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.”