Bashir had called my horse high-spirited. I would have called her a disgruntled crocodile.

No sooner had I swung astride than she reared and nearly sent me sailing heels over head; then kicked up her hindquarters. At one point, I swear she had all hooves off the ground, for she landed with a jolt that made my teeth clack. I could barely keep hold of my lance with one hand and grab the saddle horn with the other.

I was glad Bashir had declined to serve a meal. My breakfast and I would already have parted company. To make matters worse, Baksheesh gave the mare a good smack on the rear. She plunged forward, galloping full stretch into the clearing hemmed around by eager onlookers.

When Bashir saw me bearing down on him, his face lit up. He gave a couple of joyful whoops and waved me on. He could have been welcoming a long-lost relative. Except for the lance he pointed at me.

My long-legged crocodile of a horse headed straight at him. I flung away my lance and hauled at the reins with both hands. No more than a foot from Bashir, I was able to turn the mare aside; but not before our mounts collided with a jolt that nearly sent Bashir himself out of his saddle.

For a moment, we were flank to flank, practically knee to knee—a good thing, too. At such close quarters, Bashir could not bring his lance into play. With no suggestion from me, the mare slewed around and streaked ahead of Bashir’s mount.

He galloped after us. Afraid he might decide to throw his lance at me like a spear, I bent so low in the saddle that half my face pressed flat against the mare’s neck. Some lengths behind, Bashir was yelling indignantly for me to turn and confront him and be skewered like any self-respecting warrior.

This was the last thing I intended. The night before, in the yurta, we had agreed that I must, at all cost, stay away and make no attempt to engage him.

And so I tried to keep my distance. Easier said than done. As we circled around, Bashir, in hot pursuit, kept gaining on me.

Pounding over the turf, I had one flash of completely useless regret, and cursed myself for a chooch. Better for Shira and all of us had I stayed Crown Prince of Ferenghi-Land, awaiting the arrival of a nonexistent ransom. We would, at this very instant, be stuffing ourselves with Bashi-Bazouk delicacies instead of my being chased by an irate Horse Master bent on doing me in; and coming ever closer to succeeding.

Well, so much for that part of Salamon’s plan. I didn’t blame him, he had assured me it would be dangerous. I hadn’t expected it to unravel so quickly.

As for the rest—I dared a glance behind me. What looked like an animated bundle of rags came streaking into Bashir’s path. Despite all his bunions, lumbago, and everything else ailing him, Baksheesh moved faster than I had ever seen him.

He vaulted up behind the astonished Bashir and grappled him around the waist. Bashir could not shake him loose. The two of them, struggling, tumbled off the stallion’s back. Baksheesh nimbly rolled away to avoid being squashed. The Horse Master had fallen heavily as a load of rocks; he sprawled, stunned. I hauled on my reins, and leaped—though it was more of a lurch—off the mare.

The onlookers began shouting furiously, shaking their fists. Some of Bashir’s riders started forward to defend their fallen chieftain. Shira ran to pick up my lance and warn them away. Beside her, Salamon called out to the angry crowd, insisting all had been done properly according to their customs.

Despite his assurances, I was afraid they might come rushing at us. His words, at least, were enough to puzzle them; and they held back, muttering among themselves.

Bashir sat up, still dazed, rubbing his head. As soon as he saw me come near Baksheesh, who was warily keeping his distance, he began roaring at me. “Cheat! Treacherous ferenghi! Cowardly gorgio! How dare break rules of combat? Take horse. Face Bashir again. Alone.”

He tried to get to his feet, with a view to breaking me in half. To quiet him down, I had to draw my tulwar and set the point under his chin.

He was clear enough in his wits to realize I had him at a fatal disadvantage. I ordered him to stay where he was and listen carefully.

“For one thing,” I began, “didn’t you tell me there were no rules?”

“But not two against one in combat of honor,” he burst out. “Any fool knows that.”

“I’m following your own law,” I hurried on, as he ground his teeth and glared at me. “There weren’t two of us.”

“A ferenghi and also crazy?” he flung back. “You tell Bashir: Who is sorry bag of bones with you?”

“My servant. You know that,” I said. “You told me only yesterday: What the servant does is like the master doing it himself. Baksheesh followed my orders. I’m responsible. Servant and master are one and the same.”

“Is so,” said Bashir. “What difference does that make?”

“All the difference,” I said. “If servant and master are the same, there weren’t two of us. Only one. Me.”

Bashir’s brow twisted into gnarls and knots. He chewed over my words for a little while. “Is trick somewhere in this. Deep inside. Too deep for Bashir. But there.”

I could practically see his thoughts wandering down winding pathways and blind alleys. Finally, still puzzled, he said, “Is as you say.”

The piebald mare, meantime, sidled up and nuzzled my neck.

“Yours,” Bashir said. “Good horse. Love her, she love you. You win, Chooch Mirza, whoever you are.

“We staked our lives,” he added. “Bashir lose.”

“Then it’s over,” I said. “The offense is washed away.”

“Not yet,” he said. “Strike now. Quick. Make botch and ghost of Bashir comes to haunt you.”

He seriously expected to be killed. It staggered me how he could sit there, resigned to his fate, in good spirits, no hard feelings.

“Is good,” he said cheerfully. “Great Mare fly down and carry Bashir away.”

What he said next staggered me even more.

“Then, you take Bashir’s place. You be new Horse Master.”

The mare snorted fondly in my ear. I tried to absorb what Bashir so casually told me.

“You be leader of Bashi-Bazouks. Oh, not too long.” He waved at the horsemen. “Until one of them challenges you. Then fight. No servant this time. When you be dead, he be chieftain. Very ancient custom.”

Judging from the look of those fellows, they could hardly wait to get in line. I sheathed my tulwar with a gesture grand enough for all to see I meant him no harm.

“Get up, Horse Master,” I said. “I already have blood enough on my hands. I didn’t seek it, I didn’t intend it, but it’s there nonetheless. I don’t want yours.”

Bashir gaped and stared scandalized. “Is ancient custom—”

“Bashir,” I said, “what you call ancient custom is just a bad habit. Somebody did something stupid long ago and you’ve been doing it ever since. It doesn’t make anything better. It only gets stupider and stupider.”

Bashir shook his head. “Must do. No other way.”

“There is,” I insisted. “You declare that this ancient custom is gone. Some of the others, too. No longer followed.”

“Is true. Lose lot of good men that way,” he admitted. “But—can Bashir do this?”

“You’re the Horse Master,” I said. “Your word is law, isn’t it?”

A huge smile shone through his beard. I suspected he wasn’t as eager to see the Great Mare as he let on. “Yes! What Bashir says is how it will be. Start new ancient customs.”

He got to his feet and stepped a few paces toward the onlookers. Though I understood hardly anything of the language, I was sure he was pronouncing the end of a good many ancient customs. From the outburst of cheers, I gathered some had never been exactly popular.

He strode back to me. “Not yet done,” he said. “Blood must still be shed. You, Chooch Mirza, no more Bashir’s dear friend.”

He drew the knife from his belt.