A no-win situation.

In the morning Peter felt sick. The stuffed nose made him breathe through his mouth, imps were cavorting in his temples, coughing and sneezing were tearing him up from inside. While swallowing, he scarcely refrained from tears – so painful it was. His inflamed throat pretended to be the entrance into hell. Then suddenly Radonya came running: “A caravan! A caravan’s coming! Troop, come on!” Vuk grabbed Peter by the collar: “Don’t you stay behind! You sing about it after we’re done...” The rocks whirled in a crazy dance, narrow paths winded like tangled vipers; three times Peter fell down and was jerked up to his feet by Vuk’s strong paw; the boots of the junaks were tramping behind his back, Radonya was puffing, slide-rocks were rustling over the slope, and when the order “Sit down!” poked into his unhappy, tormented head, the vagrant considered it to be the supreme blessing in the world.

He didn’t get to sit for long, though.

On the road that was below the ambush there was heard the clop of many hoots, cries of drivers. A horse neighed, then another one.

“Hey!” Vuk the terrible stood up to his full height, pulling his sabre out of its sheath. “Halt, we’re here!”

They are going to rob it, thought Peter indifferently, trying hard not to fall into the dust of unconsciousness. This is not a goat and millet, this is a caravan. I must look, at least from the corner of my eye!.. In the evening they’ll demand to praise it... To raise himself proved to be harder than to move a mountain. Restraining the cough, the vagrant leaned forward, risking falling from the rock on the heads of the caravaneers. Blinked away the tears. Below, on the road, there were lazing about twenty pack horses and mules, stretched in a long line. The guardians (or simply drivers?) looked despondently at the junaks who were armed with bows and slings – the junaks, shouting enthusiastically so as to scare them, scattered over the slope. Judging from the dull expression on their faces, a battle was not to be expected. The guardians had little wish for “the head upon the pavement.”

Vuk was wheezing proudly nearby, waving his sabre.

“Is it you, Mrnyavchevitch?” the voice was thick like tar. You would stick in it immediately and pray to God for fire not to be lit. Peter peered, not understanding who he was looking for there below.

“Well, it’s me...” Vuk’s answer sounded uncertain, not to the point, as if the chieftain was about to answer something different but suddenly changed his mind.

“Wait there, I’ll come up to you in a moment!”

Soon near Peter there appeared a head in a shaggy hat. The face was wrinkled, swarthy, the beard was off-white. Yet the man was climbing fast, not like an old man. Vuk stepped aside, giving him a place on the path. And kept silent for a while so that the man would have time to recover his breath. For all that, climbing mountains in his age...

The sinewy undersized man shook the dust off his caftan; put off his hat, wiping his face. Under the hat there was found a shabby turban that had once been green. Before he began talking, he cast a sidelong glance over his left shoulder as if looking for an invisible companion. Found him, nodded – either to the phantom’s advice or to his own thoughts.

Frowned severely. “Aren’t you ashamed, Vuk?”

Peter was expecting anything. The most probable thing would be the stroke of Vuk’s sabre. But his fever apparently became stronger, for there began delirium. Vuk the terrible shrank, looked sullen like a wet chicken. He put his blade into the sheath, stepped closer.

The wind that came from Jastrebatz dishevelled the chieftain’s curls, fluffed up the beard of the aged caravan leader.

“I didn’t know it’s you who lead them, Kerim-aga [3] . I thought it’s some other caravan-bashi [4] . Radonya came running, shouting...”

“Are you hungry?”

“A bit. The junaks have sworn enemies in Brda, it’s dangerous for them to go down.”

“So you say you didn’t know I lead? And if it were someone else? Would you rob him?”

“I would, Kerim-aga. That’s life, you know...”

“Do you remember – last time I’ve asked you: ‘Have you conscience?!’ ”

“I do. You asked, and I answered then and I answer now: yes, I have conscience! Just that it’s different, the conscience – everyone has his own one...”

Radonya ran up to them, angry. “Vuk! What are you – with this! This!..” He didn’t finish. Having stepped towards his blood brother, the chieftain smashed his huge fist into Radonya’s teeth. Blood spurted, Radonya swayed, fell down. Crawled aside on all fours, cursing in a low voice, began wiping himself with a wisp of withered grass.

“Forgive him, Kerim-aga. He doesn’t know you.”

“Allah forgives. All right, Vuk. You must not rob us, by no means. There are fledglings in my caravan, merchants’ sons. They’re just boys. Their fathers have sent them for the first time. If you scare them to death – they’ll never have luck in trade afterwards. Then again, we have no profit, we’re just going from Vlera to Dragash... Let’s make it honestly: you let us go, and I’ll leave for you in Dragash a ‘mountain share’ after we sell out. Just tell me whom to give it to...”

“Vuk! He’s lying! He’ll leave the share for himself, Vuk!...” beaten Radonya halted when he caught the promising glance of the chieftain. Spat rusty saliva. The junaks on the slope waited, shifting from one leg to the other; the caravaneers wavered dejectedly on the road. Peter saw – indeed, most of them were young, not older than Peter himself, and maybe even younger.

“Deal. Leave it to Nasty Khalil. I’ll take it afterwards.”

“And who’s this?” the moist, very dark eyes of the caravan-bashi rested on Peter.