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vomit-colored dwarf ripe for the taking.”
    “I fear you are making a mistake,” said Matze Chai, “but then, all actions have consequences and a man must have the courage to face them.” He gave an abrupt bow, which in Chiatze would have been insulting, and turned away, walking slowly back to his palanquin. He glanced back and saw Kysumu walk forward to stand before the leader. Two robbers advanced from the group to stand alongside the bearded man. For a moment only Matze Chai doubted the wisdom of this course of action. Kysumu seemed suddenly tiny and innocuous against the brute power of the roundeye robber and his men.
    The leader’s sword came up. Kysumu’s blade flashed into the air.
    Moments later, with four men dead and the rest of the robbers scattering and running away into the rocks, Kysumu wiped clean his sword and returned to the palanquin. He was not out of breath, nor was his face flushed. He looked, as always, serene and at peace. Matze Chai’s heart was beating wildly, but he fought to keep his face expressionless. Kysumu had moved with almost inhuman speed, cutting, slashing, spinning like a dancer into the middle of the robbers. At the same moment, his six guards had charged their horses into the second group, and they, too, had run for cover. All in all amost satisfactory outcome and one that justified the expense of hiring guards.
    “Do you believe they will come back?” asked Matze Chai.
    “Perhaps,” Kysumu said with a shrug. Then he stood quietly waiting for orders.
    Matze Chai summoned a servant and asked Kysumu if he wished to partake of some watered wine. The swordsman shook his head. Matze Chai accepted a goblet, intending to take a sip. Instead he half drained it.
    “You did well,
Rajnee
,” he said.
    “We should be moving from here,” replied Kysumu.
    “Indeed so.”
    The cabin of the palanquin felt like a sanctuary as Matze Chai settled himself down on his cushions. Lightly striking the bell to signal the bearers to move on, he closed his eyes. He felt suddenly safe, secure, and almost immortal. Opening his eyes, he glanced out through the window and saw the setting sun blaze its dying light over the mountain peaks.
    Reaching up, he drew the curtains closed, his good humor evaporating.
    They made camp an hour later, and Matze Chai sat in his palanquin while his servants unloaded his nighttime furniture from the wagons, assembling his gold lacquered bed and spreading on it his satin sheets and thick goose-down quilt. After this they raised the poles and frame of his blue and gold silk tent, spreading out the black canvas sheet on the ground and then unrolling his favorite silk rug to cover it. Lastly his two favorite chairs, both inlaid with gold and deeply cushioned with padded velvet, were placed in the tent entrance. When finally Matze Chai climbed from the palanquin, the camp was almost prepared. His sixteen bearers were sitting together around two campfires set in a jumble of boulders. Two of the six guards had taken up sentry positions to patrol the perimeter, and his cook was busy preparing a light supper of spiced rice and dried fish.
    Matze Chai moved across the campground to his tent and sank gratefully into his chair. He was tired of living like a frontier nomad, at the mercy of the elements, and longed for the journey to be over. Six weeks of this harsh existence had drained his energy.
    Kysumu was sitting cross-legged on the ground close by, a section of parchment, pinned to a board of cork, resting on his knees. Using a shaped piece of charcoal, Kysumu was sketching a tree. Matze Chai watched the little swordsman. Every evening he would fetch his leather folder from the supply wagon, take a fresh section of parchment, and sketch for an hour. Usually trees or plants, Matze Chai had noted.
    Matze Chai had many such drawings in his own home, by some of the greatest Chiatze masters. Kysumu was talented but by no means exceptional. His compositions lacked, in Matze