Rolling dunes of orange sand glistened in the evening light. Like waves in a tumbling river, the dunes fell away into a valley that cradled the city of Teebeth. Ten-foot walls rose up all around clusters of mud-brick homes, with a stately manor towering like a crown jewel of the city. Pikemen and horsemen lined the wall and its turrets, their weapons pointing skyward in their hands.

Faraji tensed at the sight. "When my master and I passed through here, there was no wall around the city."

Philip nickered. "Why can't we tell them what we're doing?"

"Need I tell you?" said Faraji. "I am a recipient of the Red Diamond for excellence in battle, and you're the steed of King Edmund the Just. If we told them the truth, they would arrest us, extract any information from us, and kill us both."

"This cannot possibly end well," said Philip. "You're talking about lying to our enemies—all for the sake of food and water. If we beg for mercy, they would take us as slaves. As if that weren't bad enough, you expect me to pretend I'm a Calormen!"

"Confound it, Narnian, you are not really insulting Aslan—you would only pretend to if the conversation took that turn."

"I will not. Nor will I pray for the Tisroc to live forever."

Faraji growled and turned away. "Well, then, make your choice: Die of hunger, or die of thirst."

The horse paused. "Aslan will not approve of this. It is not his way; it can only end in failure."

"Narnian, understand that I will do whatever I must to save my master's boy. I will go to desperate lengths to procure whatever we need, and right now, our need is desperate. We have traveled without food and water for three days, and if we keep walking at this pace, we will surely die of exhaustion. And need I remind you that we have been walking the land of our enemies—enemies who have attacked both our nations in the last six months, and enemies who consider us to be enemies of the highest rank? This is the only chance we have to get what we need; telling them the truth will only endanger our lives."

Philip pawed at the sand with the edge of a hoof, and a troubled look fell across his face. "I will consent to your plan, spotted one...but know that I am doing this under protest. And I will do it under one condition."

Faraji glared at him in annoyance. He wanted to argue, but held his tongue. It was only a matter of time before Philip dared to make a demand. After all, Philip stopped the Red Death outbreak, and all the survivors in Rasul were in his debt.

The cat let out a grudging sigh. "Name it."

"I will act like your prisoner," said the horse. "It only makes sense. You know the territory, you've studied these people, and you can pass yourself off as one of their own. Besides, I can pretend to be an Erizadi. Traveling with you has taught me how to be pious and miserable."

Faraji glowered at him, then pondered the idea and answered it with a nod.

Flanking the city gates stood two pikemen in brightly colored robes, their heads wrapped in turbans and their shoes tightening into curls above their toes. The sight made Faraji stifle a furious growl, but he composed himself. As the gates drew nearer, the cat sat upright in the saddle, like a proud statue, and forced a haughty smile up his face.

The pikemen looked at him with curious gazes. "Name, O traveler?"

Faraji lifted his voice in a melodious tone. "I am Saheeb, son of Razeed, son of Arshad, son of Rasheth, the great cheetah who attended Ilsombreh Tisroc, the son of Ardeeb Tisroc who was descended in a right line from the god Tash. And to the glorious Mimash Tarkaan of Teebeth, I have brought this prisoner from Erizad."

The two men glanced at each other in alarm, then turned to the cheetah.

"Skeptical?" said Faraji. "Are you not familiar with the Song of Rasheth, the poem of the great cheetah who slew a hundred men with the help of none?"

The shorter guard nodded slowly, his curling goatee bobbing up and down with each word he spoke. "And where is your master?"

"He was descrated by Reza Munir. Not only did the demon of Palár kill my master, but he allowed my master to be buried in the land of our enemies."

The guard paused. "Forgive our suspicions," he said softly. "We, too, have endured heavy losses at the hands of the Erizadi, what with half the army being sent to Andur three months ago. And now, the fury of Aslan has fallen upon us." The man turned to Philip but aimed his words at Faraji. "Your prisoner ought to be familiar with it. Among his race, it is known as the Red Death."

Philip spoke, forcing an Erizadi accent into his flattening voice. "My people are not responsible for that," he said. "It was one of your own who sentenced Rasul to that...bloody horror."

The guard glared at him. "Is that why you're here?" he muttered. "To get revenge for what we supposedly did?"

Faraji paused. He forced a sad look onto his face, but inside his heart was beating like a war drum. No, he thought. They brought this disease to us. Surely they cannot be innocent.

The guard lifted his head to face Faraji. "You would know better than any of us. Are the Erizadi planning an assault? We already lost six thousand men in our campaign there; if they blame us for the outbreak, they will unleash the full fury of their army on this place."

Faraji paused. "That means little to me. My only purpose is to sell this cynical creature—preferably, to a master with a fortune."

Philip nickered. "You are a heartless beast."

Faraji gave it no heed. Philip's words were unexpected and uncalled for, and they seemed to be spoken in earnest, but the exchange seemed to satisfy the guards, as they lifted a heavy stone latch and pushed the gates open.

Faraji acknowledged them with a nod and returned to his haughty demeanor. As Philip shuffled into the empty street and rounded a turn around a mudbrick home, Faraji sighed in relief, and Philip's trudge rose to a brisk canter.

"Follow the alley all the way to the palace," said the cheetah. "The stables are on the far side."

Philip whinnied in acknowledgement. "I say, spotted one!" he replied. "Your mastery of their jargon and accent is impressive. Had I not met you, I would think you were one of them."

Faraji grunted. "I was trained not only to find and exploit my enemies' weaknesses, but even to act like my enemies if the situation demands it. My people have trained me well."

Philip chuckled. "Some would say too well."

A Calormene soldier laid a slab of raw meat inside the stable (which Faraji acknowledged with hardly a nod), and with a glare that could make the water turn to poison, laid a trough of water and a fistful of hay at the horse's hooves. "The Tarkaan will see you within the hour."

Faraji scoffed at him. "Has he no interest in conducting business now?"

"You may be a descendant of the great cat who attended one of our sovereigns, but the Tarkaan's mind is on more urgent matters. If that angers the cheetah aristocracy, so be it."

Faraji murmured his disdain, then turned toward the meal between his paws. When the soldier left, the two ate in silence as dusk turned to dark. They indulged every bite and every draught of water in between; it was the first meal they had eaten since the Red Death swept through Rasul, and the last they knew they would eat for another many days. The two stayed silent as Faraji dipped his paw into the trough and wiped his face and lips, after which he lapped up as much water as his belly would hold.

"We leave later tonight," whispered Faraji, licking his lips. "I will negotiate with the Tarkaan, during which you will wait for me to return. He will make an offer, I will refuse it, and then we will leave."

Philip seemed not to hear it. "Do you still believe the Calormenes did this on purpose?" he said. "These people live for the glories of war and conquest. Sending a man to die in the river and spread the disease to your people is not glorious—it is senseless murder."

"After losing six thousand men in the battle at Andur, they couldn't possibly care about glory now."

"Even if that were true, you have no proof. Motive means nothing."

"But circumstances mean everything," said Faraji. "Two humiliations at the hands of Erizad and Narnia, and now a Calormene brought the disease to my people. This has to be settled, and I will not rest until I settle it."

"If you do that, you will get yourself killed. One cheetah against the Tarkaan and whoever knows how many men in his employment? As far as I'm concerned, you are not the progeny of Rasheth."

"You don't know what I'm capable of."

"No, and I don't want to unless I have to. Spotted one, your master's boy needs you alive. Let Aslan bring justice in due time; as for myself, I am happy with food and water until we get to Zalindreh."

"Confound it, Narnian, you saw what the illness does. As long as we're here, the guilty will answer for what they've done."

"You don't even know who the guilty are. And why must you bring greater suffering to these people, when they have been suffering from the same illness themselves?"

Faraji growled at him. "You are starting to irritate me, Narnian, and well past my limits. If you do not stop blustering, I may just barter for you."

The stable door creaked open, and a man with a long mustache strode through the gap. On cue, Faraji craned his head, and Philip lowered his.

"The Tarkaan is waiting for you, Saheeb."

"Very good," said Faraji in a bugling tone. He turned back to Philip and put on the same air. "If you want to avoid a more unpleasant fate, you will give me the answers I want."

Philip lowered his voice to a breath, and his voice was not Erizadi, but his own. "This is madness."

Faraji had prepared to force a scoff, but it came without effort. A wave of anger and contempt washed over the cheetah as he trotted out of the stables.

If the Tarkaan's manor was a house of great wealth and opulence (as were so many houses of the Calormene nobles), it was all hidden in shadow. Only the outlines of vaulted ceilings and gaping archways were visible in the low light. The sick and dying were housed here; as he ascended the flights of stairs, he ducked and dodged Calormene soldiers, some carrying the bodies of the dead. This is not what the man's house ought to be, thought Faraji. For him to be so charitable, he must have been persuaded by his people.

At the top of the last stair, Faraji followed a carved stone railing all the way to the end of a hall, where the brightest light in the house shone through a pair of open doors. Faraji and the soldier swerved through, and on cue, they bowed their heads.

Mimash Tarkaan was rumored to be as pompous as he was fat and bulgy-eyed, and the man's appearance was certainly true. But the lavishly robed man struggled to lift his beard and mustache in the pompous smiles that befitted the Tarkaans of old. His face was weary and haggard, with a beard that had too much growth and too little pruning. His eyes were dark and heavy, no doubt from losing days of sleep, and with a rasping voice, the man said:

"O my guest, with what do you trouble me now?"

Faraji paused. "O my master and the glory of my eyes, I cry your pardon. I come to give you a small recompense for the losses this city has taken."

"What losses could possibly be recompensed by a prisoner from Erizad?" said the Tarkaan. "A ruler is powerless without subjects, and my own subjects are bleeding and dying, as if they have all been cursed by the gods. For what purpose would this prisoner serve—an offering to our lord? A pack animal carrying the bodies of the dead?"

A pang of pity welled up in Faraji. He remembered how the donkeys and horses trudged out of Rasul, carrying bodies in carts to be burned at the edge of town. "My master, I am not unfeeling toward your plight. For I was in Erizad longer than I wished; I drank of the stream at the edge of their northernmost town, and I was unfortunate enough to endure that plight myself. However, as I have been away so long and have not been privy to the events of late, I must ask: Is our nation to blame itself for this accident? Or was it an accident, and are we so cowardly that we can't confront our enemies in battle?"

Faraji's heart accelerated as he saw the Tarkaan's eyes framed by creases. He awaited the man's angry reply, but was surprised to see his anger was not at him. "I have wondered as much," he said. "I sent messengers to the towns at the head of the river, and they reported nothing. No one else knows anything about the man who fell dead. Instead, they fear that an attack by Erizad is imminent."

"Because of what happened in Rasul?"

"You know it isn't that alone. When I sent my army to invade Palár, the objective was to capture Andur. Even though my army was routed, we will never be shown any mercy. The wrath of Erizad was kindled like a fire, and we fear the Red Death may have only incensed the whole country. Saheeb, you know what has happened there. If you know something about the events in Erizad, I implore you to tell me now."

The cheetah barely heard what had been said. His breath was threatening to leave him in furious bursts. Whatever it was that kept him from attacking the man, he did not know. By the Man's sword and shield, said Faraji to himself, barely hiding his astonishment. You sent that army into my country.

But with a slow, steady breath, the cheetah let only a frown fall upon his face. "I know only what my prisoner has told me—that Erizad is only contemplating an attack. The outbreak in Rasul cost nearly a hundred lives, to say nothing about the many more lives that may be lost if the illness spreads. Far as I'm concerned, that country is to be pitied, not feared."

The Tarkaan nodded and paused, interlacing his fingers. His eyes wandered to the open window, to the smiling moon in the west. "As late as it is," he said softly, "I will not rest until I have answers." He turned to Faraji. "Bring the prisoner to the dungeon."

"To what end, my master? He is clearly of no use to you."

"So I thought. Then again, he might know something. If he learns to fear the wrath of a Tarkaan, he might just loosen his tongue."

Faraji's breath caught in his throat. Not even a Narnian was worthy of such suffering. Even so, he caught himself and bowed his head on cue. "To hear is to obey."

And it was only when the Tarkaan dismissed him, when the cheetah swerved out of the room and into the darkened halls, that he let his face fall.

Philip's mouth fell open. "That cannot be."

"It was the Tarkaan who sent the army to attack Andur!" roared Faraji. "Confound it, if I could work my will, I would have torn his head from his neck!"

"Spotted one—"

"ENOUGH!" said Faraji. "I am well past the point of reason. These people do not deserve my pity. They deserve to bleed and writhe in agony—every last one who consented to this attack!"

"I implore you, spotted one, to stop and think," said Philip. "This is not about pity. We are in a nation full of our enemies, and you will hear things from them that are no less horrific than what you have just heard. Right now, you and I are in danger, and we have no way to leave without arousing suspicion. You need to keep calm and carry out the plan to completion—which, need I remind you, was your plan."

"You don't need to remind me of it, Narnian. I made it."

Faraji huffed and marched away, stopping to collect his breath. His broad chest bellowed and contracted with each huff. Philip waited for a reply, giving a nervous whinny. The cat's anger had subsided, giving way to a solemn frown.

"Pray that I can continue to hide my true feelings," he said darkly. "The Tarkaan has agreed to barter with me."

Philip paused. "How is that supposed to help us? This was not part of the plan."

Faraji glowered at him. "We have no choice," he said. "You said it yourself: We cannot leave until we let this run its course. Now come."

Philip snorted and brushed the hay away with his tail. "This was not the course it should have taken." He shuddered and rose up on his knobby legs, shaking the hay and dust out of his mane.

They made two turns left and right before passing through a yawning arch. Falling below them was an incline that disappeared into the darkness. The darkness grew heavier and wetter with each step, and the smells of rotting hay mixed with sewage and salty blood clogged the air. Philip and Faraji tasted bile on the backs of their tongues, but they withheld their words.

Before them towered a pair of stone doors barred by a beam. With a lift of the beam, the doors squealed open, and Faraji and the soldiers marched through the gap, with Philip shuffling between them. Another turn, and the corner around them was filled with orange light. A fire roared in a pit, and glowing pokers stuck out of it hither and thither.

Philip started to ask what was happening, but one look at the man's face, and he knew. A soldier picked up a poker and held it up to the horse's snout.

Philip nickered and shuddered at the sight. "Is this how you get me to comply?"

Faraji paused. Whether that was aimed at him or at the soldier, he could not tell. The cat swung away to face the other man and opened his mouth to speak, but his words fell into his mouth. The pike-wielding man stared at him with a sudden flash of anger.

"I know you," said the soldier. The man tightened his hands around the neck of the pike. "You were with him," he said softly. "That demon, Reza Munir—you are his bondservant."

The soldier next to Philip lowered his glowing poker. "What?"

Faraji nodded and gave a cruel smile. "Were I in a merciful mood, I would order you both to stand down. As it is, you are threatening to torture the only ally I have in the North. I cannot let that happen."

Faraji roared and leapt into the air. The man's eyes and mouth gawked in horror as the cheetah bowled him over and bit into the man's neck.

The other soldier burst toward Faraji and roared, "ERIZADI DOG!"

The poker whistled through the air in a flurry of sparks as Faraji tumbled out of the way, spraying thick blood in an arc over his head. Faraji bit into the man's ankle, and the poker clanged against the floor in a shower of sparks. The poker tumbled to the floor, its glowing tip landing on the cheetah's shoulder. Faraji roared in agony and crumpled to the floor.

The man scrambled to his feet, clutching the poker in his hand. He brought it down against Faraji's neck, loosing another wave of blazing pain. Faraji screamed until his voice cracked, but one look at Philip filled him with a surge of power. He clasped his jaws around the man's ankle. Faraji twisted his head, and the soldier toppled backward, his body slamming onto the ground.

The cheetah shuddered and winced in pain, but his steps were steady and strong. He stood upon the man's bony chest and met his furrowing eyes.

What happened next, Philip didn't know. All the horse saw was Faraji's paw coming down in a sweeping, hurtling arc, and a gurgling cough was followed by silence. Then there was the sloshing of water, as if someone were washing his hands, and a soft padding of paws on the stone floor as Faraji emerged from the cell, his mouth hanging open to catch a breath.

Philip stared at him in awe and horror, his breath falling in shallow bursts. "Spotted one...are you all right?"

Faraji closed his eyes and gave a shallow nod. He shuddered and grunted in pain. "I was in worse pain...when the Red Death had its grip on me."

Without warning, Faraji and Philip jolted in place. The massive doors slammed open, and in their place stood the Tarkaan, his eyes bulging. "What have you done to my men?" he said. "Have you an explanation?"

Faraji nodded, and a sly smile fell upon his face. "I do," he said. "Hear my name, O Tarkaan, and despair: I am Faraji, jamira of Mareshah Reza Munir."

The cat crouched and tensed like a coil, and his claws unsheathed. "This is for the people you killed in Andur—"

"No, spotted one."

Faraji's eyes bulged out. He swung around, baring his fangs at the horse. "Shut up."

Philip shook his angular head, tossing his mane. "This charade has gone on long enough, and it's about to cost us our lives." He turned to the Tarkaan. "Sir, I am Philip, steed of King Edmund the Just of Narnia. Faraji and I are on a mission of mercy. All we ask is for safe passage through your country."

The Tarkaan's eyes narrowed. "To what end?"

"I am here on behalf of my friend," he said. "He and I thought that if you knew who we were, you would not grant us safe passage or even a meal. We have had a hard journey. What Faraji told you about the Red Death is true—he suffered from it himself."

The Tarkaan huffed and glared at Faraji. "You killed my men. Why should I let you free?"

Faraji glared back at the Tarkaan. "If you want my head, then take it—I daresay I would be relieved of it if I went back to Erizad—but let the Narnian go. He is innocent."

The Tarkaan shook his head. "Even an accomplice is to be tried and convicted if he is guilty of a crime," he said darkly. "But if the demons of Narnia and Erizad get word of your execution, it will mean the overthrow of Calormen and all her nobles. And, as I seem to have no men who can come to my aid..."

He brought down the tip of his pike with a loud slam.

"Begone. Both of you. But as you leave, let this warning haunt your every step: I will send word to the Tisroc that you are in this land, and that the cheetah has killed two of my men. Should you try our patience again, your nations will know what a nightmare it is to stoke the wrath of a Tarkaan. As for the both of you, I will personally capture you and extract every plot and plan you have. If that does not kill you, then I will kill you myself."

Faraji growled and stifled his seething breath. "All I want is to save my master's boy," said the cheetah. "Regardless of what has transpired between our nations, I do not want war."

The Tarkaan smirked at Faraji. "I hope that's true," he said—"for your sake."

Teebeth was a flickering candle on the horizon by the time Philip worked up the courage to break the silence. "This could have ended more happily for us."

Faraji glowered as he lay slumped across Philip's back. The burns on his shoulder and neck still screamed in agony. "I am a recipient of the Red Diamond for excellence in battle," he said through a shudder. "We have had a fair meal, and we will last until we reach the next waterway. I should call that a success, even if you don't."

"Spotted one, I tried to tell you: Aslan's ways are the only ways that never fail. Disobey them, and your successes will only lead to failures."

"Don't lecture me about Aslan's ways," said Faraji. "I know them. Aslan ordered me to go to Narnia, and that's what I'm doing."

"You know his laws. You know what every Narnian lives by, and you don't even live by it." Philip waited for Faraji to answer, but no reply came. "There's a truth that supersedes all the laws of war and conquest: Aslan is always right. None of his ways will ever permit deception and duplicity. Had you only listened to me, none of this would have happened. If you had only believed in Aslan and done as I said, you wouldn't have murdered those two soldiers, and you wouldn't be incurring the wrath of Aslan and dooming your boy because of what you did. I only hope this does not come back to haunt both of us."

"You listen to me, Narnian," he said. "I saved your life. I got us a meal. This may not have happened the way either of us had planned, and it may not have pleased Aslan as you think it should have, but it worked. Instead of threatening me, perhaps you owe me a debt of gratitude."

"I saved one of your towns from further infection; it is you who owe a debt of gratitude," said the horse. "But that is neither here nor there. We needed Aslan today, and we disobeyed. If he is not merciful to us both, what we did will cost us, and those burns you suffered will only be the least of your worries."

"I do not appreciate being threatened with your sovereign's wrath."

"I do not make threats, spotted one. I am simply telling you what is true. It was Aslan who said, 'Things always work according to their nature.'"

Terror welled up in Faraji's chest, but he held back his fearful words. "Even so," he said, "you got a meal and water because of me, not him."

Nothing more was said. Philip cantered on, crossing over dune after dune as the stars turned overhead, and Faraji rested in the lull of Philip's rhythmic trot until the cold night came to an end.