The trader grunted and fell back a step. One side of his face bloomed a dusky red; he was making every effort not to rub it. Blood started running from his nose and into his mouth. He spat it away.

  “You half-breeds are the Devil’s own spawn,” he said between clenched teeth. “You’ll pay me for that.”

  His hand went to the dagger in his sash. Behind him, his companions were on their feet.

  I pushed Shira aside; more roughly than I intended, for she went stumbling. The man narrowed his eyes at me. He already had his dagger out. I drew the tulwar. I was giddy with terror and rage. Never a good combination. But my blood was up. I would have sliced him to ribbons where he stood. Had I known how. I pointed the tulwar at him.

  My opponent looked me up and down. He bent his knees, half crouching, and lightly tossed the dagger from one hand to the other.

  “I’d only have cut her a little,” he said. “Now you’ll see if a half-breed wench is worth your life.”

  Baksheesh, meantime, was plucking my sleeve and wailing at the top of his voice: “I told you, I begged you not to draw your blade. You see what comes of it? Bloodshed! Murder!”

  He rocked back and forth. “You bring woe and grief upon your head. O Prince of Fools! Supreme Idiot!”

  I thought, at first, Baksheesh was addressing me. But, no, he had fixed his eyes on my adversary.

  “Have lizards eaten your brains?” he cried. “Have you gone mad? Bade farewell to your senses? Pitiful lump of soon-to-be carrion, the vultures will pick your bones. Slack-jawed, scrofulous son of insane pigs, you should be groveling for mercy. Have you no idea who you’re dealing with?”

  The trader hesitated as Baksheesh pressed on: “This is Death Walks Abroad. Maker of Widows and Orphans. Terror of Travelers. Look your last on this world. Your next will be the fiery pits of Jehannum.”

  Baksheesh clutched at me. “O Mighty Warrior, I entreat, I implore you. Spare the life of this foolhardy worm.”

  One of the older traders had come up. “What’s the quarrel? We want no trouble here.”

  “Trouble?” Baksheesh flung out. “Trouble is my master’s meat and drink. He kills to whet his appetite for breakfast. He spills blood to sauce his pilaf. Will you be rash enough to stand against him? He is Merciless Devastation. Tremble and behold al-Chooch!”

  The traders exchanged uneasy glances. “I know nothing of this al-Chooch,” the older one said, although with much uncertainty.

  “Count yourself lucky,” said Baksheesh. “Those who face him seldom live to tell the tale.”

  The red-headed trader shifted back and forth uncomfortably. He finally lowered his dagger.

  “As he is wrathful, so is he compassionate,” Baksheesh declared. “He forgives you in your benighted ignorance.” Baksheesh motioned for me to sheathe the tulwar; which I did, glaring fiercely. Shira came beside me and held my arm.

  “It pleases him to spare you,” Baksheesh went on, as the traders, deciding caution to be the better course, inched away.

  “Salaam, peace be upon you, O Prudent Ones,” Baksheesh added cordially. “May your lives be long and happy, and your journey prosperous.”

  From the corner of his mouth, he muttered, “Get out of here, Excellence. Quick—but with dignity.”

  My blood was still up. I would have offered the retreating traders a few choice remarks of my own. Shira whispered to me to hold my tongue. We followed Baksheesh to the donkey and set off down the road again.

  His rheumatism must have vanished. He stepped out so briskly we could hardly keep up with him. My anger likewise evaporated, but left me shaken; all the more as it sank in how narrow our escape had been.

  Instead of slipping back and forth astride the donkey, I preferred walking with Shira. She was not as grateful as I might have wished.

  “You told me you weren’t a criminal or pirate,” she said. “Now, mirza, I have to wonder: What kind of ferenghi are you? I think you may be a foolish one. You could have got yourself killed—and good-bye to your fortune and everything else.”

  “What would you have me do?” I said. “That pig insulted you—and would have done worse.”

  “Ah, mirza, mirza.” She shook her head. “What do you know about worse?”

  Not that much, I admitted. But enough. More than I needed.

  “And, after all, dushizéh,” I remarked, a little vexed, “you were the one who hit him first.”

  “A pig is a pig.” She shrugged. “You should have let me deal with him. I have my own ways.”

  Then, almost under her breath, she added: “But you meant well, Carlo.”

  She pronounced it something like “Kharr-loh,” and it was the first time she spoke my name. Looking back on it, I believe—to the extent that such a mystery can be reckoned with—yes, I believe this was the moment I fell in love with her.

  But Baksheesh was calling us to join him in a sheltered space a little distance off the road. We unburdened the donkey. Shira found a stream nearby and watered the thirsty animal. I wanted some words with Baksheesh.

  If I had risked my life, for all practical purposes he saved it. Having one’s life saved is always a serious matter; one can never be eloquently thankful enough. I was at something of a loss what to say. Awkwardly, I did my best, adding that I would not forget.

  “Be not concerned, Ocean of Gratitude,” he said, modestly dismissing the subject. “I will take it on myself to remind you from time to time.”

  Shira had come back and begun preparing a light meal. Baksheesh had told me his assistant would be in charge of this duty. Even so, I suggested it was only right, at the end of a difficult day, for us to lend her a hand.

  “Gladly,” said Baksheesh, who had settled down with his back against a tree trunk. “You recall we agreed I am to be your camel-puller—once we have a camel, be sure I will pull it to your complete satisfaction. And, ordinarily, I would be happy to undertake a few small additional tasks. However, after such vigorous walking—as well as saving your life, Wonder of the World—my feet have a corn on every toe, bunions on top of bunions. With a few hours of complete rest—why—I’ll dance all the way to Marakand. Tomorrow, be sure to wake me in time for breakfast. Then, off to an early start—”

  “Better a late start,” Shira put in. “Wait for those traders to pass us. If they think about it hard enough, they may decide they’ve been hoodwinked. Would you rather have them behind us or ahead of us?”

  “You plucked the words from my mouth,” said Baksheesh, caressing his feet. “I was just about to advise exactly that. As I would have told you, much wiser for us keeping an eye on them instead of them keeping an eye on us.

  “By the way,” he added, “I would heal faster if a little food, a morsel or two, could be brought to me. I should be able to assist you all the sooner.”

  “Let him be,” Shira said, when I protested. “Your camel-puller at my elbow would be more trouble than help.”

  We left Baksheesh consoling his bunions. I had to admire how deftly Shira built a fire and set a pan to simmer on it. I supposed she had learned her skill, I said to her, at the Joyful Garden of Happy Travelers.

  “No. My mother taught me; and my little brother, as well,” she said. “My parents keep a caravanserai, a wayside inn east of Marakand. We make our living serving journeyers.”

  I began to see what she meant when she talked of travelers she knew. Some, as she said, all too well. As to be expected in a busy caravanserai. But how many? Dozens? Hundreds? I resented—no, hated—every one of them. It pained me to imagine she had a past where I was not present.

  I understood why she was anxious to make her way home. I did not understand why she had come so far from it.

  Something else troubled me above all. I took her hand. She did not draw away.

  Then the damned pan began scorching. She had to go and take it off the fire. And there was Baksheesh, leaning against his tree, like some overgrown fledgling, beak open, squawking to be fed.

  I cursed the intrusive wretch. And his bunions, if he really had any. She went to tend that malingering faker—who had saved my life.

  She did not sit beside me when she came back. She handed me a dish of food and stood by herself beyond the firelight.

  I went to her. At the start of our journey she had said she needed to find what she feared the most. I had to ask what it was.

  “Why is it your concern?” Then, after a time, she said, “Yes, I owe you that much.”

  I said she owed me nothing.

  “I owe you, nonetheless.” And so she told me.

  “My father knew many tales,” Shira said, “but there was one my little brother Kuchik and I best loved to hear. He told it always the same way:

  “Once upon a time, fair-skinned, blue-eyed men from beyond the northern mountains stopped at a caravanserai to rest their camels and themselves.

  “The mistress of the inn was a young woman of the Kirkassi folk who, long ago, had been a people of Cathai. There was a bold, handsome lad among the merchants; and this maiden was the most beautiful he had ever set eyes upon.

  “But, next morning, the caravan made ready to leave for their own country, never to return again. The time came for the handsome lad to bid a sad farewell to the beautiful maiden.

  “At this,” Shira explained, “it was our part to cry ‘No! No!’ and make a great show of tearful protest. My father would pull a long, grim face and shake his head. It was, he told us, a cruel moment for the young lad.

  “Then, my father would ask: How could he part from the most beautiful maiden in the world? And my mother, who always listened along with us, would blush and giggle. Ferenghi though he was, the lad had found his true home and his true love. But what else could he do? His companions were calling for him, impatient to be on their way.

  “ ‘And so the caravan moved on,’ my father would say. He would pause a good many moments. Then he’d grin at us and add, ‘He did not go with them.’

  “We always cheered and clapped our hands, as we knew perfectly well the tale was of himself and my mother.”

  The caravanserai, as Shira described it, lay in a rare spot of greenery. The mountains shielded it from storms, it was well-watered by springs, a river flowed nearby. Travelers gladly broke their journey there.

  “My mother and father worked to build the inn larger and more welcoming than it had ever been. It prospered. I grew up there and was happy.”

  I broke in to say I understood why she was eager to be home again.

  Shira shook her head. Over this past year, she explained, fighting broke out between two warlords, each trying to win mastery of the best stretches of the road. The caravanserai was cut off from the main path and grew hard to reach. Fewer and fewer caravans stopped there. One by one, the stablemen and kitchen help left to find better work.

  “In the end,” Shira said, “the only one who stayed was our beloved housekeeper, Dashtani; and we kept the inn going as best we could.

  “Some months ago, one caravan did come by. Close to a dozen traders, more guests than we had seen for a long time. Instead of camels, they had horses and pack mules. To me, this meant they had somehow skirted the fighting, avoided the worst reaches of the desert route, and followed a smoother road.

  “They said nothing of what goods they bought or sold. That was not our business, what difference did it make to us? We were only too glad to have them. The caravan master, the one who seemed to be their leader, was a big, meaty-faced man with a coarse beard and quick eyes. Though he dressed like a Keshavari, he was a Westerner.

  “He called himself ‘Charkosh.’ He was rough-spoken with his companions, but hearty and good-natured with us. He took a friendly interest in our caravanserai, so my father proudly showed him around, explaining and pointing out how we had built it up over the years. Charkosh did not tell us how long he and his comrades meant to stay; but he showed us money more than enough for anything they wanted.

  “I had no cause to dislike him. But I did,” Shira said. “I came to hate being around him. I felt his eyes always on me as I went about my work. I kept this to myself and never spoke of it to my parents or Dashtani. They would, I knew, be angry at Charkosh. Only ill could come of it, so I let it go. He and his caravan would sooner or later be on their way.

  “Charkosh had the habit of sitting late in the eating room. My father, as a good host, sat with him at his table while a couple of his companions lingered close by.

  “One night, Charkosh sat up later than usual. At supper, he had told us he meant to leave the next morning. Several of the traders had already ridden ahead; a few others would stay another day or two. Charkosh himself, with the rest of his companions, would set off before dawn. I was relieved to hear that.

  “I slept in a small room by the kitchen. What roused me were loud words between Charkosh and my father. I got up and crept to the doorway.

  “ ‘And I tell you, mirza,’ Charkosh was insisting, ‘you are starving your family to death. I see that for myself. Since I stopped here, how many other travelers have come? None. How many can you expect after I go? Likewise, none. Mirza, these are pinching times.’

  “My father answered that times can change. Yes, we were going through lean days. But with a little patience, all would turn right again.

  “ ‘Patience?’ said Charkosh. ‘Tell me, mirza, can you eat patience for supper? I’ve passed caravanserais bigger and better than yours. What are they now? Empty shells. The sands have swallowed them up.

  “ ‘I want to help you,’ he went on. ‘You are a good, honest fellow. I like you. But clearly you have too many mouths to feed. We are men of the world, you and I. These things are done every day. Common practice. You know that. And you would still have the boy.

  “ ‘The girl will live a good life, better than any you could give. In a wealthy household, perhaps a nobleman’s, with others like herself.’

  “Charkosh took out a purse and set it on the table. ‘I give you this much. Yes, of course, she’ll fetch more on the open market. But, you understand, I must have a little profit. And consider my expenses.’

  “My father had leaned forward. I did not catch all his words, but I had never seen such a look of rage on his face.

  “ ‘And so where do we stand?’ said Charkosh. ‘Have we a bargain? No? Are you sure? Ah, mirza, you will regret it.’

  “It had taken a few moments for me to understand what Charkosh had wanted. I stood rigid, hardly believing what I had heard. Charkosh sighed and shrugged.

  “ ‘It is disheartening when people refuse to let themselves be helped,’ he said. ‘But, so be it.’

  “He slid the purse back into his waistband. In the same motion, so quick my eyes could barely follow, he had a dagger in his hand.

  “I cried out and ran to them. Charkosh kicked his bench aside and stood up. My father sat there, mouth open, staring bewildered, hands pressed against his breast. Blood was spreading over his shirtfront.

  “I threw myself on Charkosh and tried to twist away the blade. He was gripping it too tightly. I bit into his wrist. I felt bone grating against my teeth. He cursed and struck at me. I clenched my jaw, he could not shake me loose.

  “I had only a glimpse of my mother in her nightdress, Dashtani behind her, running down the stairs. I did not see my brother. Charkosh was beating at my face. His companions had jumped to their feet. One of them gave me a hard blow to the back of my head. That was the end of it.”

  Iwaited for her to keep on. She did not. She stood looking into the shadows. She had told me these things as if from a distance, as if they had happened long ago to someone else. If either of us was outraged and furious, it was myself.

  This man Charkosh, a man I had never laid eyes on, had harmed her. I hated him for it. A total stranger had become, instantly and forever, my enemy. I was shaking with anger. Among all the wild notions galloping through my head, I wished him here in front of me. Baksheesh could not have held me back.

  Shira was steadier than I. “And so,” she said at last, “are the ones I love best alive? Or dead? I know nothing of what happened to them after that night. Could my father have survived his wound? Could my mother, my brother, my dear Dashtani have escaped? Have they been spared?

  “If somehow they lived through it, I can only rejoice and be grateful. If they did not, I can only grieve for them. And swallow down my grief. One way or another, I have to know. To leave that question unanswered—part of my own life would be missing. Do you understand that?”

  I said yes, I thought I did. Then I asked about Charkosh.

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Alive and in good health, I hope.”

  “What?” I said. “You wish him well?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Someday, with luck, I may see him again.” At this, she brightened. “Oh, yes. Then I’ll kill him.”

  I could hardly blame her. It did bring me up short, though, hearing the one I had given my heart to—as, indeed, I had— talk cheerfully about murdering somebody. She frightened me a little.

  There had to be more to her account. I was not sure I wanted to find out, but I had to. So I asked her. Then half wished I hadn’t.

  After a time, she began again: “When my senses came back, I found myself roped to one of the pack mules. How long we had been on the road, I had no idea. By then, we must have gone some good distance from the inn. We halted once, as I remember. Charkosh lifted me off the mule and let me sit on the gravel.

  “He made me eat a little food. I threw it up. He let me drink some water. I think he must have drugged it so I’d stay quiet. I could not keep my eyes open. For a while, those last moments at the inn came to me again and again. Then, nothing.

  “After some days—exactly how many I don’t know, for I had lost track of time—I began feeling a little better. I was able to eat what I was given; my head cleared enough for me to think about how I would escape and make my way home. Also, I wanted very much to kill him. I thought about it a lot. I believe it kept up my strength more than food or water.