The Mongoliad: Book One tfs-1

by Neal Stephenson

  She knew the answer to that question; she knew what happened to prisoners when new conquerors claimed their spoils.

  Nearby, the Khagan laughed uproariously and then lurched around his retinue, inviting everyone to join him at the feast that evening. His leering face was dark with drink and his robes soaked through with the sweat induced by the slow poison of the alcohol. The concubines cared little for his appearance—sweat and stink were ever their lot. They squealed with excitement.

  During the festival, Lian thought, they will all be so busy watching the Khagan drown himself in wine no one will be paying attention to me.

  If she dared to dream of escape, wouldn’t this be the best time?

  Gansukh smoothed the front of his new blue robe as he stepped into the large dining hall. It fit him exceptionally well, though he couldn’t stop fidgeting with the fine material. He couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that she had given it to him.

  Four large tables dominated most of the room. At the northern end was a low platform on which a round table had been placed. Gansukh glanced at the waiting crowd of nobles and warriors surrounded by servants and concubines, quickly scanning faces for a general idea of who was sitting where. The table to his right was surrounded by Torguud, marked by the white fur trimming on their clothing. Several spotted Gansukh by the door and raised cups in greeting. He nodded in return. Respect earned. Even though his wrestling match with Namkhai had been a draw, he had performed better than many of them. He pulled at the stiff, wide belt he had wrapped around the robe and nearly dropped the package he held under his left arm. He was already too warm, and he’d be sweating before long.

  Suddenly his idea seemed even more preposterous, bordering on ridiculous.

  Near the round table, he saw Master Chucai, and though there was a mass of people between them, the tall advisor had little trouble clearing a path to Gansukh.

  “Master Gansukh, I have heard stories of your exploits.”

  Gansukh shrugged. “The match was a draw,” he demurred.

  Someone shouted at Gansukh from the back of the room, and Chucai’s eyes flicked in that direction before returning to Gansukh’s face. “Nevertheless, I am heartened by these stories. May I surmise that our conversation earlier today was… insightful?”

  “Somewhat,” Gansukh admitted. He thought he saw Lian, sitting next to… Who is that? He tried to look past Chucai without being rude about it. Namkhai.

  “You’ve brought a gift,” Master Chucai motioned to the bundle under Gansukh’s arm. “Would you like me to present it to the Khagan?”

  Through the throng, Gansukh couldn’t see the pair clearly, and he hesitated, torn between wanting to get a better look and responding to Master Chucai. He sighed, giving up for a moment. Chucai stared at him expectantly. “Yes, of course,” he said. “It would be my honor to present it to the Khagan personally.”

  “Of course,” Chucai said smoothly, as if that had been the plan all along. Was that a smile creasing the lips of the Khagan’s advisor?

  “Perhaps you might suggest where it might be best for me to sit at the Khagan’s table,” Gansukh said. He tapped the package suggestively.

  Chucai waved a hand at the table on the platform. “Certainly,” he said. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice. “A simple arrangement. Those who can be oblivious to his drunkenness sit close, those who cannot, but still wish to curry favor, sit beside them, and those who feel ashamed, but dare not overtly show it, keep as far away as possible.” He smiled grimly. “It is a round table, however, and the Khagan likes to circulate and mingle—which makes it very difficult to stay far enough away, I fear.”

  “I will not overthink my position then,” Gansukh said, inclining his head. “I will sit in the first empty chair I find.” And leave the rest up to the whim of the Blue Wolf, he finished silently.

  “A most prudent and wise choice,” Chucai said, nodding in return.

  Gansukh took his leave, making his way to the head table, where he placed his package on the table in front of a chair to the right of the lavish seat intended for the Khagan. He sat down, bending uncomfortably around the belt, before he realized who was sitting directly across from him.

  Munokhoi.

  He only had a moment to return the jaghun commander’s glare before a swift drop in the noise level in the long hall signaled the arrival of Ögedei Khan. It took some time for the Khagan to make his way through the press of people—during which time Munokhoi continued to stare at him—and as Ögedei approached, Gansukh noted with some relief that his hands were empty. For the moment, he wasn’t drinking.

  From this vantage point, Gansukh had a better angle on the table where Namkhai sat and tried to see who was sitting next to him. It was Lian, and he watched her lean forward in appreciation of what Namkhai was saying. She laughed at his apparent cleverness, and Gansukh frowned. Had she witnessed the wrestling match? He did not dare try to catch her eye—not with Munokhoi watching.

  “Gansukh.” Ögedei clasped him on the arm, as much to steady himself, Gansukh realized, than as a friendly gesture. His breath stank of wine. “A mighty effort this morning.”

  “I am humbled, Khagan,” Gansukh said, dragging his attention away from Lian. What do I care, anyway? She isn’t any part of what I am here to accomplish.

  “A toast,” Ögedei called, gesturing for his short servant with the tray of tiny cups. “A toast to our wrestlers!”

  “Please, if I may, a moment, Khagan.” Gansukh held up a hand to stop the servant’s approach. He gulped as all the conversation around them suddenly died, and for a second his courage threatened to depart. Respect, he thought, locking his knees. Demand it. Earn it.

  He picked up the package from the table. “Earlier today,” he said, “I saw the Khagan drinking from those tiny cups, and I wondered why you bothered. They hold so little wine. They are not worthy of your greatness, your magnitude under the all-covering sky.”

  Ögedei’s eyes seemed even more unfocused than they had been the night Gansukh had visited him in his chambers. His pupils were black holes that might swallow everything—the light, the sound, the very air in the room. His mouth was starting to twist as if he were about to lunge forward and bite at Gansukh’s neck.

  “I was sent here by your brother,” Gansukh continued. “Chagatai wants you to stop drinking—”

  He was interrupted by a bray of laughter from across the table. “It’s the little nursemaid,” Munokhoi sneered. “Come to tell us how wine is bad for our health!”

  The same suspicion was apparent in Ögedei’s face, and Gansukh knew he was perilously close to losing the Khagan’s attention, much as he had failed so badly the first day he had arrived in Karakorum. He turned his back, his spine tingling, then tore the paper off his package. With a spin around again that made the chamberlains gasp and the guards shove a step forward, he lifted the object…and revealed his gift to the Khagan.

  “Chagatai said I should insist that you only drink one cup of wine a day, and here I find you drinking how many? Twenty? Thirty?” He raised his empty hand, holding the thumb and forefinger close together. “Tiny cups. Cups for children and monkeys! Just this size. Who brings such cups before the Khagan and does not perish of shame?”

  He raised the cup—the wide-mouthed, enormous cup he had accidently bought at market the other day—extending it toward Ögedei, and then he slammed it down on the table with a resounding clank. “My duty is to my lord—Chagatai Khan—and the empire. He says one cup a day. I say that the Khagan should do as he pleases. You, yourself, told me this when I first came before you: the Khagan asks permission of no man. The Khagan is beholden only to himself. Drink, if you so desire; it is not for me or your brother or any of these people assembled here to say otherwise. But if you are going to drink, the great Khagan must drink from a great cup—a vessel worthy of your vastness, your magnitude, your all-conquering might.”

  Ögedei’s mouth moved like he was chewing a piece of gristly meat. He looked
around the table, blearily surveying the faces that turned away from his, and then he spat. And belched.

  The utter silence was suddenly broken by the rasping steel hiss of blades being drawn—the guards anticipating violence, eager to carry out the Khagan’s fatal bidding.

  But a slow rise of Ögedei’s arm and a waggle of his thick-fingered hand stayed their punishment. The Khagan slowly turned, leaning this way and that, his gaze moving slowly from face to face of the assembled host, all equally enthralled but desperately wishing to move aside, move away, to flee now so as to avoid the wrath they all suspected was about to erupt.

  The servant with the tray of tiny cups squirmed, edging away from the Khagan. Like an animal that senses weakness in its prey, Ögedei lashed out with a wordless yell. The tray flew out of the little man’s hands, spattering the crowd with thick red wine like drops of blood.

  The Khagan then whirled with surprising and sudden poise on Gansukh, his hands clawing at the warrior’s new robe. Gansukh was hauled forward until his face was a mere aid from the Khagan’s.

  Ögedei’s face turned as dark as the wine, anger bringing a dangerous flush to his already ruddy cheeks. Suddenly, like a dog, he leaned forward, and his teeth snapped at Gansukh’s cheek. “I…will…do…as…I…please!” he ground out, spraying spittle on Gansukh, then drew back like a snake, lips curled in an awful, writhing snarl.

  Gansukh kept silent, clamping his jaw tightly shut. He had said all that he had come to say. The Khagan would either listen or not. In the periphery of his vision, he could see the wide eyes of a few of the faces surrounding them. Flush with fear and excitement, there was no doubt in their minds that the Khagan, as soon as he could speak through his overwhelming rage, would order Gansukh to be broken—first the knees and then his ribs—before he would be placed beneath the boards so that horses could be ridden across his fractured body…a slow, suffocating, bone-cracking death for this inexplicable impudence and insult.

  He did not look away from the Khagan, wordlessly challenging Ögedei to give the order. It is not a suitable death for a warrior, he thought. But that does not make me less of one.

  The corner of Ögedei’s left eye began to twitch, and he forcefully shoved Gansukh away, pushing him against the table. “Give me the cup,” he snarled. “I will be the judge of whether it is worthy.”

  Gansukh dropped to his knees, lowering his gaze to look down at the Khagan’s feet. “Yes, my Khan,” he murmured. His vision blurred, and he swayed, gasping for air. He heard the sound of hooves rattling against wood, and after a moment he realized it was only the echo of his own pounding heart.

  Someone pressed the cup into his hands—too fearful, clearly, to give it to the Khagan himself. With shaking legs, Gansukh got to his feet and offered the vessel.

  Ögedei snatched it from him. “Wine!” he shouted. “Why is there no wine in this cup?” A dozen bodies sprang forward, offering to fill the Khagan’s chalice with their own half-filled cups.

  With a grunt, Ögedei turned and smashed the cup across Gansukh’s face.

  Gansukh’s eyes filled with tears, and the room became a blur as he spun and fell to his hands and knees. There was blood in his mouth, and it felt like a hot coal had been ground into his cheek.

  Something heavy fell against his body, and he stiffened, trying to keep from collapsing entirely to the floor. Planks. His hands clenched with panic. But it was only a man, leaning on him, clutching at his shoulders, his hot, stinking breath washing over his bloody cheek. He tried to focus on a glittering object that floated in his field of vision, and blinking through the tears, he realized it was the cup—his gift to Ögedei.

  It had fared better than his cheek.

  “It is a good cup,” the Khagan hissed in his ear. “Get out of my sight, young pony, before I change my mind.”

  CHAPTER 28:

  ILL-MET IN KIEV

  When they passed around the foot of the hill, they felt the wind on their faces, and while its touch was both light and refreshing, its breath was filled with an unwholesome stink. At first Cnán thought it was the sort of putrescence that was not uncommon in fetid swampland, but the river flowed too freely to allow decaying matter to build up. Glancing at the others, she saw they too were affected by the smell, but unlike her, they appeared more familiar with it.

  “Corpse rot,” Yasper explained. He rooted around in one of his many satchels until he found a small vial. Carefully unstopping it, he poured a small dollop of the thick liquid onto two fingers, and then he pressed the fingers to both nostrils. Keeping his mouth closed, he inhaled deeply, the sides of his nose indenting. “Ah,” he sighed. When he lowered his fingers, he appeared to be no longer in distress from the lingering smell that permeated the air. With a grin, he offered the vial to Cnán.

  She stared at him as if he had been taken with a pox fever, and when he waggled the vial at her, she finally took it from his outstretched hand. Somewhat dubiously, she poured a tiny bead onto one of her fingers and sniffed at it cautiously. The smell of mint was overpowering and she jerked her head back in surprise. “What is this?” she asked.

  “A tincture of mint oil,” he smiled. “My own recipe.” He waved his hand about his face as if he were directing more of the revolting stench toward his nostrils.

  She put a bead on another finger and, somewhat clumsily, aped his method of applying the oil to her nose. Her eyes watered as she inhaled and the mint vapors speared deep into her head, like tiny icicles. But, she had to admit, it was a pleasant sensation in its own way, and much preferable to the stink of decaying flesh.

  Rædwulf chuckled at her expression as he reached over with a long arm and plucked the vial from her fingers. Unlike Yasper, he put drops of the oil in the wide webbing between his thumb and index finger and shoved his hand against his face to smother his nostrils completely.

  He passed the vial to Feronantus, who partook before offering it to Istvan. The Hungarian glowered and busied himself with stroking his mustache as if the idea of mint in his beard were too distasteful to contemplate. Finn only sniffed at the vial before shrugging and returning it to Yasper. As if he wasn’t quite sure what all the fuss was about or why one would want to mask one’s ability to smell.

  A little lightheaded from the mint oil, Cnán focused on the tiny shantytown nestled between the hill and the river. Several wooden docks sprawled along the water’s edge, and boats were moored to its length by any available means. Makeshift hovels and stalls were arranged in no clear order, seemingly erected wherever two pieces of wood could be leaned together to make the semblance of a wall. The tiny hamlet along the river appeared haphazard and carefree, as if the residents built and crafted what they needed from their surroundings without much worry about permanence or protection from marauders. An attitude, she realized, that wasn’t entirely unexpected in the wake of what the residents had survived. What else could the Mongols do that they had not already done? Killing them might even be a blessing.

  Without intending to, Cnán fell into a despondency of memory, and her head filled with the scents and sounds of the burning village where, so long ago, she had lost everything. Somewhat dazed, she swayed in her saddle and would have fallen off her horse had someone not placed a hand on her arm. She turned her head, opening her eyes, and flinched when she saw Yasper’s concerned expression.

  Mistaking her reaction, Yasper let go. “Breathe through your mouth,” he said gently. “The scent can be too strong at first. Breathe slowly—not through your nose—until the dizziness passes.” He demonstrated.

  “I’m fine,” she said, more curtly than she had intended, and then, “I am sorry, Yasper. You are only trying to help, and I have spoken rudely.”

  “It is of no consequence,” he grinned. “These are rude times, and the only true incivility is that which is not recognized as such.”

  “Speaking of which…” Rædwulf interrupted, drawing their attention toward a trio of scruffy natives who were approaching their party. To say the th
ree men were dressed would be to call the scraps of cloth and twine and bits of fur that partially covered their gaunt bodies clothing. They shuffled slowly, bent at the waist, their grimy hands raised in supplication. The foremost one, pressed by the other two to be their spokesperson, babbled at them in Ruthenian.

  “Cnán,” Feronantus called, “do you ken his words?”

  She let her horse wander closer, her head cocked to the side as she tried to follow the man’s discourse. There was a repetition to his cadence that made it a little easier for her to pick out words she knew. “He’s saying the same thing over and over,” she reported. “Something about gifts, I believe. No, tribute.” She interrupted him with a few words of Tartaric.

  One of the other two men shrieked and fell to his knees, groveling in the dirt. The spokesperson’s mouth hung open, but words no longer spilled from his blubbering lips.

  “Well now,” Yasper opined as he joined Feronantus and Cnán, “that is a mighty invocation. Mayhap you could teach it to the rest of us…”

  “I just asked him if he understood what I was saying,” Cnán pointed out.

  “In the Mongolian tongue,” Feronantus reckoned. When Cnán nodded, he squinted at the shantytown, looking for movement among the hovels and detritus. “They’re terrified of us,” he said. “But we are clearly not Mongols…”

  Off to their right, Istvan snorted noisily, and the attention of the three men darted to the Hungarian. His scowling visage only engendered more fear, and the kneeling one tried to press himself even lower against the ground.

  “Finn,” Feronantus called, not taking his eyes off the shantytown. “We are not alone, are we?”

  “Aye,” the hunter responded.

  Cnán looked around for Finn. He was crouched a ways off, examining the track of the road they were on.

  “Horses,” he said, pointing at the dirt. “Shod, like ours. Less than a day ago.”