by Mark Teppo
“I’ll go first,” she said as she glanced around for the satchel she had been carrying when they had met outside the alley and she had dragged him into the midmorning shadows. She spotted the bag, and as she grabbed it by its shoulder strap, a blue silk pouch fell out, hitting the ground with a clink. Gansukh picked it up, and he felt its weight and how its contents shifted.
He had divided up the spoils of a conquest enough times to instinctively know what was in the purse.
She was avoiding his gaze, and he hesitated to offer the purse back. He wasn’t going to give it up so readily. Not until she looked at him.
She raised her eyes and met his gaze, and he was startled by the mixture of fear and defiance he saw. Her face softened, and he saw something else-a quiet desperation that made his chest tighten.
She needed him.
“We have to go,” she said, tugging the purse of coins and jewelry out of his slack hand. She stowed it carefully in her bag and then paused, pushing her hair back behind her ears. She wanted to say something else, and he waited for her to speak, but she changed her mind and flashed him a hopeful smile instead.
Clutching her bag tightly, she strode away, heading toward the crowded courtyard.
He watched her go, lost in thought.
“Have you seen Gansukh?”
The question frightened Lian. Not because she hadn’t seen Master Chucai approach, but for a moment, she panicked, terrified that he knew everything. He had seen them in the alley; he knew what was in the bag she held so protectively. “N…no, no,” she stammered. She had been walking alongside the mounted ranks of the Imperial Guard, her head down and eyes averted from the ranks of bored warriors. Trying to be as invisible as possible. “Not since yesterday,” she added, trying to shove aside all the memories of the encounter in the alley that were still scampering around in her head. “If I see him,” she said, getting herself under more control, “I will tell him you are looking for him.” She bowed slightly and made to continue walking.
“Wait.” Chucai had her pinned with his unwavering stare, as if he could-by force of his will-read all her secrets. He came to within half a pace and shifted his piercing gaze to the bag in her hands. “I thought we had loaded all of your-”
“Lian!” Gansukh strode up behind Chucai, an angry expression furrowing his brow. “There you are.”
Flustered, and not entirely sure why but thankful for the confusion nonetheless, Lian bowed toward the young warrior. “Gansukh,” she said, indicating Chucai. “Master Chucai was looking for you.”
Gansukh glanced at the Khagan’s tall advisor for a second before returning his attention to her. “And I’ve been looking for you,” he said. He pointed at the bag she was carrying. “More lessons on how to act?” he asked. “Aren’t we done with all that?”
Lian risked a glance at Chucai and shook her head. “Are you ever done learning how to hunt?” she snapped, suddenly finding herself on much more secure footing. “I told you we would continue going over the lessons until you had mastered them as well as you have the bow.” She stamped her foot. “Did you think you could escape me on the steppe?”
“I was really looking forward to staring up at the stars,” Gansukh groused, “instead of having my face buried in lessons on courtly manners.” He shot Chucai a pleading look, but the tall man only shrugged and stroked his beard. With a heavy sigh, Gansukh reached for Lian’s bag, which she handed over without hesitation. “This is never going to end,” he snorted as he slung the bag over his shoulder.
“Soon,” Chucai assured him. “It will end soon enough.” His gaze relented, though Lian was not convinced Chucai’s disinterest was entirely genuine.
Gansukh grunted and glanced around at the ranks of Imperial Guard. “Are we ever going to actually leave?” he asked.
“That all depends on the will of the Khagan,” Chucai said, and Lian bowed her head, a devotional acknowledgment of the Khagan’s magnificent being. “We are ready, though, so as soon as he desires to leave for Burqan-qaldun, we shall.”
Gansukh nodded smartly. “Good. I am looking forward to getting out of this stifling palace and sleeping under the open sky again.” He thumped a fist against the bag, and Lian tried very hard not to flinch, anticipating some sound from the purse of jewelry and coins. “I will not let these become my prison. I am a free man.”
He inclined his head to both of them and wandered off. Chucai and Lian watched as Gansukh and the bag disappeared into the crowd in the direction of the Khagan’s ger. His stride was exaggerated, and he swaggered slightly, as if he had just won a wrestling match.
“Horse boy,” Lian chirped. Privately, she wanted to run after him and kiss him-a fierce urge flushing through her blood, the encounter in the alley still fresh in her mind and body. But to openly expose herself in that way would be to destroy the illusion they were attempting to weave for Chucai. If they had even been successful in doing so-Chucai’s bland expression made it hard to tell.
“He has learned much about life at court, hasn’t he?” Chucai noted. “But for all of our help, he’s still a nomad of the steppes.” He waved a hand toward the palace walls. “Out there, it’s his world.”
Lian gave Chucai one of her alluring yet aloof smiles, hoping he would misread her expression as being disdainful of having to credit Gansukh with any intelligence whatsoever.
Secretly, she was counting on it. He had come to her aid so quickly and so effortlessly. Would it be that easy?
Toregene blocked the inner door to Ogedei Khan’s quarters, barking orders at anyone who dared to come within earshot-servants, guards, the other wives. Ogedei slumped on an enormous chair near the center of the room. Absently, he toyed with a large bone-handled knife in a leather sheath, oblivious to the chaos around him. Occasionally, a servant would wander close, intending to ask for the Khagan’s guidance on the disposition of a piece of furniture or of some robes, but the Khagan only grunted inconclusively-if he answered at all. Toregene would quickly snap at the confused servants, sending them scurrying away, smarting from the lash of her tongue.
Ogedei was ready to leave Karakorum. She could sense his indifference was born from frustration. He knew all the preparations were necessary, that to hurry them would only cause them to take longer, but all he yearned for was to begin the long journey to Burqan-qaldun. The Khagan, like most men, did not like to wait. It was a trait his father had truly mastered; unfortunately, it had not been passed on to any of his sons.
“We are leaving,” she announced in a shrill voice. “If it cannot be readied by the time the Khagan leaves this room, it stays here.” After a moment of shocked silence, the servants and other wives exploded into a frenzy of activity as they frantically tried to stuff more items into already overstuffed trunks.
Ogedei was looking at her, a small smile playing across his lips. He waved her over, and she crossed the room to sit at his feet, tucking her legs beneath her.
“What would I do without you?” he asked.
Her smile was genuine. “Thankfully, it is a question that will never be answered, my Khan. I am yours now and forever.”
Ogedei nodded; then his smile faded. “My wife, I must ask a favor of you.”
Toregene turned to face her husband more fully. “Anything, my Khan.”
“I want you to stay here.”
“What?” She stared at him, unable to fathom the reason for his request. She was First Wife. She was his woman; she was always at his side. That was her right. Why would he not take her with him? His face was impassive; if he suffered any qualms about his request, they did not show.
It is not a request.
“Of…of course, my Khan,” she murmured, dropping her gaze. She put her hand on his knee for a moment, and when he did not move, she let it slip off. “If this is what you want,” she tried. “If…if this is your wish.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Toregene saw that all activity in the room had ceased. The servants were trying to hide behind the trunks the
y were hauling from the room. The other wives had lost all interest in their final, desperate flurry of packing; Jachin was openly staring at Ogedei and Toregene, and she made no effort to hide her glee.
Toregene couldn’t imagine what offense she had given the Khagan. She tried to calm her thoughts, but Jachin’s delight was only making her angrier.
“Toregene,” Ogedei rumbled. He rested his hand on her head, stroking her hair, and his touch quieted some of her anger. “You are First Wife,” he said, “and there is no one I would rather have as the head of my household.” She leaned against his hand, grasping his arm so that he would not stop touching her hair. He raised his voice so that everyone in the room would hear his words. “I must go on this hunt, and to be successful, I must be able to concentrate. If I have to worry about-”
“You will not have to worry about me,” Toregene interrupted. She hadn’t meant to beg, but the thought of being passed over for Jachin was still too much to bear. “I will be like a shadow at midday. I will-”
He put his hand over her face, his fingers pressing against her mouth. “I need you to stay,” he said. “Someone must watch over my affairs. Someone I can trust.”
Behind her, Jachin gasped, and Toregene blinked heavily as her vision swam. She sagged as he removed his hand, and she tried to steady herself. “My Khan…” she began, but he was no longer sitting in the chair.
His hand resting on the hilt of his father’s knife, Ogedei strode toward the door. “To the hunt,” he cried, and all activity in the room resumed. Guards opened the door as the Khagan approached, and the remaining servants, tottering under overflowing bags, scampered after him.
Toregene caught sight of Jachin’s face as she followed the Khagan. Second Wife was still trying to decide if she should be elated or furious, and Toregene gave her no satisfaction either way. She remained slumped over, her body quivering, until the wives and their servants were gone.
She sat upright and waved over one of the remaining guards. “Find my son,” she said.
“I’m sure he’s with the caravan,” the guard replied.
“Find him,” she snapped. “And his bags.” When the guard hesitated, she explained her desire more plainly. “He isn’t going. If I stay, so does he.”
The guard nodded and, taking another man with him, departed to find Guyuk.
Toregene smoothed her hair back, running her fingers along the ribbons woven into the thick braids. Her blood was still racing, and her hands shook slightly as she worked. Her mind was no longer frozen in shock; in fact, it felt like there was a river in her head. Her thoughts raced and leaped like a torrent of fresh mountain water, released from the cold captivity of winter.
The Khagan had left her in charge. If he didn’t come back…
“Guyuk,” she whispered. My son. The Khagan’s son.
None of Genghis’s progeny had enough patience. Not like she did.
* * *
Master Chucai met Ogedei as he emerged from the palace. His tall advisor bowed deeply, acknowledging the significance of Ogedei’s appearance this morning. The Khagan had left his palace, and as soon as he climbed aboard his magnificent wheeled ger, he would be leaving Karakorum. “The sun shines brightly this morning, O great Khagan,” Chucai said. “It is an auspicious day to begin your journey.”
Ogedei nodded absently as he looked out over the assembled caravan. Hundreds of carts and wagons and wheeled tents, thousands of horses, his Imperial Guard, many of his courtiers, and a host of merchants, craftsmen, and nomadic camp followers-all ready to chase after him to the place where the Blue Wolf had lain with the Fallow Doe, the sacred grove where the Mongol race had been born and where his father had been buried. Where he must go to face his destiny. This is my empire, he thought, and even though the sun was warm on his face and chest, he shivered slightly. They will follow me anywhere.
“Everything is prepared, my Khan,” Chucai reminded him. “We are ready to leave at your command.”
“It is time,” Ogedei said. Chucai nodded, but when no one else seemed to react to his words, he raised his voice to address the entire host. “I am Ogedei, son of Genghis, Khagan,” he bellowed, “and I go to Burqan-qaldun, the Place of the Cliff.”
He strode down the steps from the palace as the host cheered, and while the roaring sound stunned him, he kept moving. His gait faltered as he approached the seething press of bodies, but they parted before him, opening a path to the wooden steps that had been placed beside his mobile tent. He strode through the gap, buffeted by hands that grasped and pressed against him. He kept his gaze forward and his expression fixed in what he hoped was an appropriately grim scowl. The noise was overwhelming and showed no sign of weakening. He found himself wondering if this was akin to being buried in sand or what it was like to drown in a raging river.
At the top of the steps, two attendants held open the flaps on the ger, and he ducked through the opening. The attendants dropped the flaps behind him, and he paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim light inside. The heavy hide of the tent blocked the bulk of the cheering and shouting outside.
The ger had been arranged as a replica of his rooms in the palace. Half a dozen people waited to serve him. A fire crackled in a large stone-lined pit, and Ogedei could hear and smell meat cooking. Animal furs lined the floor, and at the back of the ger stood his great chair from the main hall in the palace. Borakchin and Mukha lounged on low couches near his chair; they were dressed as if for a court dinner, and the gold threads in their gowns glittered in the candlelight. On his right, Mukha’s favorite entertainers, a troop of Chinese acrobats, were juggling a dizzying number of colored balls.
“This is not how my father hunted,” Ogedei sighed.
The floor lurched beneath him and then began to rock gently as the ger’s driver got the team of oxen moving.
19
Grave Gravatae
Ferenc had willingly followed Ocyrhoe through the city, had even let her hold his hand as they walked, as if they were young lovers; in the passing throngs, they risked being separated, and she was concerned that the wide-eyed country boy could be carried away in the current of people. The initial fear he had expressed about standing out as clearly Other was soothed within a quarter hour, once she showed him that half the city was made of people from foreign lands: priests, pilgrims, merchants, and travelers of all hues and costumes.
Eventually, Ocyrhoe turned them from a major thoroughfare down a smaller, almost empty side street. They followed this, unpaved and dusty, for the length of a bowshot. The buildings to either side were stone and old; they were not decorated and had few, if any, windows. She turned again into a narrow alley to the right, between two high buildings with no windows at all. It was cool in here; the sun never peeked between those walls except perhaps at noon in high summer, and then briefly.
The alley dead-ended where the buildings did, against a third building. It was like being in a deep, deep canyon: a narrow slot of sky above, shadow below, and no escape except back the way they’d come. There were no doors, no smaller alleys, nothing. Ocyrhoe approached the crumbling stone and brick of the dead-end wall and began to examine it, as if for cracks. After a few fruitless moments, she turned and faced Ferenc expectantly. He gave her a blank, confused look and shook his head.
Ocyrhoe was sure she had explained this to him in the outpouring of their first “conversation,” when they suddenly realized they could communicate through the silent language she had learned from her kin-sisters, and known to them in some ancient tongue as Rankos Kalba, or Rankalba. She was still confused that he, a male, could know this code, but there was no time to wonder about that now.
Perhaps he had not really understood what she’d said before. Admittedly, she had simplified it; it would be exhausting and very time-consuming to try to explain the Septizodium and the elections and Orsini and Fieschi and too many other things. She sent a silent prayer to the Bind-Mother. Oh, please, let him understand me.
She slapped the cool st
one wall, then took Ferenc’s wrists and tapped her fingers on the bony flesh in alternating singles, pairs, threes, fours, grip, then three, then one, and so on-variations signing out the basic message, as if she were leaving notches in a long piece of wood or on a cornice, or tying knots in a cord or her own hair: “Father Rodrigo is inside. Prisoner.” Ferenc blinked, then nodded. “Many rooms, in many buildings,” she continued. “Different rooms with tunnels connecting all. We are close. We must get in.” She noticed confusion in Ferenc’s expression. Too fast, she thought. Whoever taught him Rankalba didn’t finish the lesson. “Understand?” she asked, signing more slowly against his inner arm and wrist.
He mused on that for a moment, then nodded, though his expression suggested he was still unsure. She chewed her lower lip, looked up, then down, then decided to try drawing a map on the dust of the ground. She held out her hand. “Pugio?” she asked, using the Latin word. At his blank look, she mimed holding the weapon and stabbing the air with it, then again held out her hand.
“Pugio,” he said, and he repeated it once more as he gave her his knife. He was, she realized, learning the Latin word.
In the dirt of the alley, Ocyrhoe crouched and drew a bird’s-eye view of this alley and the immediate surrounding streets and buildings. She placed the facade of the Septizodium in the center of it and then drew the surrounding structures; these she knew by rumor were connected via tunnels, but after she drew in the streets, she was not sure how to designate tunnels. When she was finished, she looked up at him. “Mappa?” she said, again using the Latin word.
He nodded agreeably as he squatted next to her. She made a little X on the map beside one of the scratched-in buildings. “FerencOcyrhoe,” she declared, pointing to it. She patted the stone wall again, then etched in deeper the line representing it on the map.
