“I told you I would,” she said. “I told you from the beginning.”

She really did have a gift for putting me off balance. This time, her face held a fragile expression I hadn’t seen before. “Well,” I said, after a couple of moments, “you mentioned something like that.”

“I didn’t tell you I wanted to,” she said. “I’ve come this far.

I have to keep on. I’m going home.”

“So you’re leaving me?” I said. “But I’m not leaving you.”

“That’s your choice,” she said. “Your decision.”

“My caravan, too,” I said. “I’d better tell the others.”

She nodded. “Do that.”

Salamon took the news happily.

“Marvelous,” he said. “Though not surprising. I’d be surprised had you done otherwise. If it suits you, I’ll come along. You’ll need someone to tend the donkey.”

Baksheesh was another matter. When he heard what I intended, he carried on as expected. He begged, he pleaded, he warned of every possible disaster. He whined and sniveled by turn and at the same time.

“Woe and misery!” he wailed. “Looking for treasure is one thing. Looking for trouble, that’s something else.”

I told him never mind, he’d be going with the raïs.

“You think that’s any better?” He stopped short. “No. I can’t do that. I gave you my word—”

“So you did, and I accepted it,” I said. “Now I release you from it. Go. You’re free to do as you please.”

“O Liberating Benefactor,” he protested, “Ocean of Generosity, I must decline. There is a difficulty.

“While I was patronizing the Thieves’ Market—on your behalf and for your benefit, of course—a small misunderstanding arose. Certain things were said and done, accusations—altogether false—were made. Threats were expressed, suggestions offered. Something along the lines of if I had any interest in staying alive I’d best not set foot there again.”

“You never told me anything like that happened,” I said.

“Didn’t I?” said Baksheesh. “Ah. I neglected to mention it? Yes, it slipped my mind. I forgot. I didn’t want to upset you. I let it pass. I’m just now reminded—”

“My dear friend,” put in Salamon, “I say this with all respect and affection: You are a liar.”

“I’m an innocent victim of circumstance.” Baksheesh drew himself up indignantly. “I’m stuck with the lot of you, like it or not. And I don’t like it, never did, never will.”

“I think you’d rather be fried in oil than admit it,” Salamon said, “but I do believe you may have had a twinge of decency.”

“A lot you know,” Baksheesh retorted. “Do me a kindness, Savonarola. Keep your nonsense to yourself.”

I took my leave of the raïs. He shook his head, much concerned.

“Go off on your own?” he said. “Then you’re truly a fool. Of highest quality. If you were a diamond, you’d be flawless. The girl has something to do with it, I’ll be bound. There’s no room in your head for common sense. Ah, well, that’s your business. Peace unto you. And I thank you for the loan of your donkey.”

I never knew if he reached home safely.

As Shira said, it was my caravan. Though it had never dawned on me that I might actually carry some responsibility for it. In Magenta, I had imagined myself boldly leading an expedition that brought us happily to a fortune. I did not reckon on obstreperous camels belching and spitting on me. Or on keeping a constant eye on Baksheesh, who worked extremely hard at doing as little as possible. Or on watching over Salamon, who tended to wander off and marvel at some strange rock formation or odd specimen of plant. I certainly had never looked forward to the fine grit that seeped into every garment down to my underclothes. Not to mention blisters where blisters had no right to be.

And Shira —yes, of course, she understood the network of roads and trails and knew more than I ever would. Even so, in time it pleased me to believe—or, at least, pretend—that I became an almost acceptable karwan-bushi. Anyway, I liked being an imitation karwan-bushi better than being a genuine chooch.

However, on the day we parted from the caravan survivors, I wanted only to get away from the place as fast as possible. The raïs had ordered the bodies left to rot on their poles as a warning to other gangs of bandits.

Bound in awkward, angular postures, they were dead by now. Or so I hoped. I still had to turn my eyes from them. I had no stomach for the sight. From what I accidentally glimpsed, they no longer looked like people. They gave me nightmares for a long time after.

What puzzled and troubled me somewhat: We met no caravans coming from the east. The road stretched empty and bleak. We did find watering places; on occasion, a little oasis. Caravanserais were few, not especially happy or welcoming.

The last one, where we hoped to shelter and replenish our dwindling store of provisions, tried to turn us away.

Shira had ridden on ahead. She dismounted and stopped at the entrance. When we joined her, I saw that a heavy chain had been drawn across the gateway. This, as I had learned, was done at night to bar unwanted arrivals. It was still broad daylight. Shira, frowning, turned to me.

“He says they’re full.”

“Full of what?” Baksheesh muttered. “Not travelers. We haven’t seen any for days.”

“Quite astonishing,” Salamon said, undismayed. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. I must make a note of that.”

Shira tried to persuade the porter to let us in, assuring him we had money to pay for all we wanted. By now, the innkeeper himself had appeared.

“Your money’s worthless here,” he said. “Food and lodging? I have neither.”

The best he would do, as he finally agreed, was to let our animals drink and let us fill our water bags at the well. He could offer no more than that. We would have to keep on our way.

I did not understand this. Every caravanserai I had seen was near a town or village that supplied meat and vegetables and whatever else was needed. When I asked him about it, his face darkened.

“What village?” he said. “Raïs, it’s here.”

He ordered the porter to lower the chain. We went into the courtyard.

I had never seen so much misery in such a small space. Heaps of rags and refuse littered the courtyard and the arcades that circled it. When I looked closer, I realized these were men and women, their young ones and babes in arms. They squatted dazed and silent. I could scarcely tell the difference between them and their piles of belongings.

“There’s the village. The ones who lived through it.” He spread his hands. “I took them in. What else could I do?

“The tribes are at each other’s throats again,” he went on, seeing my confusion. “Kajiks. Karakits. Sworn enemies for generations. Who knows why? It has always been so.

“This time, the worst. Because of the fire. The Kajik warlord and his men rode in and burned half the village. No one had seen anything like it. They could not put out the flames. Water only spread the blaze. The ones who did not escape— their ashes still smolder.”

“So these folk are Karakits?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Nor Kajiks. They are Aftabis, as I am. They have no quarrel with either side. Indeed, next day, the Karakits attacked and set fire to what was left. Why? So neither tribe could have it.

“They have been here three days now. How long can I keep them?” he went on, as we picked our way through the bundles of clothing and household goods to reach the watering troughs. “My provisions are exhausted. Shall we all starve together? And who knows if one warlord or the other will take it into his head to burn down my caravanserai for the joy of watching it go up in smoke?

“Fill your water bags, raïs, and go your way,” he said. “Peace be with you. It is surely not with us.”