“I was taken captive, as well, but in not so comfortable circumstances as you.” So, for the second time in the day, I told my tale: of being drugged, chained in the dungeon, of the creature coming to me in the dark, doing the dark deed upon me, and its subsequent murders and mutilations. I left out the bits about being able to project my thoughts to the serpent, to receive what appeared to be return messages on the dark canvas of my eyelids, and my plans for revenge.

When I finished my tale, Polo said not a word, but dug into one of the two rucksacks the Genoans had allowed him to keep, and pulled out a small, red-lacquered Chinese box. He removed the lid and held it under my nose. It was full of a dark, tarry substance. “Smell. Was this the taste of your amontillado?”

“Aye,” said I. “I remember it well. And when Viv sunk her claws in me, I would taste it in the back of my throat for hours afterward.”

Polo closed the box and replaced it in his rucksack. “This is the substance the little dragon was attracted by. It has a dreamy effect on someone who eats it, a stronger painkiller than even the milk of the poppy.”

“I know its effect,” said I. “I very much know its effect.”

Polo looked at the well of the boat, as if ashamed. “I sold another such box to a merchant on the Rialto.”

“Antonio Donnola?”

“He said his father was dying with a tumor and was in great pain.”

“His father has been dead for years.”

“I am sorry,” said Polo. “I didn’t know.”

“Not to worry,” said I. “No way you could know. Nor that your creature had grown up. I expect we may be seeing her soon.”

Polo shuddered. “Do you wonder why she didn’t slay you?” Then, before I could answer, his gaze strayed over my shoulder. I heard a rhythmic slapping sound coming from the bow and I looked over my shoulder to see Drool standing in the boat, his back to us, twitching and laughing in a low, breathy giggle.

“Drool! What are you doing?”

“Havin’ a bit of a wank.”

“In the middle of your bloody rescue?”

“Just a wee one,” said the oaf.

“It was a constant the whole time we were captive,” said Marco Polo.

“You had yourself off for three months solid?”

“There weren’t nothing to read.”

“You don’t know how to read.”

“Yeah . . . ,” said Drool.

I turned to Polo. “Why didn’t you just tell him to stop?”

“In my travels I have learned to be respectful of other peoples’ cultures.”

“What culture?”

“Well, he’s English, isn’t he?”

“Nonstop wanking is not part of English culture.”

“It helps if you tell him a story,” said Polo. “Distracts him.”