The leading riders of the war band galloped into the courtyard, whooping and yelling at the top of their voices. I threw myself to the ground, wrapped my arms around my head, and rolled away to escape the plunging hooves. In those first moments of confusion, I had no idea whose people they were, and didn’t much care. My only thought was to lie low, let them pass, then make a dash for the open road. Something was nuzzling at me and snuffling into my ear.

I ventured to look up, and met the adoring gaze of that long-legged, long-headed crocodile: my piebald mare. I swear she was smiling at me. I realized only then that the ones making such a racket were a troop of Bashir’s horsemen; and Bashir himself was roaring “Yah! Yah!” while his riders at full stretch circled the courtyard. I glimpsed a flash of white— Shira’s steed, with her astride and Kuchik behind, arms around her waist, hanging on for dear life.

I jumped to my feet and clambered onto my piebald, and she was off into the thick of it. I saw nothing of Salamon or Baksheesh. I was just as glad. This was hardly the place for either of them—hardly the place for Shira. Or myself, for that matter.

I had never seen the Bashi-Bazouks in action. And hoped I never would again. I had the quick impression these were the younger hotheads from the camp, spoiling for any kind of fight, and this was the nicest thing that could have happened to them. Instead of lances, some carried stubby little double-curved bows. They looked the size of children’s toys. But they were ferocious weapons. Given a choice between the Greek Fire, still blazing away, and Bashi-Bazouk arrows hissing through the air—I believe I’d have taken my chances with the Greek Fire.

Charkosh’s gang of ruffians must have felt the same way. Their greatest ambition in life, at that moment, was to flee the courtyard. On top of that, Bashir’s riders whistled through their teeth, and yelled enough to terrify the wits out of anyone but a Bashi-Bazouk.

The company of warlords gave a better account of themselves, but not much better. They were seasoned warriors, long experienced, shrewd in combat—which meant they knew when it was time to vacate the premises.

About half of them ran for the stables, hoping to make their escape on horseback. The rest gave up any notion of recovering their steeds, their baggage, or salvaging anything but their own skins. Bad choices either way, for Bashir’s riders went after all of them with their deadly little toy bows and arrows. I wanted only to reach Shira. I urged my devoted crocodile into the press of horsemen, but it was like galloping into a riptide. The piebald and I were spun in one direction, then another.

I did catch sight of Salamon leading the donkey, both calmly picking their way through the surrounding lunacy; on Salamon’s face was such a look of wide-eyed, innocent astonishment that I half expected him to make a note of the storm swirling around him.

By the time I reined up near Shira, young Kuchik had already hopped off the white mare. I dismounted as he capered over to me.

“I am finding them,” he crowed. “Then my sister goes to fetch those big fellows on horseback. Mirza, I do well, no?”

“You did very well,” I said. For the first time, I saw he had the same eyes as Shira.

“I was telling my sister you love her.” Kuchik grinned enough for several boys his size. “That is good, too?”

“I believe she knows that,” I said. “But, yes, also very good.”

She was standing looking down at the still-smoldering remains. My first impulse was to put my arms around her— which I did; not so much a loving embrace but to turn her away. She shook her head.

“I was not afraid to face him when he lived,” she said. “Why should I be afraid to face him now?”

Salamon had joined us. “Come, child. You have seen. Now let it be. You need do no more. His life saw to his death, as I promised you.”

Meantime, a handsome, gray-haired woman of generous proportions hurried from the main building of the inn. Without being told, I knew this was Dashtani. The two of them ran and clung together. Shira let herself be led inside.

I had given up on Baksheesh. I assumed he was at the encampment, fortifying himself with fermented mare’s milk.

He came up behind me, with the camels rolling their eyes and wrinkling their noses. He looked at me with sincere awe and admiration.

“O Valorous One,” he murmured, waving a hand around the courtyard. “This was your doing?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “Not really.”

“Ah.” He shrugged. “No matter. What is perfection without a tiny flaw? Intrepid Eagle Among the Planets, killing people doesn’t seem to be your line of work.”

The Bashi-Bazouks had begun the warriors’ eternal chore of cleaning up the mess they had made. Apart from being savaged by the late Zuski-the-Cockroach, and threatened with Greek Fire, I had to face a moment of greatest peril to life and limb.

“Brother!”

Before I had time to take a defensive posture, Bashir seized me in an embrace so brotherly that, having rescued me, he could have spoiled it by squashing me flat. Red-faced, sweat-soaked, he pounded me on the back; and left me hardly breath enough to thank him.

“Chto! What thanks when brother needs brother?”

I believed him; but, short of a better pretext, he would have turned out the whole camp to rescue a cat up a tree. He let me loose, finally, and glanced around the courtyard and inn.

“Not so comfortable as yurta,” he declared. “But, is good.” He wiped his brow on his sleeve. “Hot work makes big thirst, and empty bellies so late in day.”

He shifted from one foot to the other, sucked his teeth, and licked his lips, waiting expectantly.

So—what else could I do?—I invited them all to lunch.