Silk and Song

by Dana Stabenow

  The two women wandered the market with purpose, looking for old friends, introducing themselves to new ones. Yusuf the oil seller had died the previous year and had been succeeded by his son Malik, who was desolated to hear of Wu Li’s death. Son and daughter shared a half hour of gentle reminiscence that made them both feel better over their losses.

  Shasha found a buyer for their cinnamon but his price was not high enough. “We will do better to wait for Tabriz, or Gaza.”

  “Or even Venice,” Johanna said.

  “Indeed,” Shasha said, her voice very dry.

  The livestock pens were thin, the herds not yet down from the summer pastures, but horses there were in plenty, and Johanna passed the word that she might have a nag with enough breath in him to stagger around a racecourse, provided it was a short one. This challenge was accepted in much the spirit it was given, and before long in their perambulations through the city they began to hear the rumor of a horse race the following day, and of a challenger to perennial favorite Blue Sky come new out of the east, prepared to lay waste to all comers.

  “A formidable foe, it would seem,” Johanna said gravely the third time they heard this tale. “Has anyone seen this challenger?”

  “Oh yes, miss.” The fruit seller, who was probably a tout on the side on race days, was anxious to assure her, and himself of her future bet. “Black as the night and fleet as the shooting star across the skies. Blue Sky has met his match.”

  “That is fast indeed,” Johanna said. “I should definitely place a bet, then.”

  “Indeed you should, young miss. The odds on Blue Sky—”

  “Yes, but I think I shall put my money on this unknown, black, did you say? Someone should, don’t you think? To encourage future challengers. Otherwise who will dare to race against the formidable Blue Sky?” She placed her bet, paid for their oranges and moved on.

  That evening when they met at Uncle Cheng’s fire, Johanna met Jaufre’s eyes. He shook his head, once, and she dropped her own so he would not see the sympathy there. Jaufre didn’t want sympathy, he wanted news of his mother, and his bleak expression was enough to tell her that none of the slave dealers in the city had been able or willing to oblige.

  The next day North Wind raced, and won. Johanna collected her winnings from the fruit seller, who gave her a wounded look but nobly did not complain, at least not within her hearing.

  Sheik Mohammed met her as she led North Wind to his picket. She felt Jaufre stiffen next to her, only to be waved off by the sheik. “I renew my offer to purchase your horse,” he said. “Again, name your price.”

  “He is not for sale,” Johanna said. She was growing a little weary of the sheik. “Not for any price.”

  The sheik regarded her, his face as immobile as ever. “I could take him from you.”

  She laughed, and stepped to one side. “By all means. Try.”

  The sheik hesitated, and stepped forward to lay a hand on North Wind’s halter.

  North Wind met his hand with his teeth, closing them around his wrist. His two guards came fully alert, and this time it was Jaufre’s turn to wave them down. “Johanna,” he said, resigned.

  Johanna smacked her hand against North Wind’s side, and the great white horse rolled an eye in her direction, seemed to conduct an inward debate, and then almost with a sigh released the sheik.

  He examined his wrist. Apart from some slobber and the red indent of North Wind’s excellent teeth, it was intact. “I would speak with you,” he said to Jaufre.

  “If it’s about North Wind—”

  “It is, but it is not a subject I may discuss with a woman.”

  Johanna, fitting a curry brush over her hand, raised a shoulder in answer to Jaufre’s raised eyebrow.

  Out of earshot the sheik said, “Will she allow North Wind to breed with one of my mares?”

  Jaufre grinned. “For a fee, I’m sure she would.”

  In the end North Wind bred with three mares over their last three days in Kashgar, two gleaming equine Arabian princesses belonging to the sheik and a third older mare belonging to a Kashgari noble.

  “Honorable niece,” Uncle Cheng said over their last dinner together, “you know that that horse will be a lure to every thief and robber and brigand from here to Antioch.”

  “They might try to steal him, uncle,” she said, scooping up two fingers full of a delicious lamb pilaf cooked with plums. She licked her fingers and smiled at Jaufre. “But North Wind has a mind of his own, and formidable defenses. Even if they could steal him, I doubt very much that they will be able to keep him.”

  A circle formed soon after that, and the singing began. Johanna fetched the Robe of a Thousand Larks, mended with invisible stitches by Shasha’s patient hands, and sang when her turn came. Jaufre, a pleasant baritone, provided a solid base note and Shasha and even Uncle Cheng made a pleasing counterpoint hum. Félicien joined in on the last stanza and then took his own turn, beginning with a song about a large white horse with fleet hooves and a nasty disposition that had everyone roaring and joining in on the chorus.

  The sheik was there, not singing, and the sheik’s son, looking as if he wished he could. His eyes strayed rather too often in Johanna’s direction for Jaufre’s taste. Johanna saw neither of their glances. Shasha watched them both from the corner of her eye, and then Firas joined them and raised a surprising baritone in a warrior’s song, all clashing swords and thumping shields and wives and children left behind. The chorus, booming, rhythmic, sounded like an army on the march.

  They sang until the moon rose, bright enough to cast shadows on the rugs covering the sand of the caravansary. They sang as it set, the shadows elongating into weird shapes that seemed to move with a life of their own.

  As she sang Johanna looked at the windows of the apartments that ringed the second floor. She had stayed in all of them at one time or another, her mother and father in the next room, Shasha always in the bedroll next to her, Jaufre across the door, his chosen spot wherever they stayed. Her heart ached in her breast and tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away and returned full-throated to the song, a tale of a housewife, a tinker and a wronged husband.

  The moon set on one horizon as faint golden light grew on another. Groups began to say their goodbyes and retire to their rooms and their yurts. Uncle Cheng sent for his teapot and poured for them all. The dark, fragrant brew was smooth and satisfying on the tongue. “Enjoy it while you can,” Uncle Cheng said. “They don’t drink tea in the West.”

  “Then we will introduce it to them,” the irrepressible Johanna said.

  “And make a profit on it,” Jaufre said, and surprised, Johanna laughed with him, invulnerable and immortal in their youth.

  Uncle Cheng sighed to himself. “You will trade as you go?”

  “Yes, uncle.”

  “You have the names?”

  “Grigori in Kabul, Hasan in Tabriz, Fakhir in Antioch, Eneas in Alexandria, Soranzo in Gaza.” She touched the leather purse at her waist, and returned a grin to Shasha’s glare.

  Uncle Cheng noted the byplay without comment. Wise old Uncle Cheng knew her well enough to harbor his own suspicions. “And you have enough funds to be going on with?”

  “More than enough, uncle.” She didn’t reach for the hems of her robe and trousers, just. “Father provided for us well.” This time she didn’t look at Shasha.

  “Good.” Wu Cheng nodded. “Good. I have a few more names you may find useful.” He smiled. “And a bale of green tea to comfort you on your journey, and—” he turned to beckon to a servant, who brought forward a large bundle “—these.” He unwrapped the bundle to reveal coats of black Astrachan lamb, fully lined with raw silk and fastened with black shell buttons and a sash of black brocade. Each coat fit beautifully, obviously tailor-made on Uncle Cheng’s instructions. “Uncle,” Johanna said. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Jaufre stood very straight, the coat fitting him like a second skin, the black of the curly astrakhan highlighting the b
lue of his eyes and the gold of his hair. “It is a gift worthy of a prince, uncle,” he said.

  Uncle Cheng waved off their thanks. “It was Wu Li’s choice to venture not beyond Kashgar, but often have I crossed the Pamir, and always, always have I been colder than a widow’s—”

  Shasha cleared her throat.

  “Well,” Cheng said. “Very, very cold.” He looked at each of them in turn. “It will not be an easy journey.”

  Johanna thought of Hari, the mad monk, who she fancied she could hear omming from their rooms. “No worthwhile journey ever is, uncle.”

  Uncle Cheng laughed and shook his head.

  Firas, still sitting with them, cleared his throat. “Wu Cheng.”

  Something close to a wince crossed the older man’s face, as if he thought he knew what was coming and didn’t relish it. “Firas.”

  “It has been my great honor to serve you these past two years,” Firas said.

  Wu Cheng sighed. “And your service has been more than satisfactory, havildar.”

  Firas bent his head. “I thank you, Wu Cheng, for that testimonial.” He turned to Johanna and Jaufre but seemed to be speaking to Shasha. “You have heard your uncle speak well of me. It is my wish to return to the West. I wonder if my company on the Road would be acceptable to you, so long as our paths lie together.”

  “Why?” Johanna said, blunt as ever.

  “Perhaps I do not wish to leave a task half done,” he said, with a slight bow in Jaufre’s direction.

  Johanna looked skeptical.

  “Perhaps I have been long enough in the east, and wish to return to the land of my birth,” he said.

  “The Old Man is dead and his people are dispersed to the four corners of Persia,” Jaufre said.

  “And I am one of them,” the havildar said without resentment.

  Johanna and Jaufre exchanged a quick glance, and as one they looked to Shasha. “Shu Shao?” Jaufre said. “What is your opinion in this matter?”

  Shasha took her time, regarding her loosely clasped hands. “Why,” she said lightly, “that Firas of Alamut is a man of good reputation and equable temperament, and a capable havildar as vouched for by the honorable Wu Cheng and as witnessed by each of us these past ninety days, and should be a welcome addition to our party.”

  “I thank you, Shu Shao,” Firas said.

  “He has left me a capable second-in-command,” Uncle Cheng said. “And truly, my children, I will feel easier in my mind with Firas as your guide. He is quite deadly with that blade, you know.”

  Jaufre knew, but Johanna was still unsatisfied, until she intercepted a look that the havildar, unaware that he was being observed, gave Shasha. “Is Firas in love with Shasha?” she whispered to Jaufre.

  He looked startled. “I don’t know. Why?”

  “I saw him look at her.”

  “Oh well, that clinches it.”

  “Jaufre, I tell you, it was that kind of look!”

  He gave her a look of his own, and leaned in close. “Are you quite sure you would recognize a look of that kind if you saw one?”

  Her lips parted as she stared up at him, and he heard with satisfaction her breath catch in her throat.

  Félicien struck a jubilant chord that startled everyone and said, “I myself am on a westward trajectory. Might I join you as well?”

  This had not been so entirely unexpected. Jaufre smiled and Johanna grinned, and the sun tipped over the horizon, flooding the courtyard with light. Cattle lowed, camels groaned, and North Wind sent out in inquiring whinny that had Johanna on her feet and running to him. She returned in time to see the brighter stars begin to fade from existence, as savory odors began drifting toward them from the cook fire. Outside the walls, they could hear the city of Kashgar coming slowly awake.

  Uncle Cheng stirred. “I must tell you a story, before we part.”

  “Naturally,” Shasha said, casting her eyes upward.

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Wu Cheng said with unusual asperity, “the fat old man blathering on yet again to no purpose.” He glared at her, and then at Jaufre, who sat up straight and felt guilty, although he couldn’t have said why.

  “You are setting out on a wonderful adventure, agreed,” Uncle Cheng said, turning to Johanna, and the reproof in his eyes stilled the indulgent smile on her lips. “Why shouldn’t you? You’re young, you have strong bodies and sound minds. Like many young people, you crave new experiences, excitement, adventure. Not for you a safe life at home, I understand that, and thanks to Wu Li’s fine example you are well versed in matters of trade. I have no fear that you will go hungry, no matter how far you travel or where your journey ends.” He brooded for a moment.

  “But I would tell you a story nonetheless. A cautionary tale, so that you do not go heedless into the west.” He smoothed his palms over his trousers. “This story I heard long since, of a man and a time even longer past. He lived in Alexandria, oh, five hundred years ago and more. He was Muslim, and his name was Cosmas.”

  Jaufre leaned back against a saddle and Johanna, without thinking, leaned against him in the way she always had.

  “It is said that this Cosmas constructed a model of the earth, in the shape of a large, rectangular box with a high, curved lid. The lid represented heaven, and as man would look down on it, so would God look down on his work. Do you see it?”

  “I see it, uncle.”

  “Inside the chest there was a great mountain, and around this mountain moved the sun. Because the mountain was uneven in size and shape, the rays of the sun shining down upon the earth shifted as the sun moved, making the days and the seasons unequal in length.”

  “Was heaven in the box?”

  “There was Paradise,” Uncle Cheng said. “From Paradise flowed four great rivers, the Indus into India, the Nile through Egypt, the Tigris and Euphrates to Mesopotamia. There were four peoples in Cosmas’ world, the Scythians in the north, the Indians in the East, the Ethiops in the south, and the Celts in the west.”

  Johanna waited. When Cheng said no more, she said, “But where was Everything Under the Heavens?”

  Wu Cheng looked at her, his expression sober. “It wasn’t in the chest.”

  Johanna sat up. “Not in the box? Why not?”

  “I don’t know why not.”

  Johanna was unbelieving. “Was this Cosmas unaware of the existence of Everything Under the Heavens?”

  Wu Cheng considered. “He may have been. He may also have been ignoring it, deliberately so.”

  “But how can this be?” Johanna said. “One cannot ignore Everything Under the Heavens. It just…is. Everything Under the Heavens, is, well, Everything Under the Heavens.”

  “Not everything,” Cheng said. “Not even most.”

  Johanna didn’t understand him, and didn’t understand Cosmas, either, for that matter. “And to make the earth a box when everyone knows it is a ball? This is nonsense, Uncle.”

  “It is,” Cheng agreed. “And then it isn’t.”

  She looked at him accusingly. “You’re as bad as Shasha, uncle.”

  “I am wounded that you would say so,” he said gravely.

  Shasha snorted.

  “Johanna.” The serious note in Wu Cheng’s voice caused Johanna’s smile to fade. He looked stern, even a little harsh. “Jaufre, yes, even you, Shasha, listen to me. If the Celts and the Scythians and the Indians and the Ethiops think they share the whole world between them, and if they have thought that for five hundred years, and if for that long they have ignored the existence of Everything Under the Heavens…”

  “Then,” Jaufre said, “they will not wish to hear of the power and the greatness that we have left behind.”

  “No. They are also very jealous of their gods. You would do well to adopt, outwardly at least, whatever faith rules wherever you are.”

  Johanna thought of Hari, the monk at present eating their food and sleeping in a bed they had provided him, enjoying a freedom purchased by them. She had been ready to leave Everything
Under the Heavens since she was old enough to walk, but for the first time she began to realize the dangers of doing so.

  “Have you given any thought to where you will go?” Uncle Cheng said. “Other than simply west. Baghdad and Hormuz are not what they once were. Tabriz, perhaps?”

  Johanna, Jaufre and Shasha exchanged glances. Jaufre would have said, Anywhere I might find word of my mother. Shasha would have said, As far away from the fell hand of the Widow Wu as possible. Johanna said, “Tabriz, certainly. Wu Li said my grandfather called Tabriz a crossroads of commerce. Then Gaza, perhaps. From Gaza we could take ship to Venice.”

  “You don’t want to stop in Byzantium?” Jaufre said.

  “Most of what was worth seeing in Byzantium,” Uncle Cheng said, “is now in Venice.”

  14

  Kashgar and the Pamir

  “KERMAN?” HARI REPEATED. “In Kerman, unless the merchants be well armed they run the risk of being murdered, or at least robbed.”

  “Have you been there, old man?” Jaufre said.

  The monk shook his head. “I have not, master. But I have traveled the road from India, and I have heard this said of Kerman many times. And before Kerman,” he said dreamily, “I have heard of the plain of Pamir—so lofty and cold that you do not often see birds fly. Because of this great cold, fire does not burn so brightly, nor give out so much heat as usual, nor does it cook food so efficiently.”

  “Are you sure you want to come with us?” Shasha said pointedly.

  He smiled at her. “Of course. Let us follow the chariot of Arjuna, whose wheels are right effort and whose driver is truth. Thus shall we all come to the land which is free from fear.”

  “Kerman, then,” Jaufre said, bringing them back to the point. “The carpets there are said to be very fine.”

  “And Tabriz afterward,” Shasha said.

  “And then Gaza,” Johanna said, and gave an impish smile. “And anything in between that looks interesting.”