I had made up my mind to put off my own search and stay with Shira until she reached home safely. The treasure, wherever it was, had been sitting there for who knows how long. It could sit a little longer.

As I recalled from my map, two or three days’ journey should bring us to a road crossing this one. We needed only to follow it southward. Simple enough. I should have known nothing in Keshavar is simple.

No sooner had we set foot outside the caravanserai than a ragged column of folk from yet another village arrived, pleading for shelter. When they saw which way we were heading, they warned us that fighting had spread all along the road. They were carrying their lives on their backs. I feared we might be taking our lives in our hands.

The last thing in the world I wanted was to run afoul of battle-drunken Kajiks and Karakits. In case Shira was any way tempted to risk it and keep on, I mentioned what I judged a certainty: “If we fall in with either side, whatever else they do to us, one thing’s sure. They’ll take your horse.”

That convinced her.

Our best course, then, was to get off this accursed road as soon as possible. I found a way to do it. Not far from the caravanserai, we came upon a narrow trail. While hardly an inviting path, at least it bore southward. My map hadn’t shown it, but I wasn’t going to quibble over small details. I proposed following it. Sooner or later, it would have to lead us to one of the better-traveled roadways. There would surely be way stations, towns, or trading centers.

“And if not?” said Baksheesh.

“Then,” I said, “I’ll think of something else.”

“Of course you will, O Intrepid One,” he muttered. “That’s what worries me.”

Salamon offered to go ahead by himself, see what we had to deal with, then come back and report what he found. I urged against it. I did not want us to be separated. Further, should anyone scout ahead, it was the duty of the karwan-bushi. If I had assumed the title, I should try to earn it.

Shira, without waiting for us to chew over the question, had already gone a little distance through the underbrush.

“The animals can manage well enough,” she said when she rejoined us. “It’s passable. Others have gone this way.”

“You call that good news?” Baksheesh put in. “What others? I’d rather nobody was here before. If you ask me, this is just the sort of hole-and-corner nest for bandits and who knows what else.”

I wished he hadn’t said that.

“On the other hand,” he went on, “I’ve never met a Kajik, let alone a Karakit. I’m sure their mothers love them, but I shall strive hard to live without that pleasure.

“To make up for the disappointment,” he added, “I do find one attractive aspect about this pitiful excuse for a road.”

“Excellent. I’m gratified to hear you say so,” Salamon told him. “Your true nature is definitely blossoming. In spite of difficult circumstances, you are able to appreciate what is interesting and enjoyable.”

“Right you are, old Salazar,” replied Baksheesh. “What I’ll enjoy most about this dismal path: It’s downhill.”

As karwan-bushi of what had to be the smallest caravan in Keshavar, I learned two great but simple truths. First, a caravan goes no faster than its slowest camel. And, second, the slowest camel goes no faster than its most reluctant camel-puller.

Shira’s judgment had been correct. The trail was passable, though barely so. Our donkey was sure-footed, Shira’s mare likewise. The camels trudged on, resigned to yet another misery added to their daily lives. Baksheesh, however, constantly lagged behind. Also, during the time we spent picking our way down the tangled slope, he left off grumbling only when he was asleep. At least there were no lurking robbers. I was glad of that. But I half wished we had taken our chances with the Kajiks and Karakits.

We reached the valley floor around noon. Was it the second or third day of our downward climb? I can’t be certain. I had come to calculate the difference between day and night according to whether Baksheesh was complaining or snoring.

Here, a wide corridor of coarse sand stretched along the edge of high, jagged hills. I had never seen such a vast amount of nothing. My heart sank. Salamon was enraptured.

“Amazing!” He shaded his eyes against the raw sunlight. “Absolutely astonishing!”

“Old coot,” Baksheesh said under his breath. “He’d find a skin rash fascinating.”

Had I known where I was, had my head not been full of such questions as how we would stay alive, I would have agreed with Salamon. Yes, it was astonishing. The color, above all. It may have been a trick of the light, but the bare hills glowed as yellow-orange as a cantaloupe. Round openings pitted the whole flank of the farther slope like a honeycomb for a swarm of gigantic bees.

Shira stood, hands on hips, scanning the barren valley. Baksheesh sidled over to me.

“O Monarch of All You Survey,” he said, “allow your devoted servant to inquire: Do you see a town? A village? A small hamlet, perhaps? This sun has blinded me; my eyes are full of grit. My vision is not as keen as usual. But you, Farsighted Eagle, surely you can observe a caravanserai? An oasis? A mud puddle?”

I told him to shut up. He kept on anyway.

“I am not a person of great learning. I must rack my brain for the precise word that expresses our situation eloquently. What would it be? Ah—something like: Lost.”

I lied. I said I knew exactly where we were.

“So do I, Geographical Excellence,” he said. “We are in the veritable center of the middle of nowhere.”

“Did you ask the raïs for directions?” Shira broke in. “The innkeeper? Anybody?”

I said I didn’t think I needed to.

I was afraid she would cloud up and rain all over me like those thunderstorms that occasionally batter Magenta. She only glanced at me with long-suffering annoyance. But there were no lightning bolts.

“Let me see the map,” she said.

Until now, she had never asked and I had never offered. It hadn’t seemed necessary. Baksheesh had poked his nose into all my belongings that day he made off with them. I was reluctant to show it to anyone else. Not that I mistrusted Shira. After all, I was in love with her. No, I simply kept it to myself.

We Magentans are brought up to be closemouthed about our business. Outside the family, we don’t even like to admit what we ate for lunch.

I hiked up my shirt and fished out the parchment from its pouch at my waist. I carefully unfolded it and spread it on the ground.

Shira knelt and peered at it, tracing a finger from one edge to the other.

“This is what you found in the book?”

I nodded. “Yes. Just as I told you.”

She studied it still more closely. She looked up at me.

“Kharr-loh,” she said, “your map is wrong.”