Lords of Grass and Thunder

by Curt Benjamin

  The lady followed all Sechule’s thoughts with a smile on her lips. “You see it, too,” she said, though neither spoke aloud the words that would seal the pact between them.

  Many questions remained unanswered, but of them all one troubled Sechule most: “Surely Qutula must value the support of the spirit world, but how does his place at his father’s side help you?”

  “His father will not live forever.”

  Sechule guessed that the lady would make certain of that.

  “As his gift to me, Qutula has promised to return me to my rightful place on the dais, as his wife. I have come to assure you that I welcome your presence at my side there, as the mother of the khan.”

  “But how . . .” She didn’t mention the potion she had given her son to feed the prince. It would begin the process, but not end it. They needed illness over time, she thought, not another suspicious sudden death. The lady seemed to know all that, however, and set it aside with an undulating wave of her hand.

  “That is for Qutula to decide. We are only women, after all. We may advise, but men must wield the sword and the spear in our names.”

  War? Qutula had ambition, surely, and followers, but she had hoped to limit the conflict to a few judicious murders. Sechule shrugged a languid shoulder. “We women don’t wear the stag’s horns, but we have our own quieter ways to set things right again.”

  “Exactly.” With a pointed look at the empty jar that had lately held the death’s-head mushrooms, the lady added, “I can teach you more.”

  It seemed pointless to dissemble with an ally. “Yes,” Sechule said, and returned her guest’s smile. “Would you like some tea? From the other chest, of course.”

  “That would be very nice—” The lady sat in a place of honor while Sechule pulled out cups and offered honey or butter for the tea.

  Eluneke slept, and in her dreams the king of the toads came to her with all his followers behind him. “Queen of the humans,” he said. “Queen of the toads,” and bowed to her. When she tried to raise him up, he turned into the prince and kissed her, but his kiss was deadly and she swooned. He reached to catch her, but she passed through his arms, falling as if from out of the sky, and above her she heard the gods thunder their anger that she had disturbed them at their rest.

  When she struggled out of dreams, Bolghai was there to pat her shoulder and tell her, “Sleep.” It seemed much easier than waking, so she did as she was told.

  “Butter,”the false Lady Chaiujin chose, while snaky thoughts of juicy rodents and her hostess’ beating blood slithered through her mind.

  Sechule poured. “You know my son Qutula has ambitions,” she said as they sat to drink. “Bekter worries me, however. He hesitates; that’s his way. He needs persuasions that a mother can’t apply.”

  The emerald green bamboo serpent demon drank, though she had no taste for tea. “I suppose I could whisper inducements in his ear.”

  And if he remained unmoved? Did Sechule intend for him the fate of the serpent’s late husband, Chimbai-Khan? A mother in the demon realm had many young, and ate them to sustain her when other prey was scarce. She hadn’t noticed such behavior in humans, though they seemed quick enough to send their young to be slaughtered by others.

  “We think alike,” Sechule agreed. “I knew I could depend on you.”

  “Of course.” Lady Chaiujin nodded, though she suspected the woman was very wrong in her certainty

  “For myself,” Sechule continued, offering an opportunity. “I think I will make a brief visit to the ger-tent palace. My son will be singing a new song he wrote for the khan.”

  “I suspect the khan will grow tired very soon thereafter.” The lady gave a smile a bit too mocking.

  As is the way of allies who need but do not necessarily like each other, Sechule kept her objection to herself. Only the brief flicker of anger in her eyes gave her away. “You will have only my sons to attend you tonight, whichever bed you choose. The palace is full of fine young men with strong arms and an appreciative eye. I’m sure I can find one with a warm bed as well.”

  “Enjoy your young man, then, as I shall enjoy mine.” Bekter was not as handsome as his brother, nor as sharp of wit. Qutula had come to the desired conclusion about his cousin the prince on his own. All she had to do was encourage him. Bekter, like a dumb beast who adored his master while that master sharpened his butchering tools, still hoped that a steadfast nature would win for him his father’s love. She anticipated no great pleasure from the encounter, but trusted the young man to be quick.

  The boy’s mother must have picked up some of the lady’s hesitation, because she stopped in the doorway with a warning. “Don’t hurt him. He is not, perhaps, the hero a lady dreams about when she sleeps alone, but he has a good and willing heart. And whatever you may have thought you understood of them, remember this about mortals. They mourn each other more in the loss than they may love each other while living. If you wish to bind Qutula to your will, you would not hurt his brother.”

  So, she didn’t mean for her demon conspirator to eat him after all. “You worry too much,” the stranger who had once been the Lady Chaiujin assured her. “I value my alliances. But if it makes you feel better, I promise to be kind to your son.” She wondered what other reassurances the woman needed, but that seemed enough. With a final bow to acknowledge their pact, Sechule departed.

  Alone in the unfamiliar tent, the lady poked among the herbs and poisons and examined Sechule’s clothes with a sneer. Finally, she returned to her serpent form, coiled in a nest she made of Sechule’s best silk coat. Deep within her slumber, she felt the promise of a snaky egg slowly taking shape. Soon she would need to find a father. But not Bekter. Her child must be the heir to a khan.

  Mergen wouldn’t do. Another man in his place might have been grateful for the opportunity she had given him. But he hadn’t wanted to be khan and he’d been a lot angrier about Chimbai’s death than she’d expected. Sechule must be right about brothers.

  Prince Tayy was just as useless to her. The boy saw more than skin-deep and he had never forgiven her for his mother, let alone his father. So that left Qutula, who had a mind for strategy and a heart for conspiracy. And later, when her place at his side as the mother of the heir was secure, she would make it seem that Sechule had committed his murder.

  Thinking such thoughts, she slept.

  Chapter Twenty

  THE GER-TENT PALACE was lit with many lamps reflecting off the mirrors on the lattices. It looked like the hunters of the Qubal had captured little moons Han and Chen and put them in cages to reflect their holy light upon the khan. Sechule slipped in at the back, where the light was dimmest, and gradually worked her way toward the brightest glow around the dais. There were those among the nobles and Mergen’s advisers who eyed her with a speculative gleam, wondering if she planned to entertain them with a scandal tonight. Would she confront the khan, spitting curses like a deserted wife? What would the khan do when he saw her? Bekter had begun to play, however—she recognized his playing by the slightly off-key G—and his presence in front of the khan gave her reason to be there.

  “Sechule.” A hand reached out, stroked down her arm as she passed. Altan, that was, a friend of the prince in Qutula’s age group. He had graced her bed on a few occasions, but neither had sustained the other’s interest for long. She heard his family had chosen him a young wife from a wealthy clan. Still, if nothing else presented itself, he seemed willing to take a walk to the river. She returned the caress with a warning tap of her finger against the back of his hand. Discretion, that warned, and promised, “Maybe.” He smiled, and drifted away to take his place among the prince’s guard. Later, she knew, he would look for her in the half-light below the firebox.

  There were other men. Powerful men, who stood almost as close to the ear of the khan as Yesugei had, would bed her for her looks and perhaps to challenge the khan, if he still cared. Young men who believed that sleeping with the khan’s mistress—even an old one—pu
t them closer to the khan himself would pretend to an attraction they didn’t feel. In the dark, they would doubtless manage. The sheep never suffered for lack of company, after all.

  No one hindered her passage through the crowd of followers and hangers-on, past the guardsmen with their blue coats and their backs to the lattices. They should, perhaps, have stopped her as she neared the dais. She had exceeded the limits of her rank. But Bekter was her son, and the whole court appreciated his songs, if not his playing.

  The usurper, Prince Tayyichiut, was there, trying to pay attention, though his gaze seemed distant and given to restless sweeps over the crowd. Mergen seemed to be doing a better job of listening to his blanket-son, though sometimes a smile threatened to break over his face at inopportune moments in the song. Bortu was watching the khan with her own secrets simmering in her eyes. Sechule wondered what that was about. Then Mergen caught her gaze. He didn’t turn away.

  The ger-tent palace was hot tonight, almost crowded, especially nearest the dais of the khan. Farther back, the crowd was thinning as it did late at night. Those below the firebox had less to lose at his displeasure, as if he wouldn’t have done the same in their places. Mergen took it all in with an ironic eye. All this belongs to me, he thought. A little bit of pride touched his lips. He’d kept the Qubal alive, after all, and together as an ulus in spite of murder and war. For the rest, he wondered what fate had put him here when he knew himself to be singularly unsuited to rule.

  Fortunately, the assembled nobles and clan chieftains hadn’t figured that out yet. With a bit of work, he hoped they wouldn’t catch on until he had passed the khanate to his nephew, who should have had it by right of birth. He hoped the young man would take the reins of power among the clans more easily than his uncle had. He hoped they could do it with celebrations and ceremonies, with none of the death and anguish that usually accompanied the passing of power from one khan to another.

  This time, however, the passing khan was ready neither for his dotage nor for his pyre. The new khan had neither to wrest the dais from his predecessor nor to convince the ulus of his fitness to rule. Any khan might step aside for a hero who had talked with dragons and lived to tell of it. An uncle who preferred a quiet life could do no less. This is all mine, he thought, but soon it will be his.

  Bekter was singing a new song involving crashing swords and the king of the toads. A fond smile came of its own accord.

  Tayy held his breath, but Bekter’s song put the hero-prince of the Nirun in the place of the shamaness in training, fighting rather than negotiating with the king of the toads in single combat. To the laughter of the court, the creature admitted defeat in the croaks and belches of Bekter’s own version of the language of the toads.

  “The king of the toads indeed!” Laughing with the rest, Mergen took a sip of his kumiss. “What gave you such a notion?”

  “As to that, you must ask the prince!” Putting his instrument aside, Bekter answered the khan with an easy jest as the tellers of tall tales were wont to do.

  Tayy knew there would be talk. He might have sworn the Nirun to secrecy, but the Durluken would put this to a contest as they did everything, it seemed, between the captains. Who had the more beautiful woman to warm his blankets—Qutula or Prince Tayy? No one had seen ’Tula’s lover. Tayy hadn’t ever bedded the girl at the river—they’d spoken for the first time today—so the whole exercise seemed as pointless as a practice stick at jidu.

  Declaring herself too exhausted from a day of visiting to partake in the gossip, the Lady Bortu had gone to her bed leaving more whispers behind her. Had she been out among the clans, sounding out political matches? Were the prince’s exploits at the river the first steps in a dance that would lead to a royal wedding? As the kumiss flowed and the roasted meats disappeared, the wagers grew more outrageous.

  The tale of the king of the toads didn’t help. Bekter didn’t know the part about the shamaness in training making a treaty with the toad people, but like the Nirun and Qutula’s Durluken, he’d seen the girl. Tayy needed something to take their minds off what they had seen and at the moment King Toad seemed to be it.

  “He was the biggest toad I’ve ever seen,” he said, “and he had a crown of leaves on his head. He walked up to us bold as a warrior of the khan and croaked his royal command.”

  Qutula handed him a bowl and he drank, gasping at the bitter fire of the kumiss. After only a few mouthfuls of the fermented mare’s milk, he had enough and set the bowl down next to him.

  “Such creatures are dangerous when cornered,” Mergen reminded him, and then turned to the gossip that Bekter had discreetly left out of the song. “And yet, all I hear in whispers badly hidden behind the hands of your guardsmen is about this girl—” Mergen kept a smile on his face, but the prince felt his anger through the mask of good humor. “Or was she a toad as well?”

  The Nirun laughed; they had seen her and assured their khan that the girl was no toad. “Beautiful,” Altan declared her, “with eyes to drive a man to deeds worthy of Bekter’s songs.”

  Jochi, Mergen Gur-Khan’s new general, glared at his son. They had, no doubt, each drunk more than was sensible. Tayy knew he ought to silence his guardsman. He was occupied with a strange attack of dizziness, however, and failed to warn him when, in defense of his opinion, Altan grew more emphatic in his praise.

  “Her lips were plump and other parts more so—” he held his hands in front of him in a pretense of holding up breasts.

  “Enough!” Jochi struck out with the back of his hand, leaving the mark of his knuckles on Altan’s cheek.

  As if one body, the whole court sucked in a great breath and waited for the khan to answer the quarrel on his very dais. Mergen, however, waved an indulgent hand. “Fathers and sons,” he said. “Who would stand between the molding of the young by their elders?”

  At Jochi’s bow, the khan added, “You have my permission to continue his education later, in your own tents.” Few beyond the dais saw the blood flare in the khan’s eyes. It would have surprised no one. Altan had addressed the khan too familiarly, on a matter of great sensitivity. The general muttered something into his son’s ear and Altan dropped his head, obedience and shame in the dejected curve of his shoulders.

  “My apologies, lord khan,” he begged with an abject bow. Mergen Gur-Khan gave a stern nod, accepting the apology but not forgiving the young man. “Go,” he said. “Guard the horses until you learn to guard your tongue.”

  Altan’s face burned dark with blood, but he kept his head low and bowed his way down the aisle between the nobles and chieftains who watched him go with pity or jeers as they felt themselves in sympathy with the Durluken or the Nirun. When he reached the firebox, he turned and ran. They all knew he took the blame for Tayy’s indiscretion.

  “So tell me more about this princess of the toads,” Mergen asked him sharply, when Altan had gone. But Tayy found himself overwhelmed by dizziness again and unable to answer.

  Someone covered him—he felt the warmth of his blanket over him—but his eyes refused to open to discover who had done him the service. Qutula, no doubt. His guardsman spoke softly from somewhere high above him: “He sleeps my lord khan. Tomorrow—”

  “Is he ill? What are you doing?”

  Tayy’s body tried to tense, his eyes to open at the sound of alarm in Mergen Gur-Khan’s voice. His cousin had nearly strangled him during the wrestling matches and he didn’t want to be at a disadvantage if Qutula had one of his convenient accidents again. He couldn’t move, however, when someone took his hands and rubbed them with a salve that smelled like moldy herbs.

  “I don’t think so, or at least not badly ill,” Qutula answered. “My mother gave me something for protection against the toxins of the king of the toads, though, and I thought it couldn’t hurt.”

  He hadn’t touched King Toad and Eluneke wouldn’t have poisoned him even if she could, which he doubted. But he felt heavier than a normal sleep should make him, and the gentle ministrations felt
good even if they smelled bad. The salve itself might be poisoned. But Qutula laid it on with his bare hands; he couldn’t do Tayy harm that way without hurting himself.

  As if reading his mind, a woman’s voice spoke up from below the dais. “A harmless comfort, my khan. I would do no harm to your own—”

  What was Sechule doing there?

  “I know you wouldn’t,” Mergen answered her. “If it will give him comfort—”

  “I think he only needs to sleep, my lord khan,” Qutula had finished rubbing the salve into his fingers and settled down beside him to guard his rest.

  “As well should you all,” Lady Bortu muttered from under a pile of her own bedding. Soon her snores filled the quieting hall. It sounded like a good idea, so Tayy let the sleep take him.

  Sechule. His breath came rapidly in spite of the fact that good sense told him to have her sent away. How had she gotten past his guards? Her sons, no doubt. She wasn’t looking at Qutula, however. She was looking at Mergen, her eyes as dark and mysterious as they had ever been. Her coats hid the curves of her body, but her round, soft lips made promises he knew her body would keep. The light gilded her hair and turned her face to molten bronze. He might have said once that she looked like a goddess, but he had seen goddesses since then, and none of them had her sensual beauty. He could no more imagine bedding the Lady SienMa, Shan’s goddess of war, than he would make love to his sword. Sechule offered more earthly hills, and a welcoming valley between her thighs.

  He remembered the yielding lushness of her body and the ger-tent palace was suddenly too warm. He couldn’t look away.

  Jochi, the captain of his personal guard, stepped closer to the dais, guessing what his khan’s instructions must be. The whole court must know—Mergen shifted in his stiffly embroidered coats, wishing they would all go away. His blanket-sons turned from one to the other of their parents; Sechule looked a challenge back at him as she made her bow and withdrew to a more proper distance from the dais.