The Mongoliad: Book Two

by Neal Stephenson

  Orsini narrowed his eyes. “Very well, Sinibaldo. I will send out an alert,” he said, rising to his feet and striding toward the door, “but then you must tell me exactly what you know and what has happened.”

  “Of course,” Fieschi replied. He stared at the door after the Bear had left the room, his mind tumbling over the possibilities. If Orsini was too late, and the girl managed to slip out of the city, how long would it take for her to reach Frederick’s pickets? How long would Frederick ponder her message before responding?

  The election of the next Pope had to happen soon. He couldn’t wait. He had to force the cardinals to vote. He had to find a way to break their deadlock. Appealing to their avarice and their self-serving natures hadn’t worked so far. He recalled the look on the guard’s face when he threatened the man’s family. Perhaps, he thought, it is time to find a different incentive.

  * * *

  Blinking even in the shaded sunlight of the alley, Ocyrhoe helped Ferenc pivot the stone back into place. It slid with remarkable ease, and she was amazed at how invisible the crack was, how solid the wall, when the door was properly closed. She would never have found it without Ferenc.

  He was blinking in the shade too. With his eyes, he gestured behind her, back out toward the main street. He held out his forearm with a questioning expression. When she did not take it, he grabbed her wrist and played his fingers across her skin. “What way?”

  Ocyrhoe had been thinking about their route out of Rome since they had left the company of cardinals deep inside the tunnels. Porta Appia and Porta Latina were closest, but since Fieschi knew they were here, she worried their presence would become known—perhaps it was already known—and Orsini would be alerted. The Bear’s men would be watching for them, both around the Septizodium and, quite possibly, at the gates.

  If they moved quickly, they might be able to get to the gate before the guards had it closed. But if they were too late, all would be lost. It would take too long to cross the city to a different gate. By that time, the city would be crawling with the Bear’s men, much like it had been when her sisters were first taken, and it would be difficult to escape.

  No, one of the other gates was a smarter plan. Even with the guidance of the other two cardinals—Capocci and Colonna—they had stumbled through the tunnels for some time, and since they had met no resistance, she could assume Fieschi had gone to Orsini. How long will it take him to reach the Bear? she wondered, trying to remember the night she had followed the cardinal to the palazzo. Orsini would have to send messengers to close the gates—if that was his first reaction—and so the best gate would be one which it would take his messengers a long time to reach; they would have more time to reach it themselves before an edict arrived to close the city. It might be possible...

  She traced the route in her head: north, to the Coliseum and past the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore; east along the Via Tiburtina, all the way to the gate. The same one Ferenc and Father Rodrigo came through when they arrived in Rome. She shivered slightly as a chill touched the back of her neck. Even if Fieschi ran to the Porta Appia himself and dispatched messengers from there, the Porta Tiburtina was far enough away to be a good choice. That was what she told herself. There was no other reason to choose that gate...

  “Follow me,” she signed back. “Hand-holding.”

  They interlaced fingers, grimy palm against grimy palm, and walked quickly toward the main street.

  Walking was always a pleasure for Ocyrhoe, no matter where she was going, and it was so even now when there was so much to worry about. Ferenc might be more acute of hearing and of vision, but she apprehended the patterns of life in a holistic, intuitive way, and even a brisk walk—almost a run, if they could sustain it—would reveal much to her about the mood and temperament of her city.

  As they walked, she wondered about this Robert of Somercotes who had known the name of her sisterhood’s secret language; she wondered too about Ferenc. How could a male come to know a language that had only ever been used by Binders—who were, as far as she knew, always female? If only I had had more training, she lamented, perhaps these mysteries would not be mysteries. If only she’d had more of an interest in history and philosophy before the Bear’s men had come for her sisters.

  They stopped at a small turn in the road, just around the corner from the marketplace that sprawled in the shadow of the Coliseum. Ferenc pulled up short next to a wagon maker’s shop, not to avoid a slow-moving cart trundling by but for some other reason entirely.

  Ocyrhoe gave him a questioning look, and he released her hand to tap on her arm: “Listen.”

  Embarrassed that this stranger to her native city had better ears than she did, Ocyrhoe took a deep breath and held it, willing her senses to move beyond their immediate surroundings. Ahead of them—on the far side of the marketplace—there was some commotion. Through the general roar, men’s voices shouted in anger; women wailed beseechingly.

  A riot. There were any number of explanations why the beleaguered people of Rome might flare into anger, but the tight knot in Ocyrhoe’s stomach warned her it was for the reason she feared most.

  Her fingers danced rapidly along his arm. “The guards have been alerted,” Ocyrhoe signed.

  He was startled. “They are looking for us,” he signed, looking for her confirmation that he read the situation correctly—that they were the cause of the riot up ahead. “The angry tunnel priest did this.” He punctuated his statement with a quizzical look.

  She shrugged, then nodded and tapped his wrist twice with two fingers—total agreement. “I will tell you more later,” she fingered. “Angry tunnel priest is F-i-e-s-c-h-i.” Then, aloud, she said, “Fieschi.”

  “Fieschi,” Ferenc repeated. His quizzical expression remained.

  Ocyrhoe realized that he didn’t understand how a priest could command the city guard. He wouldn’t understand the word Senator, and to explain what a Senator was would take too long. “He works for a Rome leader named Orsini.” As an afterthought, she added, “Orsini imprisons priests.”

  Ferenc’s mouth dropped open, and he touched her upper forearm in the simple Rankalba gesture: “Why?”

  “Too long to tell now,” she signed again. “Later. Must move quickly now. Must hurry to gate.”

  Before it was too late.

  24

  The Knife Edge

  IT WAS THE fourth night before Gansukh had an opportunity to do more than take care of his horse, throw his gear on the ground, and collapse into a restless sleep—sleep that was blissfully free of memories of the encounter with Lian in the alley. It was a secret, much like the green sprig he kept hidden in his deel—an impossibility that was somehow true, but which he feared would vanish if examined too closely.

  Instead, he sought to lose himself in the steppe—the fresh air, the open sky—but that joy was overshadowed by the ponderous and constant needs of the Khagan’s caravan. Each evening, the call to halt came a half hour before sunset, and it always took until well after nightfall before the last cart came to a complete stop. So many of Ögedei’s retinue were completely unprepared for living on the steppes that Gansukh was kept busy each night sharing his experience at starting fires, setting up tents, assisting in securing the numerous horses and oxen, and otherwise preparing for the chill air that came down from the mountains. Finally, he was able to slip away from the general chaos and set up his ger on a shallow rise that looked down over the main supply train. He could see the rounded dome of the Khagan’s ger where it sat in the center of the camp.

  Once he laced up the flaps of his ger, he finally felt confident that he would have a few minutes to himself, and he laid out the contents of Lian’s bag: stiff leather shoes; dried meat and fruit; an empty waterskin; the purse, which was filled with rings, necklaces, and a few coins; and a short knife in a leather sheath.

  The knife gave Gansukh pause. In the alley, when he had felt the purse, he had known what it contained. He had tried to think of other reasons she migh
t have it, but he kept coming back to the simplest answer: she was going to try to escape during the trip to Burqan-qaldun.

  During the last few days, he had wondered about the contents of the bag, but there had been little time for more than a passing thought here and there. As long as he had her bag, she couldn’t realize her plan to escape.

  What had bothered him was the nagging idea to never look. If he didn’t know, then it couldn’t possibly be true. But on seeing the contents, he found himself both saddened and surprised. And the latter depressed his mood even more, and he wasn’t sure why.

  Lian was, after all, a Chinese prisoner, regardless of how much freedom she had at court. Why wouldn’t she desire to escape? He was a free Mongol warrior, and court had nearly stifled him. He had, in fact, been eager to start this journey to the sacred grove, as it meant some freedom for him too.

  He realized it was the presence of the knife that bothered him so much. It was possible that she was only planning on using it for killing and skinning game, but that was to perpetuate an illusion. She wasn’t a hunter. Was it for self-defense? He took the knife out of its sheath and tested its edge. If someone got in her way while she was trying to escape, would she use the knife?

  “Master Gansukh?” A servant, outside his tent.

  Gansukh tossed his riding coat over the scattered contents of Lian’s bag and unlaced the top of the tent flaps. “Yes?” he asked, suddenly glad for the interruption.

  The man was one of Chucai’s runners. “Master Chucai requests your presence at the evening meal. Outside the Khagan’s ger.”

  Gansukh nodded and let the tent flap fall closed. He stared at the lumpy pile beneath his riding coat. Dinner was an opportunity to talk with Lian. He hadn’t seen her since they had left Karakorum; he had wanted to ignore her dictum that they wait three days and seek her out immediately, but he had been too busy and too tired. And there was the issue with the contents of the bag as well. Regardless of the other reasons he wanted to see her, he had to deal with the bag, and having seen the knife and the rest, he knew it was past time to seek her out. He had to try to convince her of the futility of escape. Munokhoi’s men patrolled all around the caravan. He had watched them set up their patrols when the caravan had halted. If she were lucky, they’d only catch her and return her to the camp; more likely, she’d be mistaken for a Chinese rebel and ridden down.

  Trying not to think about the sight of her lying in the dust—her body broken and bloody, pierced with arrows and cut by swords—he swept everything but the knife back into her bag. Shoving the sheathed knife into his sash and cradling the bag under his arm, he unlaced his tent flaps and went down to the Khagan’s ger.

  The question that kept gnawing at him was whether she would use the knife if he were the one who tried to stop her.

  * * *

  A wide circle of torches surrounded the Khagan’s ger, and carpets had been laid out on the ground in ragged arcs inside the ring of torches. The Khagan’s private cooks had been working steadily since dusk, and the aroma from their cooking fires made Gansukh’s mouth water and his stomach grumble as he approached. Three long tables were set up beside the wheeled ger, and they overflowed with food.

  The Khagan slumped in an ornate chair behind a fourth table, and seated around him on low benches were his advisors and special guests. Gansukh spotted Master Chucai on the Khagan’s right side. He was listening to something the Khagan was telling him, his fingers idly picking at the breast meat of a cooked duck.

  Not wanting to be seen by either man, Gansukh wandered along the row of torches, looking at the other guests scattered on the carpets. He found Lian sitting by herself, and as soon as he spotted her, she noticed him. For a second, he reconsidered his decision. It was not too late to approach the main table and present himself to the Khagan and Chucai, but the weight of the bag in his hands made his mind up for him. Why had he brought his lessons with him? He did not have a good answer.

  He walked over to Lian and sat down. He set the bag down between them and gently pushed it toward her.

  “I missed you last night,” she said, glancing down at the bag. Her voice was almost too soft to be heard over the noisy gathering.

  “I was busy,” he said awkwardly.

  Her hands crept toward the bag and gently pulled it into her lap. “Did you look inside?”

  “I did.” Gansukh tapped the knife stuck in his sash.

  She remained still, clutching the bag tightly to her stomach. “What are you going to do?”

  There was no sign of the fiery woman who had accosted him in the alley. She was resigned to some fate she had already decided upon in her head, some judgment she assumed he was going to pass.

  What was he to do? The contents of the bag suggested she was going to escape, and he should tell Chucai what he knew. It would reflect poorly on him if she ran, as rumors of their relationship would surface. Munokhoi, the ambitious and vindictive Torguud captain, would especially relish the opportunity to turn the Khagan against him. Would the bond he had with Ögedei be enough to convince them that he had nothing to do with Lian’s flight?

  But he had not expected her to be so complacent, to give up so readily. He had thought her mind was made up—she would be free or she would die trying. “I don’t know,” he replied honestly.

  She started to stand, and he grabbed her arm, holding her back. “Listen to me...” She tried to pull free, and he tightened his grip. “Listen,” he said. He glanced around, checking to see if their conversation had caught anyone’s attention. Too much arkhi had been drunk already; no one showed any interest in their conversation. “This is the worst time to escape,” he said. “There are too many patrols, and they’re all still eager to prove themselves. You’ll never make it.”

  While he spoke, she had been staring at his hand, but she raised her head now and looked up at him. “The worst time...” she said. “Is there a better time, Gansukh?”

  He let go. “That’s not what I meant.

  “What did you mean?”

  “Lian, you can’t—”

  “I have to, Gansukh. I cannot spend the rest of my life as a prisoner.” It was her turn to grab him. “Help me.”

  Her words paralyzed him. His tongue would not move, nor could he pull away from her. Help her? It wasn’t the question that had struck him senseless but the sudden realization that he wanted to. But at the same time, he was confounded by the realization that doing so would mean either never seeing her again or going with her—two choices that had been swimming in the back of his mind for the last few days but that he had studiously avoided thinking about. Until this very moment, when she spoke those two words.

  “The Mongol Empire is on the brink of disaster, Gansukh,” Lian whispered. “Ögedei Khan will drink himself to death—despite everything—and what happens then? The Empire will fall apart as his wives and his brothers fight amongst themselves over who will be the next Khagan. What happens to me during that time? To us?”

  Gansukh found his voice. “Ögedei Khan knows what he must do,” he said. He removed her hand from his arm. “I know what my duty is.” Something fluttered in his chest, like a tiny bird caught in a bramble, and he exhaled slowly, letting his chest collapse. Whatever he felt became more frantic, fighting the crushing weight of his denial, and then it went limp. He was very tired all of a sudden, and all his appetite was gone. All he wanted to do was go back to his tent and sleep. He didn’t want to have to make this choice.

  “Please give me the knife back,” Lian asked softly.

  He shook his head. “If you are caught with it, you will be punished,” he said dully.

  “If I’m caught with any of this, I’ll be punished.” Lian pounded her fist against the bag. Some of her fiery independence was returning, and Gansukh felt a brief spasm in his chest, one final flutter of affection.

  “Lian—” he started.

  She shook her head, refusing to listen to him, and leaped up. Clutching the bag, she rushed out of the
ring of torches. Gansukh got to his feet, meaning to follow her. To what end? The thought made him indecisive, and he staggered slightly as he tried to sit back down and go after Lian at the same time.

  “The horse rider has had too much to drink already.”

  Munokhoi and a pair of Torguud guards had come up behind him. He hadn’t seen them coming, and he held his tongue, unsure how much of the conversation with Lian they had seen. Munokhoi came too close to Gansukh, a leer stretching his face. “Your pretty bird has flown,” he chuckled. His breath stank of arkhi, and his eyes were black holes that seemed to suck the torchlight into them. “If she flies too far away, the giant bear won’t be the only thing we hunt.” He glanced at his companions and laughed with them. “What soft skin she has...”

  Gansukh stood firm on the sandy ground. Before he had come to court, his reaction to Munokhoi’s words would have been physical. He would have drawn his knife and demanded the other man do the same. But after all the lessons with Lian, he knew that was the reaction of a wild animal—one wolf responding to another. Munokhoi had come looking for a fight; why give him that satisfaction? Did he not have better weapons at his disposal now?

  I am a better man because of her, he realized, and the dead thing in his heart started fluttering again.

  “There are no walls out here, city boy,” he said with a hint of a smile. “How are you going to catch something that can fly out of the range of your Chinese toys?”

  Munokhoi jabbed Gansukh in the chest with a stiff finger. “You know nothing about—” he growled.

  “Captain Munokhoi.” One of his companions interrupted Munokhoi, and when he whirled on the man, the guard redirected his anger with a gesture.

  A guard was running toward them. “Captain Munokhoi,” he shouted, scattering a trio of concubines and a minor ambassador as he dashed across their carpet. “The patrols are late, and horses—without riders—”