Mirza?

A thin voice in my ear, and somebody poking at me. Whoever it was, I wished they would stop. I didn’t feel like being poked at.

“Mirza? Are you alive?”

“Probably,” I said.

I opened the one eye that seemed to be in working condition. Not that it made much difference. I saw mostly darkness. Some shafts of light came from cracks in what I took to be a wall. They made interesting patterns on the ground. When I got used to seeing nothing, I made out a small shape bending over me. I managed to sit up. A big mistake, for my head felt twice its size and about to fall off my neck.

The boy, as I guessed him to be, crouched on his heels, peering at me with great curiosity.

“I heard they locked up a famous warrior,” he said. “You don’t look like one. Only some kind of ferenghi.”

“How do you know?”

He shrugged. “You smell like one.”

“So I’ve been told,” I said.

“What are you called, mirza?”

“Carlo. Carlo Chuchio,” I said. “Sometimes Kharr-loh. Sometimes al-Chooch. Or Wonder of the World—”

The boy whistled. “All that?”

“Other things, too,” I said.

“Whatever they call you,” he said, “you are one sick ferenghi. Stay here.”

“I expect to,” I said. “Where is ‘here’?”

“My house.”

He vanished. Too bad. He seemed a good-natured boy. I had probably only imagined him. I was still having trouble sorting out my thoughts. Zuski-the-Cockroach had roughed me up a good bit, then his friends had joined in until they lost interest and I lost my senses.

I took inventory. My money belt was gone, of course. And my tulwar and dagger. They had taken my silk map, but overlooked the bookseller’s useless treasure chart, still in my shirt. For all the good that did me.

The most important thing missing: Shira. And Salamon and Baksheesh. I didn’t panic. They would be searching for me. I was confident they would find me, sooner or later. So I spent a while hating Zuski-the-Cockroach.

The boy was back again. I hadn’t imagined him, after all.

“How did you do that?” I asked. “Where did you go?”

“Wherever I am wanting to,” he said. “I have my ways.”

It was too dim to see clearly, but I was sure he had a grin twice the size of his face. Along with the grin, he carried a pot of water. He let me drink some, then soaked a rag and dabbed at my cuts and bruises. “Why are they bringing you here, mirza?”

“A long story. It doesn’t matter now,” I said. “Listen, my lad, whatever your name is—”

“Kuchik.”

“Well, then, Mirza Kuchik,” I said, “what a fine fellow you are. You can do me a good turn. A personal favor. Get me out of this place.”

“I would not wish even a ferenghi to be locked up here,” he said. “But not now. Wait for night. If they are letting you live so long.”

I didn’t care for the sound of that. But something had started nibbling at my memory. My wits were still fuzzy, it took me a while to fish it out. Shira had spoken of a little brother Kuchik. There were probably thousands of Kuchiks all over Keshavar. But—in these parts?

“You have a sister?” I said. “Shira?”

He shook his head sadly. “Once, but no more. This is our caravanserai. She is not here now.”

Had I felt better, I’d have been more astonished than I was. Of all places to be locked up! I wondered if I heard him right.

“A man named Charkosh took her away,” I said.

“Yes. How do you know this, mirza?” His voice faltered. “So it was. The night he killed our father and mother. She is gone a long time. We hear nothing of her. It may be he killed her, too.”

“She lives,” I said. I could feel his eyes staring at me.

“This is true?” he cried. “Where is she?”

“We were in Talaya together,” I said. “After that, I don’t know. I was stupid enough to let a pair of ruffians trap me. There was a redheaded cockroach named Zuski—”

“That one?” Kuchik spat. “A bad man. Bad as Charkosh. But stupid. I am sorry, mirza.”

“So am I. It was my own fault. She was coming home—”

“No!” he burst out. “She must not. She must never come near this place. Bad things happen since she is gone.

“That night,” he hurried on, “I am afraid. I run out and hide in the bushes. I see him carry her off. I follow after them, to fight for her. They go too fast. So far ahead of me I have to turn back. I do not dare go into the house. Some of his men are still there. I fear they will catch me and kill me.”

Once he began his account, he was in such a rush to tell all that had happened that he skipped from one thing to the other, half in Kirkassi, half in a patchwork sort of trade-lingo, and I could scarcely follow him.

The boy had, for a good while, lived like a stray cat on the outskirts of the caravanserai. Dashtani, the housekeeper, had been spared. Charkosh wasn’t such a fool as to do away with a useful servant; and Dashtani was clever enough to pretend to serve him.

Clearly, she kept the boy from starving during those early days. She set out plates of scraps and leftovers. During the night, Kuchik would creep from the bushes, fill his belly, then dart back into hiding. If any of the ruffians asked why the provisions dwindled, she would throw up her hands and bewail the storerooms infested with rats.

When things calmed down, he grew bold enough to venture inside the caravanserai itself.

“It is a very old house, mirza,” he said. “My mother even thought it was built on top of ancient ruins. Long ago, my sister and I played hide-and-seek in little passages behind the walls. Only Dashtani knows I am there. I hear talk, I know what is happening.

“Long after, Charkosh comes back. Zuski is with him, they are in business together. Dashtani tries to make him tell what he does with my sister. Where is she?

“ ‘In Jehannum with all the other she-devils, I hope,’ he says. ‘That vixen cost me money. She hasn’t seen the last of me. She’ll cross my path one day or another. When she does, she’ll pay me back. With interest. I’ll take it out of her blood and bones.’

“This lets us believe she is alive. When Dashtani begs to know more, he is in such a rage he strikes her. He tells her never to speak that cursed name again.

“And so, mirza,” he pressed on, “she dare not come here. If she does, he will surely kill her.”

“Where is Charkosh now?” I asked.

“Away. Zuski commands in his place. Charkosh makes many journeys. Dashtani says he deals in weapons, and pots of something that burns hotter than fire. She has word he rides here tonight. Men wait for him. They meet to lay plans, mirza. Very big plans.”

So Salamon had guessed right. Charkosh was up to devilry of some sort. Whatever his scheme, it made no difference to me. I had to deal with first things first.

The first of first things: Shira. Had she found out where Zuski-the-Cockroach had taken me? If so, would she come looking for me? Would she realize the danger? Or was she cautious enough to keep her distance? Somehow, I doubted that. What would Salamon advise? Too many questions and no answers. I had to head her off.

“Kuchik,” I said, “you told me you could let me out.”

“Yes, but you shall wait for dark. If you are being seen—”

“I can’t wait,” I said. “Do it now.”

“Not possible, mirza.”

“Why?” I said. “You got in here. I’ll go out the same way.”

“I think not,” he said. “You are a too-big ferenghi.”

He helped me to my feet and drew me to a corner of the room. When he showed me a narrow gap, I understood what he meant. I would have to be skinnier than a weasel. It was barely wide enough for him to squeeze through.

“When all is quiet, I come unbar the door,” he said. “I shall go with you, or you never find your way.”

“We don’t have time for that,” I said. “Do you know which road she and my friends will follow if they come here from Talaya?”

“Yes. There is only one.”

“Good,” I said. “Go there. Keep watch. Warn them to stay away.”

“And you? This is not a good place for you to be.”

“Just go,” I told him. “After that, we’ll see.”

He pondered a moment before he agreed that we had no other choice.

“As you say. Peace be upon you, mirza.” He started wriggling through the gap.

“Kuchik,” I called after him, “I love your sister.”

By then, he was gone.