Jingue watched me for a moment too long, then said something in Turkic I wished I understood. The students all scrambled to their feet, but Jingue guided Boyahoe back to his bench and placed a blank paper and brush before him. The others smirked and continued to the door, until Jingue’s harsh tone stopped them before they crossed the threshold.
Judging from the obsequiousness of their bows as they passed, he’d probably reminded them that their barbarian beki had a volatile temper and a quiver of arrows on her back.
“I’m glad to see that you’re recovered from last night’s . . . excitement,” he said in Mongolian when the last boy had vaulted down the steps. I couldn’t decide if Jingue’s look of concern was true or false, but considering who his parents were, I guessed false.
“I’m still breathing, if that’s what you mean.” I didn’t mention that the tip of my tongue remained numb from the gu poison, and instead I stood awkwardly, wishing I had something with which to busy my hands. Now I knew why my mother was always stitching, churning, or stirring a meal on the hearth—to give herself time to think in moments like this.
“Why did you do it?” I finally asked, fiddling with the roll of brushes on his table.
“Do what?” Now it was his turn to avoid my gaze.
I set down the brush and leaned back. “Stop me from taking the poison. It would have been the perfect way to send my body back to my father.”
I waited for him to ignore the accusation as Ala-Qush had, but he only sighed. “I thought of that,” he said, picking up a brush and twirling it between his ink-stained fingers. “But the Commandments forbid killing. And I doubt Christ would have taken kindly to the murder of one of his followers.”
I flushed at that. “I respect the god of the cross,” I said. “Yet I don’t worship him.”
“But you wear his emblem.” Jingue’s expression was lodged between bewilderment and anger. He likely would have let me die if he’d realized I worshipped the Eternal Blue Sky and the Earth Mother above all the other spirits.
“It was a gift from someone close to me,” I said, covering Toregene’s cross with my hand. “I’m learning to appreciate your god’s powers, and I won’t soon forget that I owe my breath to you both.”
“I would hope not,” he said. “Because of you, Enebish won’t speak to me and my mother makes a sign to ward off demons when she sees me.”
“They won’t remain angry for long,” I said. “Blood will always win out.”
Unfortunately, no one here shared my blood. And too many others sought to spill it.
“It seems I owe you, then,” I said, expecting him to demur. Yet Jingue rarely acted as I expected.
“It would appear that way,” he said.
I scowled and pretended to peruse his open scroll. Shigi had taught me several of the strange symbols and I could now write my name in the new Mongolian script my father had ordered Shigi to create and also in Turkic, but the majority of these jagged characters still swam before my eyes. Jingue guided Boyahoe’s hand to complete a line like a lightning bolt, although the character was already marred by countless inkblots. I took comfort in the fact that my letters were better than my seven-year-old stepson’s. Not by much, but still.
Jingue tucked his arms inside his sleeves. “So am I to call you Mother as well?” His tone was mostly amused, but I detected a dose of annoyance, too.
“What year were you born?”
“The Year of the Iron Dog,” he answered. “In the fall.”
“So I’m your elder,” I said. “Though only by a season.”
“Then I’ll call you Alaqai.”
No one except Shigi had spoken my name in anything other than hatred since my father had left. I didn’t know if I liked the sound of my name on Jingue’s lips, but I admired his boldness.
“My mother—I mean, Orbei”—Boyahoe bit his lip at the error, considering I was now his official mother—“said never to call you Beki.”
“What are you supposed to call me instead?”
“Heathen,” he said, blithely unaware of the insult or his brother’s sharp inhale. “Or Horse-Face.”
Orbei’s words in her son’s mouth stung, but they weren’t lethal, coming as they did from a viper without teeth.
“I’ve a feeling your mother has many more choice names for me,” I said, wishing I could call Orbei a name or two. That cross-eyed camel should be kissing my feet for sparing her life last night, not filling her son’s ears with insults against me.
Boyahoe offered me an innocent smile, then put the finishing flourish on his last character. Jingue relaxed and took the ink-stained brush from his brother, cuffed him affectionately on the chin, and herded him out the door.
“I didn’t expect you to be a teacher,” I said.
“Life is full of the unexpected,” Jingue said as he watched his brother go, echoing his mother’s sentiment when I’d first met her. “I certainly didn’t expect you to be as you are.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?”
Jingue didn’t answer. “You don’t speak Turkic,” he said after Boyahoe had disappeared around a corner. “Do you at least read it?”
An insult then. He and his family had expected an educated beki and had received an illiterate heathen instead. Fortunately, by now I was accustomed to disappointing people.
“It’s a difficult language.” I didn’t tell him of my lessons with Shigi, tedious and painful as they were.
“You’ll never gain our respect if you don’t learn our language,” Jingue said, letting the door close. Sound and sunlight penetrated the paper-lined window, but I still felt trapped inside. “And without that respect you have no hope of ruling us.”
I wondered if he meant himself, his family, or the Onggud. Probably all three.
I crossed my arms and leaned against Boyahoe’s desk, although the dead rabbits at my hip made that a bit awkward at first. “Why would you of all people offer me advice?”
He shrugged. “Once you have our esteem you might be able to do some good here, perhaps persuade my father to build more religious houses or a School of Healing to train physicians to minister to the sick.”
I snorted at that. “I was once accused of being death’s foot soldier. I’m undoubtedly the least qualified person in this town to help the sick.”
Jingue dipped the used brush into a bowl of water, seemingly nonchalant about my protest, yet his shoulders tensed. Perhaps this was what he sought from me, although I was an unlikely candidate to build anything with walls. And Toregene was the healer, not me. Still, the idea was intriguing.
“I take it your father isn’t well-disposed toward these projects?”
“My father believes that we are beset by enemies along all our borders. He cares only for his alliances and how much wealth he can accumulate to purchase them.”
That explained why I was here, along with the carts of silks and weapons that had accompanied me. Jingue’s black ink swirled like smoke in the bowl of water before it dissolved. “But you’ll never get anywhere if you can’t talk to the Onggud,” he said. “Or understand what they say about you.”
I untied the rabbits from my belt, dropped them on the table with a dull thud, and sat down. “Then teach me.”
My father always claimed that one should know an enemy better than a friend, and Jingue still fell firmly in the camp of the former. Shigi could verify later that Jingue hadn’t taught me to call his mother a snot-dragging yak instead of asking where to find the butter churn, but this was an opportunity I couldn’t allow to slip away.
Jingue arched an eyebrow. “Is that an order?”
“Does it need to be?”
He tucked the wet brushes into their bamboo roll, then crouched and shuffled through a box of papers beneath the table, retrieving a sheet that bore creases from having been folded and unfolded many times.
I pointed out several characters, the signs for daughter, son, and nation, triumphant in my newfound knowledge. I knew my identifications had been correct, so I was annoyed when he pursed his lips. “Anything else?” he asked.
I shook my head, irritated.
He pointed to the scrawl at the bottom. “You don’t recognize your father’s name?”
I almost laughed at that, but his expression was serious. “My father doesn’t write,” I said, ashamed of my father for the first time I could remember. I could only imagine the insults running through Jingue’s head, cursing the illiterate infidels who’d usurped his kingdom, but he simply folded the paper.
I snatched it from his hand and stared at my father’s name, overwhelmed by how much I missed him. “He might have dictated it,” I said. “What does it say?”
“This is the letter in which Genghis Khan demanded that my father marry you.”
My head jerked up at that. “It says no such thing. Your father wrote to mine, begging for the alliance our marriage would bring.”
Jingue gave a harsh laugh. “Is that what you were told? That my father pleaded for the honor of demeaning his wife and disowning his children in return for a child bride?”
Suddenly everything and nothing made sense—the Onggud hostility upon my arrival and even my father’s easy acceptance of my demand that Ala-Qush set aside his wife. But why would my father lie to me?
My emotions must have been writ plain on my face—confusion, anger, and embarrassment—for Jingue’s tone was softer when he next spoke.
“Ask your Tatar scribe to confirm my claims,” he said, taking the paper from me and returning it to its box. “Your father positioned you to fail, Alaqai. He knew you’d be loathed here.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” I said, but my voice lacked conviction. I grabbed the clutch of dead rabbits, ignoring the smear of dark blood on Jingue’s table. “I should go now, before the meat gathers flies.”
It was a terrible excuse, but Jingue didn’t challenge me. “Go in peace, Alaqai.”
His words were a common farewell, for both the People of the Stone Walls and the People of the Felt were unwilling to bid final good-byes in case malicious spirits decided to make the words into a permanent parting.
Still, as I walked away, I was struck by the miserable realization that there wasn’t a soul in Olon Süme who wouldn’t rejoice if I left and never came back.
* * *
“Is it true?”
I stood before Shigi that evening, my two long-nosed strays sitting at my feet like silent soldiers. The dark obscured my accusatory glare while the autumn stars shone sharply overhead and the last of the faded leaves fell into the blackness around us. The children huddled in a firelit circle across the way, having been herded outside after Ala-Qush had joined us for a stilted dinner and then disappeared with the excuse that he needed to meet with the Jurched ambassador in the morning. That had left me to entertain his surly sons and daughter, and I’d ignored their glares when I harried them out to tell stories under the stars. I’d promptly dragged Shigi far enough out of earshot that no one could hear us, although not before whispering to Boyahoe that I expected a full accounting of his siblings’ conversations when I returned. Still, I felt Jingue’s gaze on my back while he pretended to listen to Boyahoe’s tale of a one-armed shepherd and his lost camels.
Shigi patted the end of the merchant’s cart next to him, but I refused to sit.
“You’re an obstinate mule sometimes, Alaqai Beki.” He sighed. “And yes, Jingue was right about the letter. Your father’s message fell scarcely short of ordering Ala-Qush to marry you. I transcribed it myself.”
“So he wished me to fail.” I pressed the heel of my fist to my lips to keep from yelling in frustration. “And he lied.”
“Your father took liberties with the truth,” Shigi acknowledged. He shrugged off his wolfskin coat, a gift from my father, and wrapped it around my shoulders. I almost shoved it away, but it was so cold I could see my breath, an early warning of the winter yet to come. “But it was for your benefit.”
“It was hardly beneficial to believe that my husband desired our marriage, when in fact he already despised me.” I sat then, pulling the fur tight and inhaling its scent of animal musk and Shigi’s inks. One of the dogs pushed his wet muzzle into my hand and I petted his head absentmindedly.
“How would you have felt to know you were marrying a man who was adamantly opposed to you?” He crossed his arms and the cart creaked as he shifted next to me. “And don’t tell me you would have been imbued with eagerness and confidence.”
I scowled, hating the truth of his words. My father’s lie had allowed me to act the part of a beki, at least for a short time. Now it was up to me whether to continue the deception.
“If you hadn’t demanded Ala-Qush set aside his wife,” he said, “Orbei would have you scrubbing pots and opening the doors to the Great House by now.”
“That doesn’t excuse your complicity.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Shigi draped an arm around my shoulder and squeezed me to him. “I value my head far too much to risk your father’s wrath.”
“I plan to give him an earful when I see him next.”
“As only you could do, and survive to tell the tale.” Shigi dropped his arm to lean forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Or I could carry the message to him myself.”
“You’re leaving?” I’d known that Shigi wouldn’t stay with me forever, but now I felt a surge of panic at the idea that he’d soon be gone.
He nodded, the gold ring in his nose reflecting the campfire’s light. “Your father commands me to join the campaign before the snows render travel impossible. He wants me present to record his victory over the Tanghuts.”
Something in the way Shigi spoke made me realize that he didn’t wish to obey my father’s summons. Yet I also had a feeling he didn’t seek to remain at my side. “You’d rather return home, wouldn’t you? There’s someone you miss, isn’t there?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, stiffening next to me. “Of course I miss our family—”
“Don’t lie, Shigi,” I said. “You’re not very good at it, even in the dark. I’ve seen the way you gaze toward home.” I glanced at his profile from the corner of my eyes, decided to take the chance. “She must be very special.”
I waited for him to deny it, but he only sighed. “She is.”
I grinned at my victory and nudged my shoulder against his. “She’s a lucky woman, to make you pine away so. I expect I’ll hear of your wedding, then, after my father’s campaign is over. And your tent full of precocious children reciting the wisdom of Tanghut sages.”
It was a wedding I’d never see, and children I’d never meet. I sobered at the thought, but Shigi made a noise in the back of his throat, a sound devoid of all humor. “I’ll never marry, Alaqai, nor will I have any children. My only legacy shall be the histories I write for your father and the records of his new laws.”
“But I thought . . .” I watched Ala-Qush’s children sitting in the firelight, while I tried to make sense of Shigi’s words. “This woman—”
“Is married, Alaqai.” Shigi stood and brushed his deel, as if brushing away our conversation. He looked at the stars, as if he might gather strength from them. “The Eternal Blue Sky is with us wherever we go, yet there are some things we can’t have, regardless of where we are.”
There was nothing I could do to dispute that; I wished for many things here in Olon Süme, and I knew enough now to realize that they might be forever beyond my grasp.
“Will you take Neer-Gui with you?” I asked Shigi, needing to fill the painful silence.
“Your horse?”
There was an old Mon
gol saying, that once a man has ridden a horse, it will never leave him. I loved Neer-Gui, but still I nodded, cursing the tears that welled in my eyes. “This is no place for him,” I said, wanting to add or for me. “He needs to be free to run.”
“I’d be honored to ride him as my own,” Shigi said, squeezing my hand.
“I’ll miss you,” I said, my voice catching. I’d be friendless and utterly alone once Shigi left Olon Süme. Panic tightened my throat, and I knew I’d have to harden my heart even further when he was gone.
“You’re stronger than you know, Alaqai. And you’re not entirely without allies here, at least not if you choose to seek them out.”
I followed his gaze to where Jingue sat with Boyahoe and Enebish, all singing a haunting sort of melody, like those Sorkhokhtani once played on her tobshuur. “You’re wrong,” I said, patting the flanks of both the mongrels at my feet. “These dogs might stay by my side, but Jingue would feed me to the wolves if given the chance.”
Shigi rubbed his chin. “I don’t think so, at least not anymore. Cultivate his friendship, for one day you may need it.”
“I’d sooner eat that foul Onggud porridge.”
Shigi laughed then, and I felt Jingue’s gaze on us. “Who knows, little marmot?” Shigi said. “One morning you may wake up to find that you crave a steaming bowl of boiled millet.”
Somehow I doubted that very much.
* * *
In the end it wasn’t my loneliness that forced Jingue and me together, but his father.
“You drove away my wife,” Ala-Qush said one cold morning almost a month later when I visited him in the Great House. I’d found him slurping gray porridge from a pewter bowl. “And now you chase off my son.”
Shigi had left me before the first snows fell, riding east with Neer-Gui to rendezvous with my father. I’d stuffed his saddlebags to bursting with bean sprouts for the long journey, a final gift for the horse I’d likely never see again. When they’d disappeared, I was alone for the first time, surrounded by enemies and so isolated I decided I’d take Shigi’s advice and cultivate Jingue’s friendship.
The Tiger Queens Page 27
