Silk and Song

by Dana Stabenow

  “Edyk didn’t know.” Johanna looked away. “I made sure he was deep asleep each time.”

  “Good.” Shasha nodded. “Good. You are pleased to be without child?”

  Johanna was silent. Traveling the Road, having adventures, seeing all that there was to see, finding her grandfather, these were the things she was looking forward to.

  Still, to have had Edyk’s child…would have been most inconvenient. She didn’t need a child to remember him by. Perhaps she would marry and have children one day, although that day was visible only through a rosy cloud in the distant future, with the father of said children an even less distinct figure. “Yes,” she said firmly. “I didn’t thank you, Shasha. I am very grateful.”

  “Good,” Shasha said briskly, “then you will not object to learning to make your own.” She led the way to a blanket she had spread behind their yurt, her herbs set out in small neat bags made of muslin, each marked with a Mandarin character. She sat down tailor fashion and motioned Johanna to join her. “This is pennyroyal,” she said. “Take a pinch. Smell it. Taste it, a very little. When I find some of it growing I’ll show you.”

  Dutifully Johanna pinched, smelled, tasted.

  “This is mugwort,” Shasha said, offering another muslin bag. She waited as Johanna went through the ritual. “Take either one dram of the pennyroyal, or one dram of the mugwort, but never both.” She shook out a portion of the pennyroyal into her palm, demonstrating the amount. “Add one teaspoon of blue cohash. Infuse the herbs in one cup of boiling water and drink. Twice a day for six days, no more.”

  “And this will—”

  The two women looked at one another, united in the eternal female conspiracy against the burden placed on them by nature. “Will bring on a delayed menstruation,” Shasha said, without expression. “You must pay attention, Johanna. If you are a week or less late, take the potion as prescribed. If it does not bring on your menses, Johanna, if it does not—” she emphasized those last words “—you must not repeat the dosage, do you understand? You must not. It could lead to uncontrolled bleeding. You could bleed to death.”

  Johanna took a deep breath. “I understand. But why tell me now? Edyk is five hundred leagues behind us.”

  Shasha was packing up her herbs. “There are other men in the world, Johanna.” Her hands stilled and she looked up. “One in our own yurt.”

  Johanna went instantly scarlet, leapt to her feet and marched off.

  13

  Kuche to Kashgar

  FIRAS’ CHIEF ASSET for the job of havildar, so far as Jaufre could see, was the ability to instill fear into his subordinates. “Why do they fear?” Johanna said, sensibly, and Jaufre spent a few evenings loitering around the guards’ campfire, participating in soft boxing competitions and wrestling matches and archery contests and taking care not to win all the time. “He’s a Nazari Ismaili,” he reported back.

  Johanna and Shasha looked blank.

  “From Alamut,” Jaufre said.

  Recognition dawned. “He’s an Assassin?” Johanna said, thrilled. “Really? I’ve never met an Assassin before.”

  “Yes, well, try not to sound so delighted,” Jaufre said dryly. “You may not have met one now. That sect died out over a hundred years ago. Or was wiped out, more like.”

  Johanna’s brow puckered. “But Father said that Grandfather visited the Mountain, and might even have met the Old Man.”

  “Your grandfather wasn’t always the most reliable source, as the honorable Wu Li himself admitted,” Shasha said.

  After that Johanna made a point of watching Firas at work when she could. She detected no outward menace in his demeanor, but he did have an indefinable presence that inspired respect, if not, as Jaufre claimed, fear in his subordinates. When he issued an order, it was followed, promptly and without question, and without his ever having to lay a hand on the hilt of the curved sword he wore at his side, much less drawing it from its sturdy leather scabbard.

  “What were you hoping for,” Jaufre said one evening, “that he’d kill someone right in front of you so you could see the gold dagger of the Assassin in action?”

  Johanna put up her nose at his and Shasha’s laughter.

  From Kuche, Uncle Cheng had sniffed the horizon for weather and found it mild for the season, and so they crossed the Taklamakan to Yarkent at a brisk march that had them arriving in record time. There, Shasha traded nearly everything but the Mien rubies in their hems for spices, peppercorns from Malabar, nutmeg from the Moluccas, cinnamon from Java the Less, cloves from Ceylon.

  When Johanna mourned the loss of the sables out loud Shasha held up a canvas packet, no larger than Jaufre’s fist, plump with vanilla beans from Madagascar. “The annual salary for a Mosul doctor.”

  No more was said. Spices were small and light, and when Shasha was done two of their half dozen camels were packed to the saddle horns with the aromatic cargo. “The farther west we travel, the more valuable these will become,” she said with satisfaction.

  Uncle Cheng, too, was pleased. The risky desert journey had paid off in excellent profit for all, and the usual grumblings any caravan master heard daily had been replaced by smug smiles and fat purses.

  They had been on the road ninety days, only seventeen of those days given over to trading, one day extra in Kuche for the races and their aftermath, the rest in motion. Uncle Cheng had pushed them hard but the journey had paid off in goods traded to their advantage. As they approached the walls of Kashgar the rubies of Mien remained securely sewn into their hems.

  There had been no further attacks upon their yurt. They had glimpsed small groups of what they presumed to be raiders on distant hilltops, and the three of them might have had their suspicions about who might be with those menacing groups, but the size of the caravan and the number of guards had been enough of a discouragement, at least so far.

  What happened after Kashgar was another story, one Jaufre worried over. They left their pack animals under Uncle Cheng’s capable eye, mounted horse and donkey (Félicien accompanied them) and spurred ahead to arrive at the great east gate of the city two hours in advance of the rest of the caravan.

  Which was where Johanna acquired her monk.

  He was being beaten with a stick outside the gates, in a formally appointed punishment complete with magistrate, drum and enthusiastic crowd. The stick was large and smooth from much use. The strokes were slow and measured and delivered with the full force of the arm of a man as large and muscular as the convicted felon was small and thin. The man with the stick was stripped to the waist and sweating with effort. So was the drummer, a slender boy of ten who watched his stick rather than the flogger’s.

  The felon was also stripped to the waist, displaying a torso with barely enough flesh to cover his bones. His hair was black and raggedly cut, his skin a pale gold.

  Johanna reined in, she could not herself have said why. Perforce, Jaufre and Shasha reined in next to her. Taken by surprise, Félicien had to haul back on the reins of his donkey who, recognizing the walls of the city as housing food, water and rest was reluctant to stop until he was inside them. He finally acquiesced in this change of plan, not without protesting bawls.

  Johanna waited a decent time before addressing herself to the magistrate, an elderly, impassive man attired in the flowing robe of his office. His head was shaven, and two long, thin mustaches trailed down each side of his thick, sternly set lips. By not so much as the twitch of an eyebrow did he betray that he knew perfectly well whose daughter she was.

  She knew him as well as he knew her, but she took her cue from his formal manner. “Greetings, honored one,” she said. She spoke in Mandarin and received a blank stare. She repeated her greeting in Mongol.

  “Greetings, lady,” the magistrate replied in that language. “You are welcome.”

  “We have traveled far and seek a meal, a bath and a bed within your walls this night.”

  “There are many such within the walls of Kashgar.”

  “I
t is good to know. We have been many days on the road, and are tired and hungry.” Johanna and the magistrate watched the stick descend again. “Perhaps, honored one, you would know of an inn where we might find cleanliness and comfort.”

  “All inns within the walls of Kashgar are clean and comfortable,” the magistrate said, “but it is well known that the Inn of the Green Dragon bakes the finest naan in the city and airs its blankets twice-monthly.”

  “I thank you, honored one. To the Green Dragon we will go.” But she made no effort to leave.

  They watched the beating go on in silence for a moment. Félicien gave Shasha a questioning look. Shasha rolled her eyes in reply.

  “What has this old man done, honored one,” Johanna said, “that he should be punished so severely?”

  The official gave a mournful shake of his head. “He has represented himself as a holy man, and accepted alms from the citizens of Kashgar. The law requires that such a one be beaten once for each alm.”

  Johanna lowered her eyes to show her respect and said, “Truly, a just and equitable law, worthy of the rulers of such a great city.”

  The magistrate bowed slightly, accepting the compliment. Twice more the stick was raised and lowered against the man’s shrinking back.

  “He is not holy, then?”

  The magistrate shrugged. “He drinks sulphur and quicksilver once a day. He says he is a hundred and fifty years old. This may make him holy in the city of Calicut, but not in the city of Kashgar.”

  The stick rose and fell. At last Johanna said, “It is not for this unworthy one to suggest such a punishment is unmerited, yet I have pity for the old man. Is there no way to redeem this sinner to the path of righteousness?”

  The magistrate was silent. At last he said, “There is one way. If the offender be able to ransom himself by paying nine times the value of the thing stolen, he is freed and released from further punishment.”

  Another stroke fell.

  “And nine times the value of the thing stolen is what, in this instance, honored one?”

  The magistrate folded his hands beneath his sleeves and regarded his shoes, the toes of which were pointed, curled and embroidered with gold thread. “How can one value the honor of a city?” he said piously, and Johanna knew at once that it was going to be expensive. “This charlatan has trespassed on the faith of our citizens, has stolen the very trust out of their hearts. Fifty rials.”

  Johanna and the magistrate regarded the old man’s bleeding back together in silence. “He seems such a little, insignificant man to have caused any great harm to a city as exalted as Kashgar,” Johanna said finally. “But it is as you say, honored one, that where one offends, one should atone for one’s crimes. Ten rials.”

  The embroidered toes of the magistrate’s shoes raised as he rocked back on his heels in shock. “This charlatan has trespassed on the faith of our citizens,” he said indignantly. “He has stolen the veneration and obedience due our own ordained priesthood. Forty.”

  “Twenty, and we will take him with us when we leave.”

  The magistrate watched two more blows fall. “It is done,” he said. “Release him.”

  The man wielding the stick cut the thongs that bound the old man to the post. The boy with the drum looked relieved. The crowd was disappointed, and there were some rumbles of discontent and some dark glances cast their way.

  Shasha slid down from her horse and reached for her basket of herbs. The old man warded her off with one hand and took three trembling, determined steps forward to stand in front of Johanna. “I am chughi,” he said in solemn if unpracticed Mandarin. “You have done me service.”

  Stooping, he touched one finger to a pile of dry cow dung, straightened, and reached up to touch that finger to Johanna’s forehead. North Wind danced a little in place, his refined nostrils offended by the smell coming off the old man. Johanna soothed him with a pat and the old man repeated the procedure with Jaufre, Shasha and Félicien, and then, pressing his hands together beneath his chin, bowed to each in turn. “I thank you.”

  Johanna, repressing a strong urge to reach for the nearest water sack, bowed in return. “You are welcome, old man.” She indicated an old scar on his left cheek. “I see you bear the mark of the Khan. For what were you imprisoned?”

  The old man smiled faintly. “Practicing religion without a license.”

  Shasha snorted. Jaufre raised one eyebrow. “You seem to make a habit of that, old man,” Johanna said. “If we lend you our countenance and company in the days ahead, would it be possible for you to confine your activities to reflection and meditation?” She glanced at the magistrate. “At least until we are out of reach of the long arm of Kashgari justice?”

  The old man inclined his head without answering and with unusual tact Johanna forbore to press him for a more definite answer. His face was without color and his golden skin seemed painted on over his high brow and cheekbones. “Very well, old man, you are welcome in our company. Will you take supper with us?”

  “At the Inn of the Green Dragon?”

  “How did you know?”

  The old man shrugged. “You are strangers looking for lodging. You spoke with the magistrate. The magistrate’s mother-in-law’s brother owns the Inn of the Green Dragon.”

  Johanna repressed a smile. It was what one expected, after all. She would go to the inn and pay for a night’s lodging for the group and then spend that night in the caravansary with Wu Cheng as usual. “May one know your name, old man?”

  The old man smiled for the first time. “Call me Hari,” he said, and fainted at North Wind’s feet.

  Shasha knelt beside him, saying practically, “The best thing that could happen. Jaufre, open the basket and hand me the packet marked ‘Alukrese.’” She rolled a large pinch of dried leaves between her palms and let them sift down over the old man’s torn back. “That will stop the bleeding and keep the wounds free from infection. When we get to the caravansary I will give him ground willow bark for the pain and valerian to put him to sleep.”

  “Will he be ready to travel by the time we leave?”

  Shasha shrugged. “Who can say? That one—” indicating the receding back of the magistrate “—would have him so, and unless we want a taste of the stick for ourselves, it would be wise if he were.” She covered the old man’s back with a clean cloth and bound it lightly. She sat back on her heels and looked up at Johanna. “Why are we rescuing him, by the way?”

  Johanna contemplated the face lying at her breast, lines smoothed from his brow and the corners of his mouth in unconsciousness. He looked much younger asleep than he did awake. Certainly nowhere near a hundred and fifty years old. “I like his face.”

  Shasha looked at Jaufre and rolled her eyes again. Jaufre shrugged.

  They bore the old man to the caravansary while Johanna went in search of the Inn of the Green Dragon. She handed over an exorbitant fee for rooms she had no intention of occupying, accepted a piece of undercooked naan that she threw to the dogs, and arrived at the caravansary at the same time as Uncle Cheng.

  “Ho!” he said upon seeing her. “You have picked up another stray, I see.”

  “She makes a habit of picking up strays?” Félicien said.

  Shasha and Jaufre looked at each other, and then looked at him.

  “Oh,” he said.

  They woke the next morning to find the monk sitting before the uncurtained window of their common room, directly in the rays of the sun, with his feet crossed on his lap and his hands palm up on his knees. He was humming, a deep, not unpleasant sound like the buzzing of a safely distant hive of bees. “Brahman is. Brahman is the door. Om is the glory of Brahman.”

  He continued to hum as they moved around him, elongating the oms into drawn-out syllables that lasted the length of a breath, which for Hari was very long, the m’s seeming to vibrate against the very walls of the room. All of them were Mongol enough, at least by association, to have respect for holy men no matter to which god they bowed t
heir head. After all, if the god graced Hari with good fortune, he might have a little left over for them.

  When they were ready to leave, the humming ceased. He opened his eyes and smiled at Shasha. “By the vision of Sankhya and the harmony of Yoga a man knows God, and when a man knows God he is free from all fetters. I thank you for your care of me, mistress. I have rested well, and I am ready to start.” He looked at Johanna. “Where are we going?”

  “West, old man, as far as we can go and not fall off the edge of the world,” Johanna said. “But we do not go for a few days yet.”

  The old man considered this in silence. “It is my life’s work,” he said at last, “to seek out new places, and the people who live there, and discover how and to whom they give their faith.”

  “Are you on a pilgrimage, then, old man?” Jaufre said.

  “A pilgrimage?” The monk savored the word. “I am a seeker after truth, young master, wherever I may find it.”

  “So long as you do not seek after trouble at the same time,” Shasha said.

  “Trouble, mistress?” The monk looked amazed, as if he were not the one sitting there with the marks of a severe beating all over his back.

  “Not your best idea,” Shasha told Johanna.

  “We will bring food and water,” Johanna told the old man. “For now, it would be best if you kept to this room. Eat, drink, rest, sleep. Heal. Be certain you wish to join with us. Our journey will not be a short or easy one.”

  “No worthwhile journey ever is,” the monk said, and formed his thumbs and forefingers into circles, closed his eyes, and began again to om.

  On the street Jaufre said, “I will meet you at Uncle Cheng’s fire tonight.”

  Johanna and Shasha watched him walk down the bustling street and vanish from sight around a corner, and proceeded on their way without conversation. They both knew where he was going.

  When the pearl trade had increased, their trips had taken them more often east than west, and trips to Kashgar had decreased to one every two or three years. But no matter how long the time between visits, Jaufre never failed to ask for news of his mother in the souks and slave markets of the town. There had never been any word.