Ibakha was gazing at the men again. “Your milking,” Sorkhatani muttered. Her sister giggled and resumed her work.
The red sun was low in the western sky when the two sisters finished carrying the milk inside their tent. “Father's back,” Sorkhatani said as she helped her mother pour it into a kettle. Her mother was his third wife, but his favourite. Jakha Gambu would surely come to her tent if he wanted to discuss matters his other two wives should not hear; they gossiped, while Keuken Ghoa never seemed to hear anything he said.
Sorkhatani studied her mother's smooth, golden-skinned face. Keuken the Fair still looked like a beautiful girl, unmarked by age, her brown eyes untroubled by thought. It came to her that her mother had probably once been as silly as Ibakha.
“I need more fuel,” Keuken said to one of her servants.
“I'll fetch it.” Ibakha hastened through the doorway.
Sorkhatani set down her bucket. “My sister should be married,” she said.
“I'd miss her.”
“She's almost eighteen, Mother. Will you have her grow old in this tent? You should speak to Father.” Her mother would not, of course; she would leave that task to Sorkhatani. “I'll help her find fuel.”
She went outside. Her sister was moving towards Khasar's tent, which stood in the southern end of Jakha Gambu's circle. Other Mongol prisoners were in other parts of the camp, but her father wanted Khasar close; he was both an important hostage and an old comrade.
Ibakha leaned against a cart, obviously hoping for a glimpse of the Mongol. Sorkhatani went to her side. A few boys raced past them; Khasar's chief wife, the only one of his wives who had been captured, was outside her yurt, working at a piece of felt with another woman. Another boy trotted past them on a horse, then halted.
“Greetings, Tukhu,” Ibakha said, smiling as she looked up at Khasar's youngest son. Tukhu was twelve, a year younger than Sorkhatani; he flushed and grunted a greeting. “Perhaps you and your father might come to Mass tomorrow.” Ibakha fluttered her eyelids while Sorkhatani fumed in silence. Naturally her sister wanted the man she loved to attend the rite, where she would be worshipping him as much as the cross. “The priests would baptize you both.”
The boy laughed. “A waste of water.” He rode towards his mother's tent. Khasar was returning there, trailed by other riders and two wagons carrying sacks of milk. He had stripped to the waist; his broad brown chest gleamed with sweat.
Ibakha sighed; Sorkhatani caught her sister by the wrist. “You've seen him,” she said. “Don't shame yourself by rushing over there. Anyway, now that Father's back, he's likely to come to our tent soon.” Khasar often came there to drink with Jakha Gambu and to talk of old battles. He did not seem to find captivity that burdensome, but then his family was hostage to his good behaviour.
Khasar dismounted; his powerful arms bulged as he heaved a sack from one wagon. He was handsome, Sorkhatani admitted to herself; perhaps his brother the Khan was equally favoured. Once, her uncle Toghril had called Genghis Khan his adoptive son, and now the Mongol was in hiding, with Kereits in control of his old lands. Ibakha would do well to remember that; whoever her husband was to be, she would not find him among Khasar's people.
Jakha Gambu ate in Keuken Ghoa's tent that night. Sorkhatani saw how sombre he was, and his sons were equally silent. His three wives and his sons' wives chattered among themselves and hushed the children. Keuken seemed as indifferent to her husband's sullen mood as she was to his happier ones.
Jakha sent everyone away earlier than usual, dismissed the servants, then stepped outside. Sorkhatani and Ibakha helped their mother clear away the platters. Curds had formed in the milk simmering over the hearth; they had poured the whey into skins when Jakha Gambu came back inside.
“I've sent one of the guards for Khasar,” he murmured to his wife. Ibakha flashed him a smile, then smoothed down her braids; Sorkhatani frowned. Maybe the men who advised the Ong-Khan had finally persuaded him to rid himself of his enemy's brother; that could account for her father's brooding.
“Call off your dogs!” a man shouted outside; Ibakha lifted her head at the sound of Khasar's voice.
“Welcome, Nokor,” Jakha Gambu said as Khasar came through the entrance and bowed. Sorkhatani composed herself. If her father was inviting him inside, and calling him Nokor, his comrade in arms, he was not planning to take his head yet. Khasar muttered a greeting and walked to the back of the tent. Sorkhatani finished scooping the curds on to platters to dry; Ibakha sat down and tugged at her tunic.
Khasar seated himself at Jakha's right; Keuken Ghoa poured kumiss. “Drink deep,” Jakha said. “You'll need it. Your brother sent messengers to Toghril.”
Khasar nodded. “The guard told me Sukegei and Arkhai were Temujin's envoys, and that my brother offered peace. He said little more than that.”
“The message wasn't only for my brother, but also for some of those around him. You should hear what was said from me.” Jakha Gambu gulped down more kumiss. “All the men your brother wished to address were in Toghril's camp, so that the matter could at least be settled quickly.” He paused. “Arkhai and Sukegei spoke Temujin's words to Toghril first, and I'll try to capture some of your brother's eloquence. 'What have I done to you, Father and Khan?' they asked. 'Why did you force my people to flee, and scatter the smoke that rose from their yurts? Am I not the second wheel of your cart? My father restored you to your throne, and became your anda. When the Naimans put Erke Khara on your throne, I welcomed you to my camp and drove your enemies from your lands. You abandoned me once, treating me as no more than the burned meats of a sacrifice, and yet I rallied to your defence when you were attacked. Tell me what offence I've committed, so that I may put it right.' There was more to the message, but those are the essentials.”
“And the Ong-Khan was unmoved?” Khasar asked.
“Oh no. Toghril cursed himself, cut one of his fingers, and let the blood drip into a birch-bark cup. He told Arkhai to carry the cup to Temujin, and said that if he ever had evil thoughts about Yesugei's son again, his own blood would surely flow.”
“But I was told—”
Jakha held up a hand. “The next message was for Jamukha.” He scowled. “ 'You've divided me from Toghril-echige,' the envoys said. 'Once, we both drank from the Ong-Khan's cup. Now you drink from it alone, but how much longer will you drink from it?' As for Altan and Khuchar, the envoys reminded them that they had made Temujin their Khan and sworn to serve him, then asked if this was how they honoured their oath. 'Now you support the Ong-Khan my father,' they said, 'but what loyalty have you shown to me?' “
“And their replies?” Khasar asked.
“They said nothing. There was one message left to deliver, the one for Nilkha. By then, I thought Temujin might achieve his ends. My brothers regretted this war, and the messengers had reminded him of how untrustworthy Altan, Khuchar, and Jamukha are.”
“Tell me the message for Nilkha,” Khasar said.
“It was this. 'I became your father's son when I was clothed, while you were born to him naked. Envy caused you to break your father's heart and to drive me away. How can you bring him such grief? Is it that you want him to suffer, that even though he still lives, you wish to be Khan?' “
Khasar let out his breath. “Nilka was enraged,” Jakha went on. “He ranted about how Temujin might call Toghril his father, but claimed he's also called him a blood-soaked bastard. He told the envoys that our people would graze our horses until they were fat enough for war, and that whoever won the battle would take the people of the vanquished for himself. That's the message your brother will receive.” Jakha cursed under his breath. “Now Toghril and my nephew are arguing again, while those other three wretches have left for their camps. It's the end of your brother's hope for peace, but he's roused more discord here.”
Khasar smiled. “Then perhaps he achieved something after all.”
“I didn't want to ride against Temujin before,” Jakha murmured, “and worry more about
fighting him now. Toghril vacillates, and Khuchar and Altan may be having second thoughts. Our alliance may not last.”
Khasar said, “And I remain your captive.”
Ibakha bit her lip. Sorkhatani rose and picked up a plate of bones for their dogs. She had heard everything now; her father would have to fight, whatever his feelings.
The guards stood near the fire in front of the doorway. Sorkhatani found the three dogs behind a wagon at the back of the great tent; they snarled as she threw them the bones. She was circling the tent when she heard Khasar's voice.
“I bid you good night, Nokor and friend,” Khasar was saying. Sorkhatani shrank back in the darkness. Her father and the Mongol stood alone, near the steps leading up to the doorway. “I assume you'll ride with Toghril if he's determined to fight.”
“He'll fight,” her father said. “Nilkha will drag him into it, as he did before.”
“My fate is in your hands, Jakha Gambu. Whatever becomes of me, I can't ride with you against Temujin. My brother and I are arrows that have always rested in the same quiver.”
“I understand.” Jakha cleared his throat and spat. “Your family is safe with me,” he murmured, “and the night guards sometimes lack vigilance.”
Sorkhatani held her breath. Her father was taking a chance by letting his prisoner escape; she wondered what would come of it.
81
Lake Baljuna was nearly dry, a puddle in a sea of mud. Women moved through the marshes, stooping to pick plants or to squeeze water from the mud into jars. Bortai pressed some water into her jug, then straightened. The brackish water always tasted of clay, even when she strained it.
Teb-Tenggeri had been trying to summon rain for days; Bortai had seen him outside the camp with the other shamans, chanting as he dropped his pale jade stones into small cups of water. The herds had been driven east to graze, and the men had found watering holes there, but the water was low. Far to the north, a few birches and willows stood against the horizon; beyond them lay the wooded lands of the Tunguz. The Mongols could move no further north than this.
More of their people had joined them in the Onggirat lands, making their way to Temujin's camp with the herds and possessions they had saved during the flight from the Kereits. Temujin had led them north after his envoy Arkhai returned to tell him that the Senggum had promised war; Sukegei, after learning that his family were Kereit prisoners, had decided to go back to them. Without a promise of peace, Temujin had to retreat; the Onggirat troops were his rearguard now.
Camping circles covered the land around Lake Baljuna. Even in their precarious position, Temujin's closest comrades had remained loyal, although most of them might have found places in the Kereit ranks. The Khan had feared that his sister's husband might abandon him again, but Chohos-chaghan had led his people to Baljuna. The Khan's wives had tents now, poor and small as they were. Bortai's two oldest sons had found wives among the Onggirats, although the bride-prices were largely promises from Temujin.
Khojin and Alakha stumbled towards Bortai; the mud sucked at their boots. Khojin held up a plant in her grimy hand and Alakha clutched two wild onions to her chest.
“You did well,” Bortai said. Khojin grinned; nothing could douse the girl's spirit. The child's courage made it easier for Bortai not to despair. She thought of what Arkhai had told her husband—that the Ong-Khan's allies were uncertain, that the old man lacked the spirit for fighting. The cold air bit at her face; autumn was near, the season for war. They would endure somehow, and hope Heaven favoured Temujin when the battle came.
Temujin came to Bortai's tent that evening. He was silent as they ate the plants and bit of game that were their meagre meal. At last he sent his other wives and his daughters to their tents.
Tolui and Ogedei went to the hides that served as their beds. Temujin settled himself on the narrow bed in the back of the tent and stared at the hearth. Darker spirits had claimed him once more. He had not joined with Bortai since they had moved to Lake Baljuna, and had not visited his other wives in their tents.
“We should fight,” Tolui said as he stretched out.
Temujin glanced at the boy. “Be certain that we shall,” he replied.
“When?”
“After the Kereits begin to move against us. I suspect they'll move east to meet the Onggirats, and then we can sweep down from the north.”
Tolui said, “Maybe you should attack.”
“I'd need more men for that.”
“You have the Onggirats.”
Temujin shook his head. “They'll fight to defend their lands, but they need more seasoning—they wouldn't do well on the attack.”
Bortai heard the sound of horses' hooves outside, and then shouts from the guards; her husband reached for his sword. “Temujin!” a man cried. “Two scouts are here with Daritai Odchigin. He wishes to speak to you.”
Temujin flinched. “I'll meet him outside,” he shouted back, “not in my tent.” He got up and went to the entrance. The boys were about to follow him when Bortai motioned them back.
“He'll kill Great-Uncle Daritai,” Tolui said.
“Perhaps. Stay where you are.” She went to the doorway and sat down just inside the open entrance.
Temujin was standing near a fire, his back to her. Daritai dismounted, stumbled towards the Khan, then dropped to his knees. Men stood in a half-circle around him; others had come out of the nearest tents.
“I come in peace,” Daritai said, “and throw myself on your mercy.”
“Then perhaps,” Temujin said, “I should show you the mercy you deserve.”
“He brings news of a plot against the Ong-Khan,” another man said. “Your uncle and his men had to flee from the Kereits. His men are under guard a day's ride to the south, but Daritai Odchigin asked to be brought to you right away.”
Bortai saw her husband's back stiffen. “Speak, Uncle,” he said softly. “The Khan wishes to hear your last words.”
Daritai struck his head against the ground, then sat back. “Toghril can't lead,” he said. “He listens only to the last voice he hears. Jamukha finally saw this, and so did Khuchar and Altan. We held a secret council and agreed it was time to move against him. Jamukha said we could all be Khans ourselves, bowing neither to the Kereits nor to you, but I saw that removing Toghril might benefit you.”
Bortai doubted that Daritai had actually been thinking of his nephew then. “We were going to surprise the Ong-Khan in his camp,” Daritai continued, “but somehow he was warned, and we were forced to flee. Jamukha and the others rode west, towards Naiman country, but I decided to come to you. A man in an Onggirat camp told me you'd moved here, and your scouts met me along the way.” He bowed his head. “I might have followed the others west, but now I see how unreliable they are—even Khuchar, who was like a son to me. I deserve to be punished, but maybe I can heal the wounds I inflicted by helping you now. I curse those who led me from your side, and myself for listening to them.” The Odchigin took out his knife, cut his thumb, and let the blood drip. “May my blood flow if I ever betray you again.”
“You would have no chance to betray me,” Temujin said, “if I take your life here.”
Daritai's broad shoulders sagged. “I knew that there might be no mercy for me, and yet I rode to you. Surely that shows you how deeply I regret my deeds.”
“Father will kill him,” Tolui whispered behind Bortai.
“You deserve death,” Temujin said, “but you are my father's brother, and you've led men I need to my side. I'll let you live, Daritai, but know this—if I ever have cause to doubt you, if there's even a whisper of your possible disloyalty, if you ever speak evil words against me to others, even words uttered in drunkenness when men often don't know what they're saying, your body will feed the ravens. You must do everything you can to prove your loyalty, and pray that nothing causes me to doubt you. At the slightest mistake, your death will find you.”
“You are generous, Temujin,” Daritai said.
“You'll li
ve with my sword hanging over you. Perhaps death would have been easier.” Temujin waved a hand. “Take my uncle to Borchu's tent. In the morning, he and Borchu will ride to his men and lead them here to swear their oath to me.”
He turned; Bortai rose and backed away from the doorway. He entered, went to the bed, and sat down. “I suppose you think,” he said, “that I should have made an end of him.”
Bortai said, “You need him now.”
“I would have killed him,” Tolui muttered.
Temujin sighed. “Son, a Khan has to know when revenge is useless, however justified. Daritai surrendered, and having his men among our troops may even make the attack you suggested possible.” He pulled off his boots, then lay down. “Go to sleep.”
Bortai moved to the bed. As she got in next to him, he drew her to him and covered her mouth with his. She slipped her arms around him, welcoming him.
A few days after Daritai's surrender, Heaven favoured them with rain. People cowered inside tents and under wagons, but no lightning struck near them; the lake and watering holes swelled with water.
When the storm passed, a caravan led by a trader riding a white camel stopped at the camp. Mongols surrounded the caravan, pestering the traders with questions, admiring the gold ornaments on the camels' harnesses and the camel-hair coats of the men.
The caravan's leader was called Hassan; he and his comrades Jafar and Danishmenhajib spoke the Mongol tongue. They had come north from the Ongghut lands south of the Gobi with a thousand sheep to trade for sables and pelts. The Khan was soon treating the traders as comrades, and welcomed them to his tents.
The traders talked of what was happening in other lands. The western ruler of Khwarezm had seized more of Kara-Khitai, and the Uighurs allied with Kara-Khitai were growing restive. The Ongghut ruler had doubts about how strong his Kin overlords would remain. Merchants worried that the conflict among Kereits and Mongols might disrupt their northern trade.
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