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morning.
    She was wrapped in the Robe of a Thousand Larks, a garment of gold silk elaborately embroidered in silk thread with the brilliant colors of many larks in many attitudes, yellow throats arched, plump orange chests puffed out, black and yellow banded wings spread in flight, green heads cocked to one side, red beaks open in song. Bordered with brilliant flowers and green leaves and black branches, bound closely to the waist with a matching sash, it seemed to Wu Li that the robe made all the light in the world gather in this one room solely to illuminate Shu Ming’s slender, elegant figure.
    And it made his hands itch to loosen the knot of that sash.
    She set the comb carefully to one side and walked to him, and the whereabouts of Jaufre’s mother and indeed everything else were forgotten for the rest of the evening.

    The next morning he presented himself at the magistrate’s office as requested and saw with pleasure and not a little relief that the magistrate was not alone. “Ogodei!”
    He stepped forward and the two men exchanged a hearty embrace. From a corner of his eye he took note of the magistrate’s visible relaxation, and he hid a smile. Having a captain of a Mongol ten thousand in one’s backyard was never a cause for joy unconfined.
    “Wu Li, my good friend.” A man of ability, vigor and stamina, the Mongol chief was dressed in soldier’s robes, his long black mustaches rivaling Bayan’s own. He looked fit and bronzed from long days spent in the saddle, patrolling the western borders of the Khan’s vast empire. “I find you, as always, far from home.”
    Wu Li laughed. “The last time was, when? Khuree, at the summer court, at the ceremony of the gifts?”
    “Worse!” Ogodei covered his eyes and gave a dramatic shudder. “In Kinsai last fall. You had just returned from Cipangu, that far and obstinate country, laden with fine pearls and full of plans as to where and to whom to sell them.” He laughed, throwing back his head. “As I recall, you sold some to me.”
    “But then,” Wu Li said, a glint in his eye and a manifestly false tone of apology in his voice, “there are so many likely recipients for them.”
    This time Ogodei’s crack of laughter was so loud it made the magistrate jump, although for the sake of his dignity he did his best to conceal it. “True enough, Wu Li, my old friend. I am rich in wives and in concubines.” He cocked an eyebrow. “And the beautiful Shu Ming?”
    “Flourishing.”
    “And your daughter?”
    “Healthy, shooting up like a weed in springtime.” Wu Li exchanged a bow with the magistrate. “What brings you to the edge of the world, O great captain of the Khan?”
    The three men settled into chairs and leaned forward to discuss the state of their mutual world.
    Later, Wu Li gave Shu Ming the gist of it. “Jaufre’s caravan was not the only one attacked this season. Reports have been coming in from as far as Kabul, and even beyond. The Persian tribes are becoming ever more bold in their incursions. The Khan has placed several of his ten thousands to patrol the Road this season and deal with any trouble.”
    “He’s missed some,” Shu Ming said.
    He shot her a warning glance. It took only one informer to turn criticism to treason.
    “You will still look for Jaufre’s mother?” Shu Ming said.
    “I gave the boy my word,” Wu Li said, and Shu Ming said no more.

    Wu Li was as good as his word. He had been closely questioned by Ogodei and the magistrate on the remains of Jaufre’s caravan, and had used the interview to pose cautious questions of his own. He omitted any mention of Jaufre, and he had laid the most strict prohibition on all his people from making any public reference as to how the boy had come to be among them. Since Kashgar was the nearest available market for stolen goods, it stood to reason someone affiliated with the thieves would be in the city, very much alive to the news of an eyewitness and bound to pass it on. Ogodei