I wasn’t as happy as I should have been. After what Shira told me, I imagined we would be closer than ever. Instead, during the days that followed, she kept mostly to herself, withdrawn into her thoughts. Something was painfully amiss. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it until I realized she had never answered her own question: What to do about me?

Nor did I have an answer. It hung constantly chafing in my mind. I had to force myself to pay attention to the everyday details, such as not getting lost again. I was still the karwan-bushi, though in name more than anything else.

Luckily, we met no serious difficulties. Cheshim’s map was accurate—in large terms, if not always in small ones. Sometimes, we found no trail where a trail was shown to be. Then we would have to backtrack and scout out a different path.

The landscape changed the farther south we rode. The slopes grew gentler, well watered, green with woodlands; later, I glimpsed vast stretches of grassy meadows. Still streaked with snow, the highest mountains I had ever seen rose behind us. Since they were not in front of us, I actually enjoyed the sight.

We stayed generally in good spirits, Salamon more eager than usual.

“Marvelous!” he said to me one day. “Our young lady will soon be at the end of her journey.” Then he added, “And what of yours?”

I told him I didn’t know, it remained to be seen.

“Of course, of course,” he said. “What remains to be seen is always the most interesting.”

When I asked about his own journey, he smiled happily.

“Mine, I’m glad to say, will have hardly begun. Whatever else, I shall certainly press on to the sea.”

As for Baksheesh, he rarely had fewer than three mishaps a day, usually when he was needed to do something useful. Mornings, for example, the camels would gleefully spit on him; afternoons, the donkey might try to kick him; before sundown, he predictably sprained his back when he tried to light our cook fire. Between times, he kept up his ordinary grumbling. But I had the impression his heart wasn’t in it, and that he complained mostly for the sake of staying in practice.

By my reckoning, we were now less than a day’s travel from the main road and Shira’s caravanserai. I counted on reaching it comfortably by the following afternoon. I believe we would have done so if my plan hadn’t begun to unravel.

It started when Baksheesh nearly lost a camel. It would seem difficult to lose a camel in open country. Baksheesh came close to succeeding.

Salamon had led the donkey to drink at a nearby streamlet. Shira and I were busy setting out our midday meal. Baksheesh should have been pitching our tents; but I heard him yelling at the top of his voice, calling down every dire threat he could come up with.

One of the camels had slipped its tether and was ambling across the pebbly ground toward the edge of the underbrush. I ran to help Baksheesh, who was flapping his arms and shaking his fists. Out of natural contrariness or deliberate mischief—I swear it had a wicked glint in its eyes—the creature would change course and lurch a handsbreadth from our grasp.

We were both winded by the time we got hold of that humpy, knobby-kneed prankster. Baksheesh began flinging insults at the creature and all its ancestors. He choked on his words. I froze where I stood.

I had been too busy chasing the camel to pay attention to anything else. I hadn’t noticed a string of horsemen, six or eight of them, bearing down on us at an easy canter. I learned, later, they had been following along, observing us from the screen of woodland. At the time, they seemed to have sprung out of the ground.

They reined up a little way from us. Big, loose-limbed, in sheepskin vests, they sat their magnificent mounts as if they had drawn their first breath astride a saddle. The horses whickered and tossed their heads; the riders studied us through narrowed eyes long accustomed to looking into great distances.

They showed no inclination to attack. I would have gone to greet them. Baksheesh took my arm.

“Make no sudden moves,” he warned. “If you value your Most Esteemed and Precious Life—and especially mine— don’t put so much as a finger on that tulwar you’ve been dragging around.” In a low voice, he added, “Mercy be upon us, they’re Bashi-Bazouks.”

I admitted I’d never heard of them.

“Then, O Blissfully Unaware,” he said, “you’re the only one in Keshavar who hasn’t. Nomads. Wanderers. Here today, somewhere else tomorrow.

“Horse-breeders,” he went on. “The best in the country— in the world, most likely.”

That seemed a harmless enough occupation. What, I asked, could they want from us?

“Only all we’ve got,” Baksheesh said. “They are a tribe with a very odd way of looking at things. They believe any outsider who sets foot on their lands—and their lands are wherever they happen to be—well, to put it plainly, these Bashi-Bazouks claim the right to whatever the outsider brings with him. It belongs to them. Goods, animals, everything. They have other customs, as well. Best not think of them.”

In spite of his warning, I would have drawn my tulwar.

“No, no,” Baksheesh pleaded. “They’d dice you up before you could blink. Stand fast. Smile a lot. Look happy. I’ll deal with this.”

He was off, then, heading toward the riders, making great salaams at every step.

The leading horseman had already dismounted: a black-bearded man who looked as if he had swallowed a barrel, with arms thicker than a pair of Magenta hams. Hoops of gold dangled from his ears; he wore a jewelry shop of gold chains around his neck, and heavy bracelets on his wrists.

I decided to leave my blade in its sheath.

The bearded man stood, arms folded, while Baksheesh made expansive gestures in my direction. Shira and Salamon had, meantime, come beside me.

He nodded, finally, and strode after Baksheesh, who was hurrying to us.

“Bashir, the Horse Master,” Baksheesh said in my ear. “The sar, tribal chieftain, and everything else in these parts. Be calm and dignified, Glorious Nobility. I’ll speak for you.”

Baksheesh stepped aside as the big fellow approached. With all his ornaments, he jingled as he walked. He bowed deeply, then took my hand and pressed it to his massive brow.

“Be gracious,” Baksheesh whispered. “Accept his courtesy as if you deserved it.

“I told him you were Chooch Mirza,” he added, “Crown Prince of Ferenghi-Land.”