Bashir clamped one rough hand around my wrist and, with the other, brandished his knife.

“No more dear friend!” he cried. “Better than friend. Blood brother.”

Before I understood what he had in mind, he gave me a good sharp nick on my outspread palm. As I yelped, he let me loose and did likewise to himself. He squeezed our palms together. Messy, but a great honor. I appreciated it. Though I would have preferred a cordial handshake.

“Now, brother,” he declared, “sing, dance, big feast.”

The crowd had gone wild, whooping and cheering. For the end of the more unpleasant customs? For Bashir and me becoming blood brothers? For the prospect of yet another feast?

I had to take advantage of our fraternal relationship.

“Cherished kinsman, blood brother,” I said. “A little light breakfast would be welcome, but we really must be going.”

Bashir’s face fell. For a moment, I was afraid he was going to fling an ancient custom at me. He reluctantly nodded. “As brother wishes.”

The Bashi-Bazouks laid out a breakfast nearly as big as last night’s feast. We ate at long trestle tables set up on the ground where Bashir, less than an hour ago, tried to send me to the Great Mare. Shira, Baksheesh, and I were tactful enough not to congratulate Salamon on how well his scheme had worked out.

When we had all stuffed ourselves, Bashir belched generously and leaned his elbows on the table. “Now, brother, say where you go in such hurry.”

Without going into details, I simply answered that we were heading for Shira’s caravanserai.

“Where that?”

I took out my map and laid the silken square in front of him, pointing to our destination.

“With this?” Bashir squinted at it. “Pfui! No good. BashiBazouks never need map. Bashir tell you better, faster way.”

While he did so, a couple of his folk brought our animals to us. Salamon beamed at seeing the donkey again. As for the camels, Baksheesh was not overjoyed.

Bashir gestured at Shira’s mare, while the piebald snuffled and made googly eyes at me.

“You have new horse, brother. Fine saddle, harness, all. And heart set on you.” He pulled me closer. In what, for him, was a whisper, which could probably be heard throughout the camp, he said behind his hand: “Be generous, brother. Why not give other to Kirkassi girl? To please her.” He nudged me in the ribs, which nearly made me fall off the bench. “That please you, too?”

Shira sensibly kept her mouth shut.

“Why, brother, that’s a wonderful idea,” I said. “I should have thought of it myself.”

After a few more courses of light breakfast, we packed our gear. Bashir loaded us with extra provisions. We said our farewells then, although it took almost as long to leave the camp as the time we had spent in it. Bashir’s family and everyone else embraced us in turn; lastly, Bashir himself.

“Brother, Bashi-Bazouks happy for what you do,” he said, hugging the breath out of me. “Ancient custom”—he grinned at this—“to wish you ‘bahtolo drom.’ Follow good road.”

We set off then, Shira and I riding side by side. She leaned over and handed me my knife. “Yours, Kharr-loh. I didn’t need it.”

I slid the blade into my sash. Why, I asked, did she want it in the first place?

She smiled and said, “If Bashir harmed you—it was for him.”

Bashir’s directions proved better than my map. Leaving the meadowlands, we moved along at a good pace. Now that my attention was no longer fixed on saving my skin, I could tell them about Charkosh trying to buy horses, and Bashir’s opinion of him.

Salamon listened carefully to my account. It was the first time I had seen him less than cheerful.

“Bashir understood the situation better than I did,” he said. “Quicker, as well. The bits and pieces start coming together. Things that didn’t fit, that made little sense—like some of Cheshim’s paintings—yes, I see them a little more clearly. If I’m at all correct, I don’t like what I see.

“Did I not tell you, my lad, you could think your way through a stone wall if you put your mind to it and took enough time? Now, do you remember when bandits attacked the caravan?”

I nodded. Oh, yes, I most surely did.

“And their weapons? The caravan master had never seen bandits armed like that. Where did they get them? Stolen? Possibly. But I wonder, now, if Charkosh had a hand in it. What if he turned from trading in slaves to trading in weapons? In exchange for what?”

For money, of course, I said. A share in the bandits’ plunder.

“Or something more?” Salamon suggested. “Their loyalty? Is he their master, so to speak?” He shrugged. “If so, we must ask ourselves: Is he raising his own army? Does he mean to control as many trade routes as he can? To make himself a powerful warlord? This fits neatly with what Bashir overheard.

“And the flaming globes in one of Cheshim’s paintings?” Salamon went on. “The burned-out villages? The thing that came to my mind was Greek Fire. The recipe was long lost. Dare we speculate that Charkosh found it somehow? That, indeed, would be a formidable weapon.

“The biggest question,” said Salamon, “assuming any of this is correct, is what’s to be done about it?”

“Well, Saxifrage,” said Baksheesh, “you’re a longheaded old bird with your logic and all, I’ll give you that much. But I can answer you easily: Nothing. Because, there’s nothing we can do. And besides, it’s none of our business. As the ferenghis say, ‘We have other fish to fry.’”

“And so?” Salamon said.

“I suggest we set about frying them.”

While I wasn’t happy to let Charkosh get away with whatever dirty business he was up to, it didn’t concern us.

I was wrong.

“Kharr-loh,” Shira said, “I’m afraid.”

She was. I saw it in her face. With all we had gone through—bandits, warring tribes, howling deserts, and a few others I had gladly forgotten—I had been terrified fairly often. Shira had never so much as flinched. Why now, practically at her doorstep?

I asked what frightened her.

“Going home,” she said, in a pale voice. “It was what I wanted from the beginning. I thought I could face what I found. Now I’m afraid of it.”

Privately, I feared the worst. Yet I told her it was very possible, even probable, her mother and brother were still alive, waiting, hoping she would make her way back to them.

I was lying. She knew I was lying.

By afternoon, we reached Talaya: a little market town she had known all her life. Her household, she explained, bought provisions there.

Instead of going straight to her caravanserai, I suggested stopping here first. The tradespeople should know what had happened. It would, I thought, be a way of softening any bad news. In any case, it could do no harm to find out now. At least it might help her decide what best to do.

Because it had been part of her girlhood, I wanted to like the town. I couldn’t. It may once have been a pleasant, pretty place. I didn’t find it so.

The dusty market square had only a handful of stalls. The few passersby seemed to be looking in every direction except at one another. We did attract some attention when we passed through the gate. Probably because of our fine horses, as well as our being strangers. Among the fruit and vegetable sellers, Shira saw none she recognized.

“This is not as I remember,” she said.

“Nothing ever is,” Salamon said.

She did stop at a fruit stand she had known. The present owner could only tell her—and grudgingly—that the old woman who had once ran the business had given it up and now lived alone a few streets beyond the square.

We set off to find her. As we crossed the square, two men hurried up.

“You are the great al-Chooch?” said one, with a hasty salaam. “A moment of your precious time. Quickly, for the sake of mercy. A matter of life and death.”

Shira and Salamon had gone on ahead. I hesitated, but the two men began drawing me toward a shabby inn. I barely had a chance to tell Baksheesh to hold my horse, keep an eye on the camels, and wait for me.

“Mirza Zuski will bless you,” one said, leading me past the empty common room to a chamber at the rear.

And there he was, at a table, sipping a glass of mint tea. I hadn’t known his name until now. Zuski—it sounded like trade-lingo for cockroach. The redheaded trader we had run up against near Marakand.

He grinned. “A kindly fate brings us together again. I had word you were seen on your way to Talaya. It is my good fortune.”

He set down his glass and stepped toward me. “Well, then, O Fearsome Warrior, peace be upon you.”

He punched me in the face.