A Deadly Injustice

THREE

If you wish to know the mind of a man, listen to his words.

Gurbesu and I hurried back to Old Yenking in the south of Khan-balik in order to tell the others our new plans. The buildings there still clung to the old grid of streets laid out before Kubilai’s grandfather, Chinghis, had laid waste to the Chinee city. Ironically, this act had assisted Kubilai. Fifty years later, he had fewer buildings to clear away in order to build his new winter capital. Many had already been obliterated. Most still remained to the south, and that is where we were living. Like most of the foreigners in the Great Khan’s empire.

My little entourage was made up of Gurbesu – the Kungurat Tartar girl from the North, Tadeusz Pyka – a Silesian Pole from Breslau, and Friar Giovanni Alberoni – a Venetian like myself. He and I had come together in strange circumstances, each drawn to the pole star that was Kubilai Khan. Friar Alberoni had picked me up out of the gutter in Sudak in an area some call Crimea. I had been going through a bad patch in my life, forced out of Venice through little fault of my own. Missing my lover, Caterina Dolfin, I had for once made a mess of my business dealings, and had resorted to the consolation of the bottle. Though I would not admit it to him, Alberoni saved me from myself, and offered me a job as bodyguard for his trip to the furthest edge of the world that was the Mongol Empire. The friar was an odd cove who had set his heart on chasing a myth, though he didn’t see it that way. You see, things had seemed to be going from bad to worse in the Middle East. Saracens were grabbing chunks of the Holy Lands back from Crusader knights, who had taken their eyes off the prize, and set themselves up as mercenary kings and counts of various tracts of God’s country. The successes of previous crusades were therefore crumbling away. Suddenly, there was a tale circulating of a great Christian king in the East, who would save Christendom in its hour of need. He went by the name of Presbyter, or Prester, John. Alberoni wanted to do something about it by seeking him out and pleading for his help. I thought he was wasting his time, as to me it was all a scam relying on people’s yearnings for a saviour, who would descend from the heavens at the final moment. Such miracles did not occur in my world. But the trip to Xanadu drew me, and I agreed to help him. Predictably, our initial search failed dismally. But then, just as we were about to give up, we had come across stories of Nestorian Christians in Kubilai’s empire. And in Xanadu, we had encountered an old man, a prisoner who had been long incarcerated by Kubilai’s family. He could have been the man Alberoni was looking for. The trouble was he had disappeared as mysteriously as he had appeared to us. One moment, there he was in his cell, the next moment he had slipped into the shadows like a will o’ the wisp. Alberoni’s search had thus come to an end. But it was what had brought him and me to Xanadu in the first place. And led me to be Kubilai’s hunter of murderers.

Gurbesu, we had met on the way to Xanadu. As I told you, she was with a bunch of young girls intended to be Kubilai’s virgin brides – part of an annual tribute from their tribe. Unfortunately for Kubilai, Gurbesu had been wilful enough to respond to my seductive manner. She had also been wild enough to escape from the harem, and take up with me. Her black, oiled hair, and shapely curves were in complete contrast to the willowy figure of the blonde-haired Cat, who I had left behind in Venice. But I didn’t know if I would ever see my Venetian lover again. So who could blame me for taking up with Gurbesu? I certainly didn’t feel guilty, especially when Gurbesu’s dark-skinned arms were wrapped around me.

The final member of our group was Tadeusz Pyka. He had experienced a more turbulent means of reaching Kubilai’s court. More than twenty-five years earlier, in 1241, the Tartar hordes had swept across Europe. They had seemed like a terrifying army of the Devil, killing all Christians in its way. And indeed, Tadeusz had been lucky to survive the devastation of his home town of Breslau. What had saved him was that he was a silversmith. The Mongols were beginning to see the value of skilled men, and he had been brought back to Xanadu in chains to ply his trade for the benefit of the Great Khan. Twenty years on, he had no longer any wish to return to a home where he would find no one he knew. Kubilai’s court was now his home, and, when we met, his local knowledge had assisted me in my quest to find a murderer at that court. Besides knowing his way around, he had other skills – his nimble fingers could pick almost any lock in Christendom and beyond. He was therefore invaluable to me.

It was Tadeusz who was at the door of our lodgings in Khan-balik when Gurbesu and I returned with our news. He is a small, wiry man with a stubbly beard that doesn’t grow on one side of his face where he was once badly burned. That deformity is the legacy of the Tartar invasion of his country. Now, the burned side of his face glowed bright red, and I knew he was worked up about something.

‘Nick. I am so glad you are back.’

‘Why, Tadeusz? What on earth is the problem?’

He grabbed my arm and dragged me into the large room that we all shared. It was in a state of chaos. Well, to be honest, it was usually in a mess. With four independently-minded individuals occupying the same lodgings, it was not to be expected that everything would be neatly stowed. I did try and make an effort at tidying myself. I mean to say, I had often told Gurbesu to tidy the room, but this had been met with a stony stare that reminded me of Cat in many ways. I don’t know why I seemed to be burdened with incompliant women in my life. But I suppose I would have it no other way. Arguing with your woman had its compensations when it came to making up afterwards. Suffice it to say, our quarters in Old Yenking were rarely tidied up.

Now however, the room was in even more of a mess than it normally was. I looked around, immediately noticing that two large saddlebags lay in the centre of the chaos. They were already stuffed with clothes and papers that stuck out haphazardly. I could see that the clothes were those belonging to Friar Alberoni. I groaned.

‘What is the friar up to now?’

‘He says he is leaving. His quest is at an end, and he has no further purpose here in the land of idolaters.’

I threw up my hands in despair. If I was honest, I would have to admit that Alberoni was superfluous most of the time. But he did have his uses sometimes. It’s not that I revel in idolatry myself, but I just seem to have little need of God. But when I do need Him, then I usually find I have to call on His services at short notice, and having a priest at hand is useful. Besides, Alberoni was still my only connection with Venice in Kubilai’s vast empire. Even though he comes from the long low strip of an island beyond Venice called Malamocco, and so isn’t a true-bred Venetian. Still, we could talk to each other about La Serenissima when I was low, and dream of returning there. It seemed that Alberoni was now planning his return more precipitately than I could hope for.

‘What on earth can I do to persuade him to stay, do you think?’

Alberoni’s voice gave me my answer.

‘There is nothing you can do, Niccolò. I am determined to go.’

The tall, angular figure of Friar Giovanni Alberoni appeared in the street doorway. His long black robe was shabby and patched in numerous places, but he always gave the impression of neatness, and that somehow translated into a sense of closeness to God. His eyes glittered with resolve, and he scrubbed at his smoothly shaved chin. Not for him the rough unruly beard that I adopted in my role as the demon Zhong Kui. No, he was habitually scraping at his chin every three of four days, just like the Chinee. Mind you, our hosts had little to scrape off their chins. Even the Mongols had a sparse thatch compared to my glorious red bush, which admittedly was beginning to show some grey hairs. I tried my last card, knowing the friar hated being on horseback.

‘Your only means of getting back will be to ride, and it is a long, long way home. Also it will be dangerous for you to be on your own. Which you will be, for you know I can’t come with you until I am released from my duties by the Great Khan.’

Alberoni’s resolve melted for a moment as he contemplated sitting on the back of a horse for weeks on end. But then I saw the stubbornness return to his eyes.

‘I have determined to go, and go I shall.’

I sighed, seeing that I would not be able to stop him making the long trek home. Leaving him to his packing of the already crammed saddlebags, I turned instead to Tadeusz, and told him of our plans.

‘We have a new commission. I am to investigate the murder of an old merchant in a town some days south of here. It seems that his prospective daughter-in-law has poisoned him, and she has been condemned to death. But Kubilai has been petitioned to re-examine the case, as some believe her innocent. It will be a mess, and Lin Chu-Tsai will have to arbitrate between the Chinee girl and her supporters, and the local Mongol lord.’

Tadeusz grimaced.

‘That puts us in a hopeless situation.’

‘Yes. Lin thinks he has been set up by his old adversary, Ko, and I believe him. We can’t win either way, unless we can come up with something extraordinary.’

‘Where is the girl to be found?’

I pulled out the document Lin had given me, flattening it on the low table with the palm of my hand, and scrutinized the script. It was in Turkish, so I could understand it – written Chinee was still just a confusion of lines and dots to me.

‘She is held imprisoned in a town called–‘ I ran my finger along the word, rehearsing it in my head – ‘called P’ing-Yang-Fu. It is some twenty days journey south-west and is close to the Kara-Moran river.’

I heard a gasp behind me, and Alberoni suddenly piped up.

‘Kara-Moran. That means Black River in Turkish, doesn’t it?’

I frowned, not knowing where this was leading.

‘I believe so.’

Now Alberoni was at my elbow, staring at the paper I held in my hand.

‘And in Chinee, that is Hwang-Ho?’

It was Tadeusz, with his superior knowledge of that tongue who answered Alberoni.

‘Yes, that is correct. The Hwang-Ho is a very large river, a mile wide in places, leading out to the ocean on the edge of the world.’

A seafarer by birth, I shuddered at the thought of sailing to the edge of the ocean and tipping off. At least the seas beyond the lagoon of Venice were bounded by land. Beyond Kubilai’s empire to the east there was a big island called Cipangu, and then, nothing. But Alberoni wasn’t interested in where the river flowed out to, apparently, but the very opposite as it turned out. He abruptly interrupted Tadeusz’s geography lesson.

‘Yes, yes. That is the place.’

He grasped my shoulder, and looked into my eyes.

‘Niccolò…’ Where others called me by my familiar name, Alberoni always used the formal version. He had been the Zuliani family priest for years. ‘Niccolò, I have been a little precipitate. I now see I should not abandon you at this juncture. Especially if you will be in some danger if you make the wrong decision. I should be there to advise you. I will come too. After all, my bags are packed.’

I narrowed my eyes and stared suspiciously at the priest, not sure what had changed his mind. But I had to admit his companionship would please me, and his presence could be useful.

‘Very well. We must all hurry to prepare, though. Lin has sent for ponies for us all – including you, Friar, as he assumed you were coming with us.’ I grinned evilly as I mentioned Alberoni’s hated transport. He had insisted on using a cart to make the long journey from west to east six years ago. The trip had been interminable, and I recall almost being seasick in the lurching, swaying vehicle. Me – a Venetian practically living on water – being seasick. It didn’t bear thinking about. But since our time in the Mongol Empire I had become almost as at home on the back of the hardy little ponies the Mongols used, as on board ship. Gurbesu could ride like the wind. She had been practically brought up on the back of a horse. Such a life as the one she led would not have suited the Chinee because they placed great store by verifiable virginity in a bride. Sitting astride a horse would not have been conducive to retaining that state. As well as proof by virginal blood, it is said that one of the ways of ensuring the virginity of a bride was by using a pigeon’s egg. If it did not break on insertion – if you take my meaning – then the girl could not be a virgin. Gurbesu would have failed gloriously. Tadeusz could ride reasonably well too, by the way. Which left Alberoni and Lin Chu-Tsai.

Our Chinee friend hated travelling, and like Alberoni abhorred the back of a horse. So I knew he would arrive in a carriage of some sort. But he would not wish to share it with the friar. In his opinion, we Westerners sweated fearsomely, and did not wash often enough. For my part, I thought the Chinee elite washed far too often, immersing themselves as they did almost every day. I preferred to change my clothes regularly, and keep myself sweet-smelling that way. I say I preferred it. To be honest, it was Gurbesu who had got me into the habit of changing clothes, swearing she would not lie with me if I wore the same clothes more than three days together. I therefore packed my saddlebags with lots of silk shirts and loose trousers in the Chinee style, together with a couple of short jackets and an informal long robe decorated with dragons called a bei-zi. I was quite the dandy in my Chinee clothes. Gurbesu too had her own version of the bei-zi, which was cut to fit snugly round her curves. The thought of how the clothes fitted her so well had me on the verge of suggesting to her that we adjourn to our bedchamber. But just as I was about to do so, we heard the sound of horses’ hooves on the broken cobbles of the old city street where we lived. We were ready to go.

Lin was not with the horses, but had given the ostler a message that we were to set off and he would meet us soon enough. I pushed and prodded Alberoni on to the back of his pony, which we chose for him as the one looking the most docile, and the rest of us mounted more easily. The friar jiggled the reins, but could not make his steed start, so I moved my pony alongside his and gave it a kick. With a yell of horror from Alberoni, and a look of annoyance from his mount, the two of them moved away in more or less the right direction. The rest of us followed in his wake, keeping up the encouragement that Alberoni was unable to supply.