In the morning, I got up and went to the oasis. It was going to be a perfectly beautiful day; cool and clear, the sky without a single cloud. Dew filmed the grass. At the pool, I splashed water on my face. I glimpsed my reflection. I had trouble recognizing myself. Shira once raised the question: Was I a criminal or a pirate? I can only say that if I had seen someone who looked as I did, lurking around the port of Magenta, I would have gone briskly in the opposite direction.

Everybody was awake and stirring. The campsite had been tidied. I did not dare glance across the road. I wanted to find Shira. Wherever I went, she was someplace else. I suspected she was avoiding me.

The raïs, on horseback, ordered us all to gather around. His face was gray; the knife wound had turned black and crusted over. He seemed a lot older than when I first met him. He motioned for us to be quiet.

“Listen,” he said. “I’m not a coward. Not a fool, either. How do I know those devils won’t get themselves together and come at us again? Tonight? Tomorrow? Here? Or down the road?”

He held up a long pole, nearly twice my height; a heavy spear with an ax blade set on one side of it, an ugly looking hook on the other. I would have called it something like a halberd, the kind our night watch carried in Magenta.

“Where did they get this?” he said. “Stolen somewhere, of course. Do they have any more of them? Probably not. If they did, they’d have used them. And most of us would be missing a few arms, legs, and heads. Are there still more robber bands? Bigger? Stronger? I don’t know. All I know is I don’t like the smell around here.

“What it comes down to is this,” he said. “If we go on, I can’t promise you’ll be safe. So I’m not taking you any farther. The caravan has to turn back.” He grimaced. “I won’t swear I’ll even get you to Marakand again.”

Some of the travelers grumbled a little, more for the sake of grumbling than anything else. After they thought it over, and had a good look at that halberd, they grudgingly admitted he was right. I really believe they were glad.

I know that I was. My treasure hunt had started badly and left a sour taste in my mouth. I needed to make other plans and follow some different road.

“Get your people ready,” the raïs said to me. “The sooner away, the better.”

Salamon had already bridled the donkey. I told Baksheesh to pack up and load the camels. He did not protest. He said never a word about his lumbago, his knees, bunions, or anything else. I feared he might be sick. He was not. He was overjoyed, practically hugging himself with delight.

“I hasten to obey your command, O Repository of Wisdom,” he said. “Only forgive me for mentioning it, but had you listened to me in the first place, we’d not be here at all. The last thing in the world I wish, Gracious Worthiness, is to see you deceased. The other last thing is to see myself in that unhappy condition. I suppose,” he added to Salamon, “that includes you.”

“You show concern for a fellow creature,” said Salamon. “I knew you had an affectionate nature.”

“Profound affection,” said Baksheesh, “for my own skin. Besides, I don’t want to tempt fate. You should have sense enough to be concerned for yours.”

“Yes, up to a point,” Salamon replied. “Death is an inconvenience, forced upon us whether we like it or not. Fate is something we make for ourselves. In any case, I find other things more enjoyable to contemplate.”

“Contemplate to your heart’s content, Scaramuzzo,” Baksheesh said. “Meantime, you could lend me a hand with the camels.”

Shira had finished saddling the mare. We had hardly spoken to each other since the night before. She gave me no more than a glance when I walked over to her. She did not appear too happy with the world in general and myself in particular. Apart from that, I thought she looked marvelous.

“You look awful,” she said.

I told her I knew that. I added I was sorry about the horse.

She began stowing things into her bag. “You should be.”

She did not continue the conversation. I wondered if I had been sorry enough.

“I’m really very sorry,” I said. “Really. Very sorry.”

“I’m sure you are,” she said.

“It’s going to be all right.” I told her the raïs knew what he was doing. It was for the best. We’d stay in Marakand a little while, then start over. It was the only sensible thing.

“Do as you please.” She tied up the bag and roped it behind the saddle. “It’s your caravan.”

“I suppose it is,” I said. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

She pressed her lips tight and tinkered with the harness.

More than necessary. Finally, she turned to me. If she hadn’t been so annoyed, I would have said she seemed forlorn.

“Kharr-loh,” she said, “I’m leaving you.”