The last thing in the world I wanted was to sit like a penned-up sheep waiting to find out what Zuski-the-Cockroach, or Charkosh himself, had in mind. The only certainty: it would not be pleasant.

What little light there was had begun fading. In those dim remaining moments, I took stock of my situation. I had been tossed into what I supposed to be a kind of lumber room, a catchall for oddments too useless to be stored anywhere else, and too useful to be thrown away.

If I could lay hands on any kind of tool, I might be able to chip at the masonry and widen the gap. I groped through the heap of what felt like rags and old rope and unidentifiable junk, finding nothing that would serve.

For lack of anything better to do, I scrabbled and scratched at the brickwork, only succeeding in leaving some portions of my skin there. The floor of beaten earth was too hard to dig, impossible to burrow into. The heavy wooden door, of course, was barred; no telling what was on the other side, but I heaved and flung myself against it anyway.

I was only wasting my strength. Short of the ground opening at my feet and a genie with a lamp popping up to whisk me away or guide me through a secret tunnel, I was well locked in.

I sat down, at last, and leaned my back against the wall, hoping something else might occur to me. It didn’t. In the darkness, I couldn’t be sure if my eyes were open or shut. It made no difference, in any case.

The dream I had bought from Khabib—he had assured me I could summon it up on any occasion. This seemed a good one; and so I did, glad to be with Shira in some happier place.

I may have drowsed. Again, I couldn’t be certain. Sunlight glinted through the cracks. I heard sounds at the door. I jumped to my feet. Kuchik had done his work, Shira was safe, he was coming to lead me to her.

No, of course not. The door banged open. I was taken on either side by the pair of thugs I recognized as the ones who had lured me away with talk of life or death—neglecting to mention it was my own.

They shoved me down a corridor lined with what I supposed were sleeping quarters and into a large eating room set about with tables and benches. At their ease, munching dates or fingering their calmative beads, sat ten or a dozen men in travel garb.

I gave them only a glance, but enough to see they had to be the finest collection of villains ever gathered in one place at the same time.

Oh, they were no light-fingered pickpockets or everyday bazaar ruffians. These were first-rate villains of weight and substance, who gave orders and were used to being obeyed. Changing a few details of their costumes, it could as well have been a meeting of the Magenta Grand Council.

Except they had killers’ eyes. Apart from that, they seemed on the best of terms all around. It chilled me to realize they were warlords who had fought one another and knew one another very well.

Zuski-the-Cockroach was there, standing in front of a table. His face was blotchy and he was sweating heavily, choking on his own rage. I grasped the situation straightaway. I had been in it myself, when Uncle Evariste gave me a public dressing-down in front of my fellow clerks. But this must have been worse than any shame or humiliation Uncle Evariste laid on me. Zuski-the-Cockroach looked as if he were having his skin peeled off. I almost felt sorry for him.

What froze my blood was the man sitting behind the table. I had never set eyes on Charkosh until now. But I knew him. Cheshim, the hermit-artist, had rendered a pretty good likeness in the painting he had shown us. But he had not done the man full justice.

Charkosh, in the flesh, was a lot scarier. No mere painter could have caught that air of brutality. If Charkosh ever smiled at you, you’d wish he hadn’t.

If I had felt uneasy or disapproving of Shira for wanting to put a knife in him, I took it all back. Now that I saw him, I wanted to do the same.

Charkosh glanced at me with as much curiosity as he would have given to a slab of meat, then went back to bully-ragging Zuski-the-Cockroach.

“So? This is what you brought me? And why, you fool? Because he once offended your tender sensibilities? You knew I wanted that half-breed she-devil. I told you I had word she was traveling with him. You should have taken her before now. Or did you think you’d keep her for yourself? No, you let her slip away. And what do I have? A nothing.”

“The half-breed will follow him,” Zuski-the-Cockroach flung back. “It was my plan to get them both—”

“Your plan? Are you the one to make plans? You disobeyed my orders. I put you in charge of Talaya. And then what? You swaggered around with your gang of ruffians. Half the folk left, thanks to you. The town brings no profit. I put up with your strutting stupidity as long as you are useful. But not when it costs me money. Are you holding back a little something for your own purse? Do you have other clever schemes?”

As quarrels so often go, his rage overflowed into everything else Charkosh could dredge up, far beyond the failure to lay hands on Shira. He ticked off every mistake Zuski-theCockroach had made.

“You fly too high for the size of your wings.” His voice had turned stone cold, which was worse than when it had been on the boil. “You need to be brought down a little.”

Zuski-the-Cockroach had his fill of browbeating; I couldn’t blame him. He took a step toward Charkosh.

“Are you the one to do it?” he said between clenched teeth. He pulled a dagger from his belt and pointed it at Charkosh. “Will you try, mirza?”

Charkosh never moved, only gave him a flat-eyed stare and slightly raised an eyebrow.

A couple of his henchmen had sauntered behind Zuskithe-Cockroach. One of them had already unsheathed his blade. In an efficient, businesslike way, he made a quick thrust. Zuski-the-Cockroach stopped short. His jaw dropped, he made gargling noises. The one who stabbed him gave the knife a good twist and wrenched it free. The two men caught him under the arms before he fell.

Charkosh motioned curtly with his head. Zuski-theCockroach’s eyes were glazing over, his face still had an air of astonishment. The men hauled him away, his heels scraping across the floor. Charkosh chose a few dates from the bowl beside him, chewed them up, and spat out the stones.

Not one of that distinguished company of villains turned so much as a hair. I suspected they had all been in the same situation and had done the same thing. They probably admired and respected Charkosh for acting correctly.

For myself, it left me shaken. I had seen dead men enough to last me a lifetime; but never one murdered in front of me and in such a matter-of-fact way. As far as I was concerned, Zuski-the-Cockroach would not be missed; but I took no joy in that. Not that I was exactly grief-stricken. I had troubles of my own.

After the body had been dragged out and disposed of, they got down to serious business. I was surprised that Charkosh kept me around, since he thought so little of me. I had, for a second, the wild hope he would let me go. Then wild despair, for I realized I made no difference to him one way or the other. He would get around to me whenever he pleased. At the moment, he had other concerns.

Charkosh did most of the talking, with his colleagues occasionally chiming in to comment or question. In its own way, this was not too different from my uncle and Messire Bagatìn going over the accounts item by item. It would have been boring had it not been horrifying.

Again, Salamon had it right. What they discussed was nothing less than taking power over the best stretches of the Road of Golden Dreams; and squeezing tribute from the towns along the way. Caravans, as well, would pay for protection against roving gangs of bandits; which was to say, the warlords themselves. There was even talk of tolls for the use of the larger oases.

For their part, the warlords would stop fighting one another and join forces under Charkosh as villain-in-chief. It was a nice arrangement for everyone except those who weren’t robbers. I had to give Charkosh credit. He thought in large terms.

For his part of the bargain, in exchange for a share in the profits, he would provide the newest and best quality of arms.

More than the promise of weapons, what caught the warlords’ excited attention was a clay pot. Charkosh held it up for all to see. “Among ferenghis,” he said, “it is called ‘Greek Fire.’”

Murmurs rippled through the company. One of the warlords spoke up. “I have heard old tales of such a fire,” he said. “But, Charkosh Agha, it no longer exists—if ever it did.”

“It exists,” Charkosh said. “Not long ago, I offered a small amount to the Kajiks and Karakits during their recent disagreement. They were kind enough to test it for me. Their chieftains are here with us today. They will assure you of its effectiveness.

“But, yes,” he continued, “the formula was lost. And found. It has come into my hands. I obtained it from a journeyer returning from Cathai. The poor fool knew nothing of what he had; he could not read the language. He believed it was a valuable recipe for meat sauce. The price was high, but it was the journeyer who paid. With his life.”

The warlords chuckled appreciatively, as if he had come out with an especially clever witticism.

“I destroyed the scroll it was written on. But the formula is safe,” he quickly added. “Locked in my memory. No one else shall ever gain possession of it.”

He droned on at length, explaining how the substance could be ignited in a vessel of any size, with a wick or long fuse; thrown by hand or launched from a catapult. It would stick like pitch to any surface—stone, wood, or flesh.

Water, he told them, would not quench it, only sand could smother it. At the moment, he had no more than a small amount; but, he assured them, he would soon have the ingredients in quantity, easily stored and shipped as needed, by camelback or horse and wagon.

The warlords listened intently. They were military men and these details were of professional concern to them. Frankly, I lost interest. Escape was my overriding thought, but I saw no way to do it.

When he finished, they nodded approval. Business over, I expected them to leave. But, at every meeting, after all is said, done, and settled, there has to be somebody who muddies the waters by asking an intelligent question.

“Charkosh Agha,” said one, “with respect, would it be possible for you to favor us with a demonstration?”

Charkosh pondered a moment. “If you wish, that can be arranged. Ah. Yes. We have with us an excellent subject. I would have disposed of him in any case. But why be wasteful? He can serve the purpose admirably, as you shall see for yourselves.”

All eyes turned to me.