If at Faust You Don`t Succeed

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 important 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."