The house itself had been constructed of wood, now painted white. The front door stood in the center, with precisely matched windows on each side; the entire building, down to every detail, was bilaterally symmetrical. Long, white curtains fluttered in the open windows.

The servant hurried from behind Marcia to beat Hunter to the front door. He flung it open and stepped aside, bowing again as his guests entered. Another servant, a young woman with long braids, held the door inside, also bowing.

The servants led them through a foyer into a large sitting room. Large tables of Chinese rosewood, small ones of black lacquer, and rosewood chairs lined the room. The chairs were padded with embroidered silk cushions; porcelain vases on the tables held green plants or flowers. Chinese landscape scrolls hung on the walls.

A European man of average height entered. He had curly brown hair and a neatly trimmed matching beard, and he wore a plain blue Chinese robe. Steve judged him to be in his late thirties.

“Welcome,” he said in formally in Italian. “I am Marco Polo. Do you understand Italian?”

“Yes,” Hunter responded in that language. “I am Hunter, a trader. My companions are close friends.”

“Welcome,” Polo said to Steve and Marcia in Chinese, with a slight bow.

“Thank you,” said Steve, bowing. In the rear of the house, he could hear other footsteps and muffled conversation. Obviously, Polo employed many servants.

Next to him, Marcia also bowed but said nothing.

Switching back to Italian, Polo added, “I am not fluent in Chinese, but I have picked up a few words.”

“You have done very well here,” said Hunter.

“By your accent, you are not Italian,” Polo said to Hunter. “Where are you from?”

“Switzerland.”

“Switzerland! I have heard it is beautiful there. My travels never took me that direction.”

Steve glanced quickly at Marcia. He did not recall Hunter discussing this detail of his role. She did not react, so Steve decided that Hunter knew what he was doing.

“However, I have traveled a great deal,” said Hunter. “I have not been home for many years.”

“Have you been to Venice? Can you bring me news of my home city?”

“I can tell you a little.”

For the first time, Polo smiled broadly. “Excellent! Please sit down.”

Steve waited for Hunter to move first. Hunter accepted a large rosewood chair. A small black lacquered table inlaid with abalone shell separated it from a matching chair that Polo took. Steve and Marcia then sat down on a small couchlike seat with a straight, uncomfortable back.

Polo turned to the servants, who were standing attentively to one side.“Cha, dian xin.”

The servants bowed and hurried away.

“He knows more Chinese words than you thought,” Steve whispered. Polo had ordered tea and the brunch more commonly known in Cantonese as dim sum at home in their own time.

“So tell me about Venice,” Polo said in Italian. “Is it still the premiere city in Italy?”

“It is proud and splendid,” said Hunter, “the finest city in all of Europe.”

“And Venetian galleys still sweep the Mediterranean of pirates?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad. I left when I was still young. My father and uncle are jewelers. They live in this neighborhood, too.”

“How did your family first come here?”

“My father and my uncle had a house in Soldaia, on the Black Sea.”

“That city has an entire colony of Italian merchants, doesn’t it?”

“Yes! You’ve been there, I take it?”

“No,” Hunter said. “I have heard of it.”

“Oh. Well, it is a fine city, though not the equal of Venice-and certainly not the city that Khanbaliq is.”

Steve relaxed, leaning back in his seat as Hunter and Polo discussed more events in Venice. He sneaked glances at Marcia, who did not react outwardly in any way. Steve realized that Hunter was using the information he had accessed from the Mojave Center library to convince Polo that he knew Venice.