Bashir ordered a couple of his people to lash up a yurta. He was practically licking his chops; he could hardly wait for whatever he had in mind. I could. Looking forward to disaster can be difficult, especially if you happen to be the object of it. I ducked inside, glad to be away from him.

I slumped down on a pile of blankets. I wondered how to break the news to Shira. To Salamon. To Baksheesh, though I was less than happy with him for putting me—and all of us— in this mess to begin with.

They soon crowded in, laughing and chattering, still excited by the festivities. I would have to do this gently, carefully, a little bit at a time.

“Bashir’s going to kill me,” I said.

That put a quick end to the small talk. Shira stared at me. She probably supposed I had drunk too much of the BashiBazouks’ refreshments.

“It’s an ancient custom,” I said.

“That’s hospitality?” Baksheesh put in.

“Be quiet,” Shira told him, realizing I was sober and serious.

“Remarkable. Remarkably bad,” Salamon said, after I explained how things had fallen out between Bashir and me. “One thing is clear. Not to belittle your abilities, my boy, but if you fight him, I fear you are bound to lose.”

I had, ruefully, come to the same conclusion.

“Therefore,” he went on, “you must not face him. In fact, you must be gone from here. If Bashir has no opponent, he has no one to kill.”

“I can’t get out of it,” I said. “I have to fight him. What else?”

Shira put a finger to her lips. She went to peer around the curtain at the entrance of the yurta. She warned us to keep our voices down; one of the horsemen was sitting there. And so we gathered close around the tiny oil lamp.

“You have your knife and your tulwar,” she said. “Cut through the far wall. Once out, we scatter. We are not far from my caravanserai. We meet there. You can find your way somehow.”

I shook my head. I had thought of something like that, I explained. I didn’t see it working. I had, as well, tried to bargain with Bashir to let her—all of them—go free while I stayed behind.

“You would have done that?” she said. “Yes. You would.”

“Of course,” I said.

She gave me what I believed was a melting glance. “Diváneh,” she said.

I took it as a term of endearment.

“It means ‘crazy,’” said Baksheesh.

“You have it backward, Kharr-loh,” she went on. “You are the one he means to fight. If anyone escapes, you do. He has no quarrel with the rest of us. If anyone stays, we do.”

She added something that dazzled me more than any melting glance: “You take my horse.”

I turned down that offer straight out. “How do we know he won’t come up with another ancient custom to let him do something just as bad to you? I won’t let you take the chance.”

That put us back to where we started. We sat awhile, not saying much of anything. I did not mention that Charkosh had been there to buy horses. For the immediate future— assuming I had one—it was far down on my list of things to worry about.

More than that, I didn’t want to get Shira stirred up again. It had been a good while since she showed any enthusiasm for going after that villain with one of our knives.

Baksheesh had been unusually silent. I had never seen him so downcast.

“Exalted Worthiness,” he began, when he finally spoke up. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Can you forgive me?”

Apart from a passing moment when I would have enthusiastically wrung his neck—of course I forgave him. It only surprised me that it troubled him so much.

He perked up a lot after that. “Blessings on you, O Marvel of Mercy,” he said. “Do you remember, long ago, I swore to defend you unto death? I gave you my word—”

“It’s all right,” I said. “I never expected you to keep it.”

“Neither did I,” he said. “But now I see only one thing. Since I put Your Entirely Admirable Head at risk in these perilous straits, leave it to me. I will pluck you out.”

I wasn’t so sure about that.

“The only one to fight,” he said, “must be: myself.”

“Diváneh. Crazy as Kharr-loh,” Shira said. But her voice had a fond tone; I knew she was as touched as I was. “If it comes to that, I stand a better chance than you. Bashir will kill you before you have time to scratch yourself.”

“Has anybody killed me yet?” Baksheesh said. “A few have tried, none succeeded.”

“No,” I said. “I won’t let you. I can’t, even if I wanted to. Bashir won’t accept it.”

I explained to him that as Bashir was following one of the Bashi-Bazouks’ ancient rules, there was no way he would go against it.

“I see a reasonable possibility,” said Salamon.

“That’s more than I do,” said Baksheesh. “Go ahead, Saltimbanco. Let’s hear this scheme of yours.”

I listened carefully while Salamon explained what he had in mind. I understood his reasoning. It did make sense—of a sort and up to a point. But I wasn’t sure it could work.

“Nor am I,” he admitted. “But it is not impossible. And if it is not impossible, then, logically, a measure of possibility exists.”

“That’s your best logic?” Baksheesh muttered. “I could have come up with that myself.”

“A small measure of possibility,” Shira said. “For Kharr-loh most of all, a great measure of danger.”

“But it is something of a plan,” Salamon said. “And, therefore, a little better than nothing.”

I took some hard moments to think it over. “I’ll try it,” I said at last. “I’ll have to.”

I looked from Shira to Baksheesh. They nodded, no happier than I.

I hoped we would sleep. None of us did, not even Baksheesh. We huddled there with little more to say, alternating between tense and glum. By the time dawn trickled through the crown of the yurta, my eyelids had begun shutting down.

They opened fast. In rolled Bashir, delighted to see us awake.

“Come, come, dear friend,” he boomed. “Bashi-Bazouks all up and waiting.”

I was in no hurry. I suggested starting later in the day.

“Nah, nah.” He gave me a cordial jab in the ribs. “Sooner is better. Why spoil afternoon?”

I asked about breakfast, preferably long and leisurely.

He shook his head. “No eating before fighting. Not good. You throw up. If you die, worse than that. Bowels go loose, you disgrace yourself.”

He started herding us out of the yurta. I barely had time to snatch my tulwar. At the entrance, Shira held me back.

“Give me your knife, Kharr-loh.”

I did. I was being hustled along too much to ask why.

The sun was rising quickly. It did nothing to take away the chill. As Bashir said, the whole camp had gathered in a half circle a short distance away. No one seemed any the worse for the night’s festivities. Bashir’s black stallion, looking big as an elephant, stamped the ground.

I should have known horses would be involved. But where was Shira’s? I saw only a piebald mare, lean, leggy, with a long, narrow head. She rolled her eyes and curled her lips, as if smiling or getting ready to bite me.

“Good mount, high spirits. One of best,” Bashir said. “Win, you keep her. Lose, you not care.”

When I asked about the rules, he shrugged. “Only one: No rules.”

With that, he swung astride. Roaring “Yah! Yah!” at the top of his voice, he galloped into the clear space amid the yurtas.

Baksheesh gave me a leg up. He handed me a slender lance that Bashir had provided. Shira whispered to me, “You understand what to do?”

I hoped so.