate the premises.

  About half of them ran for the stables, hoping to make their escape on horseback. The rest gave up any notion of recovering their steeds, their baggage, or salvaging anything but their own skins. Bad choices either way, for Bashir’s riders went after all of them with their deadly little toy bows and arrows. I wanted only to reach Shira. I urged my devoted crocodile into the press of horsemen, but it was like galloping into a riptide. The piebald and I were spun in one direction, then another.

  I did catch sight of Salamon leading the donkey, both calmly picking their way through the surrounding lunacy; on Salamon’s face was such a look of wide-eyed, innocent astonishment that I half expected him to make a note of the storm swirling around him.

  By the time I reined up near Shira, young Kuchik had already hopped off the white mare. I dismounted as he capered over to me.

  “I am finding them,” he crowed. “Then my sister goes to fetch those big fellows on horseback. Mirza, I do well, no?”

  “You did very well,” I said. For the first time, I saw he had the same eyes as Shira.

  “I was telling my sister you love her.” Kuchik grinned enough for several boys his size. “That is good, too?”

  “I believe she knows that,” I said. “But, yes, also very good.”

  She was standing looking down at the still-smoldering remains. My first impulse was to put my arms around her— which I did; not so much a loving embrace but to turn her away. She shook her head.

  “I was not afraid to face him when he lived,” she said. “Why should I be afraid to face him now?”

  Salamon had joined us. “Come, child. You have seen. Now let it be. You need do no more. His life saw to his death, as I promised you.”

  Meantime, a handsome, gray-haired woman of generous proportions hurried from the main building of the inn. Without being told, I knew this was Dashtani. The two of them ran and clung together. Shira let herself be led inside.

  I had given up on Baksheesh. I assumed he was at the encampment, fortifying himself with fermented mare’s milk.

  He came up behind me, with the camels rolling their eyes and wrinkling their noses. He looked at me with sincere awe and admiration.

  “O Valorous One,” he murmured, waving a hand around the courtyard. “This was your doing?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “Not really.”

  “Ah.” He shrugged. “No matter. What is perfection without a tiny flaw? Intrepid Eagle Among the Planets, killing people doesn’t seem to be your line of work.”

  The Bashi-Bazouks had begun the warriors’ eternal chore of cleaning up the mess they had made. Apart from being savaged by the late Zuski-the-Cockroach, and threatened with Greek Fire, I had to face a moment of greatest peril to life and limb.

  “Brother!”

  Before I had time to take a defensive posture, Bashir seized me in an embrace so brotherly that, having rescued me, he could have spoiled it by squashing me flat. Red-faced, sweat-soaked, he pounded me on the back; and left me hardly breath enough to thank him.

  “Chto! What thanks when brother needs brother?”

  I believed him; but, short of a better pretext, he would have turned out the whole camp to rescue a cat up a tree. He let me loose, finally, and glanced around the courtyard and inn.

  “Not so comfortable as yurta,” he declared. “But, is good.” He wiped his brow on his sleeve. “Hot work makes big thirst, and empty bellies so late in day.”

  He shifted from one foot to the other, sucked his teeth, and licked his lips, waiting expectantly.

  So—what else could I do?—I invited them all to lunch.

  If, at home in Magenta, I had taken it on my own authority to invite a horde of sweaty, boisterous, ravenous Bashi-Bazouks for refreshments, our housekeeper Silvana would have crowned me with a skillet. Dashtani took it admirably in stride. She sent Kuchik scrambling into the kitchen. Then, hands on hips, she turned her attention to Baksheesh.

  “A lazy ne’er-do-well if I’ve ever seen one.” She looked him up and down. “The pots and pans need scrubbing. And so do you. Off with you, Mirza Ragbag. Make yourself useful.”

  Baksheesh popped his eyes at her. He stood gaping, at a rare loss for words. Then he did what I had never seen him do before. The rascal blushed.

  So did Dashtani. If I hadn’t been there to observe for myself, I wouldn’t have believed it. But I saw it happen. Hearts on tiptoe, they looked on the verge of rushing into each other’s arms. In the event, the more she berated him the more his eyes lit up. My besotted camel-puller ducked his head and hoisted his shoulders, in case Dashtani might decide to give him a clip on the ear instead of an embrace, and made for the kitchen.

  Shira, I gathered, was still in the old room of her girlhood. I would have gone to her. Dashtani held me back.

  “Let her be,” she said. “I told her what happened that night. Leave her to herself.”

  I went to sit at a table with Salamon and Bashir, who took up room enough for several guests. I had been here only a few hours before; it gave me a chill to remember Zuski-the-Cockroach, the warlords, and Charkosh gladly offering to burn me alive. Now my only danger was that Bashir might give me another bear hug. He settled for a fraternal punch on my arm.

  “Brother mine,” he said, “you come back to camp with Bashir. Bashi-Bazouks all glad to see you again.” He cocked a big eye at me. “Some say Great Mare sent you, and you go soon to be with her.”

  I said that was flattering, but I hoped not.

  “And some say,” he went on, “no offense to you, brother, but donkey-man is clever fellow, with much wisdom. He had hand in fight with Bashir. Is true?” He turned to Salamon.

  “Lavengro,” he said—I understood the term meant one of great learning, an unusual compliment coming from Bashir— “you ride with us? No work, only think wise thoughts.”

  “Ah, well, a most interesting suggestion,” Salamon said. “I take it as a marvelous honor. But the wisdom of wise men is highly overrated. You’ll manage very well on your own. No, I shall press on to the sea.”

  Bashir swallowed his disappointment by swallowing every morsel of food that Kuchik brought. He perked up a lot when Shira came at last to join us. I saw her face was pale and drawn. Bashir clapped his hands.

  “And this one? Is Kirkassi, but brave as Bashi-Bazouk. You, brother, you stay with her, yes?”

  Soon after, when Dashtani had cleaned out her larder to feed Bashir and his riders, we said our farewells. Bashir still urged us to come with him.

  “Must break camp now, move on to new pastures. You and Kirkassi change mind, easy to find our trail. Bashir knows horses; knows men, too. You, brother, have restless heart, Bashir sees it. You learn to be good Bashi-Bazouk. For now, bahtolo drom. Brother, follow good road.”

  “You, too, brother,” I said. “Bahtolo drom. And peace be upon you.”

  Well, turning myself into a Bashi-Bazouk would have been no stranger than some of the things that happened to me. But, as they galloped from the courtyard, I knew in my heart we wouldn’t meet again.

  “Whatever else,” I said to Shira, “you’re home.”

  “Am I?” she said.

  We were happy. I suppose we were. Once word spread that this stretch of road was safe and free of bandits, we could expect travelers to stop and lodge at the caravanserai. Over the next couple of days, stablemen and porters came looking for work. Baksheesh, when he and Dashtani could stop making eyes and tear themselves away from each other, set himself in charge of them.

  He turned out better at that than camel-pulling. I saw the rascal scandalized at finding a speck of dust. Dashtani had even cajoled him into taking a bath.

  Shira and I had our quiet times together. But I couldn’t shake off the impression there were shadows in the corners.

  And yet another leavetaking.

  Early that morning, Salamon came to find us at breakfast. He had, as usual, passed the night in the stables with our animals.

  “I shall miss all of you,” he said. “But I’ve lingered too long. I must be on my way.”

  It didn’t surprise me. I knew, sooner or later, we would part company. I had only hoped he might have waited a little while. What surprised me was Baksheesh, who looked more downcast than any of us.

  “Well, you silly old coot,” he said, making every effort to grumble and not succeeding at it, “you saved my life. I never thanked you. I thank you now. Dear friend—I’m sorry to see you go.”

  “Your tender heart has finally got the better of you.” Salamon smiled as he glanced at Dashtani. “I knew it would.”

  “So what if it has?” Baksheesh retorted. “I hate it when people say ‘I told you so.’”

  “And you, my dear girl,” Salamon added, embracing Shira, “I’m glad for you. You’ve come to the end of your journey.

  “As for you, lad,” he said to me, “I hope you find what you’re seeking.”

  I took Shira’s hand. “I already have.”

  “If that’s true, it would be most astonishing. Count yourself lucky,” he said. “But promise me one thing. Take good care of your donkey. He’s a fine fellow.”

  “I won’t be able to do that,” I said, “because he’s going with you.”

  “Oh? Well, well, my boy, that’s very kind of you. We’ve grown quite fond of each other. Thank you.”

  We went to the gate with him. He turned once and waved at us while the donkey frisked beside him. Then they were out of sight.

  “If he ever gets to the sea,” said Baksheesh, “the old codger’s likely to start swimming across. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Travelers heading west from Cathai began arriving sooner than expected. Unprepared, we all had to pitch in to look after them. I offered to do what I could. Shira gave me a hasty kiss; but, in the business of running an inn, she made it clear I was more ornamental than useful. And so, at loose ends, I was left to my own devices.

  Not for long. Kuchik adopted me as his personal property. Whenever he could escape the watchful eye of Baksheesh, he traipsed after me. He was delighted with himself at having saved my life—as indeed he had—and the lives of us all.

  He got the notion into his head that I was a dauntless adventurer from the wild and perilous land of the ferenghis. He kept at me to tell him tales of the amazing things I had done.

  “Kuchik,” I said, “you’ll hear more and better from any journeyers who stop here. I can only tell you one thing: Don’t believe a word of them.”

  He shrugged that aside. “Chooch Mirza,” he said, “I am wishing to see these things for myself.”

  “You’ll make your own journey,” I told him. “When you’re ready.”

  This didn’t satisfy him. He wolfed down my account of all that had happened to me. I even tossed in a few things that hadn’t. He only licked his lips and demanded more. He was gleeful to know his sister once disguised herself as a boy named Rabbit. He laughed himself into hiccups when I told him how Baksheesh left me frantic in my underdrawers.

  By then, I had scraped the bottom of the barrel. At a loss, I finally rummaged through my bag. I found the old volume of tales the bookseller had given me—what, a lifetime ago? Like myself, it was a little the worse for wear, but Kuchik seized upon it. Since the stories weren’t in any language he knew, I had to read aloud, translating as I went along. But he was quick-witted, and it took no time until he could read them for himself.

  “Chooch Mirza,” he said, wide-eyed, “are these wonders being true?”

  I had to admit I had never seen a flying carpet or a genie with a magic lamp, or any of the other marvels.

  “Are you saying, Chooch Mirza, these are lies?”

  “Yes,” I said, “but some lies are better than others.”

  With no duties to occupy me, after our guests were long gone to their beds, I sat up late in the eating room, doing nothing in particular. I had given Kuchik the book, which he greedily carried off; even now, he was probably hiding away somewhere, devouring the print from the pages.

  And so it was that Baksheesh found me there at the loosest of ends. Instead of being the first to eat and sleep, he was now the last, staying up to make sure all was in order. Dashtani’s bewitchment had been more miraculous than any flying carpet. Though every bit the attentive, diligent innkeeper, there was still a permanent rascal lurking under the clean clothes; and I knew him well enough to see, when he sidled up to me, he wanted something.

  “O Generous Heart of the Universe, Bestower of Precious Gifts,” he began, which convinced me all the more he had some scheme in mind, “have you turned the Dazzling Sunlight of Your Contemplation on the treasure?”

  This brought me up short. I almost said, “What treasure?” So much had happened, I had practically forgotten.

  “Noble Master,” he went on, shuffling his feet, “do you still mean to search for it?”

  I told him I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure what I meant to do. “Why do you ask?”

  “There was a time when you released me from my vow to stay with you—”

  “Yes,” I said, “and you wouldn’t accept it.”

  “The Clarity of Your Brilliant Recollection gladdens the Heart of the World, O Noble One. So now I ask if your generous offer still applies?

  “In the dream that faker Khabib laid on me, I went home—though I never had one in the first place. Home? It was this caravanserai I dreamed of. And someone waiting for me—”

  I told him he needn’t spell it out. Wherever I went, he was free to stay at the inn.

  “A thousand blessings on you!” the rascal burst out. “A million—”

  “One is more than enough,” I said. “Go and tell Dashtani.”

  He sped off, faster than I had ever seen him move. I sat there. I hadn’t thought of the old map until Baksheesh and his blathering brought it to mind. For the sake of old times, I pulled it out and spread it on the table.

  I hadn’t looked at it—for how long? Poor map, it had seen better days. I had found it in the binding of my book of tales. Uncle Evariste, I well remembered, had crumpled it up and thrown it at my head. I had salvaged it as best I could. At least, it was all in one piece; but there were deep creases I had never been able to smooth out.

  It still baffled me why anyone would go to the trouble of drawing a map that was wrong; above all, one that supposedly showed a hidden fortune. As Shira had pointed out, some parts of it were accurate; the rest, no use whatever.

  I started to fold it up again. The map fell naturally into its original creases. And others I hadn’t noticed. It looked as if someone had pleated it at random. One corner had been dog-eared, turned down to overlap an edge of the parchment. There were, on the back of the sheet, what I had taken for meaningless scribbles. When I folded the page over, the lines and squiggles turned out to be indications of roads, rivers, and mountains that fit exactly with the pleated page.

  Folded thus, it gave a whole different picture of Keshavar. The map had not been drawn carelessly.

  It had been drawn to deceive.

  If it had fallen into other hands or been seen by other eyes, it would have appeared to be only a badly sketched, faulty diagram. It wasn’t.