“Abbot, the Frank hasn’t been convicted of any crime, and he or no one else is to be molested while giving testimony,” the serai master said sternly.
“I have not done so, malik.”
“That animal—some kind of monkey—belongs to one of your band.”
“Malik, we’ve never seen him before. I think he was once a man who’d done great evil, and has been reborn in that form. In trying to atone for the evil, he rebuked with his teeth one with a lying mouth. But the avatar won’t molest him further if from henceforth he speaks truth, and he’ll fare much better at our hands.”
I no longer doubted that the Abbot had caught my hint and its implied threat, but its effect upon him was far less marked than I hoped. There came a chill of ill omen upon my spirit.
“He’s not put in your hands yet,” the serai master replied. “Marco of Polo, you may proceed.”
“The holy man Surab promised to deliver the garments when my mother’s uncle Johannes or any emissary called for them, whether in one year, or ten, or three times ten. If he had gone to his gods, his heirs would discharge the debt. The years passed, and I, Johannes’ heir, had word from Surab that he had joined the order of the Bonpo at their monastery at Suchow. To him I sent word that I would surely come here to get my legacy, but when at last I arrived with Nicolo and sought him out, and met him in secret, he told me that the garments had been stolen by the magicians of the Swasti.”
Again the dirty hands shot up, palms and faces raised, and a howl of “Lies! Lies!” shook the icy air.
“Marco of Polo, can you produce the monk whom you call Surab?” the serai master asked.
“I can’t, because I vowed that if he would help me recover my lost legacy, I would consider the debt discharged and protect him from all ill consequences. This vow I made before my saints, never to be broken.”
“How could you be sure that the suit you took was the one your uncle had bought?”
“I couldn’t. I took the first my lamp shone on.”
“What proof can you offer this court that the story is not an invention intended to save you punishment of a high crime?”
“Malik, here are two keys. The large one of iron unlocks the door of my lodging. The small bronze key opens a cabinet in my right-hand saddlebag of Tabriz leather, in which are torn pieces of white fabric. Bid a trusted messenger bring them here, as well as the fire-walker’s suit wrapped in white sheeting.”
“You may go in Toto’s charge and get them yourself. He won’t be required to touch the suit or to get within arm’s reach of it, and I wouldn’t in his place.”
“I’ll not, master, and on that you can bet a horse.” So spoke a good Tatar.
I had long since caught sight of Sheba at the gate of the haremlik. I signaled to her and she came on light feet and followed me ahead of Toto. In a moment she reappeared, carrying the bundle on her head, her hands swinging free at her side. As she calmly set it down before the serai master, the spectators freed their deep-drawn breaths and most of the merchants and hard-bitten cameleers looked faintly sheepish. But the eyes of the magicians half-hidden in unkempt hair were hot and angry.
I put into the master’s hands the two pieces of fabric.
“They were torn in an accident,” I explained, “but your Honor can see that they fit together. On them was written the letter from my mother’s uncle, Friar Johannes Carpini. And you will see too that the material is the same as the suit of the fire-walkers.”
At this last, the master came nigh to dropping the pieces, and clung to them only to save face before the watchers.
“They do seem the same,” he said, when I showed him the helmet. “But the writing here is in a tongue I don’t know.”
“Will you have me read it aloud?”
“That would prove nothing. Ask one of your company to read it and give us its burden.”
“Then I’ll ask Nicolo Emir, ambassador to the Khan.”
I had never in all my days done a bolder thing. The thin ice was instantly apparent to all members of our caravan, and their acute suspense spread fire-fast through the throng. Yet the chance I had played was my best chance, for unless my instincts lied to me, Nicolo would not dare disavow me altogether. The other merchants knew me for his kinsman, countryman, and fellow Christian and never really doubted that I was his son. And while they would take care not to make enemies of the lamas and knew I must be punished for my grave offense, they wanted no precedent set for tossing aliens of position and substance to these louse-bitten dogs. Indeed as Nicolo took the torn pieces I could see that he was nonplused.
Then slowly he raised his head and looked at Maffeo. He began to speak in the Venetian tongue, not loudly, but full-voiced, so that I could hear.
“Do you remember, at our last feast with Zane and Flora, I expressed the fear that Marco would bring our caravan into disrepute?”
“I remember it well,” Maffeo answered.
“I remarked on how he had committed theft to get what he wanted, as his lowborn father had done before him. But you told me I was making too much over a cuckoldry twenty years old.”
“I did say that, yes.”
“Maffeo, you were wrong. Do you confess it and resign this matter to me?” His bearing, like his memory, was like that of a king.
“Nicolo, I’ve long ago resigned all matters to you.”
2
Nicolo nodded gravely. Fitting together the two pieces of fabric, he read in silence. All eyes were fixed on him; everyone knew that the verdict of the court would hang largely on how far he backed my story. The magicians sensed the crisis and the leering insolence of a moment ago passed from their dirty faces. And perhaps because they feared that Maffeo and the other merchants were putting silent pressure upon him, they cast another spell.
I noticed that one pair of eyes after another withdrew from Nicolo and slowly widened. I followed their gaze to behold the most remarkable piece of legerdemain of the night. The faces of the wizards appeared as blank and flaccid as the faces of the dead, but their loosely opened mouths were filled with light. There was not one that did not show an unmistakable pale glimmer and many were luridly bright. I was quite sure that the effect was achieved by small mirrors held by the teeth and tongue as every magician gazed steadfastly into the fire.
Nicolo looked up from his reading. He could not help seeing the weird show but he paid it not one whit of attention.
“Master of the serai!” he called in a strong voice.
The big-eyed man in the chair rallied with a visible effort.
“Aye, Nicolo Polo, ambassador to the Great Khan.”
“The material bearing this writing and the garments of the fire-walkers are undoubtedly the same stuff.”
“That’s of interest to this court. Please continue.”
“The writing bears out Marco’s story that his great-uncle meant him to have a set of garments that he had ordered in Dzungaria. But it mentions no one named Surab, nor does it bear out the account of them being stolen.”
“Part of what I told was recounted to me after Johannes’ death and part by Surab himself,” I broke in.
“Does that complete your testimony?” the master asked Nicolo.
“Yes, your Honor, and I give it in great pain.”
His voice had hardly stilled when the weird lights in the magicians’ mouths went out. Animation slowly returned to the cadaver faces. The serai master spoke with renewed energy.
“Then the offense of Marco Polo becomes more understandable, considering his impetuous youth, but no less criminal,” he declared. Then, turning to the head magician, “What do you ask in the way of punishment?”