“A vagrant. He’s good in singing. We keep him for fame.”

Before he continued, Kerim-aga glanced once again over his left shoulder. Waited, pondered a bit. Peered at Vuk disapprovingly: “You have been a boaster, Mrnyavchevitch, and remained a boaster. Who can pull a song out of a soul by force?! He’ll die in your mountains, in the rain and the cold, that’s all your fame. Look, he’s ill, barely sits. Let him go with us – I’ll take him to Vrzhik, and maybe even to Dragash. Maybe he’ll recover...”

The last thing that Peter remembered – he was tied to the saddle of a pack horse.

Very tight.

In the faces of the young caravaneers there was no joy about the excess burden, yet the lucky rescue from the Mrnyavchevitch’ junaks surpassed everything. The silent Kerim-aga stood nearby. Peter Sliadek wanted to thank the caravan-bashi for his mercy, but then from behind the shoulder of Kerim-aga peeped out a black guy resembling a Moor, dressed only in a loincloth, pressing with his palm his neck out of which there streamed thick smoke – and the vagrant understood he was sinking into delirium.

Because naked Moors excreting fire and smoke are not to be found in Jastrebatz.

“We won’t have enough money...”

“I don’t care! After we sell our goods we’ll be fine... Have you seen those slave girls? Virgins, so juicy! And they’re not some wenches from Montenegro that would be glad to cut your throat at night – these are Walachians, plump, modest, hard-working ones!”

“Still we won’t have enough money. Even if we sell the goods...”

“Harping on the same string! We’ll take a loan. There are lots of usurers here – Lombards, Avraamites... Anyone will loan to Hussein Borjalia!”

“You’ve visited usurers already. Secretly from Kerim-aga.”

“So what? Once they’ve rejected, the next time they’ll agree. They’re just showing off, to increase the interest. I’ve sent Ali to them today once again.”

“Have they agreed?!”

“They will, what choice have they got? They ordered him to tell me they’d come to the inn, they want to discuss it in person. You know me, I’ll persuade even the dead!”

“The dead don’t loan. You shouldn’t have kept this in secret from Kerim-aga...”

“Like hell I shouldn’t! He’s never satisfied: shame, not shame! Am I, the son of Mustafa Borjalia, to seek advice from some worthless caravan-bashi?!”

Peter was lying, his eyes closed, listening to the argument of the young merchants with half an ear. They talked Arnavitika [5] , interspersing their speech amply with both Walachian and Turkish words. He could make out only part of it, but then again, what was there to make out? One wants to buy slave girls, the other complains about the lack of money... His head didn’t hurt at all, the throat smarted slightly, but on the whole life evidently was getting right. It was warm and dry. Having stirred, he felt with interest that he was dressed in someone else’s clothes. And he was covered up to his chin with a prickly blanket made of camel’s hair.

“All the same, you shouldn’t... My father has told me: Hassan, listen to Kerim-aga! Listen to him as you would to me! He won’t give a bad advice...”

“Ha! So you listen to him, kid! While I have my own mind! Have you seen that your Kerim is on the best terms with Vuk’s bandits? Only did I pull out my sword, and he’s already – shish-hashish, yak-teryak! Best friends! I tell you – they give him a part of the ‘mountain share’...”

“Hush! There he goes...”

Peter stirred. Little by little memories were awaking: the road, the strong hand of Kerim-aga that prevented him from falling down, a hot drink smelling of herbs and honey, his sweaty and limp body, his body wants to sleep...

“Where am I?” asked the vagrant.

“In the outskirts of Vrzhik, at an inn. Lie down, lie down...”

He managed to turn his head without effort. Even strange. Peter risked sitting down – he did it from the first attempt. Closed the caftan on his bare chest. “The lute!” belated shivers ran down his spine. “Where’s my lute?!”

“Here’s your lute. Lies in the corner, safe and sound.”

“I have nothing to pay you with. I have nothing except songs...”

Kerim-aga, who was standing near him, glanced habitually over his left shoulder. Waited for an invisible smile, smiled in response. As if delivered someone’s gift to Peter.

The young merchants had already disappeared. Now they were alone.

“All right. You’ll pay with songs. Only later on. Now you need to sleep. Were I late for a day or two, those mountain sheep would torment you to death!”

“I don’t want to sleep...”

“So what? Sometimes you have to do things that you don’t want to... If you wish, I’ll tell you a tale. For you to sleep better.”

“About whom?”

“Let me think. About Chebotache Muyo or Khalil the Falcon – better not, it’s hard to sleep to the clang of blades. About Talimeh the Maiden? No, you’re not in the mood for women. After this you may dream about the evil shtoyzvola, she’ll drink off all your masculine strength...”