"Your foot has not healed yet," Tulsi said to Sanat Ji Mani as they sat by a small lake in the luxuriant light of the full moon. They were far from the Sutlej now, south and east of the city of Samdhar; the arid plain was behind them, and they were in wooded uplands. Traveling by night, they had avoided towns and cities, wanting to leave no record of their journey; when they encountered villages, they waited until daylight, found a shaded place where they performed for the people-Tulsi doing her acrobatic tumbling, Sanat Ji Mani offering conjuring tricks or medical treatment-in exchange for shelter and a meal for Tulsi. "It is forty-one days since you ... pulled out the stirrup." Her voice caught in her throat as she remembered the harrowing event; even the recollection made her feel slightly ill. "There is still an open wound through your foot. It has not knit so far." She glanced down at the boot he had fashioned for himself, and saw the shine of blood on the rough leather.

He shook his head once. "I am not badly hampered." It was not entirely the truth, for he had none of his native earth to restore him which left him vitiated and made his recovery more difficult.

"You say that, but you are exhausted by the sun and your injury continues." She wanted him to see her concern. "I worry for you."

"Thank you; I will recover in time." He realized this was not enough, that she wanted more from him. "I do not mean to cause you apprehension, I apologize for that. I am highly complimented by your concern, though it is unnecessary."

"But you bleed, and the sun burns you," she said. "Say what you will, I am troubled on your behalf. I wish you would mend, and your skin not ... char the way it does when you are long in the sun. How can you improve if you continue to be hurt?"

"I told you those of my blood heal very slowly. The cut will close eventually but I will limp for some time." He smiled to solace her; his sack lay on the ground beside him, next to her pack. "And I will heal; you have my Word on it. You must not worry."

"But I do. I saw how weak you became after the staple was out, how exhausted and pale you were, and how dreadful your burns ... I fetched ... sustenance for you. I know how much you have endured." She looked across the lake. "You will want to catch more birds tonight, I would guess."

"Not just at this moment," he told her. "You had eggs and cheese today. If I catch ducks tomorrow, that should suffice. Tonight I would like to find heartier fare."

"Will your foot allow it?" She was anxious for him. "You may not want to take on furred game yet."

"Would it trouble you if I did?" he asked, thinking she might have an aversion to his hunting hooved animals, although she had not mentioned it before.

She nodded, her thoughts clearly on something else. "You have taken care of me. In spite of all this, you have taken care of me."

He did not speak for a short while, then he laid his small hand on hers and said, "Not as well as I should like."

"Oh." Tulsi started to pull her hand away, then stopped as her expression changed slightly, as if she had thought of something new.

"You deserve better than I have been able to provide," he said. "If things were otherwise, I would see that you did not have to suffer on my account."

"How would you want to care for me?" Her question was nervous and playful at once; she stared down at his hand on hers. "If you could?"

"First, I would not remain here. I would want to take you to one of my houses, in some part of the world where you could live your life as you liked, a place where war could not reach you and you would be beholden to no one for your livelihood." He heard how forlorn he sounded, and deliberately made his tone more hortatory. "You have great skills. You are clever. You have much to offer. It would be an honor to be able to give you the opportunity to achieve all that you seek for yourself: do you know what that might be?"

For a long moment she considered her answer. "I think I would seek to have my own troupe of tumblers and acrobats and to travel the world freely. I think I would want to be well-fed and safe, and dressed in silks that are not old and torn." She was wistful and revealing so much of her dreams did not come readily to her. "I would like to find the most able practitioners of my art to be in my troupe, so that we would awe all those who saw us perform."

"Then I wish I could help you to have that troupe," he said, so simply that she believed him utterly.

"How could you do that? If you have wealth, as you say you do, you cannot use it now, and we are alone in a part of the country neither of us knows. How can that change? No one can find us, and we cannot reveal ourselves." She was optimistic and discouraged at the same time. "If I could have my troupe, where would it be?"

"You said yourself you would travel the world," he reminded her, watching her as she thought about this.

"Yes," she said at last, "but that was my aspiration, not anything I can have, not in this world. I have been through enough of it to know that." She turned toward the sound of a night-bird's cry. "If it could be, that is what I would want, that's all."

Little as he wanted to admit it, Sanat Ji Mani knew her reservations were well-founded. Twelve or thirteen centuries ago, it would have been different, for then the Roman Circus would have provided a venue for her that included fortune and travel, as she wished to have; now there were very few places that would welcome her alone or with a troupe. "You should be able to have some of what you seek," he told her, hoping to provide a little solace.

"How is that possible in this life?" She pulled her hand away at last. "You are kind to me, and I know that is as much as I can hope for in this world."

Sanat Ji Mani shook his head. "Tulsi, listen to me: you are a remarkable woman, and not because you can do somersaults in the air, or walk on your hands with your feet touching your head." He sat very still. "I will hunt in a while. There are mousedeer in the forest. I should be able to catch one."

"I have heard of them," Tulsi said, her manner becoming politely distant. "Are they really as small as mice?"

"No," he said. "But they are very small, for all that. I will not be at risk trying to catch one." He got to his feet, picking up his sack and slinging its strap over his shoulder. "Let us find you a place to rest while I go hunting." He stared around him, his night-seeing eyes finding much activity in the undergrowth. Finally he spotted a half-fallen tree with a hollow beneath it. "Come," he said, offering her his hand to pull her up. "I will make sure you are not exposed to animals or snakes."

Tulsi followed after him, adjusting her pack on her shoulders as she went. "There are more animals in the forest now."

"And there will be more as we go south: animals are plentiful there, all sorts of animals," he said, casting his mind back almost nine hundred years to the Year of Yellow Snow, and the catastrophe it had been. He had seen reports of thousands of animals dying in the forests and on the plains throughout Asia, and recalled some of the greatest devastation had been in the south, near the site of the cataclysm that brought the hard years. In the intervening centuries, most of the animals had multiplied again, but there were a few that had vanished forever in that appalling year and the decade that followed.

"What are you thinking?" she asked him, aware that his thoughts were elsewhere.

"I was thinking that life is fragile," he replied, banishing his memories for now.

She could not speak for a bit; an emotion she could not name overwhelmed her. Finally she told him, "Is this what you realized when you lay in a stupor for three days?"

"No; I have known it a longer time than that," he said softly. He motioned her to stop, pointing to show where there were deep impressions in the bank. "Elephants have come here to drink," he said.

"Wild, do you think?" She knew that wild elephants could be dangerous.

"It might be wisest to assume so," said Sanat Ji Mani, continuing on cautiously. "We will hear them moving if they come our way."

"And tigers?" Tulsi glanced over her shoulder.

"We should also assume they are about," he said.

"There are tigers around the Inland Sea," she said. "And in China."

"There are tigers in the snows of Russia and T'u-Bo-T'e," said Sanat Ji Mani. "And many kinds of leopards."

"So you are not the only one hunting tonight," said Tulsi, trying to make light of her sudden fear.

"I am never the only one hunting, night or day," he said evenly. He was half-way to the hollow and paused to look at it again, trying to discover anything that might be dangerous to them.

Tulsi hugged herself as if taken with a sudden chill. "How long will you take to find this mousedeer you speak of?"

"I cannot say; not one instant longer than necessary. I hope I can snare one quickly, so that you do not have to wait long into the night for your supper. If you build up a fire, you should have a meal by midnight." He could not keep from a pang of regret; the mousedeer would provide them both nourishment, but he wished he and Tulsi shared something more than their companionship. He set that notion aside; she had not sought anything more from him than what he had provided from the first and it was not in his nature to demand.

"If you are not back by sun-up, what then?" It was a question she had asked every night he hunted; he answered her as if he had not done so before.

"Wait for a day and a night. If I do not return by the next dawn, go south and east to the city of Sirpur and find the Parsi merchant known as Azizi Iniattir. I have told you about the Parsi merchants, have I not? Tell him Sanat Ji Mani has sent you and that I will join you there when I am able. Tell him you are under my protection, and that in the name of Rustam Iniattir you are to be his guest." He had no doubt that she was capable of making the long journey on her own, but he was uncertain about her willingness to claim hospitality on his account.

"Who is this Rustam Iniattir?" she asked, as she had wished to do for the last ten nights.

"He was a merchant from Delhi; now he is at Fustat in Egypt, safe from Timur-i. He and I have had business dealings together." Sanat Ji Mani motioned her to halt again. "There is something in the brush up ahead. If you will wait here, I will see what it is." He moved away into the forest, graceful in spite of his limp. The underbrush parted around him; he found his way to a near-by clearing and saw half-a-dozen blackbuck grazing; these large antelopes were opulently homed, and their distinctive black-over-white markings made them easily recognized. They were too large for Sanat Ji Mani to try to hunt them in his weakened condition; he slipped back into the cover of the underbrush and was soon emerging from the screen of leaves not far from where Tulsi stood, her hand on the medical knife he had given her. "You will not need that."

She tried to laugh and ended up making a nervous whinny. "You surprised me," she said by way of excuse.

"That was not my intention," he said, and bent down to pick up a thick section of root that was almost as long as he was tall. "This will let us know if there is anything in the hollow you would not want." He hefted it, letting her see how substantial it was. "You may keep this by you while I go hunting, providing you do not use it against me when I return."

"I would never do that," she said, her face flushing.

"Perhaps not," he agreed. "But it would not benefit either of us if you did."

She nodded, saying, "No. It would not." Impulsively she laid her hand on his arm. "The blood you take when you hunt, is it enough? You have lost flesh, and I do not suppose it is entirely from your foot." There, she told herself, she had done it.

"It is ... adequate." He laid his hand over hers once more. "I am grateful that you notice."

"Adequate," she repeated. "As lentils and peas are adequate? It will keep you from starving but you will not thrive."

His dark eyes met her grey-green ones. "Yes."

In the clearing beyond the undergrowth something startled the blackbucks: they rushed away in a burst of noise that set birds shrieking and sent other creatures pelting off through the forest; Sanat Ji Mani hefted the length of root he carried, prepared to use it to fend off any animals that might run toward them.

Tulsi gave a little cry of alarm, looking about as if expecting to see a large, ferocious beast bearing down on them. "Do you have to hunt tonight?" she asked in a small voice.

"No, I do not: if you do not mind going hungry," he answered gently.

"I would rather be hungry than turn into some creature's meal," she said with feeling. "Stay with me. If you need blood, well, I have enough to give some to you." She tried not to be frightened as she made this offer, and very nearly managed it; she was so close to answers she had longed for since the first time she had seen Sanat Ji Mani that she had to contain her excitement or be overcome by it. "I will give you blood, if you want." She tried to discern his thoughts as they stood in the scintillescent moonlight, the dark forest pressing in on them.

Sanat Ji Mani released her hand but only to brush her cheek with the back of his fingers. "You need not sacrifice yourself, Tulsi Kil. I am not such a ravening monster that I must require so much of you."

She looked about in confusion. "I ... that was not ... I meant ..."

"You meant that you will give me blood," said Sanat Ji Mani calmly. "But that is not what I would want from you, were you to give it, or not all I want."

"But ... you drink blood. I know you do." She pointed at him, her eyes narrowed. "I have seen you do it."

"Yes. I drink blood." He began to move again, going toward the hollow. "It is my nature."

"Well, if you need it and I have it, why not take it?" she asked. "Is mine less satisfying than that of birds? or mousedeer?"

"No; it is not." He kept walking, his limp more pronounced, as if the weight of his emotions were too great a burden.

"Then why do you refuse?" she persisted. "Why should you not take my blood? Would you kill me?"

"Of course not," he snapped.

"Are you like a snake, and your bite is poisonous?" She slipped on the mud at the edge of a pond and involuntarily reached out to steady herself by grabbing his arm.

"No." He helped her to regain her footing. "It is not like that, Tulsi."

"Then what is it?" she implored him. "I do not understand you."

He waited until he had her full attention. "It is that I want too much of you-blood is the least of it."

"Do you eat flesh as well?" Her voice quivered slightly. "I have not seen you do it."

"No, I do not eat flesh," he said testily. "What I would want of you is nothing like that."

"Then what is it?" She had summoned up her courage again. "Sanat Ji Mani, tell me. We have been through too much for you to keep such secrets from me."

He could not disagree with her. "All right." He turned to face her directly, his compelling gaze fixed on her. "What I would want of you is touching, the closeness and fulfillment that brings you joy."

"What kind of joy?" Suspicion made her abrupt with him.

"The kind that comes from the release of the body, the gratification of flesh and spirit." He was very still.

"You mean you want to become my lover?" She took a step back.

"In my fashion, yes, if you desire I be that." He watched her intently, sensing her ambivalence. "If you do not desire it, then I will not pursue it."

"I ... I do not know what I desire," she said, her hands shaking.

"Then I will wait until you do." He pointed to the hollow. "Come. Let us get you settled."

"And you will stay with me?" she asked, hating the fear she heard in her voice. "Just tonight? There is something about this place that makes me ... edgy."

"If you want me to stay with you, I will." He would miss the requisite blood he sought, but a single night without it would not be too enervating; if he had his native earth with him, the lack would be little more than an inconvenience, without it, his needs would be keener but not truly unendurable.

"Yes: I want you to stay. If you leave, I fear something dreadful will happen." She lowered her eyes, abashed.

"Very well," he said, thrusting the length of root ahead of him to make enough of a disturbance to chase away any creatures lurking in the hollow. "If you have such misgiving, there is no more to be said. I will remain with you all night."

"Thank you," she said, a bit embarrassed now that he had agreed.

"It is not so cold that we would need a fire for warmth, at least not until much later," he went on; they were almost to the hollow and he proceeded with care. "We may light one for protection, but it would also alert others to our presence, which you may not want to do. Shall I make a fire or not?"

"You ask me?" She was startled by his question.

"Yes. You have an intuition of peril: you will know better than I whether or not a fire will benefit us." He thumped the root on the ground; a small flock of startled birds took to the air, the flapping of their wings as loud as loosed arrows. Then a large snake wriggled away through the underbrush. "There. The place is empty."

Tulsi smiled nervously. "I did not mean to make such a fuss."

"A sensible precaution is hardly a fuss," Sanat Ji Mani told her as he took the last half-dozen steps up to the hollow and ducked inside it. "We should be safe enough now."

She came after him, thinking herself in a leafy cave; she stretched out her arms and turned around slowly. "It is larger than I thought."

He swatted cobwebs out of the way and motioned to her to come farther into the hollow. "If you keep toward the back, no one can see you unless he is standing in the opening."

"That is comforting," she said, and wondered why. What was it that niggled at her so? She picked her way to his side. "You could put a horse in here."

"Close quarters for a horse," he said.

"You know what I mean," she reprimanded him playfully. "It is sheltered and a good hiding place."

"By the smell of it, there have been nilgai sleeping here." He pictured two or three of these large, big-shouldered antelope lying close together in the hollow.

"Will they return?" Tulsi asked, glad to have a question that was safe.

"Not while we are here; for all their size nilgai are timorous creatures," he answered. "I should think most of the animals will give us a wide berth, if they can." He crouched down and patted the mat of leaves. "I'll get a few leaved branches from outside to make this a bit softer for you." He handed her the length of root. "Keep this, in case you need it."

Before he could step outside, she touched his arm again. "Do not go far."

"I am only walking around the thicket," he assured her. "I will not need much time. You can decide about the fire while I am working."

She sighed. "I will try."

"That is all I ask." He went out into the night, going a dozen steps away from the hollow so as not to make any broken branches too obvious an indication of their presence. He pulled down four branches, good-sized ones with large leaves, and dragged them back to the hollow; his foot was aching and he suspected he should change the wrapping again, to remove the grit that had worked its way into the wound.

"Is that you?" Tulsi whispered as he came back to the hollow with his branches dragging behind him.

"Yes. If you will stand aside, I will put these down for you."

She moved quickly, wanting the protection of the hollow as much as his presence. "I have heard nothing distressing," she said, her nervousness flaring once more.

"Neither have I," he said, putting down the branches to form a springy pallet. "And the branches have obliterated our tracks, in case anyone should attempt to follow us."

Her smile was quick but genuine. "That was clever."

He sat down on the edge of the branches. "More pragmatic than clever," he told her. "We will contrive to protect ourselves."

This time her smile lasted longer. "You have been very good to me, accommodating me as you have. No one has done so much for me before."

"No one has led you into such jeopardy as I have, either," he said, a note of self-condemnation in his voice.

"I have traveled with Timur-i's army. I have long known danger." She sank down behind him. "I prefer this to battle."

"You should not have to deal with either," he said. "By all the forgotten gods, I hope I can bring you at last to the life you want for yourself."

"That you would like to do it is enough," she said, lying back on the branches and looking past him into the limpid night.

"No, it is not," he said. "For now it is all I can do." He swung around to look at her, an apology forming on his lips.

Tulsi put her arms around his waist and hung on as if she were afraid of falling. "Do not talk about it," she said. "Please."

"Very well," he said, stroking her fine brown hair.

"It is too hard, hearing these things from you," she said, her forehead pressed against his side. "I know you would change the world if you could. Let that suffice."

"If you like," he said, so kindly that she began to weep; he continued to stroke her hair, saying nothing while she cried herself out. Gradually she stopped. "You have been through too much, Tulsi Kil."

"I was born to it, you were not. You have suffered more than I, and you did not shed a single tear," she said, pulling away from him.

"Because I cannot; those of my blood have no tears to shed." He looked at her in the darkness, seeing her face more clearly than she knew. "It is our nature."

"You never cry? Never?" She stared at him incredulously.

"Alas, no." He took a deep breath. "You are more fortunate than you realize."

She considered him while she wiped the last of the wetness from her face with her fingers. "Why do you say this?"

He did not answer her directly. "Without tears to release it, grief lasts a very long time. Those of us who live long have much to grieve." For an instant, Csimenae's angry features rose in his mind, and then vanished as Heugenet took her place; he shook his head to banish both memories.

"Why do you have so much to weep for?" Tulsi asked, truly curious.

Sanat Ji Mani regarded her steadily. "Most of the men and women I have known are dead-that is the price of longevity."

"And exile," she added, and moved closer to him once more; he said nothing for a short while, then he lifted her hands and kissed them. "Why did you do that?"

"It is a sign of respect in the West," he said. "Men kiss the hands of Kings, of high-ranking priests, and the women they love, to show devotion."

She pulled her hands away. "No. You do not mean that."

"Why do you say that? Why would I not?" He made no move to touch her.

"Because I want it too much," she whispered.

"Ah," said Sanat Ji Mani.

"I have not wanted anything so much, not even my troupe of acrobats and tumblers." She could not bring herself to look at him. "I do not know what to say. I should not have spoken."

"Then shall we share our chagrin, or shall we seek other remedies?" Sanat Ji Mani asked, his desolation of spirit beginning to lift. "You may choose whatever course you wish."

"But it might be ruined," Tulsi exclaimed in an undervoice.

"Because you spoke, or because of how you feel?" Her answer was crucial; he waited for it attentively.

"Because now you know," she answered.

Text of a report sent to Azizi Iniattir in Sirpur from Zal Iniattir in Asirgarh.

To my most esteemed and dedicated kinsman, Azizi Iniattir, the greeting of Zal Iniattir from the city of Asirgarh where our House is now established and ready to continue our business as before, and where we may hope to flourish as we have done in the past.

Askari Daitya has arrived here with almost half his caravan, which is better than we had hoped, for we all feared he had perished in the fighting that broke out after Timur-i sacked Delhi. He himself is well and most of his men who were not killed or taken to be slaves are healthy, a blessing that is doubly sweet to our House, for it means we have salvaged some of what we believed we had lost, and we have kept our most accomplished caravan leader. I have informed him that you are still in place in Sirpur, which was welcome news to him.

To add to our happiness, Manah Spentas has come here from Gujerat, his goods in fine condition. He says that the conditions in Gujerat are improving and that it will soon have a Sultan of its own, free from the battles and bickering among the Tughluqs and Timur-i's puppet.

This news encourages me to hope that in a few years we might be able once again to use the port of Cambay for shipping, for once the turmoil is over in Gujerat, the Sultan will want all the revenues he can garner, and payment of customs duties is a fine source of gold and favors. Manah Spentas intends to return to Gujerat after the rains. They will not begin for some weeks yet, but Manah Spentas has made enough money to be able to afford time to himself, to arrange for another wife and to establish a house for her here.

I have twice sponsored a banquet for the high-ranking officials of the city, and have gained favor through this demonstration of good-will. It is most promising to be received as a person of respect in Asirgarh, and it bodes well for our future. It is my plan to hold another banquet in a month to ensure our place in the city, after which I shall write to you again to inform you of any y benefits that may accrue to us.

We have once again heard rumors that Timur-i has been deposed by his own men, and has been abandoned to wander the roads of the world, lame and half-blind. This has been suggested before, and so I am disinclined to believe it. Still, it is persistently told and many believe it is true. Who knows-this time it may be the truth. If you learn anything that confirms or contradicts this report, I ask you to send me word at once. If the trade routes are free of his soldiers, it will be good news for us and all merchants.

The news from Delhi, such as it is, is more discouraging. I have been informed that the men supporting the Sultan Nasiruddin Mohammed bin Tughluq have been fighting with those advancing the claims of Timur-i's man, and as a result, the ruins have become a battleground for those who seek to establish power in the city; it is not unlike vultures fighting over the bones of a water buffalo. So long as the dispute continues, Delhi will continue to be a place of death and want.

You have informed me that you have heard from Rustam Iniattir in Fustat, and that he has secured permission for sending out caravans and trading in the goods they bring, which is welcome news to all of us. To have access to the Mameluke Empire and all that lies beyond is as useful in its way as being able to reach the principalities of Russia or the rich markets of Lithuania. I am planning to avail myself of his market-places, and I advise you to do the same. Let us pray that this arrangement will continue for many generations, and expand the success our House has worked so hard to achieve.

My second wife has given birth to twin boys, which I take to be a propitious omen. I have named the older Rustam and the younger Zal, to remind us all how we are joined together in our endeavors. If they live through childhood, I will know myself to be a most fortunate man. I am sorry my second wife did not survive their birth, but my first wife has taken them to her bosom as if she had borne them herself, and so I have no fear for their well-being.

Write to me soon with as much news as you can. I will pay for a messenger if you are not yet able to afford such an expenditure. You and your family are in my prayers, as are all of the House of Iniattir; I trust I am in yours as well.

Zal Iniattir

Parsi merchant of Asirgarh