“I’ll give you twenty ducats and you can just say the big one fell on this one when he succumbed, killing him. Or plague? You can’t beat a good plague to explain mysterious death.”

“I’ll fetch the captain,” he said. He disappeared through the gate and presently returned with an unctuous and overpolished young officer with the suggestion of a mustache, the downy promise of beard, and the willowy wan look of a boy who has never, and shall never, do a day of work in his life. He was too young to have earned his command—born or bought into it, no doubt. If this was what Genoa was putting into the field, it was no wonder that Othello had thrashed them like ripe grain.

“I am told you wish to ransom the prisoner Marco Polo?”

“That would be true,” said I.

“Come in to the command chambers and we can negotiate the terms of his release. Monsieur Polo is an important prisoner.”

“Monsieur? Are you speaking fucking French at me?”

“Oui,” said Captain Fuzzcheek. He clicked his heels.

“Oh, très pretentious, signor. I presume you can take me to a proper officer now, so I don’t have to trade terms with a mossy-chinned little wanker whose father bought him a jailer job to keep him from buggering the help?”

As it turned out, I would be dealing with the aforementioned wanker, who felt it was his duty, I suppose, to extract every grain of gold I had before he would release Marco Polo into my care, so insulting him had worked in my favor. He thought he’d won, of course, but since it was not my gold, I had bested him. Ha!

Thus the explorer collected his kit and we led Drool back to the boat to await Jessica’s return. I agreed to row, as Drool wanted to sit in the bow of the boat and keep an eye out for Viv, while Marco Polo sat on the stern bench, levered upward somewhat by Drool’s stonking density at the front of the boat.

“You seem rather well-kept for someone who has been in prison for two months,” said I. He was a fit, sharp-featured Venetian of about forty, his beard starting to gray, with more lines and color to his face than most of his merchant counterparts. This one had done more than eat rich food and bargain on the Rialto.

“Except for the children playing in the harbor calling my name all day, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. The Genoans knew my family has means. I was confined to quarters that had once housed a duke. I just could not leave. I thought I would take the time to write my memoirs.”

“Marco!” called Drool in the voice of a small boy. “Polo!” came the response in another child’s voice, as if it were coming from a different spot.