The Journeyer

possible use of the huo-yao for war missiles. And I have had some partial successes.”

I said, “I should be gratified to hear of them.”

The Firemaster seemed hesitant to confide. He looked from under his fungoid eyebrows at me and said, “The Han have a story. Of the master archer Yi, all his life prevailing over every foe, until he taught all his skills to an eager pupil, and that man finally slew him.”

“I do not seek to appropriate any of your ideas,” I said. “And I will freely tell you any that might occur to me. They could be of some small worth.”

“The danger of beauty,” he mumbled. “Well, are you acquainted with the large, hairy nut called the India nut?”

Wondering what that had to do with anything, I said, “I have eaten its meat in certain confections served at table here.”

“I have taken hollowed-out India nuts and packed them full of the huo-yao, and inserted wicks to supply the spark after a suitable interval. I have done the same with joints of the stout zhu-gan cane. Those objects can be thrown by a man or a simple catapult into an enemy’s defenses and—when they work properly—they let loose their energy with such explosive force that a single nut or cane would well nigh wreck this whole house.”

“Marvelous,” I said.

“When they work. I have also used cylinders of larger zhu-gan cane in another manner. By inserting one of my flying engines into a long empty cane before lighting its wick, a warrior can literally aim the missile like an arrow, and send it flying toward a target, more or less straightly.”

“Ingenious,” I said.

“When it works. I have also made missiles in which the huo-yao is compounded with naft oil, with kara dust, even with barnyard dung. When they are hurled into an enemy’s defenses, they spread an almost inextinguishable fire, or a dense, stinking, choking smoke.”

“Fantastic,” I said.

“When they work. Unfortunately, there is one flaw in the huo-yao that renders it totally impractical for military use. Its three component elements, as you have seen, are finely ground powders. But each of those powders has a different inherent density, or weight. Therefore, no matter how tightly the huo-yao is packed into a container, the three elements gradually separate out from one another. The least movement or vibration of the container makes the heavier saltpeter discombine and sift down to the bottom, so the huo-yao becomes inert and impotent. Thus it is impossible to make and store any supply of any of my inventions. The mere movement of them into a storehouse, not to mention out of it, causes them to become absolutely useless.”

“I see,” I said, sharing his air of deep disappointment. “That is why you are perpetually on the road, Master Shi?”

“Yes. To arrange a fiery-tree display in any city, I must go there and make the things on the spot. I travel with a supply of paper tubes, wicks, barrels of each of the constituent powders, and it is no great chore to mix the huo-yao and charge my various engines. That is obviously what the Kai-feng Firemaster did, when my city was besieged. But can you imagine doing all that in wartime, in the field, in the midst of battle? Every company of warriors would have to have its own separate Firemaster, and he to have at hand all his supplies and equipment, and he would have to be inhumanly quick and proficient. No, Marco Polo, I fear that the huo-yao will forever be only a pretty toy. There seems no hope of its military application, except in the occasional case of a city under siege.”

“A pity,” I murmured. “But the only problem is the powder’s tendency to separate?”

“That is the only problem,” he said, with heavy irony, “just as the only impediment to a man’s flying is that he has no wings.”

“Only the separation … ,” I said to myself, several times, then I snapped my fingers and exclaimed, “I have it!”

“Have you now?”

“Dust blows about, but mud does not, and hardened clods do not. Suppose you wetted the huo-yao into mud? Or baked it into a solid?”

“Imbecile,” he said, but with some amusement. “Wet the powder and it does not burn at all. Put a baking fire to it and it may blow up in your face.”

“Oh,” I said, deflated.

“I told you, there is danger in this stuff of beauty.”

“I am not over timid of danger, Master Shi,” I said, still pondering the problem. “I know you are busy preparing for the New Year celebrations, so I would not obtrude my company upon you. But, while you are occupied, would you let me have some jars of the huo-yao, so that I could speculate on ways and means—”

“Bevakasha! This is nothing to play with!”

“I will be most careful, Master Shi. I will not ignite so much as a pinch of it. I will but study its properties and try to think of a solution to the problem of its sifting down—”

“Khakma! As if I and every other Firemaster have not devoted our lives to that, ever since the flaming powder was first compounded! And you, who never even saw the stuff before—you truly are suggesting that I play the master archer Yi!”

I said, with insinuation, “So might have spoken, once upon a time, the Firemaster of Kai-feng.” There was a short silence, and I said, “The inquisitive son of a Jewish fish peddler might not have been trusted, either, to bring a new idea to the art.”

There was another and longer silence. Then Master Shi sighed and said, evidently to his deity:

“Lord, I am committed. I hope You see that. This Marco Polo must once have done something right, and the proverb instructs us that one mitzva deserves another.”

From under the work table, he picked up two tightly woven cane baskets and thrust them into my arms. “Here, estimable fool. In each, fifty liang measures of huo-yao. Do as you will, and l’chaim to you. I hope the next I hear of Marco Polo is not his thunderous departure from this world.”

I took the baskets back to my apartment, intending to start my essay at al-kimia straight away. But I found Nostril again waiting for me, so I asked if he had brought any information.

“Precious little, master. Only a salacious small item about the Court Astrologer, if you are interested. It seems he is a eunuch, and for fifty years he has kept his spare parts pickled in a jar that stands beside his bed. He intends to have them buried with him, so that he will go entire to the afterworld.”

“That is all?” I said, wanting to get to work.

“Elsewhere, all is preparation for the New Year. Every courtyard is strewn with dry straw, so that any approaching evil kwei spirits will be frightened off by the crackling noise when they tread on it. The Han women are all cooking the Eight-Ingredient Pudding, which is a holiday treat, and the men are making the many lanterns to light the festivities, and the children are making little paper windmills. It is said that some families spend their entire year’s savings on this celebration. But not everybody is exhilarated; a good many of the Han are committing suicide.”

“Whatever for?”

“It is their custom that all outstanding debts be settled at this season. The creditors are going about knocking on doors, and many a desperate debtor is hanging himself—to save his face, as the Han say—from the shame of not being able to pay. Meanwhile, the Mongol folk, who do not care much about face, are smearing molasses on the faces of their kitchen gods.”

“What?”

“They have the quaint belief that the idol they keep over the kitchen hearth, the house god Nagatai, ascends to Heaven at this time to report their year’s behavior to the great god Tengri. So they feed molasses to Nagatai in the quaint belief that thus his lips are sealed, and he cannot tattle anything detrimental.”

“Quaint, yes,” I said. Biliktu came into the room just then and took the baskets from me. I motioned for her to set them on a table. “Anything else, Nostril?”

He wrung his hands. “Only that I have fallen in love.”

“Oh?” I said, immersed in my own thoughts. “With what?”

“Master, do not mock me. With a woman, what else?”

“What else? To my own knowledge, you have previously had congress with a Baghdad pony, with a young man of Kashan, with a Sindi baby of indeterminate sex—”