“I know about that, yes.”
“I was left my life, but not much else. Allah’s ways are sometimes inscrutable. When I was handed over to the Ilkhan Abagha, he thought he was getting a royal concubine. He was outraged to find I was not a virgin, and he gave me to his Mongol troops. They cared nothing about virginity and were much amused to have a royal plaything. When they had had their sport, the remains of me were sold in the slave market. I have passed through many hands since then.”
“I am sorry. What can one say? It must have been terrible.”
“Not so very.” Like a spirited mare, she tossed her mane of dark curls. “I had learned how to pretend, you see. I pretended that every man was my handsome, brave Ali Babar. And now I hope Allah has brought me near to my own reward. If you had not summoned me to this meeting, Master Marco, I should have sought audience—to ask if you will assist our reunion. Will you tell Ali that I yearn to be his again, and that I hope we will be allowed to marry?”
I coughed some more, uncertain of how to proceed. “Ahem—Princess Mar-Janah …”
“Slave Mar-Janah,” she corrected me. “There are even stricter marriage rules for slaves than for royalty.”
“Mar-Janah, the man you remember so fondly—I assure you he remembers you the same way. But he believes you have not yet recognized him. Frankly, I am amazed that you could have done.”
She smiled again. “You see him, then, as his fellow slaves do. From what they tell me, he has changed most markedly.”
“From what they—? Then you have not seen him.”
“Oh, of course I have. But I do not know what he looks like. I still see the champion who battled for me against the Arab abductors, twenty years ago, and made tender love to me that night. He is young, and as straight and slender as the written letter alif, and beautiful in a manly way. Much as you are, Master Marco.”
“Thank you,” I said, but faintly, for I was still bemused. Had she not even noticed the one outstanding unbeautifulness that had earned him the name of Nostril? I said, “Far be it from me to disillusion a lovely lady of her lovely imaginings, but—”
“Master Marco, no woman can ever be disillusioned about the man she truly loves.” She set down her cup and came close to me and shyly put out a hand to touch my face. “I am near old enough to be your mother. May I tell you a motherly thing?”
“Please do.”
“You too are handsome, and young, and someday soon a woman will truly love you. Whether Allah grants that you and she live together all your lives—or requires, as happened to Ali Babar and me, that you be not united until a long time after your first meeting—you will grow older, and so will she. I cannot predict whether you will grow feeble and bent, or gross, or bald, or ugly, but it will not matter. This I can say with certainty: she will see you always as you were when you met. To the very end of your days. Or hers.”
“Your Highness,” I said, and with feeling, for if ever anyone merited a lofty title, it was she. “God grant that I find a woman of such loving heart and eye as you possess. But, in conscience, I must remark that a man can change in ways that cannot be seen.”
“You feel you must inform me that Ali Babar has not remained a good man during all these years? Not a steadfast or faithful or admirable or even a manly man? I know that he has been a slave, and I know that slaves are expected to be creatures less than human.”
“Well, yes,” I muttered. “He said something of the same sort. He said he tried to become the worst thing in the world, because he had lost the best.”
She thought about that, and said pensively, “Whatever he and I have been, he will more readily see the marks on me than I on him.”
It was my turn to correct her. “That is flagrantly untrue. To say that you have survived beautifully would be to say the least. When I first heard of Mar-Janah, I expected to see a pitiable ruin, but I see a princess still.”
She shook her head. “I was a maiden when Ali Babar knew me, and I was entire. That is to say, although I was born a Muslim, I was of royal blood and so had not been deprived of my bizir in infancy. I had then a body to be proud of, and Ali exulted in it. But since then, I have been the toy of half a Mongol army, and of as many men afterward, and some men mistreat their toys.” She looked away from me once more, but went on: “You and I have spoken frankly; I will continue to do so. My meme are ringed with the scars of teethmarks. My bizir has been stretched to flaccidity. My gobek is slack and loose-lipped. I have miscarried three times and now can never conceive again.”
I had to guess the meaning of the Turki words she had used, but I could not mistake the sincerity with which she concluded:
“If Ali Babar can love what is left of me, Master Marco, do you think I cannot love what is left of him?”
“Your Highness,” I said again, and again with feeling, though my voice was a little choked, “I stand abashed and ashamed—and enlightened. If Ali Babar can deserve a woman like you, he is more of a man than I ever suspected. And I should be less the man if I did not exert myself to see you wed to him. So that I may start immediately to make arrangements, tell me: what are the palace rules regarding slave marriages?”
“That the owners of both parties must give permission, and must concur in the matter of where the couple shall reside. That is all, but not every master is so lenient as you.”
“Who is your master? I will send to ask audience with him.”
Her voice faltered a bit. “My master, I am sorry to say, has little mastery in his household. You will have to address his wife.”
“Singular household,” I observed. “But that need not complicate matters. Who is she?”
“The Lady Chao Ku-an. She is one of the court artists, but by title she is the Armorer of the Palace Guard.”
“Oh. Yes. I have heard of her.”
“She is—” Mar-Janah paused, to choose carefully the description. “She is a strong-willed woman. The Lady Chao desires that her slaves be entirely hers, and commandable at all hours.”
“I am not exactly weak-willed, myself,” I said. “And I have promised that your twenty-year separation is to end here and now. As soon as the arrangements are made, I will see you and your champion reunited. Until then …”
“May Allah bless you, good master and friend Marco,” she said, with a smile as bright as the tears in her eyes.
I called for Buyantu and Biliktu, and told them to see the visitor to the door. They accompanied her ungraciously, with frowning brows and curled lips, so, when they returned, I spoke to them severely.
“Your superiority of manner is less than mannerly, and it ill becomes you, my dears. I know you to be of only twenty-two-karat valuation. The lady you have so grudgingly attended is, in my estimation, of a perfect twenty-four. Now, Buyantu, you go and present my compliments to the Lady Chao Ku-an, and say that Marco Polo requests an appointment to call upon her.”
When she left, and Biliktu flounced off to sulk in some other room, I went and took one more disappointed look at my jar full of huo-yao sludge. Clearly, those fifty liang of the flaming powder were now ruined beyond salvage. So I set the jar aside, picked up the remaining basket and contemplated the contents of that. After a while, I began very carefully to pick out from the mixture some grains of the saltpeter. When I had a dozen or so of the white specks, I lightly moistened the end of an ivory fan handle. I picked up the saltpeter with that, and idly held it in the flame of a nearby candle. The grains instantly melted into a glaze on the ivory. I gave that some thought. The Firemaster had been right about wetting the powder, and he had warned me not to try baking it. But suppose I set a pot of the huo-yao on a low fire, not very hot, so that its integral saltpeter melted and thereby held the whole together … ? My meditations were interrupted by the return of Buyantu, reporting that the Lady Chao would see me that very moment.