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longer any wish to return to a home where he would find no one he knew. Kubilai’s court was now his home, and, when we met, his local knowledge had assisted me in my quest to find a murderer at that court. Besides knowing his way around, he had other skills – his nimble fingers could pick almost any lock in Christendom and beyond. He was therefore invaluable to me.
    It was Tadeusz who was at the door of our lodgings in Khan-balik when Gurbesu and I returned with our news. He is a small, wiry man with a stubbly beard that doesn’t grow on one side of his face where he was once badly burned. That deformity is the legacy of the Tartar invasion of his country. Now, the burned side of his face glowed bright red, and I knew he was worked up about something.
    â€˜Nick. I am so glad you are back.’
    â€˜Why, Tadeusz? What on earth is the problem?’
    He grabbed my arm and dragged me into the large room that we all shared. It was in a state of chaos. Well, to be honest, it was usually in a mess. With four independently-minded individuals occupying the same lodgings, it was not to be expected that everything would be neatly stowed. I did try and make an effort at tidying myself. I mean to say, I had often told Gurbesu to tidy the room, but this had been met with a stony stare that reminded me of Cat in many ways. I don’t know why I seemed to be burdened with incompliant women in my life. But I suppose I would have it no other way. Arguing with your woman had its compensations when it came to making up afterwards. Suffice it to say, our quarters in Old Yenking were rarely tidied up.
    Now however, the room was in even more of a mess than it normally was. I looked around, immediately noticing that two large saddlebags lay in the centre of the chaos. They were already stuffed with clothes and papers that stuck out haphazardly. I could see that the clothes were those belonging to Friar Alberoni. I groaned.
    â€˜What is the friar up to now?’
    â€˜He says he is leaving. His quest is at an end, and he has no further purpose here in the land of idolaters.’
    I threw up my hands in despair. If I was honest, I would have to admit that Alberoni was superfluous most of the time. But he did have his uses sometimes. It’s not that I revel in idolatry myself, but I just seem to have little need of God. But when I do need Him, then I usually find I have to call on His services at short notice, and having a priest at hand is useful. Besides, Alberoni was still my only connection with Venice in Kubilai’s vast empire. Even though he comes from the long low strip of an island beyond Venice called Malamocco, and so isn’t a true-bred Venetian. Still, we could talk to each other about La Serenissima when I was low, and dream of returning there. It seemed that Alberoni was now planning his return more precipitately than I could hope for.
    â€˜What on earth can I do to persuade him to stay, do you think?’
    Alberoni’s voice gave me my answer.
    â€˜There is nothing you can do, Niccolò. I am determined to go.’
    The tall, angular figure of Friar Giovanni Alberoni appeared in the street doorway. His long black robe was shabby and patched in numerous places, but he always gave the impression of neatness, and that somehow translated into a sense of closeness to God. His eyes glittered with resolve, and he scrubbed at his smoothly shaved chin. Not for him the rough unruly beard that I adopted in my role as the demon Zhong Kui. No, he was habitually scraping at his chin every three of four days, just like the Chinee. Mind you, our hosts had little to scrape off their chins. Even the Mongols had a sparse thatch compared to my glorious red bush, which admittedly was beginning to show some grey hairs. I tried my last card, knowing the friar hated being on horseback.
    â€˜Your only means of getting back will be to ride, and it is a long, long way home. Also it will be dangerous for you to be on