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carefully to his hands before leaning back against the cushions and closing his eyes.
    Matze Chai did not hate mountains. Hatred would mean giving in to passion, and passion, in Matze’s view, indicated an uncivilized mind. He loathed what the mountains represented, what the philosopher termed the “Mirrors of Mortality.” The peaks were eternal, never changing, and when a man gazed upon them, his own ephemeral nature was exposed to the light, the frailty of his flesh suddenly apparent. And frail it was, he thought, regarding his coming seventieth birthday with a mixture of disquiet and apprehension.
    He leaned forward and slid back a panel in the wall, revealing a rectangular mirror. Matze Chai gazed upon his reflection. The thinning hair, drawn tightly across his skull and braided at the nape of his neck, was as black as it had been in his youth, but a tiny line of silver at the hairline meant that he would need to have the dye reapplied soon. His slender face showed few lines, but his neck was sagging, and even the high collar of his scarlet and gold robes could no longer disguise it.
    The palanquin lurched to the right as one of the eight bearers, weary after six hours of labor, slipped on a loose stone. Matze Chai reached up and rang the small golden bell bolted to the embossed panel by the window. The palanquin stopped smoothly and was lowered to the ground.
    The door was opened by his
Rajnee
, Kysumu. The small warrior extended his hand. Matze Chai took it and stepped through the doorway, his long robes of heavily embroidered yellow silk trailing to the rocky path. He glanced back. The six soldiers of his guard sat their mounts silently. Beyond them the second team of bearers climbed down from the first of the three wagons. Dressed in livery of red and black, theeight men marched forward to replace the tired first team, who trudged silently back to the wagon.
    Another liveried servant ran forward, bearing a silver goblet. He bowed before Matze Chai and offered him watered wine. The merchant took the goblet, sipping the contents. “How much longer?” he asked the man.
    “Captain Liu says we will camp at the foot of the mountains, sir. The scout has found a suitable site. He says it is an hour from here.”
    Matze Chai drank a little more, then returned the goblet, still half-full, to the servant. Climbing back into the palanquin, he settled himself down on his cushions. “Join me, Kysumu,” he said.
    The warrior nodded, pulled his sword and scabbard from the sash of his long gray robes, and climbed inside, seating himself opposite the merchant. The eight bearers took hold of the cushioned poles, raising them to waist height. At a whispered command from the lead bearer, they then hefted the poles to their shoulders. Inside the palanquin Matze Chai gave a satisfied sigh. He had trained the two teams well, paying attention to every detail. Travel by palanquin was usually not dissimilar to sailing a small boat on choppy water. The cabin lurched from side to side, and within minutes those with delicate constitutions would begin to feel queasy. Not so for those who traveled with Matze Chai. His teams were made up of eight men of equal height, trained for hours every day back in Namib. They were well-paid, well-fed, powerful young laborers, men of little imagination but great strength.
    Matze Chai leaned back in his cushions, transferring his gaze to the slim, dark-haired young man seated opposite him. Kysumu sat silently, his three-foot-long curved sword on his lap, his coal-black slanted eyes returning Matze Chai’s gaze. The merchant had grown to like the little swordsman, for he spoke rarely and radiated calm. There was never a hint of tension about him.
    “How is it you are not wealthy?” Matze Chai asked him.
    “Define wealth,” answered Kysumu, his long face, as ever, expressionless.
    “The ability to purchase whatever one desires whenever one desires it.”
    “Then I am wealthy. All I desire is a little