Swords From the West (39 page)

His back stiffened and he swung his right arm gently at his side-the only movement of which it was capable. And he stood his ground at the head of the stairs, although the courtiers were pushing against him.

"Strip him," counseled a rough voice from below-the same lackey who had commented upon the fiery temper of his mistress a moment ago. "The dogs will bite the fool more toothsomely if he be naked."

"Aye, aye, strip him!" the cry went up.

"Stay," said Michael gravely to the courtiers. "The man is a cripple, wherefore would it be small honor to you, messires, to make game of him."

"Blood of the saints!" A young fellow with a face like a woman made response. "By the splendor of heaven, what have we here?"

The chamberlain saw an opportunity to please the nobles.

"A man, my lord of Mocenigo," he informed loudly, "who claims the freedom of the city and so the liberty to attend the fete of my lord Contarini."

The jester's lined face had brightened at Michael's words, but now he appeared hopeless once more. Not so Mocenigo, who scented a finer jest, even, than the tormenting of Bembo.

"He does not look like a lack-wit, this burgher-sailor," he vouchsafed, wrinkling his nose, "but-phah-methinks he is foul of the sea."

They stared at Michael, the crowd below pushing and elbowing to gain a better view. A gentleman laughed and the lackeys guffawed. That a common sailor, or so they thought, should have construed the freedom of the city as an invitation to the fete!

A distant snarling and barking sounded from within the palace, plainly to be heard now that the fiddlers had ceased playing in order to watch the spectacle.

"Throw them both to the dogs; strip them both," called a lackey from the rear of the throng.

But Michael's glance had sought out the courtier who had laughed, and his gray eyes were very hard. Seeing his set face, those nearest him, with the exception of the slightly intoxicated Mocenigo, gave back slightly.

"No need to fetch the dogs, my good cur," Michael smiled at the man who had laughed. "The pack is here and-till now-in full cry."

There was an exclamation at this and a rustling of feet. The servitors sensed a quarrel and realized from the way Michael spoke that he was a Frenchman of good blood. Whereupon they discreetly waited for the quarrel to be taken up by their betters.

"'Od's death!" swore the courtier who had laughed, making however no move forward. "Seize him, ye varlets, and hale him into the lagoon."

The lackeys nearest Michael advanced obediently, but without enthusiasm. Baiting a victim lost its savor when the prey showed fight. Then one of them cried out shrilly:

"Ho, this is Master Bearn who conquered the Turks in the Orient. Not an hour since he overcame Pietro Rudolfo in the street with his sword."

A silence fell on the group at the head of the stairs. The servants remembered that they were unarmed and retreated promptly. Bembo looked up again with hope in his wavering eyes.

Michael, standing his ground with his left hand at his belt, reflected that Rudolfo must have a reputation here.

Muttering something about looking to the dogs, the man who had laughed slipped away, accompanied by his fellows. Mocenigo swore roundly after them and clutched uncertainly at his sword.

At once Michael stepped forward, gripping the other's wrist and wrenching downward as the young noble started to free his blade from its scabbard. The weapon clattered to the tiled floor and Mocenigo's right hand was helpless in Michael's left.

Now the courtier was no younger than the seaman, but his smooth face made a strong contrast with Michael's brown countenance wherein the skin was drawn taut over jutting bones and deep lines ran from nose to mouth.

Mocenigo, flushed, made no struggle, knowing that his strength was overmatched; instead he waited with a dangerous quiet for Michael to strike or taunt or reach for a weapon. He did not know that the Breton had but one useful arm.

"You are no coward," grunted Michael, "but you carry your wine badly, my lord. The cups make a man quarrelsome."

With that he released Mocenigo, picked up the latter's weapon, handed it to him and turned his back. The courtier handled his blade irresolutely, staring at the seaman's back.

"Close the door," Michael was instructing the chamberlain, who-seeing that Mocenigo made no move-obeyed, thus shutting out the curious throng in the court.

"You were best away from here, Bembo," said Michael quickly to the jester. "Some side postern; this is your chance."

When Bembo had vanished from the hall he wheeled on the gazing Mocenigo. "This mocking of a fool ill beseems your chivalry my lord."

At this the young courtier flushed more deeply than before, and sheathed his sword covertly. "'Od's blood, signor, you are a strange man and a ready one. I was in the wrong and I apologize." He bowed gracefully. "Surely you are of gentle blood in France?"

"Nay, signor-my mother was of gentlefolk, but I am a commoner, without land or till."

Michael nodded affably to the perplexed chamberlain.

"Now that I am here, announce me to your master. In the haste of the moment I forgot to say that he bade me come to the fete."

But when the three sought Contarini they found him and the circle of his friends seated, listening to the tale of the voyager. Only one of the listeners noticed Michael's entry into the audience chamber in the rear of the assemblage, and that one was Pietro Rudolfo.

Chapter V

Cathay

"Great lords, counts, knights, burgesses, and ladies! Attend ye, dispose yourselves to listen. Never have your ears been greeted by such a tale as this. Never have soldiers, priests, sailors, or astrologers breathed such a romance as this true recital.

"Signori, ladies; no man bath so much knowledge and experience of the divers parts of the world-and especially that of Cathay-as hath Messer Ruy de Gonzales Clavijo!"

The speaker, broad as he was tall, black-bearded and mellow of voice, bowed very low, sweeping the heron plume of his cap across the floor of the library of the Contarini Palace. His enormous cloak of Armenian velvet vied in color with his scarlet doublet of Persian silk.

"I am Messer Ruy de Gonzales Clavijo," he concluded.

In the library were gathered the leading spirits among the guests. Contarini with his mistress beside him sat directly before the speaker. Close behind him the pale face of Soranzi, the merchant, gleamed in the candlelight.

A hundred years ago Marco Polo had completed his book. Discredited at first, it had been confirmed to great extent by wandering Franciscan monks. It was known in Europe that Cathay existed somewhere at the eastern end of the world-this side of the Sea of Darkness.

Venetian galleys were engaged in trade with Persia and Arabia, at Ormuz. Continued tidings of the vast resources of silk, spices, and gems in China and India came in. The door of the farther East had been half-opened. Venice was agog with rumors of the riches of the Indies, and the Pope had more than once sent emissaries to find the land of Prester John.

"Consider, my lord-" Clavijo bowed to Contarini-"the marvel that I have seen. It is no less than a city of brazen walls, in the desert where a hundred caravan routes meet. It lies behind the lofty mountains which are a natural wall beyond the last of the three seas-Aegean, Mormaior, and the Dead Sea that is of salt, as you know."

The listeners nodded. Venetians to the heart, they knew the geography of the Black Sea and something of the Caspian. Clavijo, the Spaniard, went on.

"Seven years ago, my lord, did Ser Clavijo set out humbly from Constantinople over the perilous waters of Mormaior where no ships may have iron in them, lest the devil's loadstone that is at the bottom of the sea should draw out nails and braces and every soul perish."

Contarini shrugged. He did not set much store by the superstitions of the sea. Clavijo pointed to the map on the silver globe beside him.

"It was not the least of the marvels, my lord, that Ser Clavijo attained to the farther shore of this sea where the spirits of the waste are said to lie in wait for travelers. Aye, he heard their mutterings at night, on the desert floor, and in the morning his servant was dead. The natives say that this muttering comes from the sands-the reg ruwan, talking sands. Yet Clavijo makes no doubt that demons are to be met in the waste places.

"But beyond here exists a rich and fertile valley. My lord, it may well be that this is no less than the Eden of the Bible. Forasmuch as the Bible relates that the three strange kings came to the birth of Christ, hearing rich gifts of incense and myrrh, it is reasonable to suppose that this legend relates to Cathay, which may well be the kingdom of Prester John."

He glanced mildly at his intent audience. A dozen times within the last fortnight had the Spaniard been called upon to tell his story, and by now he well knew the phrases that best appealed to the religiously inclined. As for the ladies-

"The way to this valley is most difficult to encompass; forty bands of Moorish horsemen do swoop upon the unwary. It was one of these bands that came on Clavijo, alone in the desert, and guided him, a prisoner, through the storms of sand that are more fearful than the tempest of the sea. In this way he was taken to the gate in the brazen wall.

"Inside that gate he perceived the trees of gold and silver, of which you have heard, and the fountains that run with wine more delicious than the famous Chian.

"Great jewels are the fruit in these gardens of the brazen city. The inhabitants are fair of face and speak a Moorish tongue. Alas, your servant Clavijo has not the gift of words to describe all that he saw. Moreover, he was a prisoner, kept for the pleasure of the Grand Cham who is the king of this place."

Clavijo's broad face turned toward the stately red-haired woman who was the mistress of his host.

"My lady, it came to his ears in the city of the Grand Cham that all who entered the valley never got any older. There is no time in this city of Cathay, and people do as they please. It is a most pleasant spot. Many marvels Clavijo heard there-of the cameleopard and the taurelephus that gives most rare milk. But concerning this, Clavijo cannot know the truth. The gardens and the Cathayans he saw with his own eyes. Some of the silk of the place he had made into a doublet and this you yourselves may see-"

Clavijo tapped his broad chest with a smile.

"This is but a poor specimen. The robes of the slaves of the Grand Cham are of the sheerest gossamer, my ladies. The emeralds on his fingers are large as hens' eggs. The perfumes of the palace are finer than the dried roses of Persia."

The women who had been listening sleepily until now looked up with interest.

"Living unto themselves as they do, the Cathayans have no knowledge of the value of gold in the other world. It comes, Clavijo heard, from the mines of Ectag, sometimes called the Golden Mountains. Here there be slaves who labor in the mines, and but for the grace of God Clavijo would be such a slave."

The small eyes of Guistani Soranzi widened and he plucked at the edge of his fur robe.

"Did you bring back some of the gold, Messer Clavijo?" he asked.

"Alas, some I took with me when I fled from the city, but necessity compelled me to cast it away when I crossed the desert." Clavijo stepped back and bowed. "My escape was due to one of the servants of the Cham who was a Christian at heart. Otherwise, it would not have been possible to surmount the brazen walls."

"And the Grand Cham?" put in Rudolfo curiously. "What was he?"

"Some called him Cham, some Khan. Perchance the two words be the same. He is like to the Emperor of the Chin, because Persian and Turk and other pagan sultans render him tribute. Also, of all the caravans that pass by the valley he takes tribute. Some say he has the powers of a potent magician, yet this must be because he has the wisdom of a hundred years."

Clavijo ceased his tale with a low bow. Contarini studied him with green, fathomless eyes, but the mistress of Contarini was aquiver with eagerness and whispered to him of the gems of Cathay that might adorn her beauty.

Rudolfo's elegant figure advanced to exchange greetings with the voyager, as did the other guests, with the exception of Michael, who remained leaning against the wall, rubbing his chin reflectively as if something puzzled him greatly.

He saw that Clavijo presently left the throng. Straightaway Michael followed him down the narrow hall that led to an alcove where a table loaded with fruits, wines, and sweetmeats awaited the guests who had not yet arrived.

Somewhat to Michael's surprise the portly Spaniard dug his fingers into a fine dish-peacock pie. From the pie his hands went to his mouth. His bearded chin worked voraciously and the pie diminished apace.

Michael's hunger came upon him anew and he joined the man on the other side of the table.

"By your leave, Messer Voyager."

His left hand began to make havoc with the remnant of the pastry.

Clavijo glanced at him from small black eyes, as if disturbed by the interruption.

"It irks me to eat alone," smiled Michael invitingly. "Come, good sir, I see you looked at yonder Sicilian grapes desirefully. Proceed. Consume. Your long suffering in the Orient must have given you a rare stomach for such fare. See, I join you."

The Spaniard wiped his beard with the back of his hand and with the other covertly fastened upon some brandied figs. He seemed to have an unlimited appetite.

"Verily, I see that you are a man of parts," said Michael again. "Let me call to your notice this excellent Chian wine. A toast, Messer Clavijo-a toast."

"Ah."

The Spaniard nodded approvingly and poured out two cups of the fine wine. Michael, who had had enough of the food, lifted his politely.

"To Cathay," he announced, bowing.

"To Cathay," responded the other heartily.

"Sir, I know you not, but you are good company and a man of rare discernment-"

Clavijo fell silent and his mouth opened wide, while he did not raise his cup. Michael, glancing quickly over his shoulder, saw that two men in uniform had entered the alcove.