Tashbaan split the river in two and stood above the land like a bronze pillar of stone. Circular terraces filled with crammed homes and gardens rose all around; at the tip of the city stood the temple of Tash like the great jewel of a splendid crown. A long, low blast of a horn filled the air, waking Faraji and Philip from sleep. They swung their heads toward the southern bridge, where traders and travelers filed to pass through the gates.

"After what you did in our last two misadventures," said Philip as he rose on his spindly legs, "I hope you find an ounce of restraint."

"Don't worry, Narnian," said Faraji, leaping into the saddle. "I've been rebuked by you often enough. Besides, I have already had enough misadventure."

"Good. Besides, I should fancy staying here longer than a day. I have a friend here."

"We should still be on our guard, Narnian," said the cheetah. "Lest you forget, we have enemies in Calormen, and some won't be so grateful for your noble deed in Zalindreh."

"I should think not," said Philip. "One can expect ten enemies for every noble deed."

Faraji rolled his eyes and let out a sigh, but Philip didn't hear it.

"Spotted one, in case we meet with resistance, I still have my letter from High King Peter. It's in the small pouch atop my saddle."

A nervous queasiness filled his stomach, and his eyes flicked side to side, as if looking for something to say. "Narnian...am I to understand that you received a letter from Peter?"

"Of course. Didn't you ever wonder why I had come all the way to Erizad?"

"I had assumed Aslan had sent you. The timing seemed too perfect for anything else."

"Did it never occur to you to wonder why he had sent me?"

"No. I am an Erizadi. I receive my orders and question them as little as possible."

"Then let me enlighten you, if only you would listen for a change. After their assault on Archenland, some of the Calormenes under Prince Rabadash kidnapped the horses in my troop. They walked right up to where they were sleeping, whipped them awake, and rode off on them. I chased them across the Great Desert and all the way to Tashbaan, and I freed all but one. He had been killed after resisting his captor. Just as I was about to go home, I had met a friend in Tashbaan—actually, a friend of two of my friends—and she told me she received a letter from High King Peter, and so I went to Erizad. The rest, as they say, is history."

"I should wonder if history is as it seems," said Faraji, staring between Philip's flicking ears. "At any rate, we could be waiting a while to be let into the city. The guards are checking everyone at the gates."

"There must be some sort of festival," said Philip. "That, or an important fellow passing through."

Faraji paused. "We may be a while yet, and I should like to read the letter. Ever since we left Erizad, I have not read anything whatsoever for leisure."

Philip nodded. "By all means."

With that, Faraji pulled open the pouch with a clawed paw and lowered his muzzle, snatching the letter in his fangs. He pulled open the letter with his paw and crouched down in the saddle to read.

Dear Philip:

I want to commend you for your valiant work in Anvard and Calormen. You have fought and bled for Narnia and Archenland, and you are sorely missed, far more now than you were before. My dear brother wants you to return to Anvard as swiftly as you can run, but on this matter he and I do not agree. As High King of Narnia, I am sending you to Erizad on a mission of great importance. We have received word from an herbalist that Reza Munir, the Mareshah of Palar, is requesting immediate assistance. His elder son has been suffering from a long-lasting and deadly fever and is in urgent need of care. Per the Lion's instructions, you will escort their cheetah, Faraji, to Cair Paravel, where he may be of service to us in exchange for the medicine, after which he will be free to return to Erizad and give his master's boy the medicine he needs. As this mission will no doubt take a great many days to complete, we will see you in Cair Paravel upon your arrival.

By the Lion's mane,
High King Peter

As soon as Faraji's eyes fell across the signature, a troubled sigh fell from his chest. He read the letter twice over, and another queasy pang rushed over him. "Narnian, are you certain Peter wrote this letter?"

The horse nickered. "Of course I am."

"I'm not. I spent three years learning how to spot forgeries and frauds, and this letter gives half the signs of it. Anyone who attempts to pass himself off as someone else will always sound to some degree like himself. I don't know who wrote it, but I can tell you who didn't."

"Come now, spotted one! I wouldn't have been fooled by this. Anyway, how would you know the way he talks? You've never met him before."

"Do you know how he writes? Have you ever read one of his proclamations?"

"No, because I don't have to. For one, he knows what he wants to say; he doesn't need anyone to write his words for him. For another, when he issues a proclamation, he does not write it as though he were delivering a speech. Even I know the spoken and written word are different things."

"I've read his proclamations. I know all I need to know. I'm telling you, Narnian, this letter sounds like someone else—and strangely enough, I feel as though it was written by someone I know."

"Who would have written it? One of your enemies? I find that hard to believe. Why would they send me all the way to you, when they could have captured and killed me in Tashbaan? Moreover, why would they send you into the North? Your master is a decorated soldier and warrior; would they not summon him and lure him into an ambush if they had the courage?"

"All fair questions," said Faraji. "Unfortunately, I have no fair answers."

"Small wonder, since you and your people know so much of what isn't so," said Philip. "You think Aslan is a man, you don't know what a lion is, and you think Narnians are ignorant. It's a shame you don't even see your own ignorance."

Faraji glared at him but nothing more. "You said you had a friend here. Who is it?"

"Aravis was always such a strange girl," said the Tarkheena. "She had everything a woman in her station could ever want. She had a horse. She was engaged to a Tarkaan. And of course, she could have seen plenty of me. Instead, she gave up everything in her life for Narnia and the North."

Lasaraleen kept staring into the looking glass. She fussed with her hair until it had curled over her shoulder at precisely the perfect angle. "Oh, I wish Aravis were still here. She could help me through these dreary breakfasts—and what's more, she could see my new pets. She could even help me care for them, the poor animals."

"Meha, forgive me," said Faraji. The conversation had drifted away when Philip mentioned Bree and Hwin, and they had gotten no closer to Faraji's question. "You said one of your slave girls delivered the letter. Did she tell you who gave it to her?"

"No," said Lasaraleen in a distant tone. "But it is her duty to receive my mail. What more should I know?"

"If I may, I would like to speak with her."

"Certainly. You can ask her after the breakfast."

Faraji sighed. "Fair enough."

The sound of footfalls echoed down the long hallway, and the cheetah's ears revolved to the back of his head. The curtains brushed back, and Lasaraleen started to tense; the smile on her face seemed to appear with great effort. Behind them stood a man with a spike protruding from his turban. Faraji forced back a scoff, as the man's muscular frame seemed to be stuffed into his pleated red uniform. But one look at the man's face made Faraji tense. It was not such an arrogant frown, for it was too angry for that; nor was it such an extravagant beard, just a chiseled point of hair groomed at the base of his chin. "Well, love," said the man, his voice dark and metallic. "What's all this, then?"

Lasaraleen spun around, smiling at him and waiting for him to make her swoon with odes of love, but he waited for a reply. "This, O delight of my heart, is Faraji of Erizad and Philip of Narnia. Faraji, Philip, this is my husband, Mirradin."

The horse gave only a dip of his head. Faraji's nod was kept brief to avoid any excess benevolence.

"Well met," said the man. "Our most venerable Tisroc (may he live forever) told us you would be here. After all, when a cheetah kills two soldiers in one of our cities, we would do well to be on high alert."

Faraji wanted to argue that the killings were necessary, but he knew better.

Mirradin turned to Lasaraleen. "And what, may I ask, O hospitable wife, are they doing in your presence? Were my gifts to you, the animals that cost me a year of crescents, not to your liking?"

"Not at all," she said, forcing a giggle into her voice. "Of course, you know I am most fond of them, but Faraji and Philip are in need of help."

"You could just as well have sent them to me," he said. "I could have taken care of them."

I would not want any help from the likes of you, thought Faraji.

"Mirradin, now is not the time," said Lasaraleen through her smile. "I married you because I thought you were much more agreeable than that detestable Hadarash, and I should hope you don't disappoint me."

"Don't!—" The man's hand threatened to tighten around her wrist, but with a glance at Faraji and Philip, he drew his hand away. "Forgive me. A jealous heart is quick to catch fire and slow to burn out. It is only that Hadarash is second in the line of succession. And that man was offering you a hundred horses."

"Let us not dwell again on what has passed," said Lasaraleen. "We have our own troubles to deal with now, and this breakfast is the most daunting of them all."

He chuckled and patted her hand. "Indeed. I will join you presently, but first I must tend to something."

"Beg pardon, mehan," (Faraji forced as much respect into that last word as he could)—"but the guards at the southern gates seemed to be far more cautious than usual. Is there anything we should know about?"

The man seemed to tense at that. "No," he said, "but I will inquire."

Faraji nodded. Somehow, I doubt that.

The man let go of Lasaraleen's hand and marched toward the exit, where a slave girl bowed before him. "Please escort our guests to the stables," said the man. "Make sure they're well cared for." With that, he shoved the ivory curtains out of his way, and they fell back as if all too eager to close the way.

"Delightful fellow," said Philip in a dull voice. He spun around and said, "Spotted one, where are you going?"

Faraji swung his head over his shoulder. "I don't trust him." He wriggled through the gap in the curtains and slunk across the stone floor.

Faraji glanced to and fro. The man had disappeared down one of the bends, but the odor of his cologne (like fragrant wood stained with sweat) wafted down the corridor. The aroma grew stronger as Faraji rounded the nearest left corner, and by then the man had flung open a door.

Faraji's slinking rose up to a trot, and he swerved through the crack in the door before it thundered shut. He was standing in a lamp-lit stairwell with doors that were almost too dark to see, and he followed Mirradin down the stairs. Faraji wondered if the man would throw back his head over his shoulder and see the cat following him, but he never did. He kept marching down the lamp-lit hall. Once he reached the bottom of the stairs, he turned on his heel and disappeared through an archway.

Faraji saw nothing of the room, for he had stopped short of the archway. On the opposite wall came the flickering light of a torch. He paused, and he heard Mirradin lower himself into a chair, its legs groaning under his muscular frame.

"Tell me what happened."

The voice of a nervous young man filled the room. "Everything went according to plan. We found an old man in Teebeth who had fallen ill with the Red Death, and we took him to the river. He put up a fight at first, but then we told him, 'We're going to give those Erizadi bastards a taste of their own fears.' He was happy to accommodate us."

Faraji's ears stood up, and his mouth fell. I knew they were responsible for this. I should have a word or two with you, Narnian.

"There was a complication," said the young man. "There was a Narnian in Rasul; he pulled the body out of the river."

"I know," said Mirradin. "The Narnian is here, and Faraji's with him."

The young man let out a trembly breath. "Mirradin, what is happening? We're taking orders from nobody knows who, and those orders almost killed me."

"You know what's happening, Rashda: We're turning the streets of Erizad into rivers of blood."

"I didn't join this mission just to put my life at risk. Four of us went to the border with Erizad to put the body in the river; two of my friends came down with the infection, and now they're dead. When Hadarash and I returned, I had to kill him just to silence him."

"You did the right thing. Hadarash was boasting of what happened."

"What about us?" said the young man. "Now Faraji and the Narnian are here—and the Tisroc's men are looking for us."

"Only because you killed Hadarash, but we can fix that. All we need to do is deflect attention."

"How?"

"By killing Faraji and the Narnian. No one wants them here, and no one in Tashbaan would be sorry to hear of their demise."

"What about the demon of Narnia? If he finds out what we've done, he'll do to us what he did to Prince Rabadash. And our most beneficient Tisroc—the fool—is trying to negotiate peace with Narnia."

"That means nothing to me. I don't fear the demon of Narnia, and I don't fear the Tisroc any more than the next man."

"What about your wife? When she finds out Faraji and the Narnian are dead, she'll blame you."

"I'll take care of her. You take care of Faraji and the Narnian. Once we get rid of them, we'll leave this place and meet with our contact in Palár."

Faraji's jaw fell. By the Man's sword and shield...my people have enemies in their midst.

"Fair enough," said Rashda. "What will I do until then?"

"Stay here. Don't go looking for me. The Tisroc's guards are still investigating Hadarash's death; if they happen to find you here, tell them you were working with me on another errand and they would do well to inquire of me. Meanwhile," said Mirradin as he rose from his chair, "I must go through the motions of this dreary breakfast."

With that, he lifted himself out of the chair and pushed the curtains out of his way, and he turned on his heel and dashed up the stairs. Faraji sat in the shadow as Mirradin breezed past him and opened the door to the upstairs. The cheetah ducked his head away as daylight poured into the hall, and the door swung inward with a mighty thud.

Faraji bounded onto all fours and burst through the curtains. The young man sitting at the table lifted his head, and at once his face fell in confusion and fear. "Who are you?"

The cheetah crouched and gave a dark chuckle. "My name is Faraji. And this is for the people of Rasul."

He loosed a roar and leapt through the air with outstretched claws.

"Whinny-inny-hoo-hoo-HA-HA-HA!" said Philip, his laugh booming inside the stables. "Oh, I have most enjoyed hearing the old riddles, milady. I have been away from Narnia so long, I was beginning to think I had forgotten them all."

Lasaraleen giggled. "That is one thing Aravis and I had in common," she said. "There were always things out of the North that we liked—she, the clothes of the Narnian men, and I, the stories and riddles." She let out her last giggle, and for a moment she was silent. "It's as if she's still here."

"You could journey with us, just to give her your greetings."

She sighed again. "I have too much to do here." She seemed to catch herself mid-word, as if she had said more than she intended.

Philip started to reply, but a tawny blur caught his eye. Faraji had swerved around the corner and into the dusty shade, his chest bellowing and squeezing with every short breath. His paws were dry but stained pink; Philip knew it was blood.

"This journey is over," said Faraji. "I have to go back to Erizad."

"What are you talking about?" said Philip. "We're four days from Archenland, and after that it's Narnia."

"This situation has taken a turn. Calormenes are in Erizad, and I have to warn my masters." He turned to Lasaraleen. "Meha, where is your husband?"

She paused. "I assumed he was at the breakfast. Why?"

Faraji drew closer, dropping his voice halfway to a whisper. "Your husband is part of this."

"What?"

"Whinny-inny! How could you possibly know that?"

"Why do you think, Narnian? I followed him to his subordinate. The two are taking orders from an anonymous source in Erizad. Her husband gave the order to plant the body in the river, and now he's conspiring to kill his wife."

Lasaraleen shook her head. "That…That can't be."

Faraji glared at her. "Is his treachery any surprise to you, meha? Or are you in league with your husband?"

At that, Philip slammed down a hoof. "Shame on you, spotted one. How dare you speak that way to a lady above your station—a lady who happens to be my friend."

"Friend or not, she may be complicit. Meha, did you write those letters?"

"My husband acted on his own," said Lasaraleen. "I don't know anything!"

Faraji growled at her and crouched low. His shoulder blades protruded beneath his pelt, and his eyes narrowed to slits. "Meha, I beg you to understand the gravity of my situation. Three weeks ago, my master received a letter telling me to go North. Because of that letter, I was struck with the Red Death—the same outbreak your husband ordered—and now, also thanks to your husband, there was nearly an attempt on our lives. So understand that I will do whatever it takes to pull the information out of you if it lies within you, so WHO WROTE THE LETTERS?!"

"I DON'T KNOW!"

"FARAJI, STOP!"

A soft voice drifted around the corner. "Leave her be, Haroshta."

Into a shaft of wan light shuffled a cheetah. A nasty, blood-crusted cut had dried above his eye—the one that was left in his skull. One of his paws had lost a toe, and gashes and cuts trailed along his muscled side. Behind him, halfway in shadow, stood two cheetahs. The older female was as thin and gaunt as her husband, the other female as young as Faraji and slightly better-fed. Both had looks of horror on their faces.

"Haroshta?" said the younger female. Her eyes were wide, her mouth agape. "He said you were dead!"

Lasaraleen's mouth had been cupped by her hand, but now she lowered her hand, showing all her shock and confusion. "You…you can talk…but how can that be? Are…are you Narnian, too?"

"Nay," he said. "We are all that remains of the cheetah aristocracy. Even though our reign over the beasts of Calormen was ended, we live."

Faraji stared in open-mouthed sorrow; he kept drawing in breaths to keep himself from sobbing. "Who did this to you?"

The old cheetah shook his head. "Leave the Tarkheena be," he said. "It was I who sent you north. It was I who sent Philip to you. And it was I who wrote the letters, so that you would come and rescue us—my son."