Roger Zelazny - If at Faust You Don't Succeed

The halls of the Khan's palace were rich beyond description. So none will be attempted. Down the corridors they marched, past scrolls covered with Chinese poetry extolling the virtues of water-watching.

The final doors before the audience chamber were tall, oval shaped, richly ornamented, and made of bronze. They swung open of their own accord.

"Who shall I say is calling?" a small, dark man asked.

"The ambassador from Ophir," Mack said. "And his girlfriend."

The great audience room was lit by flambeaux, which, being a newly imported French kind of torch, burned with a cold, pitiless intellectual light. By that light Mack saw, ahead of him, on a stage, a group of richly garmented people. In the center, elevated on a small plinth above the others, was a middle-sized, middle aged, middle-tempered sort of a man of medium coloring and average good looks, a small beard, and on his head a turban from whose summit blazed a diamond so great that Mack knew even without a program that this fellow had to be Kublai Khan.

"So, you're from Ophir?" Kublai Khan said. Remembering what Mephistopheles had told him, Mack noticed that Kublai Khan had a scepter. It didn't look especially magical, but Mephistopheles was presumably correct in his information.

The Khan said, "You're the first Ophirean we've had visit. Or do you say Ophirese?"

"Whichever Your Majesty prefers," Mack said.

"Look, Marco!" Kublai said. "A fellow European!"

The young man in the hawk-feather cap looked up and scowled. "He's nobody I know. What's your name, fellow, and where do you come from?"

"I am Dr. Johann Faust," Mack said. "I was born in Wittenberg in Germany, but of late I'm the acting ambassador from Ophir."

"We have not seen your like in Europe," Marco said.

"No. We Ophirese are pretty much content to stay home. We're not a great trading nation anymore like your Venice, Marco."

"Ah. You know me, then?"

"Certainly. Your fame has spread even as far as Ophir."

Marco tried to maintain his frown, but he was flattered. Tell me, what are your principal products?" he asked.

"We export a lot of stuff," Mack said, "but our main products are gold, silver, ivory, apes, and peacocks."

"Apes! That's interesting," Marco said, "The great Khan has been looking for a good source of apes."

"We've got the best," Mack said. "We've got big apes and link apes, tiny apelets, huge gorillas, orange-furred orangutans, and so on. I guess we can fill about anything you might need in the ape department."

"Great, I'll get back to you on that," Marco said. "The great Khan might want some peacocks, too, if your prices are competitive."

Talk to me," Mack said, "I'll make you a price."

At that moment the court wizard spoke up. "Ophir, eh? The city that is near Sheba?"

"That's it," Mack said. "You got the right one."

"I shall check on this further," the wizard said.

"I'm sure you'll find our city is in order," Mack said. He chuckled, but no one else laughed at his little joke.

Kublai Khan said, "Welcome to my court, Dr. Faust, ambassador from Ophir. We shall wish to speak to you at some later time, because, let it be known, we love to hear stories of distant lands. Our dear son Marco regales us with many tales. But it is always good to get a new slant on these things."

"At Your Majesty's service," Mack said, and, noting that Marco's face had changed from a scowl into a rictus of annoyance, decided that he had made no friends here this day.

"And what of the woman?" Kublai Khan asked.

Mack hissed at Marguerite, "He's talking to you!"

"What's he saying?" Marguerite said. "I can't understand a word!"

"I'll speak for you," Mack said. To Kublai Khan he said, "This is Marguerite, a friend of mine, but she doesn't have a word of Mongol."

"No word at all? But we would fain hear her story!"

"I'll just have to translate it for you," Mack said, "which is a shame because she tells it so well herself."

"That won't be necessary," Kublai said. "Luckily, we have recently instituted a rapid-learning center for subjects and friends who don't understand Mongolian. You speak it perfectly, my dear Faust."

"Thank you," Mack said, bowing. "I've always had a bit of a knack for languages."

"But the woman is going to have to learn. Explain to her that she is to go to class now and come out when she can speak to us."

Mack said to Marguerite, "Look, I'm sorry about this, but they're taking you off to language class."

"Oh, no," Marguerite said. "Not school again!"

"Yes. I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do about it."

"Darn it!" Marguerite said. "This is no fun at all!" But she let herself be led away by two serving maids.

Mack was aware of a strangeness in the outer corridors as he followed Wong, a servant who had been assigned to lead him to his quarters. He noted how Wong's lantern flame would suddenly sway when there was no breeze to stir it. As they moved through the silent hallways and corridors they came to one that was roped off with a crimson cord.

"That is the spirit wing," Wong said. "It is dedicated to the spirits of dead poets. Entrance to it is forbidden to the living. Only the Khan himself and the servants of the Arts may go through with the sacrifices."

"What sacrifices?"

"Brightly colored stones, seashells, moss, and other things that are pleasing to the spirits of dead storytellers."

Wong told him that there were few monarchs as hospitable as Kublai Khan, and none as desirous of hearing the converse of strangers. Kublai was different from other Mongols in the pleasure he took at travelers' tales. He encouraged people from all over the world to come call on him, tell him where they were from and what the customs were like there. He liked to hear about their families, too, and the more extended, the better. And Kublai had a whole wing of his palace put aside for hospitality to strangers. This wing was arguably the world's first luxury hotel where people were welcome without a reservation and without money. Just a story.

There were beggars in the Khan's palace as well as ambassadors. But they were not ordinary beggars. In the Khan's estimation, a beggar was one with an insufficiency of stories. All the beggars in the Khan's palace were persons who, for one reason or another, were or could be considered storydead. The Khan supported these unfortunates as a public charity.

Not only were there luxurious rooms for travelers, there was also the special wing for the wandering spirits of poets and storytellers. For it was the Khan's belief that the spirits of poets live forever, in a special celestial kingdom that had been constructed for them alone by the Powers That Be. And these spirits sometimes went awandering back to the Earth, for poets draw inspiration from revisiting the scenes of their former triumphs and defeats. And in their peregrinations around their old-time countrysides and city streets, sometimes these spirits were susceptible to outside influences. At such times, the Khan believed, a man could perform a certain ritual, lay out certain offerings, and these would attract such spirits, and they would come to the Khan's palace, for they knew they were welcome. Once there, they would find all the things that a spirit might crave: bits of soft fur, shiny shards of mirror, pieces of amber, antique silver coins, curiously colored pebbles. These were some of the things that were said to give pleasure to the spirits of dead poets, and the Khan had collected many of them. These were laid out in the chambers where the spirits were invited to visit. Incense was burned around the clock in these chambers, and candles were kept lit. And sometimes, a spirit would come to such a place, enjoy the feast of memory that had been laid out for him, and, when he left, deposit a dream in the Khan's head as a gift.