He was being beaten with a stick outside the gates of Karakan, in a formally appointed punishment complete with magistrate, drum and enthusiastic crowd. The stick was large and smooth from much use. The strokes were slow and measured and delivered with the full force of the arm of a man as large and muscular as the convicted felon was small and thin. The man with the stick was stripped to the waist and sweating with effort. So was the drummer, a slender boy of ten who watched his stick rather than the flogger’s.

Johanna waited before addressing herself to the magistrate, an elderly, impassive man attired in the flowing robe of his office. Two long mustaches trailed down each side of his thick, sternly set lips.

“Greetings, honored one,” she said. She spoke in Mandarin and received a blank stare. She repeated it in Tatar.

“Greetings, stranger,” the magistrate replied in that language. “You are welcome.”

“We have traveled far and seek a meal, a bath and a bed within your walls this night.”

“There are many such within the walls of Karakan.”

“It is good to know. We have been many days on the Road, and are tired and hungry.” Johanna and the magistrate watched the stick descend again. “Perhaps, honored one, you would know of an inn where we might find cleanliness and comfort.”

“All inns within the walls of Karakan are clean and comfortable,” the magistrate said promptly, “but it is well known that the Inn of the Green Dragon bakes the finest nan in the city and airs its blankets twice-monthly.”

“I thank you, honored one. To the Green Dragon we will go.” But she made no move to leave.

They watched the beating go on in silence for a moment. “What has this old man done, honored one, that he should be punished in this fashion?”

“He has represented himself as a holy man, and accepted alms from the citizens of Karakan. The law requires that such a one be beaten once for each alm.”

Johanna lowered her eyes to show her respect and said, “Truly, a just and equitable law, worthy of the rulers of the great city of Karakan.”

The magistrate bowed slightly. Twice more the stick was raised and lowered against the man’s shrinking back.

“He is not holy, then?”

The magistrate shrugged. “He drinks sulphur and quicksilver once a day. He says he is a hundred and fifty years old. This may make him holy in the city of Delhi, but not in the city of Karakan.”

The stick rose and fell. At last Johanna said, “It is not for this unworthy one to suggest such a punishment is unmerited, yet I have pity for the old man. Is there no way to redeem this sinner to the path of righteousness?”

The magistrate was silent. At last he said, “There is one way. If the offender be able to ransom himself by paying nine times the value of the thing stolen, he is freed and released from further punishment.”

Another stroke fell.

“And nine times the value of the thing stolen is how much, in this instance, honored one?”

The magistrate folded his hands beneath his sleeves and regarded his shoes, the toes of which were pointed, curled and embroidered with gold thread. “How can one value the honor of a city?” he said piously, and Johanna knew at once that it was going to be expensive. “This charlatan has trespassed on the faith of our citizens, has stolen the very trust out of their hearts. Fifty rials.”

Johanna and the magistrate regarded the old man’s bleeding back together in silence. “He seems such a little, insignificant man to have caused any great harm to such a city as exalted as Karakan,” Johanna said finally. “But it is as you say, honored one, that where one offends, one should atone for one’s crimes. Twenty.”

The embroidered toes of the magistrate’s shoes raised as he rocked back on his heels in shock. “This charlatan has trespassed on the faith of our citizens,” he said indignantly. “He has stolen the veneration and obedience due our own ordained priesthood. Forty.”

“Thirty, and we will take him with us when we leave at dawn.”

The magistrate watched two more blows fall. “It is done,” he said. “Release him.”

The man wielding the stick cut the thongs binding the old man to the post. The boy with the drum looked relieved. The crowd was disappointed, and there were some rumbles of discontent and some dark glances cast their way.

Olan slid down from her horse and reached for her basket of herbs. The old man warded her off with one hand and took three trembling, determined steps forward to stand in front of Johanna. “I am chughi,” he said in solemn if unpracticed Mandarin. “You have done me service.”

Stooping, he touched one finger to a pile of dry cow dung, straightened, and touched that finger to Johanna’s forehead. He repeated the procedure with Jaufre and Olan and then, pressing his hands together beneath his chin, bowed to each in turn. “I thank you.”

Johanna, repressing a strong urge to reach for the nearest water sack, bowed in return. “You are welcome, old man.” She touched an old scar on his left cheek. “I see you bear the mark of the Khan. For what were you imprisoned?”

The old man smiled faintly. “Practicing religion without a license.”

Olan snorted. Jaufre raised one eyebrow. “You seem to make a habit of that, old man,” Johanna said. “If we lend you our countenance and company in the days ahead, would it be possible for you to confine your activities to reflection and meditation?” She glanced at the magistrate. “At least until we are out of reach of the long arm of Karakan justice?”

The old man inclined his head and Johanna forebore from pressing him for a more definite answer. His face was without color and his skin seemed painted on over his high brow and cheekbones. “Very well, old man, you are welcome in our company. Will you take supper with us?”

“At the Inn of the Green Dragon?”

“How did you know?”

The old man shrugged. “You are strangers looking for lodging. You spoke with the magistrate. The magistrate’s mother-in-law’s brother owns the Inn of the Green Dragon.”

Johanna repressed a smile. It was what one expected, after all. “May one know your name, old man?”

The old man smiled for the first time. “Call me Hari,” he said, and fainted into her arms.

Olan knelt beside him, saying practically, “The best thing that could happen. Jaufre, open the basket and hand me the packet marked `Alukrese.’” Olan rolled a large pinch of the dried leaves between her palms and let them sift down over the old man’s torn back. “There. That will stop the blood and keep the wounds free from infection. When we get to the inn I will give him ground willow bark for the pain and valerian to put him to sleep.”

“Will he be ready to travel by tomorrow morning?”

Olan shrugged. “Who can say? That one–” indicating the receding back of the magistrate “–would have him so, and unless we want a taste of the stick for ourselves, it would be wise if he were.” She covered the old man’s back with a clean cloth and bound it lightly. She sat back on her heels and looked up at Johanna. “Why are we rescuing him, by the way?”

Johanna contemplated the face lying at her breast, lines smoothed from his brow and the corners of his mouth in unconsciousness. He looked much younger asleep than he did awake. “I like his face.”

Olan looked at Jaufre and rolled her eyes. Jaufre shrugged.

The bread at the Inn of the Green Dragon was all that the magistrate had said it would be, even if they had to wrestle the bedbugs for it. They woke the next morning to find the monk sitting before the uncurtained window of their common room, directly in the rays of the sun, with his feet crossed on his lap and his palms turned up on his knees, the thumbs and forefingers touching. He was humming, a deep, not unpleasant sound, like the buzzing of a hive of bees. “Brahman is. Brahman is the door. Om is the glory of Brahman.”

He continued to hum as they moved around him, packing their gear. When they were ready to leave the humming ceased. He opened his eyes and smiled at Olan. “By the vision of Sankhya and the harmony of Yoga a man knows God, and when a man knows God he is free from all fetters. I thank you for your care of me, mistress. I have rested well, and I am ready to start.” He looked at Johanna. “Where are we going?”

“West, old man, as far as we can go and not fall off the edge of the world,” Johanna said. “But for now, we make for Kerman.”

“Kerman?” the monk repeated. “In Kerman, unless the merchants be well armed they run the risk of being murdered, or at least robbed.”

“Have you been there, old man?” Jaufre said.

The monk shook his head. “I have not, my son. But I have traveled, and I have heard this said of Kerman many times. And I have heard of the plain of Pamier–so lofty and cold that you do not often see birds fly. Because of this great cold, fire does not burn so brightly, nor give out so much heat as usual, nor does it cook food so efficiently.”

“Are you sure you want to come with us?” Olan said pointedly.

He smiled at her. “Of course. Let us follow the chariot of Arjuna, whose wheels are right effort and whose driver is truth. Thus shall we all come to the land which is free from fear.”

They mounted the old man on an ass they bought from a local stable, and rode out of Karakan that morning.