A/N:
Wow, sorry about the long wait. Between final exams, and moving into a new apartment, and getting a job, I've been so tired lately that mustering up the energy to write has just been really difficult.
Also, I've been picking and prodding at this stupid chapter for ages. Still not entirely happy with it, but I've elected to roll up my sleeves and throw it out of the nest anyway. If for no other reason than to bulldoze through this roadblock and keep the story moving.
As always, thanks to everyone for reading! You all rock! :)
—:—
Part 2
VENEZIANO
And Thus Begins the Comedy of Errors
—:—
Subject: Wang Yao
000
Past Offense(s): Child abduction (five). Fratricide (one). Mass murder (countless).
001
Year: Metal / Goat
Month: Little Snow
Offense(s): Dereliction of duty in gross disrespect to the Khan. Promoting and perpetuating uselessness in government officials. Obscene fascination with grammar.
002
Year: Metal / Goat
Month: Little Snow
Offense(s): Kidnapping of a young boy (family name unknown). Possibly brainwashing child into violent and depraved lifestyle.
—:—
It started, as all adventures did, in a tavern.
The Southern Courage. Crouched deep within the poorer districts of Lin'an, it hardly counted as a fashionable place. Indeed, it bore little resemblance to the high-end teahouses with their sprawling courtyards and silver wine cups and silk-draped singing girls—but to many, the tavern could cheerfully be called a second home. All manner of odd people found solace in the rowdy atmosphere of the Southern Courage. The owner, Mr. Ren, was very welcoming of oddball patrons, being somewhat of an oddball himself.
So of course, nobody bothered to look twice when a mysterious man walked in, wearing a mysterious hat that obscured his no doubt mysterious eyes, all the while carrying a mysterious bag on his back, which every so often seemed to wriggle mysteriously. For this place, it was pretty standard fare.
Mr. Ren looked up from where he'd been cleaning the wine cups. A sloppy grin spilled all over his face like an overturned bowl of soup.
"Back again, brother?" Mr. Ren said, abandoning his cups with a shattering crash that probably should have inspired concern. "I didn't expect to see you here for a while."
Mystery Man didn't immediately reply, opting instead to hover uncertainly between two fellow oddball patrons (a laughing fisherman with a crown of flowers laced through his hair, and an opera performer in a black paper mask).
"The usual," he said finally, eyeing the fisherman warily. "If you will."
"Sure thing, brother."
As Mr. Ren hummed and twirled away, Mystery Man removed himself from the flower-crowned fisherman and headed for a less crowded area. He ended up at the other end of the tavern, kneeling at a rectangular weiqi table directly across from an old man with an awe-inspiring beard.
"Care for a game?" he said. Mysteriously.
The old man raised a bushy eyebrow. Silently, he acquiesced, and the two men began to play. Their weiqi stones skittered across the board, each color attempting to encircle the other. Black curling around white, white trailing along black. A balance of opposites: yin, yang.
As the last piece fell into place, the old man's gaze abruptly flicked up from the board.
"How curious," he said, his soft voice barely audible above the buzz of background noise. "Lately, I haven't seen any lotuses in bloom."
"With patience, they'll flower at the millennium," came the steady reply.
An expectant pause. Then the old man nodded and leaned forward, making visible a small pendant that swung forth from hempen clothing. An emblem of a white lotus.
"Very good, Mr. China," the old man murmured, eyes glinting. "Now, what can I do for you?"
—:—
010
Year: Metal / Goat
Month: Great Snow
Offense(s): Continued evasion of law. Suspected aiding of Song insurgents. Suspected child endangerment.
011
Year: Metal / Goat
Month: Winter Solstice
Offense(s): Refusal to attend ceremony of the Emperor, despite generous and merciful invitation to his unworthy hide, the ungrateful son of a— […]
—:—
With an air of serene patience that he most certainly did not feel, China leaned back and watched the old man leave. Underneath the table, out of sight, his fingers curled around the carved trinket the old man had left him. This was it. It wouldn't be long now. Soon, he would be free, blessedly free, and wouldn't that be the ease of a burden? They would only have to wait for the next coming of the new moon, and then—
And then Mr. Ren bounced over to him like an enthusiastic rabbit. China managed to surreptitiously tuck the lotus pendant away into his pack before the tavern owner was suddenly there, everywhere, one arm balancing a tray, the other draped all over China's neck. Like a chokehold, but less deadly and more annoying.
"That was so cool," Mr. Ren said as he single-handedly destroyed China's sense of personal space. "You have to teach me that sometime, it's quite fascinating, all your creepy mysterious cloak-and-dagger ways—ow."
"Get off," said China, removing his hand from the young man's ear. "And for heaven's sake, keep your voice down."
"Your love hurts, brother," Mr. Ren said. He clasped a passionate hand over the wrong side of his chest and crumpled over in pantomimed heartbreak. Before China could so much as cast him a dubious look, Ren had straightened once more, and was setting down a small bowl of beancurd soup with blithe grace. How that bowl hadn't spilled throughout his antics, China would never know. "Worry not, worry not, I can keep a secret."
"I should hope so," was all China had to say to that. Frowning, he lowered his hat and warily scanned his surroundings. It was difficult to tell, but he thought that the opera artist might have been looking in their direction. Moreover, that fisherman was downright…fishy. And was it his imagination, or was that fellow in the bright blue jacket examining a wanted poster?
The clack of a second bowl distracted him from his paranoid musings. "This one's on the house, by the way," Mr. Ren said. Unlike the first bowl, the second contained a pile of oysters. China looked up, eyebrow raised, and Mr. Ren proceeded to wink at him so much that he looked like he had an eye disorder.
Oysters, get it?
It was a struggle to keep the reluctant fondness from showing on his face. "…Thank you. You really didn't have to."
"Oh, anything for the little guy." Mr. Ren flashed him a blinding grin and then pranced off, singing. "Aaaa-ri-rang, aaah…"
China sighed. He didn't enjoy pushing him away, but bad enough that "Ren" was already involved. The least China could do was to help him preserve his anonymity. Still, it was comforting in a way, that despite it all Ren still managed to keep his sunny personality. Comforting, because the boy had always been a whirlwind of energy, because he hadn't changed a whit, not even now, with his brother gone and his sister—
Well, he thought, suddenly tired. Perhaps not completely unchanged.
As he poked moodily at his soup, the top of his pack wiggled and a pair of bright golden eyes peeked out.
"Um…are those mine?"
China's expression immediately softened at the small, hesitant voice. "Yes, Oyster. No, not now—" He gently slapped the little hand that darted out from the bag. "Wait until later. Too many people here."
The hand withdrew. "Oh, okay. Sorry, Mr. China."
"Yes, yes, now shh."
China quickly finished his soup and then deftly bundled away the oysters for later. He cast a final cautious glance around the tavern as he rose, pinpointing each customer, cataloguing their whereabouts and mannerisms. Years of being on the run had honed his paranoia to monstrous levels. He could see it all, every nuance, every possibility:
Farmer. By the cabinet, singing drunkenly about frogs. Probably acting. Probably a spy.
Opera artist. Sitting near the window, nursing a cup of rice wine. Face covered? Suspicious. Undercover agent, perhaps.
Girl in yellow. Hands linked with a young man in brown. Partners in crime. Mercenaries hired by Mongolia.
Man-in-the-blue-jacket. Stabbing his poster with his chopsticks. Psychotic. Terrorist.
Fisherman. Waving at Mr. Ren. Apparently trying to give him one of his flowers. Some sort of secret code? Or possibly a—
You are one judgmental bastard, aren't you, a voice marveled at him, somewhere from within his own head. It sounded a lot like Yuezhi, which did a splendid job of instantly killing his mood.
Are you are dead, he mentally snarled at it. So shut up.
The creepy voice did not shut up. Wait, let me edit that: a rude judgmental bastard.
Okay. That was it. He was leaving. He was so leaving now. He was leaving so hard that the wooden panels would peel from the force of his leaving. The doors would disintegrate, the windows would collapse, the—
Wait. The windows.
His eyes darted back.
The masked performer wasn't there anymore.
He only had a moment to process this before he was leaping forward, dodging a cudgel aimed at his temple.
—:—
018
Year: Water / Monkey
Month: Full Grain
Offense(s): Confirmed treason; active member of insurgent groups in Hubei. Confirmed child endangerment.
019
Year: Water / Monkey
Month: Full Grain
Offense(s): Violent assault on imperial army. Raiding of imperial supplies. Smuggling of weaponry.
—:—
It was a testament to both the tavern's oddball reputation, and the sheer unflappable spirits of its clientele, that no one even batted an eyelash when one of their fellow patrons became abruptly homicidal.
People watched with mild interest as the one in the black opera mask smashed a cudgel-shaped indent into the wall. The specific portion of wall, that is, where that man-in-the-straw-hat's head had been half a second before. One woman in a red ruqun eyed the crater with the sort of expression people tended to adopt upon witnessing their children spontaneously combust—but aside from that anomaly, no one seemed terribly concerned. Not even when a vicious duel erupted right in the middle of the tavern.
The fighting involved a lot of rapid swinging and dodging, with the occasional airborne table and smashed teacup. There were also a lot of cliché declarations thrown around—You are wanted for treason and I knew there was something weird about you, how did you find me, et cetera, et cetera. The audience wasn't particularly impressed. Still, they reasoned, it was a pretty well-choreographed performance, even if some of the dialogue was cheesy.
"You can either come quietly, or I will make you come quietly. What is your decision?"
"Go to hell, Jurchen!"
"I understand. Then I am compelled to use force."
"Like you weren't already—gah!"
Black Opera Mask charged forward, and Straw Hat Man valiantly fended him (or her?) off with a soup spoon. They tore a path of destruction around passive bystanders (by some miracle injuring none of them), dueled their way past the counter, through the shelves, and then proceeded to violently decimate Mr. Ren's already dwindling supply of tableware.
Mr. Ren stared at the carnage blankly. Grip tightening around a cooking knife, he opened his mouth, let out an indignant hey no bounty hunting in my tavern—and stopped when he met Straw Hat's furious gaze. It was only for a split second, but—
Don't you dare get involved, said those eyes.
Ren hesitated. Something complicated passed over his face.
He closed his mouth.
Closed his eyes.
And resignedly bustled away to perform crowd control.
(Somehow, Mr. Ren managed to evacuate everyone without anyone actually noticing they were being evacuated. The entire affair was just amazingly blasé.)
(Just another day at the Southern Courage.)
—:—
047
Year: Water / Rooster
Month: Rainwater
Offense(s): Mass destruction of infrastructure; untold casualties.
048
Year: Water / Rooster
Month: Awakening of Insects
Offense(s): Planted corrupt agent(s) within government. Attempted uproot of Mongolian authority.
[REDACTED]
Year: Wood / Dog
Month: Little Cold
Offense(s): Sabotaging conquest of Japan. Yes, I'm sure. What? Don't look at me like that. He did it, I know he did it, I don't know how but he's definitely responsible, him and his blasted dra—sidekick, and […] are you still recording all this down? Why are you […] no you idiot stop it why is everyone around here so useless I swear […] no no no change it to
049
Year: Wood / Dog
Month: Little Cold
Offense(s): Sabotaging conquest of Japan. Caused deaths of tens of thousands of people.
—:—
Considering he had nothing but a large hat and a soup spoon to defend himself with, China thought he was doing rather well for himself. Still, with little Oyster hidden in his pack, his range of movement was very limited. Too careful, too stilted. At least when there had still been people milling about, everyone's movements had been somewhat restrained, but now that all their fellow patrons had vacated the area, China's disadvantage was starting to show.
Jurchen. Great sky, Jurchen. This woman had been plaguing him from day one. She was like a foul curse conjured from the eighteenth level of hell. Or a chronic stomach-ache. Except, perhaps, ten times scarier than both combined.
There was a muffled cry of pain as China stumbled shoulder-first into the wall—Oyster. Damn. Not good. Very not good. His eyes narrowed; he had to finish this, and fast. Quickly, China threw his straw hat into the bounty hunter's masked face, and Jurchen staggered back, momentarily blinded. Taking advantage of her unsure footing, he darted forward, heel flashing out in a low crescent. Jurchen fell back, balance destroyed, and China wasted no time to get the heck out of there.
Still not fast enough.
From behind him came a dull thud that was immediately followed by a ringing crash, and China didn't even make three steps before a miniature river of scalding tea was surging underfoot. Predictably, he slipped, crashing into a small cabinet—though he managed to avoid squishing Oyster into paste by executing an awkward twist that turned out to be very much unappreciated by his already bruised shoulder.
Annoyed, he looked up to see Jurchen on the floor, one foot still slightly extended toward the side table she'd overturned. Soulless brown eyes stared back at him—she'd lost the black opera mask somewhere in the struggle with his hat—and while China refused to flinch at her mechanically emotionless visage, his irritation did mellow into something more like apprehension. Jurchen had always given him the creeps.
He flicked his gaze back down. What must have once been a perfectly functioning teapot now lay scattered on the floor in jagged pieces.
In an instant he was swiping up the shards and throwing them like low-budget shuriken. Jurchen blocked them with his hat—the indignation was back full-force, he'd liked that hat—and then, dispassionately, she flung the bundle of fraying straw back in his face, pottery shards and all.
There was some irony to be found in this, he admitted to himself, even as he raised his other arm to bat away the impediment. His shoulder twinged in violent protest at the movement, and he hesitated a little too long—the mangled hat obscured his vision, but his other senses sharpened in proportion—he could hear the rustling movement as Jurchen rose to her feet, the low intake of breath, the swift exhale—she was raising her cudgel, that godforsaken instrument of barbarity—
He ripped the hat from his eyes, but his shoulder was still screaming at him, stupid thing, and Oyster was a heavy weight against his back, and there was no time to react—
He pressed backward but found nothing but smooth wooden wall.
And so it was that Jurchen was only moments away from bludgeoning him into unconsciousness when, out of nowhere, a cooking knife sprouted out of the wood in front of her. Jurchen froze.
"I said, no bounty hunting in my tavern."
Both of them slowly looked up to see Mr. Ren framed by the doorway, arm still outstretched from the knife throw, eyebrows set in a determined line. China paled, feeling as though something in his stomach had curled up and died—what on earth did the silly boy think he was doing, calling attention to himself like this, and oh sky if he was recognized—
It took very little effort for China to plaster a scowl on his face. "Boy, this doesn't concern you. Stay out of this."
Ren, the stubborn idiot, shook his head. "Don't even start. None of my business? It became my business when you razed my tavern to the ground! Do you really think I'm just going to stand there and let—"
He didn't get to finish. Somewhere from outside the bamboo trellis came a snarling bark, and a dog tackled him down from out of nowhere. There was a split-second image of Ren's widened eyes before both man and dog went flying out of the doorframe. China could only stare, appalled.
Letting himself get distracted like that was a mistake. Perhaps sensing the opportunity, Jurchen grabbed the handle of the knife and yanked it from the wall. Before anyone could say or do much of anything, she jabbed the knife forward. China dodged to the side in alarm, but didn't entirely make it in time; one swipe severed the pack from his shoulders.
Jurchen, it seemed, was totally okay with that, because she immediately grabbed the pack for herself. Then, leaping completely over the spilt tea like some kind of demonic gazelle, she raced out of the tavern. Her dog gave them one last growl before jumping off of Ren and following swiftly after.
A bewildered pause.
"Oyster," China hissed to himself, and then dashed after her.
—:—
103
Year: Wood / Pig
Month: Beginning of Spring
Offense(s): Shoplifting. Vandalism.
104
Year: Wood / Pig
Month: Beginning of Spring
Offense(s): Sickening hubris. Annoying face.
105
Year: Wood / Pig
Month: Beginning of Spring
Offense(s): No sense of humor.
106
Year: Wood / Pig
Month: Beginning of Spring
Offense(s): Breaking my sister's heart. Annoying face.
[REDACTED]
Year: Wood / Pig
Month: Beginning of Spring
Offense(s): Annoying face. Annoying hair. Annoying face. Tibet, help me think up of more. What do you mean, this isn't healthy? I—no this isn't an obsession my spirit is perfectly at peace, it's so peaceful I bet I could go beat up Koryo right now and it'd still be at peace […] Yes, I know what peace means! I'm not an infant—wait a second is the scribe still recording all this down […] great spirits you people are all incompetent! Stop it now, now I say, stop
...
End profile.
Subject wanted alive by the decree of the Emperor.
...
..
.
Maffeo Polo stared at the end of the page. What did he even just read?
"What in the hell have we gotten ourselves into?" he demanded of nobody in particular.
"You were the one who wanted to see his records," Niccolo said. "If you didn't want to know, maybe you shouldn't have asked." He paused and added cheerfully, "In any case, he sounds like an interesting fellow."
"He sounds like a psychopath!"
Niccolo beamed. "Exactly."
Maffeo shot him a furious glance. "I can't believe I trusted you with the records. Why didn't you tell me earlier we were dealing with someone who has a history of kidnapping children?"
"Is that a problem?"
In response, Maffeo grabbed his brother's shoulders and turned him around.
Marco had lagged behind them, busy goggling at all the sights of the city. ("Kinsay is absolutely amazing! Did you see that lake back there? And the Imperial Way! And the food, the smells, how strange they are—I'll say, is that man selling crickets? How novel!") Little Veneziano followed closely behind, a smile on his face as Marco babbled about everything and anything. The two of them were clearly lost in their own world.
Niccolo's face slowly turned blank. "Oh."
"Yes," said Maffeo. "Oh."
As if sensing their unease, Veneziano stopped and raised his head. The smile slid off his face. He looked nervous. "D-Do you hear something?"
"It's the sound of our destiny," Marco shouted, waving his arms wildly, the excitement of a strange new country clearly gone to his head.
"No, no, it's more like—" Veneziano paused. "Barking? And—"
The young nation didn't get to finish his sentence, because just then a blur of a person shot past them—somebody in a black mask—a dog running close behind—rounded the corner, vanished—and then—
And then a man appeared, running toward them. Maffeo couldn't help but notice how his physical appearance matched the wanted posters that Mongolia had strewn all over the country. The brothers exchanged a panicked glance before springing into action. For once, they were on exactly the same page.
Niccolo reached out and unceremoniously stuffed the eternal soul of Venice into a sack. Veneziano disappeared with a squeak.
Maffeo cuffed a babbling Marco on the head to silence him, and, with his other hand, relocated the paper records to a more discreet position behind his back.
They both stiffened when Wang Yao the Rampaging Kidnapping Mass Murdering Traitor Criminal looked their way.
"Excuse me, have any of you seen a person with a dog?"
"Not at all," Maffeo said in Chinese, not really keen on the idea of directing a mass murderer toward an innocent civilian.
Maybe Maffeo's accent was off, or maybe he'd spoken too quickly, because Wang Yao paused and frowned. Maffeo inwardly cursed himself for his haste; Niccolo had always been the better liar…
A muffled hiccuping sound came from Niccolo's bag, and everyone froze. Wang Yao's eyes narrowed as he turned his head toward Niccolo with agonizing slowness.
"What do you have in the bag?" the criminal asked, after a minor eternity.
"Radishes and socks," Niccolo said, in a grave tone most people would ascribe to government officials bearing news of dead relatives. Maffeo's fingers twitched. He fiercely took back everything he'd thought about Niccolo being the better liar.
And then, somehow Marco of all people took over the conversation, eyes alight as he rambled in broken Chinese about some grand quest to aid their (nonexistent) ailing sister-in-law, and how radishes were the only thing that helped her indigestion, poor thing, and she only ate them when they were shaped like socks, and young Marco would be a splendid liar if any of his stories actually made any damned sense—
Wang Yao studied them in increasingly grim appraisal. He was probably mapping out seven hundred and fifty ways to kill them with his pinky finger.
"You have a child in there," he said.
Blast.
"Umm, look," said Marco, glancing at his father and uncle in alarm, but that was the only thing anyone managed to say before Wang Yao moved.
The next few moments were a bit of a blur.
—:—
Oyster pawed his way out of the bag. The ride had been bumpy and a little scary, but now that it was over surely Mr. China would let him have the oysters for supper, and they'd eat and laugh and Mr. China would tell him stories and Oyster would fall asleep and dream of baby whales and red bean cakes and ocean goddesses. For a moment he wondered if eating oysters made him some sort of cannibal, or if nicknames just didn't count. He hoped nicknames didn't count. Being a cannibal didn't sound very nice.
He didn't recognize his surroundings, which wasn't an unusual thing with Mr. China on the run. It was a cozy sort of room, dark and kind of shady with its heavily curtained windows, and he could just barely make out a taller figure sitting on a stack of boxes.
Oyster brightened. "Mr. China, I—"
Then he noticed the dog, and faltered. Mr. China didn't have a dog. Oyster fell silent, but it was too late—the figure had heard him. She turned around slowly, like something out of a horror story, and Oyster had to swallow back a startled gasp. The feeble amount of light filtering past the curtains threw an eerie glow on the impassive face that stared down at him.
"You're not Mr. China," he said.
"No," the bounty hunter agreed. "I am not."
—:—
Veneziano sprung out of the sack. The ride had been bumpy and utterly terrifying, and now that it was over he was certain the Rampaging Kidnapping Mass Murdering Traitor Criminal who'd wrestled him away from Niccolo was going to destroy him gruesomely, cut him into pieces, and then laugh maniacally while feeding him to baby ducks.
"Don't kill me," he cried. "I—I have family in Cathay—"
Then he noticed Wang Yao's frown, and faltered. Somehow, he sensed that the man before him was Really Not Happy, and it chilled him to the marrow.
"You're not Oyster," said the psychopath.
"Don't eat me," Veneziano said, panic increasing tenfold. "I don't taste like oysters—"
"I—you…what?"
"—at all, no no nonono, I don't taste nearly as good as oysters—"
"Calm down—"
"In fact I taste really really really really bad—"
"I'm not going to eat you!"
Veneziano paused. "You aren't?" he said in a small, trembly voice.
"No," Wang Yao gritted out, looking an odd mix of horrified and disgusted and worried and annoyed. He stood up and began to pace, muttering to himself and making expressive gestures with his hands. It was all very Italian, and Veneziano allowed himself to be soothed by the familiarity for a span of about six milliseconds. Then he reminded himself of the frightful reality.
This was no native of Italia. No, this was clearly some manner of satanic creature—a veritable Prince of Darkness!—and Veneziano would need to keep all his wits about him if he wanted to survive, would need every single ounce of his bravery and charisma—
"You."
Veneziano squeaked and dove back into his bag.
The man just sighed impatiently and scooped him back out like a goldfish. "You," he tried again. "What's your name?"
When it became clear that desperately air-swimming his way to freedom wasn't working, Veneziano went all sad and limp. As he hung sadly and limply, he considered the man's question and wondered if it was generally wise to tell a mass murderer your name. But then the silence began to stretch too long and Wang Yao was starting to frown again and okay okay he'd say it just don't hurt him—
"I'm Veneziano, sir," he said, quick and nervous. "Veneziano, of northern Italy."
—:—
Quiet sounds of morning drifted into the rubble-strewn remains of the Southern Courage. Mr. Ren wasn't too worried about the craters of splintered wood that had been left by two feuding nations; his beautiful tavern had seen worse, tough thing that she was. Sure, it was kind of a pain to have to clean everything up, but he was Ren, and Ren was one of those hideously cheerful morning people who could rise before the sun with a smile. The kind of smile that attracted hordes of small woodland creatures; the kind of smile that could bully flowers into blooming against their will. So instead of falling to despair with the unfairness of it all, Mr. Ren simply hummed folk songs and attacked the scene of destruction with nothing but an old broomstick and a positive attitude.
Because when it came down to it, Ren was a simple civilian. Ren was happy. Ren was innocent.
(Ren definitely wasn't the remains of a family torn apart, or a country on the labored draw of its dying breath. There were no bruises hidden under roughly woven sleeves, no scars etched across his spine like bitter calligraphy.)
A soft knock on the door had him blinking away the dark shadows at the edge of his thoughts. He straightened and set aside the broom. For obvious reasons, the Southern Courage had been closed until further notice, so who could it be? The mystery was no clearer when he opened the door, and found no one there.
Then he saw it. Pinned to the door with his own cooking knife. A note.
With a curious sense of dread, he leaned closer to read the neat handwriting. All pretense of a smile fell from his face. With barely a moment's hesitation, Mr. Ren tore both knife and paper from the door, locked down his tavern, and rushed outside into the uneven cobbled streets.
He had to find China.
—:—
Somewhere outside the walls of Lin'an, in the nearest örtege that could be found, three distraught Venetians crowded around a beleaguered-looking station operator.
"…would just hear us out for a—"
"I'm telling you, you need to wait your turn. This isn't a very large station, we don't have a lot of resources, and there's a queue—"
"And we're telling you, it can't wait, we're on a mission of utmost importance, we're sanctioned by the goddamned Khan—"
"Which is fine, gentlemen, but rules are rules and—"
The argument spun around in exhausting circles. It only trailed to a halt when Niccolo Polo, Maffeo Polo, and the stubborn operator paused to glare defiantly at one another. Mirror images of stony expressions and stiff shoulders. Stalemate.
Marco Polo, for his part, stared at the messy bundle of notes in his hands. Notes he'd written of their various travels. Descriptions of war-torn Armenia, of the majestic Pamir mountains, of proud Xanadu, of beautiful Lin'an. Stories inked into parchment, into stains upon wrists and fingers. Yes, Marco had always been a storyteller at heart. He loved weaving entire worlds together, loved watching people's eyes light up in delight as his imagination touched theirs. He spent his childhood spinning tales for his mother, before she passed (Just like your father, she'd said to him exactly once, lying in bed and feeble with sickness) and then to his aunt, his cousins, his friends. And even now—for all that Maffeo scoffed at them—Veneziano had loved his stories.
What good were they now? If only he'd been better at storytelling, maybe they wouldn't be in this situation. Maybe they wouldn't have to go down in history as the Idiot Venetians Who Lost Venice.
Marco looked up to the adults, all of whom appeared to be trying to drill holes into each other with nothing but their eyes. He looked at the horses in their stables, lively and broad-necked. He looked at the frenzy-eyed messenger boys who scurried around the outpost in resolute haste. He imagined letters and reports and warnings, passed back and forth all across the country with clockwork efficiency.
Kublai Khan had said that his was the fastest postal system in the world. Maybe it wasn't too late.
Marco Polo squared his shoulders, opened his mouth, and broke the tense silence with a story.
"Once upon a time…"
—:—
"…and then everyone died. The end."
Brief silence.
"Was there a point to all that?" the station operator finally said, looking mostly unimpressed, and just the slightest bit bewildered. By some rigid sense of decorum, he hadn't interrupted Marco's strangely passionate tale. Well. Either decorum, or sheer bafflement. Marco's aunt had once fondly told him that his stories were "oddly consuming." Cousin Carlo had once fondly told him that his stories were "weird as hell, like you."
"Well, you looked like you could use a story," Marco said, eyes wide in affected innocence. "You looked stressed, sir."
The officer shot him a look that was drier than the desert. And just whose fault is that? it said.
All Marco did in response was to give a sheepish smile. He carefully did not look at his father, who had crept away mid-story, and was now somewhere in the background, harassing an unfortunate messenger boy. Marco carefully did not watch as the flustered messenger boy buried his face in his hands, nor did he react when, quick as lightning, Niccolo swapped the boy's important-looking royal missive with the Polos' letter to Mongolia.
When Niccolo looked over at him and beamed, Marco carefully did not return the grin.
(Hopefully the replaced missive was nothing too crucial. Right?)
"…and if that is all," the officer was saying in a snippy sort of tone, "I urge you to withhold any further nonsense and wait your turn. We may offer discounts for merchants, but please understand that you enjoy no further special benefits; there is order to be followed, you simply cannot expect to strongarm your way into…"
Marco nodded and smiled fixedly ahead. In the background Niccolo removed himself from the traumatized messenger boy and winked none too subtly. Maffeo, who was by far the most straight-laced of them all, just stood there looking scandalized.
But, Marco reasoned, it's justified, isn't it? Ends and means and all that. At the end of the day, the Polos were merchants, not warriors, and they could hardly be expected to defeat Wang Yao on their own. But Mongolia was a country. With Mongolia's help, they could take back Venice.
The faster the better.
"…your names, and I'll add you to the queue. Well?"
Marco found himself at the end of a sharply raised eyebrow. "Um—"
"Actually," Niccolo said, materializing from behind the operator, "don't bother taking our names. We don't really care anymore. Forget everything we said! We changed our minds!"
"Changed your…?" The operator blinked, and then looked murderous. "Did you three just come here to waste my ti—"
"Farewell!" Niccolo happily interrupted, before grabbing his brother and son and fleeing the örtege.
—:—
Mongolia,
We found him. He's in Lin'an. Assistance requested.
—Niccolo Polo
P.S. And by assistance I mean a lot of assistance.
P.P.S. Like an army.
—:—
Footnotes:
1] Timeline: 1270s AD. We're on the threshold between the Song and Yuan Dynasties, people. Yuan is pushing its way south, and Song is just barely holding on. Inaccuracy alert: please note that I might have messed around with the historical timeline a bit. While it's true that Marco Polo did visit Lin'an/Kinsay (and fell in love with it), I am reasonably certain that he didn't come along until after it fell. So he's a little ahead of schedule here.
2] Recorded dates: I was pretty much BS-ing my way through the criminal records, but the actual dates are based on old Chinese calendars. The years come from the 60-Year Stem-Branch cycle, which consists of celestial "stems" (referenced by "Metal," "Water," etc.) and the earthly "branches" (referenced by the Chinese zodiac). Here, "Metal/Goat" is 1271, "Water/Monkey" is 1272, "Water/Rooster" is 1273, and "Wood/Dog" is 1274. The months come from the 24 Solar Terms, which are based on seasonal cycles because it was convenient for farming and stuff.
3] Lin'an/Kinsay: Modern-day Hangzhou. Lin'an was the capital of the Southern Song Dynasty. Marco Polo knew it as Kinsay. At the time, Hangzhou was one of the largest cities in the world—if not the largest—so Marco was understandably impressed.
4] Weiqi: Also known as "go." Really old Chinese board game that's still played today. The goal is to surround more territory with your own stones than your opponent does with theirs. (Oh, and that weiqi scene? Big shout-out for Avatar fans!)
5] White Lotus: A religious/political sect, originating from a branch of Mahayana Buddhism. Later gained prominence as a secret society in opposition to Mongol rule. (Plus another A:TLA shout-out. Can you tell I really love that show?)
6] Ceremony of emperor: Kublai Khan was a shrewd man. A lot of the stuff he did was based on old Chinese traditions, because he wanted to boost his popularity among his Chinese subjects. He modeled his government on traditional Chinese dynasties, embraced the Mandate of Heaven, took on a Chinese name, etc. It helped validate him as a ruler, and made him seem more relatable.
7] Hubei: Reference to the Battle of Xiangyang (1272). The twin cities of Fancheng and Xiangyang were located on opposite sides of the Han River, and their strategic location turned out to be really awesome for fending off Mongols. Upon realizing they couldn't just take the city by storm, the Mongols sat back and thought, "Well, okay. How about a siege?" Which they tried. Without all that much success. Finally, after years locked in stalemate, the Mongols hired a couple of Persian engineers to improve their siege tech. After that, their victory was near instant.
8] Jurchen: A tribal people who managed to gain control of North China under the Jin Dynasty. Inhabited the region of Manchuria.
9] Örtege: The Mongol version of a post office. Consisted of a bunch of relay stations, each one stocked with fresh horses/messengers/food/shelter so that individual messengers wouldn't get tired and die or something. (Americans, think Pony Express.) This system was really freaking fast for its time (200 – 300 km/day) and came in handy for managing such a large empire.
10] Xanadu: The summer capital of Kublai Khan's Yuan Dynasty. Also known as Shangdu.