Everything Under the Heavens (Silk and Song)

by Stabenow, Dana

  He nudged his bay into a stride to match North Wind’s, at least temporarily. Johanna turned her head to meet his eyes. “Freedom,” he said.

  “Freedom!” they shouted together, and their horses, in that unexplainable way that horses do divined the high spirits of their riders and moved smoothly into a gallop, kicking up a cloud of dust that hung in the air, obscuring their passing, leaving only an echo of laughter behind.

  Until the dust settled again, and left their tracks plain for anyone with the eyes to see.

  Heading west. Always and ever, west.

  Eleven

  WHEN THEY ROSE AGAIN at dusk, the last trader to join their caravan had arrived, and there was a flurry of packing and loading. When it was done Uncle Cheng called the leader of each merchant group traveling with them into a conference. “I am Wu Cheng. Most of us have traveled together before but for those who are new to me, this is how it goes. We sleep days and travel nights. You are expected to be packed and ready to travel at dusk each day. You care for your own livestock. You buy and cook your own food, and I don’t want to be arbitrating any arguments over how you like your rice boiled. If someone gets sick, they will be quarantined until we arrive at the first available town or caravansary. If someone gets hurt to the point that it affects their ability to travel, they will be left at the first available town or caravansary. This caravan is not a traveling hospital.”

  He let that sink in before going on. “If there is a fire, everyone turns out to fight it, and each morning everyone is responsible for locating the camels carrying the water sacks, which will every morning always be picketed next to the guards’ tents, which every morning will always be next to my yurt.” He pointed. “The one marked by the red and yellow pennon. Can everyone see it?”

  Everyone nodded, very solemn, even those who had heard it many times before. They had to camp closely together for security, which also put everyone and their goods at risk if a fire broke out.

  “Fighting, for whatever reason, inclination, drunkenness, gambling or sheer bad temper,” Uncle Cheng said. “Not in camp, and see my previous remarks about anyone getting hurt, I don’t care whether you started it or not. My plan is to get this caravan to Kashgar in seventy days, before the worst of the summer heat, and anyone who delays us in any way or for any reason will be left behind, willing or unwilling.” He tucked his hands in his belt and stared around the circle.

  He looked perfectly calm and even relaxed, but Johanna and Jaufre exchanged a knowing glance. Jovial Uncle Cheng could appear quite intimidating at will.

  “There are women and children traveling with us. None of them are to be interfered with in any way. If any such interference does occur and the report is credible, the offender will be taken under guard to the nearest city or caravansary and remanded to the custody of the local magistrate, with a recommendation of extreme prejudice.” He jerked a thumb at the man standing next to him. “And that’s only if my havildar doesn’t see fit to deal with the offender first. In which action, whatever it is, he will always have my full authority and support.”

  Johanna couldn’t quite make out the man standing in Uncle Cheng’s shadow, who seemed to bow slightly and then efface himself.

  “Please don’t test us in this. It will not end well for you.” Uncle Cheng’s smile was thin. “Although it may well end you entirely.”

  Another uncomfortable silence, broken by a Persian sheik in flowing robes and grizzled beard. “Worthy Wu Cheng, are there reliable reports on the road ahead?”

  “Sheik Mohammed,” Wu Cheng said with a respectful bow in return. “Are we at risk of attack by bandits, do you mean?”

  The sheik inclined his head.

  Uncle Cheng stroked his long, thin mustaches. “Well, we are at less risk traveling together simply because there are so many of us. Bandit gangs don’t generally tend to attack large numbers. But we’ve all heard the stories. We must be alert and vigilant, and I beg of you all, urge your people to be discreet. It is well known that the larger bands have agents of their own in some of the larger towns, and they will be looking for easy targets.”

  “And if we are attacked?” another voice said, this one belonging to the man standing next to the sheik. He was younger and like enough to the sheik to claim him as father.

  “We will defend ourselves,” Uncle Cheng said. “You all carry arms and know how to use them or I wouldn’t have allowed you to join this caravan. Keep your weapons in good working order and within reach. My havildar will instruct you further, one at a time, on this evening’s march, but what it boils down to is if we come under attack we bunch up in a group. They will always pick off stragglers. Any pack camel here would be worthy of the effort, especially if they manage to capture any people, who I’m sure I don’t have to tell you can be sold as slaves at the greatest possible profit.”

  He let the words linger on the air for a moment, and then brought his two ham hands together in a loud smack. “We will be traveling fast but there will be time to buy and sell along the way. If a majority of you think we ought to stay an extra day at the market in, say, Kuche, or Yarkent, I will certainly acquiesce to the will of the majority. However, I will expect us to make up the extra day on the road.”

  He smiled again, more widely, and such was his personal charisma that Johanna felt an immediate lessening of tension around the circle. “I have planned an extra full day’s stop at every oasis town we travel through, so if we stay on schedule there will be regular opportunities for rest, refit, and to buy supplies. And for wine, women and song.”

  There was a ripple of laughter and a relaxation of tension.

  “All right,” Wu Cheng said briskly. “Mount up.”

  The first few days of travel was all confusion and vexation. Various groups wishing to travel together jockeyed for position in line and generally succeeded only in embroiling themselves, their animals and surrounding travelers in a hopeless tangle of reins, stirrups and leading strings. They were straightened out again by sweating, swearing handlers and guards, and provided Uncle Cheng with multiple opportunities to demonstrate in six different languages his comprehensive and inspiring command of invective. During one of these instructional episodes Shasha saw Johanna sitting to one side, repeating certain phrases silently. Johanna looked up to see Shasha watching and had the audacity to grin.

  On the second day a trader from Balkh managed to mislay ten camels. The rest of the caravan carried on while Uncle Cheng’s havildar and a squad of guards were sent out to retrieve them. They returned in the middle of the night, missed in the dark by most of the caravaners, who were treated the following morning to the unpleasant spectacle of a thief and his three co-conspirators stripped to their waists and beaten until their backs were bloody. The missing camels were produced and returned to their grateful owner, who became a shade less grateful when Uncle Cheng assessed two of the camels as payment in full for the retrieval.

  The lesson was well taken by everyone watching, but both were unsettling sights for the rest of them to take to their beds that morning. That evening, before the caravan set off again, by Uncle Cheng’s express command the four were left to make their way back to Chang’an as best they could, stripped of their shoes and with no water or food to ease their way.

  Johanna lingered at the tail end of the caravan, watching the four pitiful figures staggering eastwards.

  Unnoticed, Uncle Cheng had ridden up beside her. “Well, niece? Do you judge me to be too harsh?”

  She turned to meet his eyes and said without flinching, “No, uncle. I’m just surprised you didn’t kill them outright.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked.

  “But then,” she said demurely, “there would be no one left alive to attest to the swift and certain justice of that greatest of all caravan masters, the mighty and terrible Wu Cheng.”

  He burst out laughing. Hearing it, the four felons broke into a staggering run. “Hah! What a caravan master you would have made yourself, honorable niece!”r />
  “And,” she said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at the receding caravan, “none of them will forget it, either. Not the punishment, and certainly not the finder’s fee.”

  He pulled his camel’s nose around. “Not from here to Kashgar,” he agreed cheerfully. “Serves them right for being so careless of their stock. And it is good to teach a strong lesson early in the trip. It saves much trouble later on.”

  “Really, uncle,” Johanna said drily, “you owe them a debt of gratitude.”

  “Indeed I do, honorable niece,” he said, “and I have paid it. They yet live.”

  The four would-be thieves toiled up over a dune and dropped out of sight.

  There were the usual difficulties between incompatible personalities, tribes and religions, but Uncle Cheng dealt firmly with anything that upset his peace and the peace of the traders traveling under his protection. One hapless Turgesh tripped over a tent pole and fell headlong into a tent full of Muslim women, and only quick footwork prevented a full-blown riot on the part of the women’s male relatives. There were the usual rivalries between traders as well, but again Uncle Cheng was quick to take notice and nip anything incendiary in the bud before it had a chance to flower into a fruit that would poison the entire enterprise.

  By the time they reached Lanchow, the Golden City, the caravan had settled into the formation it would take for the rest of the journey. People were creatures of habit. If Hamid the Persian, dealer in silks, wools and other fine fabrics, took his place in line between Meesang the Sayam, buyer and seller of precious and semi-precious gemstones, and Wasim the Pashtun, purveyor of copper goods, one morning, chances were he could be found traveling between these two worthies for the duration of the trip.

  Johanna reveled in the freedom of the Road with every league gained in distance from Cambaluc. On the Road it didn’t matter that her eyes were too round or that she was too tall or that her hair was the wrong color. There was no enforced separation of races on the Road, on the Road she didn’t have to be careful not to speak the Mongol tongue within the hearing of Mongol ears. Persian, Jew, Turgesh, Sogdian, Persian, Frank, Chinese, it did not matter. They were all one to Uncle Cheng, and for the duration of the trip his was the only authority to which they bowed. It was all the stronger because they had surrendered to it voluntarily, for the safety of one meant the safety of all.

  In the meantime, she, Jaufre and Shasha were meeting old friends. One such they encountered at their first camp. “Johanna! Johanna!”

  Johanna looked toward the sound of her voice. “Fatima!” she said.

  The slim, dark girl ran up to her and embraced her with enthusiasm, laughing with pleasure. Fatima, daughter of Ahmed the baker and Malala his wife, was in fact a child of laughter, a pretty girl of Johanna’s age, wearing a short jacket over a tunic and an ankle-length skirt, all heavy with colorful embroidery, with unbound hair confined beneath a spangled blue veil. “But what is this! What are you doing on the Road this early? Usually I don’t see you until Kashgar.” She looked around. “But where is Wu Li?”

  She was put in possession of recent events and her laughter faded, but only momentarily, and indeed Johanna could not wish otherwise. “And Shasha,” Fatima said, leaving Johanna to embrace the other woman. “And Jaufre,” she said, turning to him. Fatima was also something of a flirt. She ran an appraising eye over his long length. “Much…taller,” she said. “Than when I last saw you.”

  She hugged him, too, for what seemed like a much longer time than she had Johanna or Shasha.

  Jaufre grinned down at her. “Why, thank you, Fatima. And how is Azar these days?”

  Fatima released him, laughing. “Azar is just fine, Jaufre the Frank, and thank you for asking.”

  “Are you married yet?”

  Fatima looked at Jaufre with a speculative eye. “Not yet. I’m waiting to see if I get a better offer.”

  Jaufre laughed at this. Johanna frowned. Shasha noticed.

  “We are joining your caravan, did you know?” Fatima said. “We let our last leave without us because Father said the caravan master didn’t know where he was going.”

  There was general rejoicing, and plans were made immediately to pitch their camps together. Shasha didn’t think that either Johanna or Jaufre noticed how ably Johanna was able to keep herself between Jaufre and Fatima at all times.

  They made new friends, too, as the journey continued. One of the most interesting was Félicien the Frank, a thin young man with curious eyes in a sun-burned face and dark, untidy curls confined by a floppy cap. His bare cheek proclaimed his youth and his worn but sturdy clothes a purse only irregularly full. His only possessions were a lute and an aged donkey whose complaints in transit could be heard from one end of the caravan to the other. Félicien was not a trader, but a traveler, he told them one evening around the communal campfire. “A goliard, they call us sometimes where I come from,” he said.

  “Where do you come from?” Johanna said.

  “What’s a goliard?” Jaufre said.

  “A goliard is a student,” Félicien said.

  “A student,” Jaufre said. “Of what?”

  Félicien waved an airy hand. “Oh, of the world, my dear Jaufre. Of the world and all its manifest glories.”

  “How long have you been, ah, studying the world?”

  “This will be my third summer on the Road.”

  “So long,” Johanna said, who had noticed that Félicien had not answered her question about where he was from. “How do you pay your way? If you don’t trade…” The goliard was lean but not thin, so he wasn’t starving.

  Félicien quirked an eyebrow, but it appeared he recognized the genuine curiosity behind a question posed by a life made possible and prosperous by trade. “I tell stories,” he said. “I sing. I write cansos, and, if I’m paid well enough to hire a fast horse afterward, I write sirventes.”

  “You sing?” Johanna said.

  “What’s a canso?” Jaufre said.

  “What stories?” Shasha said.

  Félicien laughed, displaying a set of very fine teeth, even and white and well cared-for, an unusual sight in a Frank. “Yes, I sing. A canso is a love song. What stories—oh, all stories, any story that will find a few coins in my pocket afterward. But King Arthur and the Round Table a speciality.” He gave a slight bow.

  “What’s a sirvente?” Jaufre said, stumbling a little over the word.

  Félicien grimaced. “A hate song,” he said, and would be drawn no farther into the subject. Instead he sang them a lilting ditty in the Frankish tongue that he translated into Persian on the fly, about an unlovely swineherd and a passing poet that had everyone around the fire rocking with laughter. Johanna understood much more than she would have before Edyk and the three days at the summerhouse, and laughed along with the rest.

  Félicien’s voice was high and clear and pure and he could put a soulful quaver into the most mundane verse, causing gentlemen to clear their throats and ladies to wipe surreptitiously at the corners of their eyes. He ended his impromptu concert with a short song called “A Monk’s View.”

  O wandering clerks

  You go to Chartres

  To learn the arts

  O wandering clerks

  By the Tyrrhenian

  You study Aesclepion

  O wandering clerks

  Toledo teaches

  Alchemy and sleight-of-hand

  O wandering clerks

  You learn the arts

  Medicine and magic

  O wandering clerks

  Nowhere learn

  Manners or morals

  O wandering clerks

  It scanned and rhymed in French, and by then everyone was shouting along whenever the line “O wandering clerks!” made an appearance. At the finish Félicien leapt to his feet and flourished his cap in an elaborate bow. Quite a few coins were tossed into it. Laughter in this case was demonstrably more than its own reward. Johanna took thoughtful note.

  From that
evening forward Félicien found himself at their campfire more often than not. His stories were in high demand and his voice a welcome addition to their own. He was also a font of information on places beyond the Middle Sea, and Jaufre drank all these in thirstily, especially any scrap concerning Britannia.

  Their course took them not directly west; rather, they moved from city to city as trading opportunities and market values offered opportunity. The topography was initially mostly flat, dry plain, sandy dunes interspersed with expanses of loose black pebbles and hard-packed dirt. The Tian Shan Mountains, snow-capped peaks keeping august distance from the riffraff, were succeeded by the Flaming Mountains, which formed a bare rock wall against the northwestern horizon. “They aren’t flaming,” Johanna said, disappointed that they didn’t live up to their name.

  “They aren’t really of a height to deserve the term ‘mountains,’ either,” Jaufre said critically.

  The barely undulating plain was interrupted just often enough for comfortable travel by oasis towns, built on rivers that snaked back and forth for a few leagues before vanishing into the ground, only to reappear again leagues away. The ruins of ancient villages perched on yellow sandstone wedges, marooned high in the air by the erosion of the water’s flow. Tiny farms were tucked in along the riverbanks, fields of cotton beginning to bud between straight rows of slender poplars radiant in silvery green. Grape vines sent investigatory tendrils across wooden frames and fruit trees were small white clouds of blooms. Everywhere the bees were happily drunk on nectar, buzzing dizzyingly from blossom to blossom.

  In Lanchow they traded not at all, the city being too near Chang’an and Cambaluc for profit such as Wu Li had taught them to expect. If they did not trade, however, they could look to see what luxuries were going for the highest prices that year, and store that information away for future profit. Midway between the spice market and a row of apothecaries shops Johanna, Jaufre and Félicien were offered a full saddlebag of grayish grainy matter that the seller, hand on his heart, earnestly swore upon the bones of his ancestors was dried ground testicle of Jacob’s sheep, a proven aphrodisiac—“Guaranteed to warm the coldest woman on the darkest winter night, sahib!” The seller, a wizened little man in a filthy jellaba and an even filthier turban fastened with a chipped red brooch that couldn’t even pretend to be a ruby, clutched at Jaufre’s sleeve. “Yes, yes, and a known curative for shingles, croup, headache, stomach ache and toothache besides!” When Jaufre smiled and shook his head the old man said, “Where else will you find such rare and wonderful goods, young sir? Where?”