The Harold Lamb Megapack

by Harold Lamb

  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. Straightway Michael followed 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.

  They wore dark cloaks and carried only stilettos at their belts. Both wore black masks that concealed the whole of their faces with the exception of the eyes.

  “Madre de Dios!” swore Clavijo.

  The two masked servitors or officials—Michael could not decide which—advanced to the table.

  “Signori,” said one, “which of you is the renowned voyager from the Orient?”

  It was politely said and Michael set down his cup reflectively, seeing that Clavijo’s eyes had widened at the words. Under the circumstances the newcomers might be seeking either the Spaniard or the Breton. Evidently, if they desired Clavijo, they had not been in the audience-chamber when the latter was telling his tale.

  This inclined Michael to the belief that he was the man wanted. He wondered briefly if these were agents of Rudolfo, but remembered that the condottiere would hardly resume his quarrel in the home of Clavijo, unless imperatively urged.

  It was hardly likely, furthermore, that Mocenigo would choose this way of punishing Michael for the scene at the door. Michael, unfamiliar with the customs of Venice, hazarded a guess that these were servants of Contarini sent to summon either him or Clavijo in this curious fashion.

  “I am from the East,” he responded, as the Spaniard was silent. “I am called Michael Bearn, of Brittany.”

  “Aye,” put in Clavijo promptly, glancing involuntarily toward the hall down which the two had come; “this is the gentleman you seek.”

  Plainly he did not desire to go with the masked men. They, however, looked at each other questioningly and asked Clavijo’s name, which was reluctantly given.

  “Signori,” decided the one who had first spoken; “we were sent for the voyager from the Orient by one whom you both know. Since we can not be certain of your identity, will you both have the great kindness to come with us?”

  Clavijo looked as if he would have liked to refuse, but the masked men ushered them down another hall and flight of steps. They passed out of the house into the darkness of an alley. The loom of the buildings against the stars, the smells and the distant echo of a flute assured Michael that they were now near the bridge where he had met Rudolfo.

  It was his turn to be reluctant, yet Michael strode ahead, whistling between his teeth. He felt morally certain that the two attendants had come for Clavijo and that Clavijo did not want to go with them. And Michael wanted very much to see where Clavijo was being taken—where the Spaniard did not want to go.

  A second stairway took them to a gondola, a torch at its bow. Michael recognized the Contarini crest on the gondola hood as he scrambled inside, followed by his companion, breathing heavily.

  The two masked attendants took their stand fore and aft by the rowers. In the darkness of the small cabin Michael sat down on what he first thought to be a cushion and then made out to be the form of a man.

  He said nothing, wondering if the man were dead, until a whisper came up to him:

  “Signor Michael, a service for a service given. Pietro Rudolfo plots against you. I heard it whispered as I fled the palace.”

  It was Bembo. A moment’s reflection showed that he must have hidden himself away in one of the Contarini gondolas, expecting to leave the palace unseen in this way. Michael eased his weight off the other.

  “Do not yield me up, signor,” went on the whisper. “Soon we shall be far off from the red-headed donna and the dogs and servants.”

  “Faith, I will not, Bembo. Are these masks Rudolfo’s doing?”

  “Nay, generous sir. They are servants of Contarini.”

  A slight hesitation before the name did not escape the Breton’s notice. “Whither are we bound? Have they business with me or Clavijo?”

  “Clavijo.” Bembo chose to answer the last question. “We—you and I—will be released at the Con—at the gate we are coming to—”

  “Who in the fiend’s name are you talking to?” demanded the Spaniard, who had been unable to understand the low whispers.

  “A fiend—if it likes you, Messer Voyager,” murmured Michael. “He says the devil and all the hellish brood have seized upon you.”

  “Madre de Dios!”

  Clavijo, it appeared, was superstitious and more than a little credulous. Then the boat stopped and the three—for Bembo joined them—stood before an iron-studded door in which a small square slid back, to cast a stream of light on their faces.

  Michael saw a masked face staring at them through the aperture. Meanwhile the gondola and its men drew away from the landing and disappeared in the darkness.

  Clavijo’s olive countenance went a shade paler when he made out the stunted form of the hunchback. He had not seen Bembo at the fête and Michael’s careless words had aroused his apprehensions.

  Before he could speak the door opened wide and the figure within reached forth to pluck the Spaniard inside. The door was slammed in the faces of Bembo and his friend.

  Through the square peephole Michael could make out the two men inside withdrawing down a hall. A second glance showed him that they stood on a narrow stone landing with the black surface of the canal at their feet. The door presented the only means of leaving the steps.

  “Bembo,” whispered Michael, “unravel me this coil. Where are we, and why are we left like varlets on the threshold of this hospitable place?”

  “Because, signor comrade,” the jester grinned up at him in the dim light from the opening, “we are varlets—or at least the gate-keeper believes we look like such attendants of the great Spaniard. Your cloak is—”

  Bembo hesitated, fearing to offend, but Michael answered readily.

  “Zounds, ’tis shabby enow!”

  “This is the entrance to the Consoli di Mercanti. So many masks mean that the council is in secret session. We had best content ourselves with hailing a passing gondola and making off with a whole hide, for we are both here by mistake.”

  Michael wondered why Bembo’s presence had bee
n taken for granted until the hunchback explained that he had often come here in attendance on Contarini and the guardians of the place could not know that he was no longer the servant of the great Contarini.

  “Good,” he said thoughtfully and pressed against the door, thrusting his left arm within the opening. Bembo plucked his sleeve in sudden anxiety.

  “What would you, signor?”

  “Why, entrance, before yonder masked fellow returns to his post. I must hear what the council has to say to the voyager.”

  In spite of Bembo’s protest that the night session was secret and that they both might end the evening in the damp cells of San Giorgio Maggiore prison, Michael worked away at the door until he had drawn back the bolts and pushed it open.

  This done, he pulled the shivering hunchback into the stone passageway, closed the heavy portal and whispered:

  “Now, good Bembo, you are verily a lost fool if you lead us not into a safe hiding place where we may hear what is said in the council. You say that you know the intestines of this place of masks—”

  Michael’s words received sudden point by the sound of footsteps returning toward the passage. Bembo fled with a crab-like motion down the narrow hall and slipped aside into the shadows of another passage opening into it, and Michael ran after him silently.

  Taking the Breton’s hand in his, the jester led his new friend through the darkness down a winding flight of steps until the dampness indicated to Michael that they were under the canal.

  Here they were in a confined space where the air, however, was not stale and two gleams of light pierced the gloom from one wall. Michael was somewhat taken aback to hear voices echoing clearly in the stone chamber, although they were plainly the only occupants.

  “’Tis the whispering gallery,” explained Bembo so softly that the words were barely discernible, “that gives upon the council chamber. My lord Contarini was wont at times to spy here upon the testimony of prisoners before the judges. Speak not, for the gallery runs overhead to an opening behind the councilors.”

  As the Council of Ten ruled political Venice, stamping out conspiracies and punishing any man it listed mercilessly and secretly, the Consoli di Mercanti ruled commercial Venice with an iron hand.

  The prosperity of the Signory was linked indissolubly with the expansion of its trade, the crushing of its rivals and the mastery of new routes into the East, such as gave to Venice the monopoly of the great salt industry. The methods of the council were secretive and cruel, but Venetian judges winked at this, so long as the trade-routes were held, concessions secured and enemies weakened.

  Of these enemies Genoa was then the most pressing. A few years before the army and fleet of Genoa had almost crushed the city of the lagoons—Venice being freed only by the dogged courage of Pisani and the intrepidity of Carlo Zeno. Since then Genoa had used every means to extend its trade to the eastward, away from the immediate power of the Venetian galleys.

  Both cities had vied in making agreements with the on-sweeping Osmanli Empire which was even then extending from Anatolia into the mainland of Europe. But behind the armies of Bayezid were the spices, silks and jewels of India, Persia and China—veritable Golcondas to the trading-cities which paid fat tribute for the privilege of plying the Black Sea and tapping the Damascus and Aleppo caravan-routes.

  So much Michael Bearn knew.

  Standing close to the wall of the whispering chamber, he found that the two holes fitted his eyes and that he could see a long table covered with papers and globe-maps behind which sat a dozen masked men and before which stood the carefully groomed form of Ruy de Gonzales Clavijo.

  The council was in secret session. A masked attendant clad in the manner of those who had ushered Bembo and Michael to the place stood by the closed door. Michael, studying the forms of the men behind the long table, singled out one in the center as Contarini and at the first words knew that he was right.

  The voices rang clearly in his ear, conducted by a cleverly contrived gallery that ran from the shadows over the table to the wall above Michael’s head.

  “Signor,” began the man in the center of the councilors. “You were summoned to speak the truth. Do not fail.”

  Clavijo glanced at the speaker swiftly, and measured the ring of masked faces. His brow was moist and his plump cheeks were flushed.

  “This evening—” he responded.

  “This evening,” Contarini took him up, “you babbled much nonsense and some news. Signor, we are concerned now with the trade of Venice. Frequently we have heard of a Tatar or Cathayan potentate beyond the Sarai Sea. We wish to learn if it was his court you visited.”

  At this Clavijo nodded understandingly. He looked serious, now that he had weighed the mood of these men.

  “Aye, signor. Last night, I was about to remark, I spoke mainly of fabulous gems and garments and such like, for the pleasuring of the ladies. But now I place the poor fruits of my journey at your service. Question me, therefore, at your will.”

  “Exactly where lies this city?”

  “As you have said, beyond the Sarai Sea, a journey of a week by horse, until you come to the foot of the Ectag Mountains, called by the natives the Golden Mountains. The way lies over the desert floor and is perilous indeed.”

  “So, one may go by sea to Trebizond, where we have a bailio and thence—” Contarini consulted a map—“by caravan across the land of the tribes. Karabak, it is written here?”

  “Aye, my lord. Marvelous it is to know that in that land there is a pillar of everlasting fire, rising from the ground with a blue flame—”

  “Naphtha!” broke in a councilor. “Near to Batum. No miracle about that.”

  Michael studied the eyes of the questioners, greatly interested, much to Bembo’s surprise.

  “Not in the least,” assented Clavijo gravely. “Yet there also I beheld the holy mountain of Ararat where first the blessed ark came to land after the Flood. And beyond there, my lords—beyond there lie the fields of solid salt, at the foot of the Sarai Sea, which signifies in Cathayan—Sea of Salt.”

  The councilors looked up at this, for the monopoly of the salt-trade was one of the greatest avenues of profit to Venice.

  “That is good!” Contarini made a note and Clavijo smiled. “Now, what of your statement that this Cham of Cathay is aged beyond human years and a magician?”

  “My lord, does he not dwell in this paradise of Cathay and was not the holy garden of Eden also a paradise? Have we not the testimony of the Bible itself that therein is no such thing as human age? Was not the holy garden itself in the paradise of Asia?”

  “How do you know the Grand Cham is a magician?”

  Clavijo smiled, shrugged and hesitated, but one of the councilors spoke up.

  “The good Fra Odoric of Pordenone himself visited these regions con pelegrino—as a pilgrim. Did he not see great piles of human skulls raised to the sky and the horns of beasts stuck upright upon mountaintops? Also divers wonders such as a city upon the sand which vanished as he walked toward it? Aye, and he mentioned that the sand spoke with a human voice.”

  Hereupon Clavijo drew a long breath of satisfaction and twiddled his curled beard.

  “As I myself have said,” he reminded Contarini, who alone among the councilors seemed to weigh his testimony doubtfully. The punishment by the Maritime Council of one who gave false testimony before it was no light thing.

  “These miracles have my eyes beheld. Lo, I sat upon such a pile of human skulls, reaching a thousand lance-lengths toward the sky—the bones of those who aforetime sought the earthly paradise and failed.”

  “The Grand Cham must be a potent monarch,” mused Contarini. “Aye, I mind me Fra Odoric spoke of a great Khan of Tatary who was the most merciless warrior upon the face of the earth—”

  Michael strained his ears to catch the rest of the sentence, but Contarini had bent over a globe-map and was silent.

  “‘Khan’ signifies ‘Cham’ in the pagan tongue,” put in Clavijo, who s
eemed to be better pleased with the way things were going now.

  Maps were produced and it was found that Ptolemy had outlined a kingdom beyond the Sarai Sea, under the star Taurus, and named it Chin, or Chinae.

  “Which is verily the Chitae of Fra Odoric and my Cathay,” pointed out the Spaniard. Sweeping his hand across the table in an eloquent gesture, he raised his voice.

  “Here lies the power and magic of the East, signori. Alone, my comrades dead, I crawled from the brazen walls to bear this message to you. Others, like the good fra, have heard of the Grand Cham—or seen the city at a distance. But I—I have walked under the gold trees and heard the song of the slaves of a hundred races laboring in the mines in the bowels of the earth. I have looked upon the riches of pearls, emeralds, topazes set into the walls of houses. Beside the city of the Grand Cham Constantinople is a rook’s nest and Venice—pardon, but Venice is no more than a village.”

  Perceiving that his voice fell into ready ears, he folded his arms, his uneasiness vanished.

  “I have spoken of jewels. My lords, upon the person of the Grand Cham and his radiant women there are solid plaques of emeralds and rubies, greater than those that you have brought in your galleys from Persia. And these jewels the Cathayans value not, save as handsome ornaments.”

  “What do the Cathayan folk value—in trade?”

  “Perchance weapons, rare steel, cunning inventions such as the sand clock and musical organs.”

  Bembo, who was still shivering from apprehension, now noticed that Michael’s shoulders were quivering as if the Breton were stricken with the ague and that his hand was pressed against his mouth.

  Within the council hall Contarini rose as if satisfied.

  “Messer Clavijo,” he said gravely, “if your tale had proved a lie you would have had a taste of the iron beds of San Giorgio Maggiore. But we are well content with the news you bring, and it is now fitting that we announce to you the result of our deliberations before your examination. This morning I had speech with a French mariner of the name of Bearn who warned me that the Turkish power threatens the safety of the great city of Constantinople and Venice. That is idle talk and the council is concerned only with trade, not politics. Yet this foe of the Turks confessed that somewhere beyond the Sarai Sea is a Khan of Tatary who must be a potent monarch.”