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dangerous part of the route, for they must cross the Kara Kum, the Black Sands, a desert with far too little water and far too many marauding Turkoman nomads.
    As Ross kept a wary eye on the tawny, broken hills around them, Allahdad slowed his mount so they were riding side by side. “We should have waited in Meshed for another caravan, Khilburn,” he said with gloomy relish. “It is not safe for three men to ride alone. The Allamans, the Turkoman bandits, shall capture us.” He spat on the ground. “They are mansellers, a disgrace to the faith. They shall sell Murad and I as slaves in Bokhara. You, perhaps, they will kill, for you are a ferengi.”
    Ross suppressed a sigh; they had had this conversation a dozen times since leaving Meshed. “We shall overtake the caravan at Sarakhs, if not before then,” he said firmly. “If raiders pursue us, we shall outrun them. Did I not buy us the finest horses in Teheran?”
    Allahdad examined the three mounts, plus the pack-horse Ross was leading. “They are fine beasts,” he admitted with a gusty sigh. “But the Turkomans are born to the saddle. Unlike honest folk, they live only to plunder. We shall never escape them.”
    As usual, Ross ended the discussion by saying, “They may not come. If they do, we shall fly. And if it is written that we shall be taken as slaves, so be it.”
    “So be it,” Allahdad echoed mournfully.
    The chief of the fortress of Serevan was pacing the walls, watching the plains below with keen eyes, when the young shepherd arrived with news that he thought might be of interest.
    After bowing deeply, the youth said, “Guli Sarahi, this morning I saw three travelers going east on the Bir Bala road. They are alone, not part of a caravan.”
    “They are fools to travel this land with so little strength,” was the dispassionate answer. “And doubly fools to do it so close to the frontier.”
    “You speak truly, Guli Sarahi,” the shepherd agreed. “But there is a ferengi, a European, with them. Doubtless it is his foolishness that leads them.”
    “Do you know exactly where they are?”
    “By now they must be nearing the small salt lake,” the shepherd said. “This morning I heard from a friend of my cousin that his uncle saw a band of Turkomans yesterday.”
    The chief frowned, then dismissed the shepherd with the silver coin the youth had been hoping for. For several minutes Guli Sarahi regarded the horizon thoughtfully.
    So there was a ferengi, and a stupid one, on the Bir Bala road. Something must be done about that.
    As the terrain became rougher, Ross increased his alertness, for it would be easy for raiders to approach dangerously close. If, indeed, there were any Turkomans in the vicinity; given the poverty of this frontier country, it hardly seemed worth a bandit’s time. He glanced at the barren hills, thinking that there should be more signs of human habitation, then studied the track, which did not look as if it was used often. “Murad, how far is it to the next village?”
    “Perhaps two hours, Khilburn,” the young Persian said uneasily. “If this is the true road. The winter has been hard and the hills do not look the same.”
    Correctly interpreting the remark to mean that they were lost again, Ross almost groaned aloud. So much for Murad’s assurances in Teheran that he knew every rock and shrub in eastern Persia. If Ross himself hadn’t kept a sharp eye on his map and his compass, they would have been in Baghdad by now. Dryly he suggested, “Perhaps we should retrace our path until the hills begin to look familiar.”
    Murad glanced back over his shoulder, offended at his master’s lack of faith, then stared past Ross, his expression changing to one of genuine fear. “Allamans!” he shouted. “We must flee for our lives!”
    Both Ross and Allahdad turned in their saddles and saw that half a dozen riders in characteristic Turkoman garb had rounded a bend about a quarter of a mile behind them. As soon as the