The Mongoliad: Book One tfs-1

by Neal Stephenson

  “I was hungry,” Gansukh said, trying to change the subject. Remembering the sticks of meat, he offered her one.

  “I can see that.” Still the same cold tone.

  “I thought you—”

  “I did,” she snapped.

  Gansukh realized she was holding a broad piece of cloth, and when he stared at it uncomprehendingly, she exhaled noisily and hurled it at his feet before storming off into the crowd.

  More confused than ever, he looked at the cup and the sticks of meat in his hands, and finally put the meat in the cup so that he could bend down and pick up the cloth.

  It was a silk robe, as blue as the summer sky. An intricate pattern of interwoven tree branches, done in red and gold thread, ran down the front. Small birds nested in the tips, and hidden deep within the snarled bramble, he saw the lean faces of wolves.

  It was the most beautiful article of clothing he had ever seen.

  After a night of restless sleep, Gansukh was no closer to understanding any of the puzzles that continued to vex him. He was no closer to comprehending the Khagan’s depression and madness, nor how to reach the man who was lost in an alcoholic stupor. Lian was angry with him, and while he knew he shouldn’t care what a Chinese slave thought, his brain was constantly churning with confusion and frustration about her.

  Not to mention the lacquered box. There had to be a way to open it, and while he could simply crush it with the pommel of his sword, such a solution could destroy what lay inside. It remained a tantalizing mystery—a symbol of his inability to fathom the intricacies of a seemingly simple problem.

  He had left the box in his chamber, tucked in the inner pocket of the robe Lian had bought him. Then he had left his room, trying to put both out of his mind. The robe hung behind a paper screen. Hiding all of his secrets.

  As he wandered around the compound, Gansukh couldn’t shake Master Chucai’s parting words from the other day: You simply need permission, and not from me or the Khagan.

  Who, then? And what sort of permission?

  Out on the steppe, he needed no permission from anyone. He was in charge of his own life. Even when he traveled with other clansmen, they each knew how to provide for themselves and those who relied upon them for safety and sustenance. They didn’t need to be reminded or commanded. In an arban, each man answered to the others in the squad, and their arban commander answered to the jaghun commander. The jaghun commanders answered to the noyon of their minghan, and so on, up to the Khagan himself. It was a simple chain of command—one that had proven itself effective for many a military campaign.

  But if he wasn’t supposed to follow that chain of command, then who was he supposed to answer to?

  It wasn’t an impossible riddle. Gansukh couldn’t believe that Master Chucai would waste his time playing such games. He wanted Gansukh to discover some insight—one of Lian’s constant reminders was that a lesson self-learned was much more likely to be remembered than a lesson taught—and he was sure Chucai had inflicted that same aphorism on her during her own education. These sorts of intellectual jabs were always passed on from master to student, generation to generation.

  Who had taught Master Chucai? he wondered. Chucai had been an advisor to Genghis Khan; he had been there when Ögedei Khan’s father built the empire. Who had taught him? Gansukh wondered, and then another question posed itself: Whom had Genghis sought permission from?

  He hadn’t. But that wasn’t the whole answer. He had bound the clans to him. Had he asked their permission? No, they had come to him. Why?

  As he mulled over that question, he noticed he had wandered close to the quarters of the Day Guard, unconsciously summoned by grunts of exertion and the sound of flesh on flesh and of bodies striking packed earth. The morning wrestling practice. Gansukh had watched them on a few previous occasions; early in his education, Lian had suggested befriending some of the Imperial Guard as a way of helping his standing at court. He hadn’t acted upon her idea previously, citing the excuse that having drawn the ire of Munokhoi on several occasions, there was the distinct possibility that seeking out the Torguud might be more foolish than wise, but now, with the question of the source of Genghis Khan’s leadership in his mind, he reconsidered his standing with the Torguud.

  Munokhoi might be able to command a certain amount of authority among the Day Guard by virtue of his rank, but given the reaction he’d gotten from the Khevtuul (the Night Guard) after the incident in the garden, Gansukh suspected Munokhoi wasn’t well liked. Munokhoi’s jaghun was only a portion of the whole Torguud, and it was likely the remainder of the Day Guard might have a similar lack of respect for the cruel commander.

  Respect among warriors was hard earned and easily lost. There were only a handful of ways in which a man could win and keep the respect of his peers.

  Wrestling was one of them.

  The reigning wrestling champion of the Imperial Guard was Namkhai, a tall, heavy-set grappler who—as Gansukh had seen—invariably broke into a chortle and grinned like a demon as his opponent showed any sign of nerves. Some capitulated as soon as he started to smile, knowing they had already shown too much weakness. Others held out longer, until Namkhai caught them in a bear hug and began to cackle in their ears. Gansukh wasn’t sure how he would react to Namkhai’s gambit, but he wanted to find out. He wanted to find out what it took to change the expression on the wrestler’s face.

  He wanted to find out what it took to earn the man’s respect.

  Gansukh was no stranger to wrestling. Chagatai Khan’s own personal guard held regular wrestling matches, and he had won a number of bouts. There was a difference in the rules, though, between those observed by Chagatai’s guards and by the Torguud. On the wrestling field of Karakorum, a fighter could not grab the legs of his opponent. The wrestlers could only grip their opponent’s arms or upper body in their efforts to throw the other off balance. A match was lost when a wrestler’s upper body, elbow, or knee touched the ground.

  Stripped to the waist, Gansukh warily watched Namkhai as the champion took a moment to play to the gathered crowd before entering the marked-off area of the wrestling field. Namkhai approached Gansukh, a tiny sliver of a smile quirking the edge of his lips. Namkhai was both taller and heavier, but his gait was stiff—his hips and thighs moved as one massive column of bone and muscle. Gansukh was faster, more nimble, and when Namkhai tensed his body and threw out his hands, Gansukh only had to flinch to one side to avoid the champion’s large grip. He closed, trying to get a headlock.

  The champion resisted, and as he pulled back, Gansukh let go and used both hands to push explosively on Namkhai’s chest. Namkhai stumbled backward, arms swinging wildly to keep his balance. It would have been so easy to reach down, grab Namkhai by his thighs, and flip him to the ground, but Gansukh held back. This was Ögedei’s court; he had to win by the Torguud’s rules.

  Namkhai’s grin faltered, and his hands flexed dangerously as he regained his balance. The champion regarded Gansukh carefully, appraising him more closely. With a tiny nod, Namkhai acknowledged Gansukh’s first attack; even if Gansukh lost the fight, they both knew that—if the rules had been different—Gansukh would have won.

  Namkhai advanced again, and Gansukh hunched his back slightly, pulling his shoulders in to give the impression that he wasn’t going to attack. A submissive pose. I am on the defensive. Let Namkhai make the first move. Given the weight difference between them, it was unlikely Gansukh could outmuscle the champion. But he could use Namkhai’s assault against him. If the bigger man lunged and grabbed him, Gansukh could twist and manage their fall so Namkhai’s shoulders hit the ground first. He turned his hips slightly, letting his left foot slide back a few inches.

  Namkhai leaped forward.

  A yell rose from the crowd, a wall of sound that rose over and collapsed on Gansukh as Namkhai barreled across the packed dirt. He had seen Namkhai charge other opponents; he had seen the force of Namkhai’s assault as it crumpled the defenses of those who, foolishly, th
ought they could withstand such an impact. But Gansukh didn’t try to stop Namkhai.

  Instead he met Namkhai’s rush with a bear hug, gasping as the full force of the champion’s charge slammed into his chest. He was going to fall, and forcefully twisting his upper body, he pushed off the ground with his right foot. Suddenly they were both airborne, nearly perpendicular to the ground. Namkhai’s grin vanished as he stared wide-eyed at the sky, amazed at the sudden change of view.

  The champion reacted, more by instinct than conscious thought. In mid-fall, he knifed his body against Gansukh and got his feet underneath him. He landed in a deep crouch, with the whole of Gansukh’s weight bearing down on his chest. He bellowed as his back arched painfully; growling in frustration, Gansukh squeezed his arms and tried to find enough leverage to push Namkhai even farther. He was stunned Namkhai had found his footing—the man was inhuman! They strained against one another, neither one able to shift the other. All Gansukh could hear was the grinding sound of his teeth and the hiss of air escaping from Namkhai’s pursed lips.

  The crowd had fallen silent.

  Their eyes met, and Gansukh realized Namkhai was aware of the silence too.

  Gansukh glanced around, and as he became aware of the circle of spectators, he spotted a gap in the crowd. Namkhai saw it too, and without hesitation, they both released their holds on the other and stepped apart.

  A space opened in the circle of Torguud spectators and quickly filled with a retinue of servants and courtiers, which at the very last parted to form two protective walls. Now appeared the Khagan himself, with his most intimate servants and chamberlains. To the Khagan’s right, an exceptionally short man hovered, bearing aloft a tray of tiny silver cups.

  Ögedei Khan held one cup in his hand and was wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Don’t stop on my account,” he said loudly. “Gansukh, you nearly had our champion bested.”

  Gansukh and Namkhai, having bowed at the sudden appearance of the Khagan, now stood awkwardly at the center of the field. Gansukh could barely summon the strength to lift his arms, and his teeth ached from how much he had been grinding them. Namkhai’s face gleamed with sweat, and his hair lay matted against his head. His chest heaved, and he looked to be in no rush to start the fight again. Gansukh swiped at his forehead, clearing the sweat that was starting to sting his eyes, then brought his hands together and bowed again to the Khagan. He remained bent over, trying to catch Namkhai’s attention with a subtle tilt of his head.

  Namkhai slapped his hands together and bowed as well.

  “No?” Ögedei Khan was jovial with wine and readily dismissed their refusal. “We’ll save the rematch for another time. Here”—he motioned to two men on opposite sides of the field—“you two. Fight for me.”

  Gansukh and Namkhai retired from the field as the two chosen guards bent their knees and began flapping their arms in an imitation of the hawk, the traditional way to start a match. They reached the center, bent at the waist, and brought their arms down into a fighting stance. They then awaited the Khagan’s word.

  “Go!” Ögedei Khan bellowed.

  At the sidelines, jostled by men who slapped his back and shoulders in congratulations at a match well fought, Gansukh fought to catch his breath. While the rest of the men watched the two new combatants, he kept his eye on the Khagan.

  The short servant adeptly kept the tray in motion, dancing about and rotating it effortlessly with the Khagan’s every move, to keep a steady supply of full cups near his reach. Ögedei downed each in one motion, slamming the empty cup upside down on the tray. The servant flinched with each one but kept the tray upright and moving. Gansukh wondered what happened when all the cups were overturned. Would the Khagan stop drinking? Judging by his unconscious swaying motion and the strident volume of his humor, that probably wasn’t the case. In fact, this was probably not the first tray of cups.

  As the Khagan snapped his head back again, Gansukh scanned the crowd to see if anyone else was paying attention to the Khagan’s drinking, and he was relieved to see everyone’s attention was on the wrestling match.

  Everyone except Namkhai.

  The wrestling champion felt Gansukh’s gaze and glanced over his shoulder. His eyes met Gansukh’s for a second, and then he turned and rudely shoved his way through the crowd. But it was too late. Gansukh had seen his expression.

  The big man had lost his grin, and his face was a mask of disgust and dismay.

  The Khagan did not seek, or even need, permission from his subjects, but he did need something—respect. Hard earned and easily lost.

  A yell rose from the crowd as one of the wrestlers bested the other, sending him sprawling to the ground on his hands and knees. His opponent helped him to his feet as the Khagan roared his approval.

  “Let us eat and drink tonight!” he shouted. “A feast for our fighters.” He staggered as he glanced around the sea of faces, and Gansukh ducked behind a cluster of off-duty guards. His face burned with shame for hiding, but even more for not wanting to be seen beside the Khagan.

  He was beginning to understand Master Chucai’s riddle. It wasn’t enough to stop Ögedei’s drinking. The whole empire was in danger of being poisoned with loss of respect.

  The Khagan slammed another tiny cup down on the tray. How many of those would he consume in one day? Gansukh wondered, and then an idea struck him.

  One cup, he thought. One instead of dozens.

  It was a preposterous idea, but it could work.

  CHAPTER 26:

  OVER THE WRECKAGE AND THROUGH THE RUINS

  The walls that encircled Kiev were a wrecked shell, though the Golden Gate retained much of its majesty through sheer bulk, if nothing else. As Raphael rode through it with Percival, Roger, and Illarion, he sensed, if only for a few moments, what the city had been before the coming of the Mongols. Then the gate was behind him and he could see nothing but ruins.

  To the east, the Dnieper, winding from north to south, flanked the city. Above it stood a pair of hills, and on the taller of two stood a white-walled structure, obviously religious in purpose, with high arched windows that shone even beneath the gray, overcast skies. To Raphael’s eye, it was much in the style of the Byzantine Church, with certain Ruthenian peculiarities.

  A street—now just a chute winding among the avalanched rubble of collapsed buildings—stretched before them. Houses had once clustered tightly in the shadow of the old wall, but now only a few rose from the scavenged ruins. The remains of once-proud works of white and gold-tinted stone stood side by side with buildings somehow untouched, as if protected by divine intercession. The building on top of the hill—Raphael suspected that it was the priory of some religious order—was not the only house of God left in Kiev. It was rumored that the Mongols, equally superstitious about all supernatural beings, did not destroy churches if they could avoid it.

  The people who remained in this place—he was no longer inclined to call it a city—were likewise a curious mixture of the lost and the enterprising, the shattered and the oblivious. Even after the passage of the Mongolian Horde, Raphael mused, life must go on as best it can. The scent of boiled cabbage reached his nose, along with the sweet, earthy fragrance of beets. A mouthwatering vapor of onion bread wafted from a stone oven squatting incongruously on a rubble-strewn corner, tended by a burly, sweating baker. The stench of garbage and sewage was also prevalent, but that was familiar to any city dweller and even a sign of revival. Dead cities smelled only of ancient decay and dust. Here, life was evident, even to a blind man, in the odor of unwashed, laboring flesh—mingled with fish that he assumed must have been dragged fairly recently from the Dnieper.

  Following Illarion’s lead, Raphael guided his horse out of the main path to evade a cadaverous merchant’s thudding, grumbling wagon. It says much, Raphael reflected, about the tenacious nature of men that one with wares to sell would be willing to brave such a place. The profit, it seemed, was small indeed. No doubt much of the money changing hands was ultimately s
wept into Mongol coffers.

  Between the ruins on another street, he caught sight of Feronantus and the rest of their company entering via another gate—no, on second thought, this was a breach in the wall—and heading away in the direction of the riverfront.

  The craggy face of the lord of Týrshammar had taken on a more haunted look since Taran’s death, and Raphael could not blame him. The loss of their brother was a knife wound that continued to bleed even days after the blade had been withdrawn. Taran had taught several who were numbered among their greatest. His departure was a bitter draught to choke down upon waking each morning—particularly for Feronantus.

  And now…another, perhaps even more unexpected disappointment had beset their leader.

  “Come,” Illarion said, resuming his course in the wake of the wagon. “Pointless dawdling will draw attention.”

  Illarion had made an impressive recovery, but the absence of his ear impaired his hearing on that side, and the bruising his body had taken under the planks still slowed his movements. Nevertheless, he was a better and more alert guide than Raphael had anticipated. No doubt the Ruthenian, as he looked around him, saw other days, another city—the Kiev of old, in its fabled glory.

  Percival rode to Raphael’s right, and Roger guarded the rear. The Frank and the Norman made odd friends, Raphael thought, but good ones. Every true heart needed a pragmatic counterweight, and every cynic an idealist to lift his spirits. It was easy to think that Percival was naive if one had just met him, but Raphael had long ago learned that no man was easy or simple, and he had heard enough of the knight’s conversations with Taran to know that there was more to him than what first appeared. There was a reason behind every vow, a driving goal and belief behind every action.

  The possibility that Percival had received divine grace—or thought he had—made the situation unusually complex, but Raphael found himself strangely untroubled by this. The brute facts of their situation, taken alone, were disheartening. Strange visions might make their way more tortuous but gave Raphael welcome respite from thinking all the time about food, warmth, and rest. In truth, epiphanic episodes fascinated him. How, after all, could something as powerful as God touch so lightly but firmly upon a human frame? Curious circumstance, indeed. Of course, God might be capable of any sort of subtlety…but why Percival? Or, for that matter, Feronantus?