"Oh, only in a very minor way. After all, who cares about Ophir? After you've mentioned the ivory, peacocks, and apes, there really isn't much to say about the place." Marco smiled a thin, dangerous smile. "I hope not. There's only room for one fabulist at a time in a royal court."
"Hey, you're the resident fabulist," Mack said. "As a matter of fact, you're the reason I came here. I want to get your autograph." "You have my book?" "It's my dearest possession. Was, I should say, for thieving Arabs stole my copy from me one night in High Tartary."
"That sounds like quite a tale."
"Not at all," Mack said, remembering who was supposed to be the storyteller around here. "Actually, it was the most banal burglary imaginable. But it was bad luck for me because I don't have a copy for you to sign. But if you could put your signature on a piece of paper, I'd paste it in when I get a copy again."
"I just might happen to have a copy," Marco said carelessly. "I suppose I could let you have it at cost."
"Your only copy? I couldn't!" "As a matter of fact, I have several."
"I'd consider it a privilege if you'd sign a copy for me. And I'd consider it a privilege if you'd let me guard your person and keep you safe from the plots and cabals that swirl around your glorious person." "How did you know about the plots against me?" Marco asked. "You just got here."
"It is common knowledge," said Mack, "that a man as talented and famous as you must have enemies. It would be my desire to protect you from them."
"If you really want to help," Marco said, "there is something you could do for me."
"Just tell me," Mack said.
Marco said, "As ambassador of Ophir, I take it you speak quite a few languages."
"It's a prerequisite of being an ambassador," Mack said.
"I already know that you speak German, French, Mongol, and Persian."
"They're necessary, of course."
"And what about Turkestani? Farsi? Turkoman? What about Oglut and Mandarin?"
"I can get by in them," Mack said.
"What about Pushtu?"
"I'm not sure," Mack said. "What does it sound like?"
Marco held his mouth in a special way and said, " 'This is how a sentence in Pushtu sounds.'"
"Yes," Mack said, "I can understand that."
"Perfect," Marco said. "The Princess Irene speaks only Pushtu, having never mastered the Mongol tongue. She has no one to talk to."
"Except for yourself, surely?"
"The only sentence I have learned thus far is, 'This is how a sentence in Pushtu sounds.' I've had no time to study it, you see."
"That's too bad."
"What I want you to do," Marco said, "is go to the princess and converse with her. It'll be such a pleasure for her to speak again in her native tongue. And I think she'd be interested in the customs of Ophir."
"I wouldn't waste her time with that," Mack said. "Ophir is much like any other place. But if you think my prattle may get her into a better mood, you can depend on me. I'll go to her at once." Mack left, congratulating himself on how quickly he was penetrating into the inner circles of the Mongol court.
CHAPTER 4
It was lucky that Mack had precise directions, because the palace of Kublai Khan had been laid out with the complexity of a maze. Mack went down long polished corridors that seemed to fade into infinity, up hushed ramps glowing in reflected sunlight, down gleaming staircases. Sounds were muted in this place. Here and there a birdcage swung from the ceiling. Cats and dogs and ocelots roamed the passageways. From time to time Mack could hear the sounds of high-pitched pipes played against the boom of bass drums. Twice he ran into corridor vendors, who purveyed potstickers, beef on a stick, and Mongolian enchiladas, free of charge, provided by the Khan for the guests who sometimes got ravenously hungry as they searched for the corridor leading to the commissary.
So it was that Mack, after following courtyard after courtyard at the end of corridor after corridor, came to a large paved plaza, and in this plaza were many armed men and they were doing exercises. The men were fully armored, and they carried swords and shields and lances. There were drill instructors with red headbands who led them in exercises of arms and in calisthenic drills that Mack thought looked very tiresome. He made his way through the ranks of sweating men, because his route to the princess' suite continued on the other side of the plaza.
It was a colorful sight he passed through, because these men wore uniforms from the different armies of many different countries and nations, and they all spoke different languages. There must have been two dozen different tongues spoken in that crowded courtyard, and Mack could understand them all because of the gift of tongues that Mephistopheles' spell had given him. Mack pretty much ignored them, because the things soldiers say during calisthenics are not interesting in any language. But he suddenly paid attention when he heard Marco Polo's name mentioned.
The mention had come from two warriors who were fencing together. They were bearded, clad in leather with plates of bronze, and their hair was oiled and curled in the Phoenician manner. One of them had said, "Now, what were you telling me about this Marco Polo?"
The other said, "We shouldn't be speaking about him here in this public place."
"Don't worry," the first one said. "Nobody around here except us speaks the Haifa dialect of Middle Aramaic."
It was a pretty obscure language, but Mack, due to the all-inclusiveness of Mephistopheles' Language Spell, understood it perfectly well right down to the glottal stops. He paused to adjust a boot and heard the second man say, "I was telling you that the time has come for our plot to reach its maturation. You and I have been selected for guard duty at the Banquet Hall tonight. That's when we'll do for him."
"It's to be death, then, eh?"
"That's what the Potentiator of Phoenicia wanted done according to the carrier pigeon message I received from him earlier. We're to get him now, before he can leave Peking and make other trade treaties that will exclude our city of Tyre."
"Long live Tyre!" the first man said.
"Quiet, you fool. Just be ready to act tonight."
And with that the two soldiers returned to their fencing exercise with renewed vigor. Mack finished adjusting his boot. He straightened up and got out of there. Everything was working out for him. He had detected this plot against Marco, and would tell the Venetian about it as soon as he finished his conversation with Princess Irene.
detected this plot against Marco, and would tell the Venetian about it as soon as he finished his conversation with Princess Irene.
5 Princess Irene was in her chambers, was decent, and she was pleased to admit the ambassador from Ophir.
"You mus' unnerstan'," she said, in broken Mongolian, leading Mack over the many carpets to an interior room, "I likee visit but I no speaka da Mongol lingo so good."
"That is precisely why I have come to call on you, Princess," Mack said, in flawless Pushtu. "Since I have some slight proficiency in your native tongue, I thought you might like to converse a bit apace ere it gets to be banquet time, if you know what I mean?"
The princess drew in her breath sharply, because hearing her own native language spoken by this yellow-haired young man with a flawless accent and with all the particles in place and no breathing signs omitted and with full value given to the fricatives was more wondrous to her than seeing violets bloom in the January snow, her previous high point for new and unusual experiences.
"The dear old mother tongue!" she cried. "You speak it like a native!"
'To whatever small extent as might please Your Highness," Mack said, using the subjunctive as though he'd been born to it.
"How delightful that I no longer need to speak in broken Mongolian," the princess said, "for it annoys me to have to display myself as an ignorant person when actually I have a degree in Ophirese literature as well as in that of Kush and Sheba."
"I haven't read a lot of that stuff, myself," Mack said. "But I know it's important."
"What is more impor
tant is that you can talk to me," the princess said. "And, what is even more important, I can talk to you. Come here, sit down, have a fig canape and a glass of palm wine, tell me about yourself. What are you doing here in Peking?"
Mack allowed himself to be seated on a low divan with plenty of brightly colored pillows. The princess Irene sat down beside him. She was a tall pale blonde, with not very interesting shoulders, and with eyes of an ambiguous sea green color. Her manner was one of imperfectly controlled hysteria. Bracelets jangled as she gestured. Mack ate a date from a nearby bowl, hoping to calm himself.
"They brought me here from the Land of the High Flags, and eventually decided I must marry this shah in Persia," Irene said. "Do you think that's fair? Daddy promised I could marry whomever I pleased. Then he changed everything because the great Khan needed a princess of my line. First I was to marry a Vigur, but he was poisoned."
"Among nobles," Mack said, "a marriageable woman's role in society is often to cement some treaty.
What's the matter with the shah of Persia? Sounds like a good match to me."
"I have seen his portrait," Irene said. "He is fat. Old. Ugly. He has a cruel mouth. He looks impotent. He seems unintelligent. He speaks only Persian."
"I don't want to hold anything against him," Irene said, shuddering. "If his portrait turns me off, imagine what the man himself would do! I would never bear him any children. His line would die out."
Mack nodded, wondering if that would make any difference to future generations. Yes, it would probably make a difference. Everything did. But what difference would making a difference make? They hadn't told him how to figure out that one.
"Try one of these candied figs," Irene said. "I'll bet they're not as sweet as you are."
"Princess!" cried Mack, for, hardened man of the world though he was, or at least fancied himself to be, the open invitation in the princess' voice shook him down to the upturned toes of his soft leather boots.
"I have to be direct," Irene said. "I might not get another chance." She moved close to him and put her arms around his neck. "What did you say your name was, cutie?"
"Johann Faust, at your service. But Princess—"
"Johnny, you have won me over with your sweet tongue. Don't struggle so, I'm trying to get this unlaced."
She was referring to the tight bodice that cinched in her tiny waist. Mack tried to escape from her, but he sank into the soft pillows of the divan, and the princess seemed to be all over him, simultaneously unlacing her bodice, stroking his hair, taking off her shoes, unfastening his doublet, and eating a candied fig. Mack had no fear of aggressive women, but he was turned off and frightened by the circumstances, which were dangerous. He wondered if Princess Irene had ever done this sort of thing before, and if those she had done it with had been caught, and if so, what had been done to them. And for a fleeting moment it seemed to him that Marco could have warned him about this.
But before he could pursue this thought, there was a sudden sound as of doors opening. And Mack struggled to his feet and saw that a young woman had appeared in the princess' chambers, though how she had gotten there he could not say. The young woman was dark, and beautiful, and clearly not human.
"Who are you?" Mack quavered.
"I am Ylith, a worker in the forces of Good, and a certified observer for the contest. And you, Dr. Faust, are up to no good at all."
CHAPTER 6
Ylith had been doing good deeds in one of Earth's alternative and highly provisional alternate time-lines when Michael had paged her on the angel hot line. Ylith had come at once. She liked being an angel of the Good, even though she was still in training. The main difficulty with life in the Good was that there seemed nothing to do. She had gotten Hermes Trismegistus to put her into this other time-line so she could practice Good Works. It was nice, but of course it wasn't the real Earth so she was happy when Michael had paged her.
"Ah, there, Ylith," Michael said. "I've been wanting to see how you were getting on."
"Fine," Ylith said. "The only thing is, I'd like to be doing something."
"That's the spirit!" Michael said. "As it turns out, we have a job for you. You know our great contest between Light and Dark?"
"Of course," Ylith said. "Nobody in the spirit world talks of anything else."
"Well, both sides in the contest are allowed observers. That's to make sure no one takes advantage of the situation or coaches the contestant in what he is to do. I'd like you to go to Earth and check on what Mephistopheles and Mack are doing."
"You got it," Ylith said.
"Here, take this." He handed her an amulet. "Why, Michael!" Ylith said.
"It's not meant as a present," Michael said. "That is an amulet which confers invisibility on its holder. It will allow you to observe things unobserved." "Okay. See you later!" She vanished. She caught up with Mack just at the end of his time in Constantinople. Utilizing the charm of invisibility she saw Mack and Irene together on the couch, and came to her own conclusions.
Princess Irene, as stunned as anyone by the sudden appearance of the black-haired witch with the feathery haircut and the virginal yet somehow provocative angel costume, said, "Oh, my goodness! What is going to happen?"
"Nothing to you," Ylith said. "But I need to hold converse with this fellow." She indicated Mack, who edged away but didn't quite do what he wished to do, which was to run like crazy from this probably demented spirit. "However," Ylith said, "I will take him away, for what I have to say to him is not for innocent ears." She turned to Mack and said, "Come with me, young fellow," in tones that brooked no interference.
She led Mack into the hall and down the corridor to the next chamber, which was identical to Irene's but untenanted, awaiting the arrival of another monoglot princess from another tiny country. There Ylith took a chair, and, sitting with her back very straight, stared at Mack, who stood before her like an abashed schoolboy. She said, "Dr. Faust, I am very disappointed in you."
"Me?" Mack said. "What did I do?"
"Don't play the innocent with me. I was in the next room and I heard everything."
"Did you, indeed?" Mack said, trying vainly to remember what he and the princess had been talking about before Ylith made her entrance.
"I heard you trying to seduce that poor innocent young princess, taking advantage of the Language Spell that Mephistopheles gave you, the better to work your wiles."
"Then how do you explain the hanky-panky that was going on when I came into the room?"
"She was trying to seduce me, not the other way around!"
Ylith's beautiful wide lips curled in scorn. Ylith had once been a witch. But that had been back in the bad old days when she had served the forces of Darkness with all the passion of naive lusts. Her eyes had been opened to the spiritual aspects of love when she had met Babriel, the gelid-eyed, blond young angel with whom she had fallen in love back in the days of the last Millennial contest. That was the time when Azzie produced his updated Prince Charming story. Ylith had been Azzie's girlfriend up to then. But she forgot all about the fox-faced, red-haired young demon when she met the golden-haired Babriel. Love transformed her values. She turned fervently to Good, did this splendidly haunched and handsomely thewed young witch, since Good was his way, and she found it good, even kicky. Out of love for the handsome but extremely proper young angel, she had changed her ways and made new spiritual vows, embracing Good with a fervor that commended itself highly to those who like such things. From being a carefree, party-going sort of witch, she had changed into a bluestocking and prude of a sort not even seen much in Heaven in these days; but of course there is no greater zealot for the Good than the once-fallen. Ylith pursued Goodness and Proper Behavior (two qualities that she habitually conflated) as she had once pursued Badness and Impropriety, and with such energy that she was sometimes an embarrassment to the older representatives of Good, who had learned a little about how things really work during their long years of working for Light. "She'll learn," they said. But
she hadn't, so far.
"You have misused your position," Ylith said to Mack. "You were not sent through space and time to seduce maidens with your devil-given gift of language. You are supposed to be working in a serious contest dealing with important matters, not flibberti-gibbeting around like an adolescent gazook. I am going to lodge a strong complaint with the Board of Governors about your behavior. And in-the meantime, I shall see to it that you don't repeat your unwarrantable actions."
"Lady, listen, you've got me wrong," Mack said, and was about to explain in detail what had actually happened. But Ylith wasn't interested in listening to the lies of a not-bad-looking young yellow-haired seducer with a spell for languages.
Ylith said, "I'm going to put you where you can do no further mischief until I get a definite ruling on this case. It's the Mirror Prison for you, my lad."
Mack raised his hands to remonstrate. But he wasn't quick enough. Nothing comes on faster than the spell of an irate witch. Between two blinks of an eye and a lightning-fast gesture of long, blood-red fingernails, Ylith was gone. Or so it seemed at first. But when Mack looked more closely, he saw that it was him self who was gone. Or, if not gone, at least somewhere else.
He was in a small room with mirrors. There were mirrors on all the walls, floor, and ceiling. There seemed to be more mirrors than the number of walls would accommodate. They formed reflecting quicksilver tunnels and precipices, a baroque topography of mirrors. He saw himself reflected and re-reflected in a hundred mirrors at a hundred angles. He turned, and saw himself turn in a myriad of surfaces. He took a tentative step forward and saw his doubles do the same, though some seemed to go backwards. Another step, and he bumped into a mirror. He recoiled, and his many likenesses did the same, except for a few who hadn't bumped into anything. Mack found it strange and somewhat sinister that some of his mirror images weren't doing what he was or what the others were doing. One of those aberrant images was sitting in an armchair reading a book; he looked up and winked at Mack. Another appeared to be sitting on a riverbank, fishing. He didn't look up. There was even one who was sitting backwards on a chair, legs stretched out, grinning into Mack's face. At least Mack assumed it was his face. Suddenly he was no longer sure what the front of his face was wearing.
If at Faust You Don't Succeed Page 12
