Roger Zelazny - If at Faust You Don't Succeed

Due to this, the Khan had many remarkable dreams, for he had been visited by spirits telling of savage white whales, of conspiracies in the Roman forum, of great armies moving across a frozen white landscape. He had dreamed of journeying through a dark wood, gone from the path direct. He had dreamed of choosing between a lady and a tiger. Thus the Khan piled up a treasure of stories and dreams by day and by night, until he no longer knew which was which, and he worked on his own secret dream, which was to be an audience for dead poets after he had left this life.

Mack's apartment was of a luxury rarely encountered in the West. And the Khan had thought up many niceties. The servants who fetched him food and drink and hot water for his bath were trained to act as if he weren't there, so that their gaze would not intrude on his inner solitude. Mack found all this very nice, but he could not enjoy it properly for worrying about getting on with his choices. After all, he wasn't a sightseer. He was there to work.

And then there was Marco Polo to consider.

"Tell me," Mack said to Wong, "does Marco Polo live anywhere around here?"

"He keeps an apartment in this complex," Wong said. "But he also has several fine mansions in the city and numerous farms, pleasure domes, and the like elsewhere."

"I didn't ask for his real estate holdings," Mack said. "I merely want to know where to find him."

"Right now he's in the Main Banquet Room, supervising the decorating for a great banquet tonight in the Khan's honor."

"Be so good as to take me there."

The Main Banquet Room was filled with workmen putting up paper streamers, banners, brightly colored tapestries, and other gewgaws of a festive nature. The ceiling was lofty and was held up by eight pillars.

Each of those pillars rested on a square block that gave some room at its corners for decorations. The main decoration for the festivities was severed human heads. Marco had heads piled on these corner stones, great piles of severed heads, some of them still bleeding, some rather dried out, some in a state of mummification, others in a state of moldiness, decay, or even putrescence. In the middle of the room was a vat of blood, with two cowled figures stirring it so it wouldn't coagulate. Marco was standing near to it, hands on his hips, supervising the placement of the heads.

Mack paused a moment to take it in, then walked up to Marco. "Nice-looking arrangement of heads," he commented.

"Thank you," Marco said. "But they're still not right."

He shouted to the men on ladders piling the heads, "Tighten up that pyramid! I don't want those heads scattered around. I'm after a concentrated effect. I want them piled high! A pyramid of heads about seven feet high, that's what I'm after on each of the corner stones. I know they won't balance by themselves. You'll have to devise some way to get them to look like they're balancing. Find some bracing material, or use twine or haywire, but make sure it doesn't show. And take those dried-out old heads out of the pile. They look like they've been lying around for decades. This isn't a tribute to the past. We're celebrating the Khan's present and future conquests and all we want here are freshly severed heads, preferably with the blood still dripping. If the blood isn't fresh, add some from the vat." material, or use twine or haywire, but make sure it doesn't show. And take those dried-out old heads out of the pile. They look like they've been lying around for decades. This isn't a tribute to the past. We're celebrating the Khan's present and future conquests and all we want here are freshly severed heads, preferably with the blood still dripping. If the blood isn't fresh, add some from the vat." e display looks much better now."

"Do you think so?"

"Oh, yes. You Venetians have an eye for these matters." "Thank you. So you're from Ophir?"

"Yes," Mack admitted. "But let's not talk about me. I just wanted to tell you how nice it is to meet you. I admire you, Marco. It's an honor to meet the foremost fabulist of your generation, perhaps of any generation." "That's good of you," Marco said. "But you're a fabulist, too, aren't you? I mean, Ophir, what's that if not fabulistic?"

"Oh, only in a very minor way. After all, who cares about Ophir? After you've mentioned the ivory, peacocks, and apes, there really isn't much to say about the place." Marco smiled a thin, dangerous smile. "I hope not. There's only room for one fabulist at a time in a royal court."

"Hey, you're the resident fabulist," Mack said. "As a matter of fact, you're the reason I came here. I want to get your autograph." "You have my book?" "It's my dearest possession. Was, I should say, for thieving Arabs stole my copy from me one night in High Tartary."

"That sounds like quite a tale."

"Not at all," Mack said, remembering who was supposed to be the storyteller around here. "Actually, it was the most banal burglary imaginable. But it was bad luck for me because I don't have a copy for you to sign. But if you could put your signature on a piece of paper, I'd paste it in when I get a copy again."

"I just might happen to have a copy," Marco said carelessly. "I suppose I could let you have it at cost."

"Your only copy? I couldn't!" "As a matter of fact, I have several."

"I'd consider it a privilege if you'd sign a copy for me. And I'd consider it a privilege if you'd let me guard your person and keep you safe from the plots and cabals that swirl around your glorious person." "How did you know about the plots against me?" Marco asked. "You just got here."

"It is common knowledge," said Mack, "that a man as talented and famous as you must have enemies. It would be my desire to protect you from them."

"If you really want to help," Marco said, "there is something you could do for me."

"Just tell me," Mack said.

Marco said, "As ambassador of Ophir, I take it you speak quite a few languages."

"It's a prerequisite of being an ambassador," Mack said.

"I already know that you speak German, French, Mongol, and Persian."

"They're necessary, of course."

"And what about Turkestani? Farsi? Turkoman? What about Oglut and Mandarin?"

"I can get by in them," Mack said.

"What about Pushtu?"

"I'm not sure," Mack said. "What does it sound like?"

Marco held his mouth in a special way and said, " 'This is how a sentence in Pushtu sounds.'"

"Yes," Mack said, "I can understand that."

"Perfect," Marco said. "The Princess Irene speaks only Pushtu, having never mastered the Mongol tongue. She has no one to talk to."

"Except for yourself, surely?"

"The only sentence I have learned thus far is, 'This is how a sentence in Pushtu sounds.' I've had no time to study it, you see."

"That's too bad."

"What I want you to do," Marco said, "is go to the princess and converse with her. It'll be such a pleasure for her to speak again in her native tongue. And I think she'd be interested in the customs of Ophir."

"I wouldn't waste her time with that," Mack said. "Ophir is much like any other place. But if you think my prattle may get her into a better mood, you can depend on me. I'll go to her at once." Mack left, congratulating himself on how quickly he was penetrating into the inner circles of the Mongol court.

It was lucky that Mack had precise directions, because the palace of Kublai Khan had been laid out with the complexity of a maze. Mack went down long polished corridors that seemed to fade into infinity, up hushed ramps glowing in reflected sunlight, down gleaming staircases. Sounds were muted in this place. Here and there a birdcage swung from the ceiling. Cats and dogs and ocelots roamed the passageways. From time to time Mack could hear the sounds of high-pitched pipes played against the boom of bass drums. Twice he ran into corridor vendors, who purveyed potstickers, beef on a stick, and Mongolian enchiladas, free of charge, provided by the Khan for the guests who sometimes got ravenously hungry as they searched for the corridor leading to the commissary.