Because it had power.
Chucai snorted, rejecting that answer. He waved at the guards outside the ger, indicating that he wanted to see the Khagan, and when they acknowledged his presence, he mounted the steps. “My Khan,” he called through the opening at the top of the tent flaps. “May I have a word?”
He listened for a response, and hearing little more than a single grunt of an answer, he glanced at the nearest guard and raised an eyebrow. The guard shrugged, and pulled back the flaps of the ger. Chucai ducked and entered.
The Khan was sitting in a cypress yokeback chair, a recent gift from a provincial sub-administrator from Ningxia, facing away from the ger flaps. He stared at the wall, lost in the roseate light provided by a nearby brazier of orange and red coals. His large cup—the one provided by Gansukh and later dented by the young man’s skull—dangled perilously in his slack hands.
There were white feathers scattered all over the floor. Chucai frowned, wondering about the source of the down, and his gaze roamed across the chamber. He hoped the Khagan hadn’t slaughtered a live bird in here...
The roof of the ger was low enough that Chucai had to duck slightly to avoid hitting his head on the support poles. He walked around (still keeping an eye out for any sign of a mangled bird), until the Khagan could see him. “My Khan,” he said, sweeping into a deep bow. “I wish to report on the Chinese raid.”
The Khagan stiffened slightly, drawing in breath, though he still appeared lost in thought. Chucai hesitated, watching the Khagan intently. Was Ögedei in some sort of trance, a passing vegetative state in the wake of channeling the vision? Traveling to the spirit realms exacted a harsh toll on shamans, and he had heard stories of seekers who had been so moved by their experiences that they never fully returned to their bodies. Their spirits, loosened in their flesh, eventually drifted away. One day, the body would just stop breathing.
Chucai cleared his throat noisily. Such foolishness, he thought sourly. I am behaving like a superstitious herdsman.
Ögedei stirred, blinking heavily. His hands closed more firmly around his cup, and he came back to himself. “Master Chucai,” he mumbled. “What news have you for me?”
“The Chinese rebels have been defeated, my Khan. Their efforts to destroy your magnificent caravan were futile, and—”
“Any prisoners?”
“No, my Khan.” Chucai ground his teeth. He had given strict orders, but he had been too late.
“What did they want?” Ögedei asked. “They did not fire on my ger.” He raised the cup to his lips. “I have had much time to reflect on their strategies,” he continued after drinking. “They were not idiots, I presume. Fools, but not idiots.”
Chucai nodded. “No, My Khan. They were not idiots.”
“How many were there?”
“Forty, perhaps. I have sent out a number of arban to ensure there are no more of them hiding nearby.”
“How many of my Imperial Guard did we lose?”
“About the same number. Plus a number of—” Chucai waved a hand to indicate the inconsequence of having lost some of the nonessential members of the Khagan’s retinue.
“What was their mission?”
“I suspect they were after the Spirit Banner,” Chucai confessed. “Though I do not know why.”
Ögedei’s eyes twitched toward the wall of the tent, and as carelessly as possible, Chucai glanced over to see what Ögedei had been looking at. There was nothing on the wall, nothing but a vague shadow—a misshapen circle with tiny strands descending from it. A shadow of a head with long hair, he interpreted.
“Do they think I am that weak?” Ögedei asked. “If they stole my father’s banner, would the empire fall apart instantly? Would I wake in the morning to find that every clan had deserted me?” He snorted, answering his own questions.
“I doubt it, my Khan,” Chucai said. He wet his lips, suddenly disturbed by the shadow on the wall. Glancing around the room, he could not figure out how it was being projected on the wall. And when he looked at the wall again, the shadow had changed into an amorphous streak, as if the previous shape had started to run, like ink staining a page.
“What did your father tell you of the banner?” he asked curtly. The shadow was unsettling. The more he tried to ignore it, the more it crept into the periphery of his vision. “Where did he get it?”
Ögedei shrugged. He peered into his cup, seeming to have lost interest in Chucai’s questions. “It’s just a stick,” he muttered. “Father made it.”
He didn’t, Chucai realized with an absolute certainty. He wanted to look at the wall once more, but the shadow was gone. All that remained was a blur in his mind, a shape that flowed and wavered. Like a horse’s tail. Or the tassels of the Spirit Banner.
Why had the Chinese sought the banner? He recalled the rough spot on the wood, and wondered if he was asking the wrong question.
Chucai had meant to retire to his own ger to reflect more on the puzzle of the Spirit Banner, but he had been accosted almost immediately by Jachin, Ögedei’s second wife, who had decided to place the blame of the Chinese attack on him. While he had been trying to extricate himself from the tiresome woman’s ranting, they had been interrupted by Munokhoi. The Torguud captain had swept back into the camp, demanding an audience with the Khagan. Chucai, welcoming the opportunity to escape Jachin’s tirade, had directed Munokhoi to his ger, knowing that Ögedei was in no shape to listen to the headstrong warrior. A decision which, in retrospect, might not have been the wisest. Out of sight of his underlings, Munokhoi unleashed a raging torrent of invective that appeared to have no end in sight. It was as if the man has kept a tally of every perceived slight against him since Gansukh arrived at court, he thought, and now they are all being counted.
“Enough,” he snapped, waving his hands to get Munokhoi to stop.
Munokhoi came up short, caught in midsentence and midstep. He glared at the Khagan’s advisor, his eyes glittering with a copious amount of still untapped rage.
“Captain Munokhoi,” Chucai said after a moment, “I appreciate your concern about young Gansukh and Mistress Lian. I will...” He was torn between several responses, and with a sign, decided to address the underlying matter directly by responding in a way that would further enrage the Torguud captain. “I will take it under consideration.”
Munokhoi quivered. “Under consideration?” he hissed. “You will imprison—”
“You will do well to remember who is in charge of the Khagan’s court,” Chucai snapped. The Torguud captain hadn’t been able to contain himself, as Chucai had anticipated. His own frustration had an outlet now. “And wherever the Khagan is, wherever he takes an audience, that is his court. We are not at war, Captain. This is not the battlefield. Your concerns are noted.”
Munokhoi did not say anything, but he refused to budge, staring daggers at Chucai. The fingers of his right hand twitched. He was not wearing his sword—Chucai had smartly requested that he leave his blade with one of the servants standing outside the ger—but the Torguud captain still had his knife.
For a long moment, Chucai held his stare, examining Munokhoi’s eyes for some sign that the man was foolish enough to draw the blade. Are you such a fool? he projected. What do you think will happen to you if you draw that knife? If you kill me, what will the Khagan think of you?
Munokhoi seemed to be having similar thoughts. His hand relaxed and he looked away. He exhaled, and it was as if a storm cloud fled his body with his released breath.
“Gansukh and Lian are surrounded by the entire caravan. They know they are under scrutiny,” Chucai explained, knowing that Munokhoi was actually listening to him now. “They know you are watching them. Whatever Gansukh and Lian may be, they are not fools. Even if Gansukh wanted to leave the Khagan’s service—and I don’t believe he does—he’s too smart to attempt it on this pilgrimage to Burqan-qaldun. And even if Lian wants to escape—which I grant you is something she desperately wants to do—she’s too smart to attempt it w
ithout Gansukh’s help. Now, consider the needs of someone other than yourself.”
Munokhoi blinked, and then slowly nodded as he realized Chucai was not going to continue until he had physically acknowledged Chucai’s words.
“What drives the empire? Is it not an awareness of a grander destiny for all Mongol people? And in whom does this awareness reside?” Chucai paused, as if to give Munokhoi a moment to realize the answer to his question—a moment both he and the Torguud captain knew was unnecessary. “You live to serve the Khagan, Captain, just as I do. As do Gansukh and Lian, in their own ways. The empire is too vast for one man to handle. It has a singular vision, yes, but managing the myriad of people and clans and resources is well beyond the ability of one man. The Khagan, then, has to rely on people he can trust. People he knows will act as he would act if he were doing the job he has given them.
“Now, consider recent events. The Khagan has fallen into a malaise—which happens every year at this time. In the past, he drank to excess so as to forget the pain of his brother’s death. This year, however, he has been convinced to make a spiritual pilgrimage to Burqan-qaldun.”
Convinced, in no small part, by Gansukh, which Chucai decided to not say aloud.
“During his journey, the Khagan has been attacked by a motley force of disgruntled Chinese rebels,” Chucai continued, “of which there are thousands and thousands scattered across his magnificent empire. This attack has been ably repulsed by his hand-picked Torguud captain. Your swift and decisive martial response not only ensures his safety, but validates his decision to make you the commander of the whole of his escort.”
Chucai leaned forward. “Think carefully, Munokhoi. Do you really want to disturb the Khagan’s goodwill by whining to him about Gansukh and Lian? Especially when all that you are really talking about is the relationship between a warrior the Khagan admires and a Chinese whore?”
Munokhoi lowered his eyes. “No, Master Chucai.” The muscles in his jaw flexed.
Chucai nodded and sank back into the embrace of his chair. “Thank you, Captain,” he said, stressing Munokhoi’s title to remind him how new it was—and still so easy to remove. “As I said earlier, I have heard your concerns. I will let you know if there is any assistance I might require.”
Munokhoi bowed, albeit shortly and stiffly, and retired from the ger. One of Chucai’s attendants poked his head into the tent as Chucai returned his attention to the scattered documents on his desk. “Master?” the man inquired.
“Find out where Master Gansukh is,” Chucai said without looking up. “Do not disturb him. I simply want to know what he is doing.”
The attendant nodded his understanding and vanished from the entrance of the ger, leaving Chucai to some long overdue privacy. He pressed the palms of both hands against his eyes. His head was pounding and he realized he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since before the Chinese attack.
He was still waiting to hear reports from the war parties that had been sent out to ensure that the Chinese force had been decimated and that there was no sign of another group waiting to strike. It would be dawn soon, and the caravan needed to move, despite the fire damage and those incapacitated. He didn’t want to present too opportune a target, and as long as the caravan was moving he didn’t have to consider the more troubling issue.
Munokhoi’s patrols had failed to anticipate the Chinese attack. For all that he had just said to Munokhoi, the Torguud should have been better prepared.
He could insist that Munokhoi double the size of the patrols, but that was a game that the Chinese could play as well. At Karakorum, they had had the advantage of the walls and the city as well as the entirety of the Imperial Guard to provide adequate protection for the Khagan. But the Imperial Guard was not used to being mobile, nor did its leadership have the right experience.
Chucai drummed his fingers on the desk. What of the young pony? he reflected. Would Gansukh be a better choice to lead the Khagan’s guards?
An attendant pushed his way into the ger, a cup of steaming tea in his hands. Without a word, he placed it on the desk and backed out of the tent. The cup was warm and the tea was a pale yellow color, with tiny white streaks that reflected back the light. Chucai held the cup, inhaling the aroma of the white tea and letting his mind go blank. Letting all the tumbling concerns in his head slip free.
The Khagan. Shortly after his audience with Ögedei, Chucai had been accosted by Jachin, who accused him of making Ögedei despondent and distracted. The Khagan was ignoring her, mumbling on about hunting a great bear at Burqan-qaldun, about recovering his warrior spirit. This was Chucai’s fault: he had fostered this idea in the Khagan’s head; he had organized the caravan; he had allowed that whelp of Chagatai’s to whisper in the Khagan’s ear. It was his doing, and she would have no more of it.
As much as Munokhoi’s arrival had spared him further recriminations from Jachin, he had to admit there was some credence to her accusations. Ögedei was suffering from a lack of self-confidence, a lack of faith in his own ability to lead the empire.
For the most part, Chucai knew Ögedei’s concerns were unfounded. Genghis had chosen Ögedei as his successor for good reasons, and for many years, he had been pleased to watch Ögedei grow into a role most thought him incapable of filling. He had watched Ögedei deftly manage the lesser khans and their inane territorial squabbles; he had seen the Khan handle delicate diplomatic situations with both the Chinese and the Koreans with aplomb. He had witnessed Ögedei’s prowess in battle, a much different—yet equally critical—aspect of leadership.
In the end, it was something as simple and ludicrous as wine that threatened to destroy the empire.
Gansukh. What he had said to Munokhoi was entirely true: an empire could not be managed by one man. But it was true that some men wielded more influence than others. For some, their influence was obvious. Him, for example. Others, like Gansukh, might never be recognized by history, but their part in the overall success of the empire was paramount. Chagatai had chosen wisely.
It could have been ten; it could have been a thousand men sent by Chagatai to watch over the Khagan and keep him from drinking himself to death. But Chagatai had sent one man, and Chucai dared to allow himself the thought that Gansukh might actually succeed in saving the Khagan.
Which made this issue of Munokhoi’s report that Lian had been trying to escape all the more infuriating. He could insist that she remain in his ger, and Gansukh would take his lessons under his watchful eye, but he sensed that a great deal of the success of their lessons lay in Lian’s unfettered access to him. Doing so had its drawbacks though, and it was becoming more and more evident that he would, eventually, have to address Lian’s influence over the young warrior.
There was also the issue of the Spirit Banner and why the Chinese had tried to steal it. For what purpose? he wondered. And the cut in the wood, the scab where something had been trimmed off the banner? The scab was too much like a living tree’s effort to cover a wound, or like flesh healing after a cut from a knife. How could that be possible on a piece of wood that had been harvested and shaped many years ago?
His mind traced a complicated path through recent events. If the cut had not been made on the banner tonight, then when? And by whom? His mind returned to the female assassin who had fled the palace. When she had been spotted on the roof of the Khagan’s palace, he had—like everyone else—assumed she had not yet entered the building. But what if that was the wrong conclusion? What if she had been spotted as she was leaving? What if, much like the Chinese raid, her target hadn’t been the Khagan, but the Spirit Banner? If so, then this raid was a desperate—and much less subtle—attempt to accomplish what had failed earlier.
Chucai picked up his tea and sipped it carefully. They didn’t know, he mused. The Chinese had attacked because they thought their agent had failed. But what if she hadn’t? What if she had been successful in her theft and—had it not been for Gansukh and Munokhoi—escaped completely?
After t
he fruitless interrogation, the thief’s clothing had been searched, and nothing had been found.
Which meant either Gansukh or Munokhoi had taken something from her before she had been delivered to the Khan’s throne room. The fact that neither had admitted to having such a prize in their possession was—
“Master Chucai.”
Chucai looked up, still lost in thought, and he dimly recognized the attendant standing inside the ger. The one he had sent to check on Gansukh.
“Master Gansukh is in his tent,” the attendant reported.
Chucai grunted, and then as the attendant remained, he pulled himself out of his thoughts and cocked his head. “Yes?”
“Master Gansukh is not alone.”
“Mistress Lian.” It was a statement, not a question, and the attendant nodded in affirmation.
“Thank you,” Chucai dismissed the attendant with a nod and leaned back in his seat, cradling the tea cup in his hands, an idea starting to form in his mind.
Gansukh and Lian, together. Confirmation of what he had suspected for some time. Their affection for each other was obvious even if they both denied it. In Karakorum, it had been difficult to distinguish between teacher and student and lovers, and Lian had always been very good at guarding her thoughts and feelings. Evidently, now, they were no longer concerned about hiding.
What should he do about it? According to Munokhoi’s somewhat fragmented story, they had been discovered together on the steppes during the attack. Gansukh had been a prisoner of the Chinese and Lian had claimed to have killed one of their commanders in order to rescue Gansukh.
If true, this would help deny the charge that Gansukh had abandoned his duties during the attack to help Lian, but it would not dispel Munokhoi’s accusations entirely.
Munokhoi saw both Lian and Gansukh as threats, and he had tried to convince Chucai the pair was a threat to the Khagan and not to his own personal advancement. The Torguud captain clearly hated the Chinese teacher and it did not take much imagination to see why he hated Gansukh. A hatred that would only increase as it became obvious to others that Gansukh’s knowledge of steppe fighting might be more useful than Munokhoi’s own experience. Regardless of what Chucai commanded of him, Munokhoi would continue to look for opportunities to do both of them harm.
The Mongoliad: Book Three Page 10
