The Mongoliad: Book One

by Neal Stephenson

  A single armored Mongol rode ahead of the band, grinning, striped bow held out in one hand, as if signaling peace, friendship. A chief, no doubt. Cnán counted their opponents. Fifteen horse-mounted bowmen.

  Less than a hundred paces now separated the groups.

  To bar the Ruthenian’s path, the chief crabbed his pony sideways.

  Illarion continued straight on, his horse snorting and tossing his head.

  She thought she understood Illarion’s strategy: by moving so, he projected dogged purpose, hopefully slowing the Mongols from making a pincered feint to scatter their smaller party. If the Ruthenian turned or rode too quickly, the Mongols would instinctively rush in and give chase like dogs coursing a hind.

  The chief twitched his bow left, right, then up. He dropped back. The Mongol squadron finally split to the right and left, then began to draw in like a slow snare or a purse string against their flanks and rear, fifty paces, thirty paces…close enough that their first arrows would be certain to strike home, yet not close enough to bring them within range of Haakon’s bright sword.

  The chief deftly spun his pony, as if daring them to chase after and catch him, him personally, with his back turned and everything. Grinning all the while.

  Cnán did not understand what Illarion proposed to do when he reached the chief. Perhaps swing on him and die, giving the others some chance of reaching the woods?

  Less than five paces now separated Illarion and the chief.

  With a sweep of his arm, Illarion drew back the cloak that had swathed him for much of the last two days and hurled it aside, where it spun and flew for an uncanny number of yards, like a bat, then fell—to precisely drape the picked skeleton and conical helm of a Polish knight.

  A knight who had almost made it to the forest before taking three arrows in the back.

  All heads turned, mesmerized by this.

  Bones rattled. The round hump of the skull shifted under the cloak, as if finding new life.

  Illarion reined his horse just to the left of the Mongol chief and canted his head with a careless jerk, exposing the swollen, earless right side of his face. Not once did his eyes meet the man’s.

  Now understanding the Mongol’s reaction, Cnán watched him further, seeing first curiosity, then a twist of lip and brow—signaling alarm and confusion. The chief’s features went pale and his mouth opened as if to scream. Frantic, heels kicking the pony’s flanks, he spun about and dog-yelped to his comrades. His pony bucked and turned but did not know which way to go.

  Illarion rode steadily on. His missing ear dripped black blood. His hollow eyes knew death as an intimate comrade; nothing living could stop him…or would wish to.

  Leaning over his pony’s neck, reining it in, the chief jerked its head left and spurred it even harder, leaving a gap through which Illarion rode without pause and without betraying the slightest awareness that the Mongols were even there. The Ruthenian did not need to act to appear to ride from beyond humanity, beyond life.

  The chief gawped in terror. His pony stumbled in the muck.

  On the left and right and behind, the Mongols turned and drew back, muttering and shouting.

  Behind Illarion, Raphael leaned to one side and cupped his hand to his ear, imitating the gaunt Ruthenian—but with a grim and toothy smile. He swiveled in his saddle to leer at the Mongols.

  The entire squadron broke and scattered into the mist.

  The rescue party rode on at the same pace. At Finn’s gesture, Cnán remounted. She could see that Haakon’s shoulders were drawn in, flexing and flinching just like her own.

  The trees came up none too soon, and the horses parted to accommodate them. Cold, clean night air swirled from the west, bringing more rain and mist, and water dripped in pattering, rhythmic showers from the leaves and branches, as if to cleanse them of all they had seen.

  “You speak Mongol, don’t you?” Haakon asked Cnán when they had counted a hundred paces deep into the woods.

  “Tartaric, Turkic, some Tungus,” she said.

  “What did the leader say?”

  “You should know,” Cnán said, “even if you ken not a word.”

  Haakon frowned. “You think I’m an oaf.”

  Cnán grimaced and dropped her chin.

  Haakon flicked his damp hair back. “Tell me,” he persisted. “I want to hear it anyway.”

  Cnán touched her right ear. “We are unclean spirits of the fallen,” she said, “returning to the forests of the West from which we came.”

  “Ghosts,” Finn said.

  “Ghosts,” she confirmed.

  Once in the woods, two hours of picking their way along leaf-littered paths in broken moonlight brought them back to the clearing and the old monastery. By then they had shaken off the clammy dread that had overtaken them during their journey and had begun to converse about topics other than death and how to avoid it. They were received warmly by the Skjaldbræður, whose numbers, during their absence, had increased to something like a score. Illarion, of course, was embraced and even wept over. Cnán had expected this. But she was surprised by the hospitality that some of the knights were now showing toward her. In a courtly style that struck her as ridiculous, Feronantus asked whether she would consider gracing their camp with her presence for a while and directed her attention toward a tent that had been pitched, somewhat aloof from the others, and made ready for her. This at first struck Cnán as amusing, since there was no shortage of buildings in the compound, though most lacked roofs.

  But when she pulled back the tent’s flap and found the interior clean and tidy, with a floor of dry green grass and a raised cot with a fresh straw tick for her to lie on, she better understood the gesture. The buildings of the old monastery were ancient and tumbledown, infested by vermin, stinking in diverse ways.

  Peering out the back flap, instinctively checking for an escape route, she saw moonlight reflecting from water about a stone’s throw away and knew that she was not far from the monks’ old fish pond—the only place around here she could get anything like a bath.

  She accepted Feronantus’s invitation. The knights retreated to their chapter house, whence she heard the popping of bungs and pouring of ale. She stripped and made a direct line for the pond. Drawing closer to it, she moved faster, since an impressive number of bugs seemed to be landing on her exposed skin. By the time she reached the shore, she was at the core of a humming swarm of mosquitoes and biting flies and had to dive into the water, if only to save her life. But it was worth it to feel the dirt of the road being rinsed from her skin and her hair. She swam for a while, bobbing her head up out of the water just long enough to breathe in air and mosquitoes, then diving before the bugs could do more serious damage.

  The way back to the tent was a headlong sprint through an almost tangible mass of aroused insects. Bats swooped as well, making her groan when they squeaked too close. Unable to really see where she was going, she plunged through a group of knights who were on their way to the chapter house. Being seen naked meant nothing to her, but some of the knights gasped and looked the other way, imagining that she’d be mortified. The tallest of the group—Cnán instantly recognized him as Percival—took stock of the situation, moved adroitly to the entrance of her tent, peeled back the flap, and then stood there as if carved in marble, modestly averting his gaze. She dove through the opening. He let the flap drop.

  The knights, now feeling free to speak their minds, issued a few good-natured complaints about her ungenerously having drawn so many insects into their camp. “At least I am clean!” she shouted from her enclosed fastness, “which is more than I can say for any of you.” This silenced them. Not, she guessed, because her words had struck home, but because they simply had no conception of what she was talking about.

  She spent a few moments rolling around on the grass, slicking the water and the bugs from her skin. It was actually not the worst bath she’d ever had. Then she dressed in a linen tunic and doeskin breeches from her kit—clothes she had b
een saving against the unlikely possibility that she might have to costume herself as something other than a scurrying wretch.

  Some part of her was wondering how she would look in the eyes of Percival. He had, in general, paid her no attention whatsoever. And yet there had been more than simple consideration in his act of holding the tent open. There had been…nobility? Brotherhood? She flung her short wet hair briskly at that thought.

  She wanted Percival to see her in some better condition than wet and naked and covered with bugs. But another part of her—speaking, curiously, in the voice of her mother—was reminding her just how dangerous it was to feel any such desire. Emotion led to attachment; attachment led to…

  While she was dressing, the jovial chitchat in the chapter house ceased. Someone protested he was not ready—voice too drunk and muffled to identify. Moments later, she heard a man howl, then scream long and loud. The murmur of conversation was slow to resume after that. But the aroma of cooking meat drew her to the place anyway. As she approached the door, Raphael came out, shoulders square, flexing his fingers. The fingers were stained green at the tips. He had been crushing more herbs.

  His posture spoke of satisfaction, a job well done.

  “Was it Illarion who cried out?” she asked.

  “Yes. His ear—what’s left of it—is fine.”

  “Fine? One side of his face is twice the size of the other.”

  “That actually had little to do with the ear,” he insisted. “Thank the maggots and that poor girl and her poultice. I finally took the trouble to look in his mouth. The man had an abscessed molar.”

  The words were unfamiliar.

  “A toothache,” Raphael said. He lifted a sheathed dagger and pulled from one pocket a metal tool with long pincers, still stained with blood. “I yanked it out. The man has a jawbone like that of an ass. He’s already feeling better.”

  She gave him an incredulous look. He tried, but failed, to prevent a grin from splitting his face. “I didn’t say he felt grateful,” he pointed out, raising his hands in mock surrender. Then he used them to shoo her inside. “Get you in. There’s hot food and plenty.”

  Cnán enjoyed the Syrian’s company but was happy to take his leave in this case. The pincers evoked a queasy reaction quite unlike her response to swords and daggers.

  She entered the chapter house and felt something so unfamiliar that it took her a few moments to identify it: she felt safe.

  She knew what it was to belong, surrounded by courage and kept from harm by the luck, skill, and daring of the knights of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae.

  CHAPTER 4:

  THE YOUNG PONY

  “This is a task for a fool.” Gansukh paced back and forth in the long hall outside the throne room. Sunlight streamed through windows covered in intricate latticework, and dust danced in the wake of Gansukh’s pacing. “I fought at the siege of Kozelsk. I was handpicked by General Subutai himself, to help infiltrate the city. This…this mission is not—”

  “Protecting the Khagan is not important?” Chucai interrupted dryly.

  Gansukh stopped and peered at the tall minister through the shafts of sunlight. “Of course it is,” he said. “My bow and my sword are his to command. I would lay down—”

  “It is easy to die for your Khagan,” Chucai said. He glanced down at the floor, shrugging his shoulders gently. It was a tiny motion, but it quelled Gansukh’s outburst as easily as if he had punched the younger man in the chest. “Perhaps that is why Chagatai Khan chose you for this mission. When Great General Subutai picked you to go over the wall of Kozelsk, was it because he needed a wild-blooded fool who would die for him?”

  Gansukh shook his head.

  “Do you think less of Chagatai Khan, then? Is his vision not as clear and far-seeing as the Great General’s?”

  “I…I do not know,” Gansukh said.

  “These Khans are proud men,” Chucai said. “Stubborn too. It took me many years to convince Genghis to tax rather than slaughter. This…this is a negotiation, not a battle.” A brief smile flickered across Chucai’s face. “Warriors fight, Gansukh; that is their purpose in life. But eventually, there is no one left to fight, and they must learn how to think.”

  “Your words are filled with wisdom, Master Chucai,” Gansukh said, bowing his head. “I will reflect on them.”

  “Do,” Chucai said as he began walking down the corridor. “Stay and rest a few days while you reflect, and partake in the pleasures of Karakorum.”

  “I have my ger…” Gansukh eyed the rafters as he followed Chucai down the halls. Surrounded by stone and wood, he felt as if he were inside a tomb. At any moment the high ceilings could collapse and bury him, and he would never see the sky again.

  Chucai shook his head. “You will stay in the palace,” he said. He eyed the young emissary, and the skin at the corners of his eyes wrinkled, as if he were hiding a laugh. “You cannot hope to understand the Khagan if you do not stay close to him.” He stopped beside a door panel, his hand resting on the wooden frame. “When you hunt a deer, do you not place yourself in the animal’s world? Do you not follow in its footsteps, see what it sees, smell what it smells?” When Gansukh nodded, Chucai slid open the door.

  The room was small, not much bigger than the large sleeping platform covered with furs and skins. Sheer yellow silks hung from the ceiling, falling like frozen sunlight around the bed. Behind the bed were screens, painted with red flowers. On the leftmost one, a heron—its long neck extended—was taking flight.

  “Is it to your liking?” Chucai asked.

  Gansukh struggled to find some appropriate words, and the only thing he could muster felt totally inadequate. “It is a magnificent chamber, Master Chucai.”

  Chucai nodded. “It is yours.” He held up a hand to forestall Gansukh’s objection. “There’ll be a dinner in honor of Governor Mahmud Yalavach later this evening. Perhaps you might wish to observe the Khagan when he is in a better mood. Have you sat at a formal court dinner before?”

  Gansukh shook his head. “Around the fire, we gather each night to make boodog or horhog.”

  “I think you’ll find table manners are somewhat different when you’re not eating greasy roast goat with your hands. I’ll send along some scrolls so you can learn how to behave in civilized society.”

  “Master Chucai…” Gansukh put his left hand over his closed right fist. The combination formed a double prison, one wrapped around the other. The ceiling and the walls of the palace preventing him from seeing the sky and the horizon. This mission—even with the insight offered by Ögedei’s advisor—was another cage. He was trapped. And yet, looking at his hands and imagining what it would be like to be trapped inside—a carrion fly or a moth—he realized that no matter how tightly he squeezed, he could never quite close the narrow gap where his index finger dug into his palm, even if he moved his thumb. “Master Chucai,” he said, “on the steppes, the opportunities to read are few, and I…”

  Chucai gave him a look of paternal reassurance. “I could send someone to read them to you, if you wish. Perhaps as you take your bath?”

  Gansukh opened his hands and stared at his palm. Would the moth be crushed by the pressure of its prison before it could escape? “My gratitude is endless, Master Chucai.”

  Gansukh drifted in a cloud. The walls of the room were obscured by the steam from the pool, and he floated in the hot water. The pool was larger than the interior of a chieftain’s ger, and initially he had balked at soiling so much water.

  His clothes, stiff with dried sweat and dust, had been taken away by pale-robed servants. He had sat naked at the edge of the pool for a few minutes, the steam from the water opening his pores. Eventually he had put his feet in, and the temperature of the water had made his skin tingle. He had then allowed himself the luxury of complete immersion, and it felt good.

  He wasn’t alone. Gansukh jerked out of his reverie, splashing the water around him as he found his footing on the bottom of the pool. She was kne
eling at the pool’s edge, the light-blue silk of her robe darkening at the knees from the water. Her long hair was unbound from the twisted coiffure most Chinese women wore, and it fell across half of her face like a sheet of black water. He could only see one of her eyes and half her mouth, but it was enough to tell she was amused.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, more strenuously than he intended. He felt exposed in the water, and not just because he was naked. The servants had taken everything, and he hadn’t even thought to keep the small knife he usually carried. He slapped the water as if the noise might scare her away, but the woman didn’t even flinch. Fool, he thought. All it took was the offer of a bath and he had dropped his defenses.

  “My name is Lian,” the woman said. Judging by the smooth paleness of her skin and the shape of her face, her life prior to Karakorum had been one of indolence and wealth.

  “Did Master Chucai send you to attend to my needs?” Gansukh asked. He made the water ripple with his hands. “If so, you should be in the pool.” It wasn’t that he desired the company of a woman; it was more that he didn’t like her sitting there on the edge. There was something on the floor beside her, and Gansukh stood on his tiptoes, trying to see what it was.

  “No,” she said, the humor leaving her face. “As I tell every other Mongol, I’m a tutor, not a whore.” She picked up the bundle beside her, and Gansukh realized it was a thick scroll. She unrolled it and proceeded to read.

  Once his confusion had passed, Gansukh listened for a few minutes as Lian read to him about the practices of civilized behavior. Her enunciation and diction were flawless, and her voice was pleasing to his ear. However, the material she was reading was the most tedious recitation Gansukh had ever heard—even more so than the countless reiterations of his ancestry recited in celebration after a victorious battle. “‘A son should not occupy the southwest corner of the home, nor sit in the middle of the mat, nor walk in the middle of the road, nor stand in the middle of the doorway. He should be as if he were hearing his parents when there is no voice from them and as if seeing them when they are not actually there.’”