Shira and Baksheesh went to arrange our evening meal. Baksheesh was still irked by the stranger’s comments. “How dare he call me tenderhearted?” he muttered. “The old buzzard is clearly an idiot.”

  Curious, I stayed behind with Salamon. Although dressed in the usual traveler’s garb, he carried no tulwar, dagger, nor any weapons I could see. Nor, for that matter, did he wear any boots.

  “Nature is the best shoemaker,” he said, noticing my puzzled glance. He balanced on one leg and, nimble as a boy, cocked up the other. He tapped the sole of his foot. I saw it to be thicker than a Magenta cobbler’s toughest leather.

  “This will last every bit as long as I do. Even longer,” he said. “And it fits me perfectly.”

  There was something else I had in mind. We had been speaking trade-lingo; he had addressed me not as “mirza” but “messire,” in what I heard as something of a Campanian accent. I inquired if Campania was his homeland and if he had been born there.

  “Possibly,” he said. “That far-from-momentous event took place so long ago, I have quite forgotten. Since then, I have been to more lands than I can count.”

  “You’re obviously not one of them,” I said, “but my uncle claims there are a great many fools in Campania.”

  “He is correct,” Salamon answered. “An astonishing amount. More astonishing, it is exactly the same number as everywhere else. I would be hard-pressed to tell the difference between the fools of one country and the fools of another. Folly is our common bond.”

  Twilight was gathering. We walked to the khan. Thanks to Shira’s professional advice, our landlord had laid out an excellent supper. However, Salamon hardly touched his food. Baksheesh did him the kindness of finishing all he left.

  “Here, Salamanca, I’ll show you tenderhearted,” he said between mouthfuls. “How’s this for a loving nature?”

  For all his lack of appetite and absence of footwear, Salamon turned out to be the happiest of table companions. Despite his good nature, I guessed him to be a scholar, possibly once a schoolmaster; or, in any case, a person of high education. When I ventured to ask him about this, he chuckled.

  “Good gracious, no,” he said. “I’ve spent half my life learning whatever nonsense I was taught, and the other half trying to forget it.”

  In his turn, he inquired with keen interest what had brought me to Marakand. I was careful to tell only selected and harmless events: being dismissed from my uncle’s establishment; the voyage to Sidya and my spectacular seasickness; that first encounter with Rabbit—in fact, the lovely dushizéh Shira. Salamon kept murmuring “Astonishing!” and “I shall make a note of that.”

  So, for casual table talk, I thought I was giving a fairly entertaining account—until Baksheesh broke in. “O Golden Tongue of Eloquence, allow me to mention: You’re leaving out the best parts. My devoted diligence and invaluable assistance. And the treasure we’re seeking.”

  I winced. With Baksheesh babbling on, I might as well have hired the Magenta town crier to spread the word.

  “You search for treasure?” Salamon gave me a sorrowful look. “What a shame if you should find it.

  “Your quest would be over,” he said. “And then what? As if a fortune could make up for the bother of gaining it. No, no, my lad: The journey is the treasure.”

  He would have liked to know more; but Shira, seeing me squirm, turned the subject to his own destination.

  “Eastward,” he said. “Simply eastward.”

  At this, she bent closer, looking at him with keen interest. “I’ve heard travelers tell that secret wisdom can be discovered in the East.”

  “Did they find any?”

  Shira laughed lightly. “None that I could notice.”

  “Of course not,” said Salamon. “My dear dushizéh, I doubt there’s greater wisdom in the East than anywhere else. Only people looking at the same things in a different way.”

  “Then, mirza,” Shira said, “what do you seek?”

  “Beyond Cathai,” he answered, “some say there are vast oceans. Some say there may be islands, peninsulas, archipelagoes, whole continents. Some say there is nothing at all, and we end where we began.”

  “And you?” she said. “What do you expect?”

  “I have no idea,” Salamon said. “I only hope to find out for myself.

  “Oh, yes,” he added, “I shall definitely press on to the sea. As do we all, in our own fashion.”

  “Press away to your heart’s content, Salmagundi,” Baksheesh said. “I won’t go a step farther than I have to.”

  We finished a pleasant supper. Salamon hurried to the stable. I wonder now if I had been given an inkling of what lay in store for all of us—would I have turned back then and there? Probably not. But how can anyone be sure? Much later, I talked about this with Salamon. I remember he blinked at me with amused tolerance, as if I had asked the silliest question in the world.

  “Isn’t there more than enough to occupy you for the present?” he said. “Why ever wish to know the future? It would only confuse you.”

  In any case, he made good on his offer to care for our animals. Over the next few days, while Baksheesh prowled the Thieves’ Market to buy added gear, and Shira and I put our heads together calculating the provisions we needed, Salamon worked wonders.

  Shira’s horse—I considered it hers by right of prior theft— was in fine fettle again. The donkey’s coat shone; it was no longer possible to count his ribs. The camels looked a little less despondent.

  I had it in the back of my mind to ask Salamon to join us. Our caravan consisted only of myself; a camel-puller with the gift of vanishing like the storyteller’s genie whenever he was needed; and a girl I was wordlessly in love with, who showed her affection by promising to leave me whenever it suited her. I had seen enough of Keshavar to realize this was not a powerful force to be reckoned with.

  It surprised me when Baksheesh came out with the same idea. “I can overlook his insulting me,” he said. “The old codger’s tough as boiled mutton. He’s got feet like iron. He eats next to nothing. He’s good with animals, I’ll give him that much. Not so good as myself, of course, but we can use the extra help. Above all, O Demanding One, it will allow me to devote more time and attention to your personal service.”

  Shira readily agreed. So did Salamon, who already seemed to have taken for granted he would go along with us. I still thought it wiser to be part of a larger company.

  Baksheesh actually did something useful. He disappeared one morning after breakfast and came back with a big gray-haired fellow, hard-bitten, a man of his hands.

  He was a caravan master—“karwan-bushi,” as they called it here. He preferred simply to be addressed as “raïs,” or captain. We all sat in the sunny courtyard of the khan and settled the price of attaching ourselves to his company.

  “I’ll be honest with you,” he said, which immediately aroused my suspicions. As he went on, however, I sensed he was indeed telling the truth—and I liked it no better.

  The raïs intended to head due east out of Marakand. I had privately studied my map whenever I could, so I practically knew it by heart. I pretty well understood what he was telling us.

  It was, he explained, the smoothest stretch of road between here and the borders of Cathai. There were caravanserais at reasonable intervals, and frequent watering places. The surface suited camels and horses alike. It sounded better than I expected.

  “I’ll say straight out,” he added, “I don’t want to follow it. I can’t vouch for your safety. More important, to put it bluntly, I can’t vouch for my own or my people’s.

  “I’ve heard talk of robber bands,” he said. “Well, true enough, there’s always a few nipping at your flanks. Mostly a pitiful crew of starvelings. A nuisance more than anything. Like fleas on a dog. I’m used to that. I know how to deal with them.

  “But word is they’re getting bolder and there are more of them than usual. So far, no real trouble. But I have to take it into account. Mirza, I have a wife and young ones. Why should I go looking for a knife at my throat?”

  Why, then, I asked, follow that particular path? My map had shown me a number of other ways that let him avoid it.

  “The merchant travelers insist on it,” the raïs said. “They won’t go otherwise. The biggest towns, the best markets and trading centers lie along that route. The merchants count on making their fortunes by the time they’re done. With the money they’ll pay me, I’ll take them to Jehannum and back.

  “You, now,” he went on, “you’re an odd lot to be on the road. What’s your line? Buying? Selling? Something other? You’re not here for the scenery.”

  I wasn’t so witless as to tell him I was hunting treasure. I left his question dangling unanswered.

  He shrugged. “No concern of mine. Only understand this: Once on the way, you’re under my command. You’ll do as I say. I’m not happy to travel with a woman, but so be it. I require every able-bodied man to be well armed,” he added to me, ignoring Baksheesh, who had suddenly blossomed out with a racking fit of coughing and wheezing.

  “You can do me a service,” he went on. “I need a donkey. The only ones I’ve seen here look as if they’d fall apart before they went thirty steps.

  “I won’t leave Marakand without one. I must have a donkey at the head of my caravan. Yours is in a better state than any I’ve seen.

  “It is always done so,” the raïs said, when I agreed but asked the reason. “Custom. Tradition. For good luck, some claim. I’m not so sure about that, it may be a pack of nonsense. Who knows? Why take a chance?”

  I admit to a twinge of regret at leaving the khan. I had wanted to revisit the Great Souk and see if the storyteller had come back. In addition, the town was, all in all, a most agreeable, comfortable place. I even toyed briefly with the idea of convincing Shira to spend more time here. I let it go. The treasure kept goading me; and I doubted I could convince Shira of anything.

  In the long run, it was beside the point. I never set foot in Marakand again.

  We followed instructions the raïs had given, packed our gear, and loaded it onto the camels. At daybreak, we reported to a big, open area of hard-packed earth just beyond the town walls.

  There, more camels than I had fingers to count them honked and bellowed. The camel-pullers yelled curses at the animals and one another. The merchant travelers milled around to no apparent purpose.

  The raïs rode up on a bay mare. He looked us over, approved of my weapons. Salamon volunteered to walk beside the donkey. Baksheesh, meantime, was trying to persuade the camels to kneel and let us climb aboard. Shira had better success at it. Amid the crowd, I glimpsed one of the traders we had run into before Marakand.

  I judged it wise to duck behind one of the camels. The man had already caught sight of me. I took a grip on my tulwar and stood my ground in front of him.

  “Peace unto you, Chooch Mirza,” he said. “Good fortune sends you to protect us.”

  I relaxed a little. Especially since he had put “mirza” after my name instead of before it, as if addressing one of great nobility.

  “We are grateful,” he went on. “We thank you for your mercy in sparing our lives.”

  “Only for the sake of your gray hairs,” put in Baksheesh. “Be glad you still have a head to carry them.”

  I ventured to ask about my broken-nosed opponent. I didn’t see him in the vicinity.

  “That one?” said the trader. “He bears you a grudge; the girl, as well. But he is no longer with us. He goes his own way. Truth be told, I was happy to see the last of him.

  “In Marakand, he took up with a merchant. A man of some wealth, so he appeared. A ferenghi—what was it he called himself? Oh, yes. Charkosh.”

  Shira had overheard us. She left off her work with the camel and went straight to the trader.

  “You saw him?” she demanded. “Talked to him? Where did he go? When?”

  The trader shrugged. “He stayed only a day or two at our khan. You know him, dushizéh?”

  “After a fashion.” Shira had that look I had seen before, and it more than halfway frightened me.

  I added he was a notorious slave-dealer.

  “As well may be,” said the trader, “but he spoke nothing of that. The two of them had their heads together over some other matter of business. What it was, I do not know. Nor do I care to know. I can tell you no more than that.”

  The raïs, cantering along the gradually forming column, ordered us all to take our places. The trader, about to turn away, hesitated a moment.

  “With all respect, Chooch Mirza,” he said, bowing, “allow this humble person to dare ask one small question. I think of the day we met, and have always wondered, Why does a mighty warrior like your noble self journey with a donkey?”

  “Childhood companions,” Baksheesh put in. “They’re inseparable.”

  The only way to enjoy a camel caravan, in my opinion, is to sleep through it. I was unable to do so. Baksheesh, I’m convinced, chose the camel with the more comfortable hump for himself; and promptly dozed off. I tried, first, riding astride; then with one leg crooked around the saddle horn. In both cases, it felt as if I were on the ridgepole of a high-pitched roof. Luckily, my lower quarters went numb and I felt nothing at all.

  The raïs, in thanks for the use of our donkey, assigned us a place at the head of the column. Far better than the tail, where you eat and breathe the dust and whatever else from all the animals ahead of you. We had a good view of the rear end of the leading camel: decked out—by custom, I supposed—in festive finery with embroidered draperies, ribbons, tassels, and a little brass bell swinging from the harness.

  The raïs had hired outriders, armed guards to patrol the vicinity, alert for any sign of robber bands. They seemed as brutal and ruffianly as any robbers I could imagine. I was glad of that. After all, if you need a watchdog, best get yourself a vicious mastiff, not one of those fluffy little pets that some of our Magenta ladies favored. A few of the merchants rode their own horses. Shira walked beside her mare. Salamon and the donkey stepped out in a steady pace, the donkey more cheerful than I had ever seen him.

  However, apart from the crunch of the camels’ feet over the shale and gravel, and the endless tinkle-tinkle of that bell, the caravan was mostly silent. What was there to talk about? Hardly a setting for spirited conversation.

  We halted once, and briefly, at a small oasis: the only spot of bright green in a trough between drab gray hills and scrubby woodlands. The raïs ordered us to move on until we reached a caravanserai.

  We came to one before dusk. But it was deserted, already crumbling into ruins. The raïs was grimly disappointed though not surprised. It often happened, he explained, that caravanserais, even whole villages, would spring up, flourish for a time; then, for whatever reasons, fall into decay. Here, at least, we could shelter against the night chill. In what had been a courtyard stood a well of scummy water. It looked only mildly venomous.

  Despite my screaming muscles, I was happy to be together with our little group. Baksheesh made a few sketchy gestures at unloading the camels; then quickly gave it up, wailing that his lumbago had viciously assaulted him. Salamon, as bright and unwilted at the end of the day as he had been at the start, offered to put his joints right.

  “Hands off me, Saladino. You’ll do more harm than good,” he grumbled. “I’ll stretch out for a bit. I prefer to let nature take its course.”

  As my chief camel-puller, I had yet to see him do anything resembling pulling a camel. So the rest of us tended to the animals. We sat, then, a little while on one of the stone slabs circling the court. Shira, restless, wanted to seek out the trader, who may have overlooked some scrap of information about Charkosh and his whereabouts.

  I urged against it. She wasn’t listening. I suspected what she had in mind. Given half a chance, I believe she would have gone after him; probably with our best carving knife. Her dark mood puzzled Salamon until I spoke aside and briefly told him her reasons.

  “Oh, dushizéh, that would be foolish,” he said to her, “and you do not have the look of a fool.”

  “My business, not yours. You know nothing—” She put her hands over her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Forgive me.”

  “Most certainly, I will not.” Salamon smiled fondly. “No need. Why ask forgiveness when you speak truth? I know nothing. Good heavens, I can hardly remember how much I’ve forgotten. The older I get, the less I’m sure of. I hope to end up sure of nothing at all.

  “I only suggest to you: Will you dwell on killing this man? You wish revenge? If you do, he has already killed you by slow poison. So, let it go. Why waste your time? His life will see to his death.”

  Shira did not answer. Whether she took his words to heart, I had no idea. Then again, I usually had no idea what she was thinking.

  I did gain some skill in staying perched on my camel. What I lost was my sense of time. Caravanserais were few, far between, and all so much alike it might as well have been the same one again and again. We most often halted at a small oasis or meager watering place. When I slept, I dreamed I was still riding in the caravan; awake, I daydreamed I was asleep. Mornings and nights blurred into one another. As best I can reckon, we had been some three weeks out of Marakand.

  That was when the butchery began.

  I understood, later, how it came about. By then, it made no difference.

  All that day, the raïs had been pressing us hard to speed our pace. We were going through a long, narrow stretch of road with steep slopes and dense woodlands on either side. The raïs was edgy. This would be the most likely spot for robbers to attack. Once the road widened again, we all breathed easier. Best yet, we soon reached a large oasis. Lush vegetation fringed a shimmering pool; and even banks of flowers a lot sweeter smelling than we were.

  It was some while before nightfall, only the faintest streaks of purple and pink showed in the sky. We were all grateful for the chance to rest. Salamon and the donkey joined us, both in the best of spirits.