Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [16]
Sitting close to my grandfather for the first time, I was keenly aware of his great bulk. My grandmother smelled of flowery perfume, and the Khan smelled of garlic and sour milk. He spoke quietly to me. “I have invited three guests to ride with us today. They are Latins, merchants from a land in the Far West, one we have not yet conquered.”
Foreigners! I quaked. Still, I listened with respect.
“In a few years, after we have completed the conquest of China, we will also subjugate their land, though they do not know it. You have a role to play in this mission.”
He leaned back, his eyes sparkling, as if he were teasing me about a special treat. I nodded, confused and overwhelmed.
“You will get to know these merchants, and find out everything you can about their homeland: its kings, its religion, its language, its defenses, what riches it possesses.”
Shocked, I stammered, “D-do you mean … to spy on them?”
He smiled. “We call it gathering intelligence. This mission would be of greater service to me than any on the battlefield.”
Frustrated, I looked at my fingernails, which were rimmed with dirt.
“Khubilai!” My grandmother sounded surprisingly stern. “She is a girl. Think of her safety.” It amazed me that she would dare to question his judgment.
The Khan regarded me steadily. “Perhaps she cannot handle this. Can you?”
I had not known any foreigners. My grandfather employed many of them, mainly Muslims and Tibetans and Uighurs, but most children at court either scorned them or feared them. Some foreigners, such as Tibetans, had dark eyes and straight hair like us, but wore distinctive clothing. Others, though, had heavy beards and overhanging eyebrows and thick hair, sometimes wavy like the lines in a sand dune. Farther west, I had heard, the men were ever more hairy, and their eye color ever more deviant. We all understood why “colored-eye” men made good warriors, since their very appearance was alarming enough to scare any enemy.
This assignment sounded awful. But the Khan had honored me despite my defeat. Hearing my grandmother raise doubts made me want to prove I was up to the challenge.
“Your Majesty,” I said, “I would be honored.”
Just then, I heard someone coming up the steps. When the visitor’s shaggy head appeared, I recoiled in horror. Here before me was the frightening foreigner whose image had distracted me during the archery contest. He entered the pavilion and bowed low before the Great Khan, speaking Mongolian with a thick accent.
“Long-a live-a the Kaan of all Kaans.” He mispronounced the soft guttural kh sound, making it a sharp k.
When the foreigner raised his head, I forced myself to look at his features. His eyes, that alarming green, registered concern when he saw my swollen face. He wore a fine blue Mongolian del with a high collar and long sleeves. He masked his smell with a perfume of cloves and ginger.
Then the young foreigner did something strange. He bowed to the Empress and me in a peculiar way, one hand behind him, the other swooping in front. Did he not know that no one ever bowed to women, not even the Empress?
“Great Khatun, Empress Chabi,” he said. Then he added, to me, “Noble lady. Please forgive me if I caused you offense.”
Offense? I remembered with shame the way I had spit at this man, who I now realized was an honored guest of the Khan. Shaking with embarrassment and confusion, I had no idea what to do or what to say to such an unpredictable, outlandish man.
“Young Marco Polo,” the Khan said with a smile. “No need to be so formal on this occasion. Where are your father and uncle?”
“I am sorry, Your Majesty. They are ill. Only sickness would keep them from so great an honor.” His Mongolian was thickly accented but understandable.
“Just yesterday, in my audience hall, they seemed well. Sit down before these great beasts begin to move.” The