Daughter of Xanadu - Dori Jones Yang [29]
I liked the idea of watching Marco perform and seeing how the Khan and his men interacted with him. The previous night, in bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about the touch of his hand and his ideas about courtly love, but that felt wrong, totally improper for someone preparing to become a soldier. The Khan knew how to behave around foreigners, with their strange ideas. I hoped to learn from observing him and lessen my confusion.
My sister could not contain her envy. Drolma and my mother had arrived in Xanadu on the same day I had, and Drolma had expressed horror at my assignment of hosting a foreigner. Now that she saw this elaborate robe delivered to the large ger where we lived each summer, her opinion changed. “I wish I could go,” she said.
Drolma had never worn such a fine garment, and she tried it on before I did. It was too long for her. My mother, delighted by this honor, took care to dress me like a true princess. She oiled my long hair to make it stiff and arranged it on top of my head inside a royal lady’s headdress. From the sides of the hat hung three strands of pearls in a loop across my upper chest, creating the illusion of necklaces hanging from my ears.
I hated all the fussing over my appearance. I preferred to look strong and competent, not lovely and delicate. But my mother insisted on covering the faded bruises on my cheeks with powder and rubbing essence of rose onto the back of my neck.
It was one of the few times the three of us had worked together. “Remember to smile,” my mother said. “Show her, Drolma.”
Drolma stood in front of me, drew her elbows in, dropped her eyes in false modesty, and blinked, a silly smile on her lips. A laugh burst from my mouth.
“Emmajin!” my mother remonstrated. “It will help you get what you want.”
“How would that help convince the Khan to let me join the army?”
My mother sighed. “Hold still,” she said, putting a dab of red on my lips.
The banquet took place in a smaller cane palace, erected every summer in the Khan’s garden. By design, the cane palace resembled a large Mongolian ger, with crisscrossed tent walls made of gilded bamboo rods thick as a man’s arm. Instead of being the usual ten paces across, this round palace measured at least a hundred paces across.
As I entered, all conversation stopped. The Great Khan and his men turned to watch me. I walked as elegantly as I could and tried to ignore the pain from my sister’s tiny boots, which pinched my toes. Some men grunted in admiration.
“This lady could not be Dorji’s daughter, could she?”
The Khan pointed to a seat reserved for me, between him and my uncle Chimkin. My chair was set back slightly, as I was not expected to eat, but I could hear everything the Khan said. I wished I could be invisible, rather than arouse the appetites of these men. I had always tried to hide that I was a woman. Now I was being forced to look and act like a mindless, decorative princess.
The inside of the cane palace was stunning. Its rounded ceiling rose high, covered with a silk cloth dyed light blue like a summer sky. In the center was a large round table made of rosewood. I slid into my seat.
My foreigner, Marco Polo, was not there. For big occasions, the Khan sometimes held banquets for a thousand men. That night, only about twenty men were present, all clad like the Great Khan, in emerald green with gold threads and belts. The table glittered with goblets, bowls, plates, and knives, all made of gleaming gold and etched with designs of wild beasts. The effect of the tableware in the flickering torchlight was dazzling.
The Khan lifted his goblet to drink, and the musicians began playing. As one, we lifted our goblets and held them to our foreheads until he had finished drinking. I took only a small sip, noticing that this