The Journeyer

by Gary Jennings

  “Marco, I beg you—as I begged him—consider! He at least told you the truth. There exists no single witness or slightest evidence with which to impugn him, and his word will carry more weight than yours. If you contend with him, you are bound to lose.”

  “And if I do not, I lose. So the only matter still in doubt—and all you care about—is whether you lose your unnatural lover. Whoever is with him is against me. You and I are of a blood, Mafìo Polo, but if you can forget that, so can I.”

  “Marco, Marco. Let us discuss this like rational men.”

  “Men?” My voice cracked on the word, out of sheer fatigue and confusion and grief. I had been used to feeling, in the presence of my uncle, that I had grown up not at all from the boy I was when we first began our journeying together. Now suddenly, in the presence of this travesty of him, I felt much older than he was, and much the stronger of us two. But I was not sure that I was strong enough to endure this new conflict of feelings—in addition to all the other emotions that had been provoked in me this day—and I feared that I might myself break down into sobs and snivelings. To avert that, I raised my voice to a shout again. “Men? Here!” I seized up a shiny brass hand mirror from his bedside table. “Look at yourself, man!” I flung it into his silken and matronly lap. “I will converse no more with a painted drab. If you would speak again, let it be tomorrow—and come to me with a clean face. I am going to bed now. This has been the hardest day of all my life.”

  And indeed it had been, and it was not over yet. I tottered to my chambers like a hard-hunted and much-torn hare getting to its burrow just one jaw snap ahead of the hounds. The rooms were dark and empty, but I did not mistake them for any safe burrow. The Wali Achmad could very well know that I was alone and unattended—he might even have had the palace stewards arrange it so—and I decided to sit up all night, awake and full-dressed. I was too utterly tired to disrobe, in any case, but so very drowsy that I wondered how I could fend off sleep.

  I had no sooner sunk down on a bench than I was jolted wide awake, to hunted-hare awareness, as my door silently swung open and a dim light shone in. My hand was already on my knife when I saw that it was only a maidservant, unarmed, no menace. Servants usually coughed politely or made some premonitory noise before entering a room, but this one had not because she could not. She was Hui-sheng, the silent Echo. The palace stewards might have neglected to provide attendants for me, but the Khan Kubilai never neglected or forgot anything. Even with all his press of other concerns, he had remembered his latest promise to me. Hui-sheng came in carrying a candle in one hand and cradled in the other arm—perhaps she worried that I would not recognize her without it—that white porcelain incense burner.

  She set it down on a table and came across the room, smiling, to me. The burner was already charged with that finest quality tsan-xi-jang incense, and she brought with her the fragrance of its smoke, the scent of clover fields that have been warmed in the sun and then washed by a gentle rain. I was immediately, blessedly refreshed and heartened, and I would always thereafter associate Hui-sheng and that aroma inseparably. Long years afterward, the very thought of Hui-sheng reminds me of the incense, or the actual smell of such a fragrant field reminds me of her.

  She took from her bodice a folded paper and handed it to me, and held the candle so I could read. I had been so nicely calmed and newly invigorated, by the sweet sight of her and the sweet scent of clover, that I opened the paper without hesitation or apprehension. It bore a thicket of black-inked Han characters, incomprehensible to me, but I recognized the big seal of Kubilai stamped in red over much of the writing. Huisheng raised an ivory small finger and pointed to another word or two, then tapped her own breast. I understood that—her name was on the paper—and I nodded. She pointed to another place on the paper—I recognized the character; it was the same as on my own personal yin—and she shyly tapped my chest. The paper was the deed to ownership of the slave girl Hui-sheng, and the Khan Kubilai had transferred that title to Marco Polo. I nodded vigorously, and Hui-sheng smiled, and I laughed aloud—the first joyful noise I had made in ever so long—and I caught her to me in an embrace that was not passionate or even amorous, but only glad. She let me hug her small self, and she actually hugged back with her free arm, for we were celebrating the event of our first communication.

  I sat down again and sat her beside me, and went on holding her close like that—probably to her extreme discomfort and bewilderment, but she never once wriggled in complaint—all through that long night, and it seemed not long at all.

  3

  I was eager to make my next communication to Hui-sheng—actually to make a gift to her—which meant waiting for daylight when I could see what I was doing. But, by the time the first light of dawn shone upon the translucent windowpanes, she had fallen fast asleep in my arms. So I simply sat still and held her, and took the opportunity to look closely and admiringly and affectionately at her.

  I knew that Hui-sheng was rather younger than I, but by how many years I never would know, for she herself had no idea of her exact age. Neither could I divine whether it was owing to her youth or her race—or just her personal perfection—but her face did not loosen and sag in sleep as I had seen other women’s faces do. Her cheeks, lips, jaw line, all remained firm and composed. And her pale-peach complexion, seen close, was the clearest and most finely textured I ever saw, even on statues of polished marble. The skin was so clear that, at her temples and just under either ear, I could trace the faint-blue hint of delicate veins beneath, glowing through the skin the way the Master Potter’s paper-thin porcelain vases showed their inside-painted designs when held to a light.

  Another thing I realized while I had this chance to examine her features so closely. I had previously believed that all the men and women of these nations had narrow, slitlike eyes—slant eyes, Kubilai had once called them—barren of eyelashes, expressionless and inscrutable. But now I could see that it was only a matter of their having just a tiny extra inner corner to their upper eyelids that made the eyes look so, and then only from a distance. Up close, I could see that Hui-sheng’s eyes were most gorgeously equipped with perfect fans of perfectly fine, long, gracefully curved black lashes.

  And when the increasing daylight in the room finally roused her and she opened her eyes, I could see that they were, if anything, even larger and more brilliant than those of most Western women. They were a rich, dark, qahwah brown, but with tawny glints inside them, and the whites around them were so pure-white that they had almost a blue sheen. Hui-sheng’s eyes, when first opened, were perceptibly brimming with leftover dreams—as anyone’s are at waking—but as they took cognizance of the real and daytime world, her eyes became lively and expressive of mood and thought and emotion. They were different from Western women’s eyes only in that they were not so readily readable; not inscrutable at all, merely requiring of a looker some attention and some caring to see what message they held. What a Western woman’s eyes have to tell, they usually tell to anyone who will look. What was in Hui-sheng’s eyes was ever discernible only to one—like me—who really wanted to know, and took the trouble to gaze deep and see it.

  By the time she woke, the morning was full upon us, and it brought a scratching at my outer door. Hui-sheng of course did not hear it, so I went to open the door—with some caution, being still apprehensive of who might be calling. But it was only a matched pair of Mongol maidservants. They made ko-tou and apologized for not having been earlier in attendance, and explained that the palace’s Chief Steward had only belatedly realized that I was without servants. So now they had come to inquire what I would eat to break my fast. I told them, and told them to bring enough for two, and they did. Unlike my earlier servants, the twins, these maids seemed to have no objection to serving a slave in addition to myself. Or maybe they took Hui-sheng to be a visiting concubine, and possibly of noble blood; she was pretty enough, and noble enough in her bearing. Anyway, the maids served us both without demur, and hovered solicito
usly nearby while we dined.

  When we were done, I made gestures to Hui-sheng. (I did this most awkwardly, with broad and unnecessary flourishes, but in time she and I would get so accomplished in sign language, and so well attuned, that we could make each other understand even complex and subtle communications, and with movements so slight that people around us seldom noticed them, and marveled much that we could “talk” in silence.) On this occasion, I wished to tell her to go and bring to my chambers—if she wished to do so—all her wardrobe and personal belongings. I clumsily ran my hands up and down my own costume, and pointed to her, and pointed to my closets, and so on. To a less perceptive person, it might have seemed that I was directing her to go and garb herself, as I was dressed at the time, in Persian-style male attire. But she smiled and nodded her understanding, and I sent the two maids with her to help carry her things.

  While they were gone, I got out the paper Hui-sheng had brought me: the formal title to possession of her, relinquished by Kubilai to me. This was the gift I wanted to give her—namely, herself. I would sign the paper over to her, thereby manumitting her to the full status of freewoman, belonging to nobody, beholden to nobody. I had several reasons for wanting to do so, and to do it right away. For one, if I was likely soon to be condemned by the Arab to the cavern of the Fondler or the cell of a House of Delusion, I should have to flee or fight my way out, or fall in the fight—and so I wanted Hui-sheng to be in no way involved with me. But if I should live and keep my freedom and my courtier status, I hoped that eventually I would have possession of Hui-sheng in a different relation than master-and-slave. If it was to come about, it had to be of her own bestowing, and she could bestow herself only if she was at full liberty to do so.

  I got from my bedroom the packs I had most recently carried and turned them out on the floor, looking for the little chicken-blood stone yin seal for affixing my signature firmly on the paper. When I found it, I also found the yellow-paper letter of authority and the large pai-tzu plaque Kubilai had given me to carry on my mission to Yun-nan. I probably ought to return those things to him, I thought. And that reminded me of something else I had brought for him: the paper on which I had scrawled the names of Bayan’s engineers who had placed the brass balls, and whom I had promised to praise by name to the Khakhan. I found that, too, and it in turn made me recollect many other mementos I had picked up during even earlier journeying.

  For all I knew, I might never have another chance to review my past, since I might not have any future to look forward to. So I went and rummaged among the older packs and saddlebags I had carried, and got out all those items and regarded them fondly. All my notes and partial maps I had given to my father to tend for me, but I had quite a few other things—dating clear back to the wood-and-string kamàl that a man named Arpad had given me in Suvediye to track our wanderings north and south … and a now rather rusty shimshir sword I had taken from the store of an old man named Beauty of Faith’s Moon, and … .

  There was another scratching at the door, and this time it was Mafìo. I was not overjoyed to see him, but at least he was dressed in man’s clothes, so I let him come in. As if the change of raiment had restored some of his manhood, he spoke in the gruff voice of old, and even seemed emboldened to bluster. After giving me a perfunctory “Bondì,” he began a harangue:

  “I have lain awake all night, Neodo Marco, worrying over your situation—our several situations—and I came straight here without even taking time to break my fast, to tell you-”

  “No!” I snapped. “I am long past being a little nephew boy, and you will do no telling to me. I also sat up all night, determining what I must do, though I have not yet determined exactly how I will do it. So, if you have any ideas, I shall be willing to hear them. But I will hear no telling of instructions or ultimatums.”

  He immediately pleaded, “Adasio, adasio,” and raised his hands appeasingly, and let his shoulders slump as if he were enduring a lash. I was almost sorry to see him so quickly cowed by my strong rejoinder, so I said less harshly, “If you have not yet broken fast, yonder is a pot of cha still hot.”

  “Thank you,” he said meekly, and sat down and poured a cup, and began again. “I came only to say, Marco—to suggest, that is—that you not embark on any drastic plan of action until I can talk again to the Wali Achmad.”

  Since I had in fact no plan of action, drastic or otherwise, I only shrugged and sat down on the floor to continue sorting through my keepsakes. He went on:

  “As I tried to tell you last night, I have already petitioned Achmad to consider a truce between him and you. Mind you, I hold no brief for the atrocities he has committed. But, as I pointed out to him, in the doing of those things, he has bereft you of supporting witnesses, so he need not fear your crying calumny against him. At the same time, as I also pointed out, he has sufficiently punished you for having angered him in the first place.” Mafio sipped at his cup of cha, then leaned down to see what I was doing. “Cazza beta! The relics of our journeys. I had forgotten some of those things. Arpad’s kamal. And there, a jar of the mumum shaving ointment. And that phial, is that not a memento of the charlatan Hakim Mimdad? And a pack of the zhi-pai playing cards. Ola, Marco, but you and I and Nico were once a carefree threesome of journeyers, were we not?” He sat back again. “So my argument is this. If Achmad has no reason to pursue his campaign against you, and you have no weapons against him, then a declaration of truce between you—”

  “Would mean,” I said scornfully, “that nothing disrupts your cozy affair with your masterful lover. Dolce far niente. That is all you care about.”

  “That is not true. And if necessary, I am prepared to prove my caring for—for all concerned. But even if you deplore that side result, there is much else to be said for a truce. No one gets hurt and all are benefited.”

  “It does not much benefit the slain Mar-Janah and Buyantu and Lady Chao. Achmad slew them all, and all were innocent of any harm or wrong to him, and Mar-Janah was a friend of mine.”

  “What would benefit the dead?” he cried. “Nothing you could do would bring them back alive!”

  “I am still alive, and I must live with my conscience. You just now mentioned us three carefree journeyers, forgetting that for most of our journeys we were four. Nostril was one of us. And later, as Ali Babar, he was Mar-Janah’s devoted husband, and on my account he has lost her. Your conscience may be infinitely pliable, but I will not be able to look Ali in the eye again until I avenge Mar-Janah.”

  “But how? Achmad is too powerful—”

  “He is only a human being. He can die, too. I tell you honestly that I do not know how I shall do it, but I swear to you that I will kill the Wali Achmad-az-Fenaket.”

  “You would die for doing it.”

  “Then I die, as well.”

  “And what of me? What of Nicolò? What of the Compagnia—?”

  “If you suggest good business to me again—” I began, but I strangled on it.

  “Look, Marco. Do only what I asked a moment ago. Do not so rashly commit yourself until I have talked again with Achmad. I shall go immediately and plead with him. He may offer a palliative to your anger. Something you would accept. A new wife for Ali, perhaps.”

  “Gèsu,” I said, with the deepest disgust I had felt yet. “Go away, you creature. Go and crawl before him. Go and do whatever sordid things you do with him. Get him so delirious with love that he promises anything … .”

  “I can do that!” he said eagerly. “You think you make only a cruel jest, but I can do that!”

  “Enjoy the doing, then, for it will probably be the last time. I will see Achmad dead, and as soon as I can arrange it.”

  “You really mean that, I think.”

  “Yes! How can I make you understand? I care not what it costs me—or you—or the Compagnia or the Khanate or the Khan Kubilai himself. I shall seek only to shield my innocent father from the repercussions of my act, so I must do it before he returns. And I will. Achmad will die, and
by my doing.”

  He must have been at last convinced, for he only said dully, “There is nothing I can say to dissuade you? Nothing I can do?”

  I shrugged again. “If you are going to him now, you could kill him yourself.”

  “I love him.”

  “Kill him lovingly.”

  “I think I could not live, now, without him.”

  “Then die with him. Must I say it to you straight—to you who were my uncle and companion and trusted ally? I say it then: the friend of my enemy is as much my enemy!”

  I did not even see him leave the room, because Hui-sheng and the two maids came back just then, and I was briefly occupied in showing them where to stow her little stock of clothes and belongings. Then, during another little while, I managed totally to forget the evil Achmad and my pitifully decayed Uncle Mafìo and all the other cares that weighed upon me and all the hazards that waited for me beyond this place and this moment—for I was happily engaged in giving to Hui-sheng the deed to herself.

  I motioned for her to sit down at a table, which had on it the brushes and arm rest and ink block that the Han use for writing. I unfolded the title paper and laid it before her. I wetted the block to make ink, and brushed some of that onto the engraved surface of my yin, then pressed that firmly on a clear space on the paper, and showed her the mark. She looked at it and then at me, her lovely eyes striving to comprehend what I meant by those actions. I pointed to her, to the mark on the paper, to myself, then made dismissing gestures—the paper is no longer mine, you are no longer mine—and thrust the paper at her.

  A great light came into her face. She imitated my gestures of dismissal, and looked questioningly at me, and I nodded definitely. She held the paper, still gazing at me, and made as if to tear it up—though she did not—and I nodded even more definitely, to assure her: that is correct, the slave deed no longer exists, you are a free woman. Tears came into her eyes, and she stood up and let go the paper and let it flutter to the floor, and gave me one last questioning look: there is no mistake? I made a wide, sweeping motion to indicate: the world is yours, you are free to go. There ensued one frozen moment, during which I held my breath, and we simply stood and regarded each other, and it seemed an interminably long moment. All she had to do was gather up her belongings again and take her leave; I could not have prevented her. But then the frozen moment fractured. She made two gestures that I hoped I understood—putting one hand to her heart, the other to her lips, then extending both to me. I smiled uncertainly, and then I gave a happy laugh, for she threw her small self against me, and we were embracing as we had done the night before—not passionately or even amorously, but gladly.