This was in effect what I had intended to say in case of an encounter of this kind. It came forth cold and stale, and a lame parry to his adroit, deep, barbed thrust.
He looked me up and down and I thought his gaze lingered a perceptible instant on the torn sheet in my hand. I was quite sure that his curiosity was aroused and perhaps the Devil whispered in his ear that this was the very object of his search, the loss of which was the greatest loss he had ever suffered; but his common sense denied the inkling.
“In that case I’ll ask you to do your business with him elsewhere,” Nicolo said curtly. Then to the crushed clown, “Take yourself and the other trash out of my sight and hearing, as fast as you can.”
Doubtless Antonello noted that Nicolo Polo made no threats and had need of none. Without waiting for his master’s nod, the bear-leader began tugging the pitiful brute across the quay to a big brightly painted gondola. The monkey man drew in the tether so swiftly that his squeaking pet was in peril of falling. Nicolo’s cold eyes were not on them now—he had turned back to his door—but they did not stop even to wipe away their sweat. The clusters of spectators appeared to dissolve and avoided one another’s eyes.
“I wish to talk to you, Antonello, so I’ll board your gondola,” I said as grandly as possible.
Except to pay him his fee, he wished that I would stay away from him. All his noble feelings had dissipated. Antonello the Great was rotten and forgotten, and I was his luckless bastard. Probably it was to raise myself in his estimation rather than to console him for a rebuff that I gave him a gold piece instead of the three lire I had intended. This I handed him on the approach to the first bridge.
He accepted it with no sign of gratitude. “So the gentleman thought you owned my company, did he?” he remarked, with a sneer on his painted face. “I would have told him I owned every stick and stitch myself if I hadn’t been afraid I’d spoil your game.”
“You were a great man yesterday, Gregorini. Don’t turn into what the signor called you.”
I hailed a gondola and turned away from the Casa Polo. In case Nicolo had found out or surmised something to take action on, I chose obscure canals instead of the great thoroughfares for my homeward route. Then I approached Mustapha’s house only after careful reconnaissance. Meanwhile I had concealed the two pieces of dirty fabric under my shirt.
For ten minutes or more, Mustapha and I conversed. I sat down, apparently at ease; I had almost the feeling of it; certainly I made him no short answers and listened to him not impatiently, or even patiently but with an interest that was real even if somewhat forced. All this was some sort of propitiation of the Devil. All the time I heard soft sounds behind the wall where Miranda moved about, opened and shut drawers, and sang. I considered going to speak to her as a kind of preparation for a coming ordeal—perhaps to take bearings to determine my position—but I rejected the idea by instinct.
Alone in my room, I looked in a glass, mocked myself, cursed myself for a spiritual bastard. Then, sitting on a chest, I got out the two pieces. Instantly I was sure that they were no sort of parchment that I had ever seen, and under their dirt and stain there was writing.
The coarse-grained, slightly spongy material was of interwoven fibers. I passed a damp cloth over it, greatly afraid that wiping off dirt might wipe away the writing. This did not prove to be the case, so I grew bolder, As the stuff cleaned, the writing became plainer. The script was bold, and by fitting the two pieces together, I was soon able to read it.
My eyes slowly widened, for here was the answer to one of the greatest enigmas in Christendom—the legend of the Salamander.
My dear niece Lucia:
When I came to the Court of Mangu, Khan of Tatary, I was made to walk between two fires ere I was admitted to his presence. I escaped with painful burns, but if the fires had been set closer together, I might have perished.
Their wizards walk through fire unharmed. I discovered that their secret was a long cloak, boots, and a hood that looks somewhat like leather. Some legend of the stuff has reached the West. It is called salamander skin, and many alchemists and philosophers have experimented with the hides of these reptiles, believed to be impervious to fire, in an attempt to produce it.[9] These attempts are doomed to failure. Actually the garments are made of a mineral fiber found in the High Altai on the western border of Cathay. The wizards guard the secret not only from the people, who make rich offerings, but also from the Khan, who believes in their seeming supernatural powers. Yet the latter would pay richly for the protection the stuff could afford his documents, his most rare treasures, and even his royal person.
In the city of Fuchow, whence a caravan road makes into Eastern Dzungaria, I was able to obtain a small piece from a magician. On it I have inscribed this letter, with India ink. I think it is the same incombustible substance that was used for wicks in the lamps of the Vestal Virgins. It is all I have to leave you: care for it as though it were a precious locket, adorned with pearls. Perhaps husband or son will find it a key to fame and fortune.
I write this in my cloister in the archiepiscopal palace in Dalmatia, as I approach my death on earth and, I most humbly pray, my eternal life in Heaven.
Your loving uncle
Johnannes de Carpini
Archbishop of Antivari
Then, below, was what seemed written in fire itself. As I read it, in my mother’s handwriting, my hair rose up as in the presence of the walking dead.
Nicolo knows something of this. My son Marco, do not let him have it, or I cannot rest in my grave.
Mama
CHAPTER 8
DEPARTURE
It was mentioned on the Rialto that Paulos Angelos, the most considerable slave dealer operating from Venice, had returned from a journey to a near-by market. Perhaps he had laid in enough of his special kind of wares for his next journey eastward, and had lost his lively interest in Miranda. When several days had passed without any reply to my letter, I put myself under the disadvantage of approaching him again.
He received me in an office so plain that it would do for the cell of a monk. I had seen him several times before; only the present business opened my eyes to his peculiarities and distinctions. He was soberly dressed, small, swarthy, with well-carved features, curly black hair, magnetic eyes, and hands that an artist would love to paint. His manner was quiet and quite winning. I thought that he was better born and educated than most slave traders.
“Miranda is a lovely child,” he remarked, after the amenities had been seen to. “I was very eager to get her for a Thessalian duke of special tastes—I think she would have suited him to perfection. As it happened, he was in great haste for a new concubine—to console him, I believe, for the loss of a favorite—and when I was unable to deal with her keepers, I bought a beautiful blonde Asturian in her stead.”
“I’m sure you haven’t delivered her yet. Perhaps it’s not too late——”
“For this dealing, it is. You see, signor. I’ve promised Celesta the place—a very favorable one—and of course I can’t disappoint her. There will be many more dealings. I would be pleased and proud to present Miranda to my clients, but I’m not in the business—as the old saying goes—for my salubrity. If you’ll quote me a price on which I have a reasonable expectation of fair profit, I’ll buy her here and now.”