The messenger ducked under the yurtu’s flap to announce us to his lord, emerged again and jerked his arm to order us inside. Then, as we passed him, he barred Nostril’s way, growling, “No slaves!” and kept him outside. There was a reason for that. The Mongols regard themselves as naturally superior to all other freemen in the world, even kings and such, so any man who is held inferior by their inferiors is considered unworthy even of contempt.

The Ilkhan Kaidu regarded us in silence as we crossed the brilliantly carpeted and pillow-furnished interior, to where he sat sprawled on a heap of furs—all gorgeously striped and spotted: evidently the pelts of tigers and pards—on a dais that set him above us. He was dressed in battle armor of polished metals and leathers, and wore on his head an earflapped hat of karakul. He had eyebrows that looked like detached bits of the kinky black karakul, and not small bits either. Under them, his slit eyes were red-shot, seemingly inflamed by rage at the very sight of us. On his either side stood a warrior, as handsomely caparisoned as the man who had fetched us. One held a lance erect, the other held a sort of canopy on a pole over Kaidu’s head, and both stood as rigid as statues.

We three made a slow approach. In front of the furry throne, we made a dignified slight bow, all together, as if we had rehearsed it, and looked up at Kaidu, waiting for him to make the first indication of the mood of this meeting. He continued for some moments to stare at us, as if we were vermin that had crawled out from under the yurtu’s carpetings. Then he did something disgusting. He made a hawking noise from deep in his throat, bringing up a great wad of phlegm into his mouth. Then he languidly unsprawled himself from his couch and stood upright and turned to the guardsman at his right, and with his thumb pressed the man’s chin so that his mouth opened. Then Kaidu spat his hawked-up gob of substance directly into the man’s mouth and thumbed it shut again—the warrior’s expression and rigidity never changing—and languidly resumed his seat, his eyes again on us and glittering evilly.

It had clearly been a gesture intended to awe us with his power and arrogance and uncordiality, and it would have served to cow me, I think. But at least one of us—Mafìo Polo—was not impressed. When Kaidu spoke his first words, in the Mongol language and in a harsh voice: “Now, interlopers—” he got no further, for my uncle daringly interrupted, in the same language:

“First, if it please the Ilkhan, we will sing a praise to God for having conducted us safely across so many lands into the Lord Kaidu’s august presence.” And, to the astonishment of myself—probably also of my father and the Mongols—he began bawling out the old Christmas hymn:

A solis orbu cardine

Et usque terre limitem …

“It does not please the Ilkhan,” Kaidu said through his teeth, when my uncle drew breath at that point. But my father and I, emboldened, had joined in for the next two lines:

Christum canamus principem

Natum Maria virgine …

“Enough!” bellowed Kaidu, and our voices trailed off. Fixing his red eyes on Uncle Mafio, the Ilkhan said, “You are a Christian priest.” He said it natly—loathingly, in fact—so my uncle did not have to take it as a question, which would have required him to deny it.

He said only, “I am here at the behest of the Khan of All Khans,” and indicated the paper Kaidu was holding clenched in one hand.

“Hui, yes,” said Kaidu, with an acid smile. He unfolded the document in a manner suggesting that it was filthy to the touch. “At the behest of my esteemed cousin. I notice that my cousin wrote this ukaz on yellow paper, as the Chin emperors used to do. Kubilai and I conquered that decadent empire, but he more and more imitates its effete customs. Vakh! He has become no better than a Kalmuk! And our old war god Tengri is no longer good enough for him, either, it seems. Now he must import womanish Ferenghi priests.”

“Merely to enlarge his knowledge of the world, Lord Kaidu,” said my father, in a conciliatory voice. “Not to propagate any new—”

“The only way to know the world,” Kaidu said savagely, “is to seize it and wring it!” He flicked his lurid gaze from one to another of us. “Do you dispute that, uu?”

“To dispute the Lord Kaidu,” murmured my father, “would be like eggs attacking stones, as the saying goes.”

“Well, at least you manifest some good sense,” the Ilkhan said grudgingly. “I trust you also have the sense to realize that this ukaz is dated some years ago and some seven thousand li distant from here. Even if cousin Kubilai has not totally forgotten it by now, I am in no way bound to honor it.”

My uncle murmured, even more meekly than my father had done, “It is said: How can a tiger be subject to the law?”

“Exactly,” grunted the Ilkhan. “If I choose, I can regard you as mere trespassers. Ferenghi interlopers with no good intent. And I can condemn you to summary execution.”

“Some say,” murmured my father, more meekly yet, “that tigers are really the agents of Heaven, appointed to chase down those who have somehow eluded their deserved date with death.”

“Yes,” said the Ilkhan, looking slightly exasperated by all this agreement and mollification. “On the other hand, even a tiger can sometimes be lenient. Much as I detest my cousin for abandoning his Mongol heritage—much as I despise the increasing degeneracy of his court—I I would let you go there and join his retinue. I could, if I so choose.”

My father clapped his hands, as if in admiration of the Ilkhan’s wisdom, and said with delight, “Clearly the Lord Kaidu remembers, then, the old Han story of the clever wife Ling.”

“Of course,” said the Ilkhan. “It was in my mind as I spoke.” He unbent enough to smile frigidly at my father. My father smiled warmly back. There was an interval of silence. “However,” Kaidu resumed, “that story is told in many variations. In which version did you hear it, uu, trespasser?”

My father cleared his throat and declaimed, “Ling was wife to a rich man who was overfond of wine, and was forever sending her to the wine shop to fetch bottles for him. The lady Ling, fearing for his health, would deliberately prolong the errands, or water the wine, or hide it, to keep him from drinking so much. At which her husband would be wroth and would beat her. Finally, two things happened. The lady Ling fell out of love with her husband, although he was rich, and she noticed how handsome was the wine-shop clerk, although he was a humble tradesman. Thereafter, she willingly bought wine at her husband’s command, and even poured it for him, and urged it on him. Eventually the husband died in a drunkard’s convulsions, and she inherited all his wealth, and she married the wine-shop clerk, and they both were rich and happy ever after.”

“Yes,” said the Ilkhan. “That is the correct story.” There was another silence, and a longer one. Then Kaidu said, more to himself than to us, “Yes, the drunkard caused his own rot, and others helped it along, until he rotted through and fell, and was supplanted by a better. It is legendary, and it is salutary.”

Just as quietly, my uncle said, “Also legendary is the tiger’s patience in the tracking of his prey.”

Kaidu shook himself, as if awakening from a reverie, and said, “A tiger can be lenient as well as patient. I have already said so. I shall therefore let you all proceed in peace. I will even give you an escort against the hazards of the road. And you, priest, for all I care, you may convert cousin Kubilai and his entire court to your enfeebling religion. I hope you do. I wish you success.”

“One nod of the head,” my father exclaimed, “is heard farther than a thunderclap. You have done a good thing, Lord Kaidu, and its echoes will long resound.”