The Journeyer

“Someone wanted to make sure I got it,” I muttered. “From whom did it come?”

“I know not, former master.”

“We are equally freemen now, Ali. You may call me Marco.”

“As you will, Marco. The lady who gave me that paper was heavily veiled, and she accosted me in private and in the nighttime. Since she spoke no word, neither did I, taking her probably to be—ahem—some secret friend of yours, and maybe the wife of some other. I am far more discreet and less inquisitive than perhaps I used to be.”

“You have the same perfervid imagination, however. I was conducting no such intrigue at court. But thank you, anyway.” I tucked the paper away to read that night. “But now, what of you, old companion? How fine you do look!”

“Yes,” he said, preening. “My good wife Mar-Janah insists that I dress and comport myself now like the affluent proprietor and employer I have become.”

“Indeed? Proprietor of what? Employer of whom?”

“Do you remember, Marco, the city called Kashan in Persia?”

“Ah, yes. The city of beautiful boys. But surely Mar-Janah has not let you open a male brothel!”

He sighed and looked pained. “Kashan is also famous for its distinctive kashi tiles, you may recall.”

“I do. I remember that my father took an interest in the process of their manufacture.”

“Just so. He thought there might be a market here in Kithai for such a product. And he was right. He and your Uncle Mafio put up the capital for the establishment of a workshop, and helped teach the art of kashi-making to a number of artificers, and put the whole enterprise in the charge of Mar-Janah and myself. She designs the patterns for the kashi and supervises the workshop, and I do the peddling of the product. We have done very well, if I may say so. The kashi tiles are much in demand as an adornment for rich men’s houses. Even after paying the share of the profits owed to your father and uncle, Mar-Janah and I have become eminently affluent. We are all still learning our trade—she and I and our artificers—but earning while we do so. Prospering to such an extent that I could well afford to take some time off to do this bit of journeying with you.”

He chattered on for the rest of the day, telling me every last detail of the business of making and selling tiles—not all of which I found compellingly interesting—and occasionally imparting other news of Khanbalik. He and the beautiful Mar-Janah were blissfully happy. He had not seen my father in some time, the elder Polo being also out traveling on some mercantile venture, but he had glimpsed my uncle about the city, now and then of late. The beautiful Mar-Janah was more beautiful than ever. The Wali Achmad was holding the Vice-Regency and the reins of government in the Khan’s absence. The beautiful Mar-Janah was still as loving of Ali Babar as he of her. Many courtiers had accompanied Kubilai to Xan-du for the autumn hunting, including several of my acquaintances: the Wang Chingkim, the Firemaster Shi and the Goldsmith Boucher. The beautiful Mar-Janah agreed with Ali that the time they had so far spent in wedlock had been, though coming late in life, the best time of both their lives, and worth having waited all their lives to attain … .

We put up that night at a comfortable Han karwansarai in the shadow of the Great Wall, and when I had bathed and dined, I sat down in my room to open the missive Ali had brought me. It did not take me long to read it—though I had to spell it out letter by letter, being still not very accomplished at the Mongol alphabet—for it consisted of only a single line, translating as: “Expect me when you least expect me.” The words had lost none of their chill, but I was getting rather more weary of their refrain than apprehensive of their threat. I went to Ali’s room and demanded:

“The woman who gave you this for me. Surely you would have recognized her, even veiled, if she had been the Lady Chao Ku-an … .”

“Yes, and she was not. Which reminds me: the Lady Chao is dead. I only heard of it myself a day or two ago, from a courier riding the horse-post route. It happened since I left Khanbalik. An unfortunate accident. According to the courier, it is believed that the lady must have been chasing from her chambers some lover who had displeased her, and in running after him—you know she had the lotus feet—she tripped on the staircase and fell headlong.”

“I regret to hear it,” I said, though I really did not. One more off my list of suspect whisperers. “But about the letter, Ali. Was the lady who brought it perhaps a very large lady?” I was remembering the extraordinary female I had briefly seen in the chambers of the Vice-Regent Achmad.

Ali thought about it, and said, “She may have been taller than I am, but most people are. No, I would not say she was notably large.”

“You said she did not speak. It suggests that you would have known her by her voice, does it not?”

He shrugged. “How do I answer that? Since she did not, I did not. Does the letter contain bad news, Marco, or some other cause for despondency?”

“I could better decide that if I knew where it came from.”

“All I can tell you is that your advance riders arrived in the city on a day some days ago, heralding your imminent return, and—”

“Wait. Did they announce anything else?”

“Not really. When people asked how went the war in Yun-nan, the two would say nothing—except that you were bringing the official word —but their swaggering implied that the word would be of some Mongol victory. Anyway, it was in the night of that day that the veiled lady came to me with that missive for you. So, with Mar-Janah’s blessing, when the two men left again the next morning to ride back to you, I rode with them.”

He could add nothing more, and I truly could not think of any females who might be nursing a grudge against me, what with the Lady Chao and the twins Buyantu and Biliktu all dead. If the veiled woman had been someone else’s agent, I had no idea whose. So I said no more about the matter, and tore up the vexing letter, and we continued on our journey, reaching Xan-du without anything dreadful happening to us, of either unexpected or expectable nature.

Xan-du was just one of four or five subsidiary palaces that the Khakhan maintained in places outside Khanbalik, but it was the most sumptuous of those. In the Da-ma-qing Mountains, he had had an extensive hunting park laid out, and stocked with all manner of game, and staffed with expert huntsmen and gamekeepers and beaters, who lived there the year around, in villages on the park’s outskirts. In the center of the park stood a marble palace of goodly size, containing the usual halls for gathering and dining and entertaining and holding court, plus ample quarters for any number of the royal family and their courtiers and guests, and for all the numerous servants and slaves they would require, and for all the musicians and mountebanks brought along to enliven the nighttime hours. Every room, down to the smallest bedchamber, was decorated with wall paintings done by the Master Chao and other court artists, depicting scenes of the chase and the course and the hunt, and all marvelously done. Outside the main palace building were grand stables for the mounts and the pack animals—elephants as well as horses and mules—and mews for the Khan’s hawks and falcons, and kennels for his dogs and chita cats, and all those buildings were as finely built and adorned and as spotlessly clean as the palace itself.

The Khakhan had also at Xan-du a sort of portable palace. It was like a tremendous yurtu pavilion, only so very tremendous that it could not have been constructed of cloth or felt. It was mostly made of the zhu-gan cane and palm leaves, and was supported on wooden columns carved and painted and gilded to seem dragons, and was held together by an ingenious webbing of silk ropes. Although of great size, it could be taken apart and carried about and put up again as easily as a yurtu. So it was continually being moved about the Xan-du parkland and the surrounding countryside—a train of elephants was reserved for the task of transporting its components—to wherever the Khakhan and his company chose to hunt on any day.

Every time Kubilai went out to hunt, he did it in consummate style. He and his guests would depart from the marble palace in a numerous and colorful and glittering train. Sometimes the Khan rode on one of his “dragon steeds”—the milk-white horses specially bred for him in Persia—and sometimes in the little house called a hauda, rocking atop an elephant’s high shoulders, and at other times in a lavishly ornamented, two-wheeled chariot, drawn by either horses or elephants. When he went on horseback, he always carried one of the sleek chita cats draped elegantly across the horse’s withers in front of his saddle, and would loose it whenever some small animal started up in his path. The chita could run down anything that moves, and would always dutifully fetch its catch back to the train, but, since a chita always mangled its prey considerably, a huntsman would toss that game into a separate bag and later mince it for feed for the birds in the palace mews. When Kubilai rode out in a hauda or his chariot, he always had two or more of his milk-white gerfalcons perched on its rim and would start them at sight of small game