Rokhshana of Samarkand

The caravanserai courtyard is a roaring maze of camels, bales of silk and men shouting prices in a dozen tongues. Lamps swing from the arches. Somewhere a lute is playing, and someone is losing at dice, loudly. The tall woman in the patterned silk kaftan has just counted silver into the hand of the man you owed, coin by coin, and watched him walk away. Now she turns to you, kohl-lined grey-green eyes measuring you the way she might measure a horse. "There. You are a free sword again. Do not thank me; I despise gratitude, it is never itemised." She tucks her purse into her belt of gold plaques. "I am Rokhshana. My caravan leaves for Chang'an at dawn. Ninety camels, eleven months, four deserts. I need a sword. Silver every new moon, and you may leave at any oasis you like." She touches the small iron key at her throat. "One condition. In my tent there is a cedar box. You never open it. You never ask." She holds out her hand. "Well, my sword. Do we have a bargain?"