“Amè,” I echoed. “That is forty hands. Thirteen feet and a half. The Buddha must have been of the race of Goliath.”

“Ah, well, when he comes to earth again, in seven or eight thousand years, we expect him to be eighty forearms tall.”

“His devotees should have no trouble recognizing him, as we might with Jesus,” I said. “But what became of this sacred tooth?”

The pongyi sniffled slightly. “The King Who Ran Away purloined it as he went, and absconded with it. An execrable sacrilege. No one knows why he did it. He was presumed to be fleeing to India, and in India the Buddha is no longer worshiped.”

“But the king got only as far as Akyab, and died there,” I murmured. “So the tooth might still be among his effects.”

The pongyi gave a shrug of hopeful resignation, and went on to show us some more of the Ananda’s admirable treasures. But I had already conceived my idea and, as soon as I could politely do so, I terminated our tour for the day, and thanked the pongyi for his kind attentions, and hurried Hui-sheng and Yissun back to the palace, telling them of my idea as we went. At the palace, I asked an immediate audience with the Wang Bayan, and told him, too.

“If I can retrieve the tooth, that will be my gift to Kubilai. Though the Buddha is not a god he reveres, still the tooth of a god ought to be a keepsake no other monarch has ever owned. Even in Christendom, though various relics exist—bits of the True Cross, the Holy Nails, the Holy Sudarium—nothing remains of the Corpus Christi except some drops of the Holy Blood. The Khakhan should be most pleased and proud to have the Buddha’s very own tooth.”

“If you can retrieve it,” said Bayan. “Me, I never even got any of my own back, or I would not have to wear this torture device in my mouth. How do you intend to go about it?”

“With your permission, Wang Bayan, I shall proceed from here to the seaport of Akyab, and examine the place where the late king died, go through his belongings, interrogate any surviving family. It ought to be there somewhere. Meanwhile, I should like to leave Hui-sheng here, under your protection. I know now that travel through these lands is arduous, and I will not subject her to any more of that until we are ready to return to Khanbalik. She is well attended by her maid and our other servants, if you will give her leave to stay in residence here. I should like to ask the further favor of keeping Yissun with me as my interpreter still. I need only him, and a horse for each of us. I will ride light, that I may ride swiftly.”

“You know you need not have asked, Marco, for you carry the Khakhan’s pai-tzu plaque, which is all the authority you need. But I thank you for the courtesy of asking, and of course you have my permission, and my promise to see that no harm comes to your lady, and my best wishes for your success in your quest.” He concluded with the traditional Mongol farewell: “A good horse to you, and a wide plain, until we meet again.”

4

MY quest turned out to be not easily or quickly accomplished, although I enjoyed generally good fortune and ample assistance. To begin with, I was received at the squalid seaside city of Akyab by the sardar Bayan had set in command of the Mongol occupation forces there, one Shaibani. He received me cordially, almost eagerly, at the house he had appropriated for his residency. It was the best house in Akyab, which is not to say much for it.

“Sain bina,” he said. “It is good to greet you, Elder Brother Marco Polo. I see that you carry the Khakhan’s pai-tzu.”

“Sain bina, Sardar Shaibani. Yes, I come on a mission for our mutual Lord Kubilai.”

Yissun led our horses around to the stable that occupied the rear half of the house. Shaibani and I went into the front half, and his aides set out a meal for us. While we ate, I told him that I was on the trail of Ava’s late King Narasinha-pati, and why I was, and that I sought to examine the fugitive’s remaining effects and to speak with any still-living members of his entourage.

“It shall be as you desire,” said the Sardar. “Also, I am overjoyed to see you carrying the pai-tzu, for it gives you the authority to settle a vexatious dispute here in Akyab. It is a question that has caused much uproar, and divided the citizenry into opposing factions. They have been so embroiled in this local fuss that they scarcely paid any attention to our marching in. And until it is settled, I am balked of imposing any orderly administration. My men spend all their time breaking up street fights. So I am very glad you have arrived.”

“Well,” I said, a little mystified. “Whatever I can do, I will. But my business concerning the late king must come first.”

“This does concern the late king,” he said, and added in a growl, “May the worms gag on his cursed remains! The dispute is over those very effects and survivors you wish to get hold of—or what is left of them, anyway. May I explain?”

“I wish you would.”

“This Akyab is a wretched and dismal city. You look to be a sensible man, so I assume you will leave here as soon as you can. I am assigned here, so I must stay, and I shall try to make it a useful addition to the Khanate. Now, wretchedness aside, this is a seaport, and in that it is like all seaport cities. Which is to say, it has two industries to justify its existence and support its citizens. One is the provision of port facilities—docks and chandlers and warehouses and such. The other industry, as in every port city, is the pandering to the appetites of ships’ crews while they lay over here. That means whorehouses, wineshops and games of chance. But most of Akyab’s trade is done with India across the Bay of Bangala yonder, so most of the visiting mariners are miserable Hindus. They have no stomach for strong drink and they have not much vigor between the legs, so they spend all their shore time at the games of chance. For that reason, the whorehouses and wineshops here are few and small and poor—and vakh! the whores and the drinks are vile. But Akyab has several halls of games, and they are the most thriving establishments of this city, and their proprietors are the leading citizens.”

“This is all very interesting, Sardar, but I fail to—”

“Only allow me, Elder Brother. You will understand. That King Who Ran Away—his cowardly action did not make him much loved by his former subjects. Or by anyone. I am informed that he left Pagan with a substantial train of elephants and pack animals and wives and children and courtiers and servants and slaves—and all the treasure they all could carry. But every night, on the road, that train dwindled. Under cover of darkness, his courtiers stole away with much of the looted treasure. Servants departed, with whatever they could pilfer. Slaves ran away to freedom. Even the king’s wives—including even his Queen First Wife—took their princeling children and vanished. Probably to change their names and hope to start a new life unblemished.”

“I almost feel sorry for the poor coward king.”

“Meanwhile, just to buy an occasional meal and bed on the road, the fugitive king had to pay heavily to village headmen, innkeepers, everybody, all of them surly and inimical and eager to take advantage of him. I am told that he arrived here in Akyab nearly impoverished and nearly alone, with only one of his lesser and younger wives, a few loyal old servants and a not very heavy purse. This city did not receive him very hospitably, either. He managed to find lodging for himself and his remaining goods and retinue at a waterfront inn. But, if he was to survive, he had to go on farther, over the bay to India, which meant buying passage for himself and his little company. Naturally, any ship’s captain demands a stiff price to transport any fugitive, but especially such a desperate one as he—a fleeing king, with the conquering Mongols close behind him. I do not know what price was asked, but it was more than he had.”