It was hard to sit and wait. Riding across the endless steppe had been trying for many reasons, and each of the company had dealt with the exhaustion and hardship of the journey in his or her own way, but there was no good way to pass the time while sitting still in enemy territory and waiting.
The Shield-Brethren were camped a half day’s ride from Karakorum, the capital of the Mongol empire. The city sat on a wide plain, not far from a river left shallow and sluggish after a dry fall, its course a deep cut across the flat plain. At night they could see the glow in the south of the many torches, lanterns, and fires from the city, and during the day they walked the horses in the narrow depression where they made their camp, cleaned their gear, and kept watch for any movement on the plain.
They spoke little. They had been in each other’s company for many months now and were all comfortable enough with each other that none felt the need for making idle chatter, which left them alone with their respective thoughts. Some, like Yasper and Istvan, found a great deal of entertainment there; others-and Raphael knew he was guilty of this as much if not more than the rest-dwelled on the past.
The last entry he had written in his journal had been the night at the rock when Feronantus had turned down Benjamin’s offer to guide them to Karakorum. Feronantus had used an old maxim inflicted upon all the trainees during their first year at Petraathen as his rationale, but Raphael suspected Feronantus had said it for the company’s benefit as well.
Each of our lives have no meaning, except that which we give them by our deeds, and by how our comrades remember us.
He had written it down that night, when he had been unable to sleep. Since then, every time he had opened his journal, those words quelled any desire he had to continue the record of his journey.
He did not want to be one upon whom it fell to record the deeds of his fallen comrades.
He had been holding a piece of charcoal for some time, his fingers now black with dust, when his endless reverie was disturbed by a tiny motion on the plain. He propped himself up on his elbows, shading his eyes. Two horses, one rider. Riding north. He waited until he was sure, and then he slid down the bank to tell the others that Cnan was coming back from Karakorum.
Whatever he had meant to write could wait, he decided.
Yasper was ecstatic when he realized the second horse was laden with supplies. In fact, he was so overjoyed that the others stood back and let him single-handedly unburden the horse of its saddlebags, caskets, satchels, and boxes. He arranged everything on the ground beside the horse and proceeded to open every bag and container and take stock of the supplies that Cnan had procured. “By Aristotle’s hairy knuckles,” he swooned as he opened a lacquer box and discovered tiny sugar-glazed cakes. “They’re still warm.”
“What’s the bad news?” Feronantus asked.
Cnan offered him a rolled scroll, and went to sit on the rough-hewn bench that Eleazar and R?dwulf had constructed the other morning in an effort to stave off boredom. Stiffly, she began to unwind the dirty wraps wound around her lower legs. “He’s not there,” she said.
“Who?” Percival asked.
“Where?” R?dwulf asked at the same time.
Feronantus started to unroll the scroll, and waved Raphael over to help him. Together they unwound the long piece of cloth and revealed the map Cnan had acquired. It was beautifully done in watercolor, with the intricate markings that Raphael knew were Chinese. Delicately drawn white and pink blossoms scaled up one side of the map, and nestled in a bramble at the top were three long-beaked birds with red streaks on their wings.
“Ogedei is not in Karakorum,” Cnan explained as she pulled off her boots and wiggled her toes. “He left over a week ago, heading north into the mountains.”
Raphael peered at the map, trying to figure out locations from the few geographical details that were present. He thought he found the Orkhun River, the one that lay a few hundred paces to the west of their current location, and along its bank was Karakorum. He tapped the map, and Feronantus nodded, concurring with his guess. He ran his finger toward the end he held, the top of the map, trying to make sense of the lines and markings.
“Is that where his winter palace is?” Feronantus asked.
Cnan shook her head. “He’s not going to his winter palace. Not yet. He’s off on a pilgrimage.” She finished flexing her toes and looked over at Feronantus with a tiny smile. “The good news is that he didn’t take all of his Imperial Guard with him.”
“Oooh,” Yasper sighed, holding out the lacquer box. “You have got to try these.” He went back to licking his fingers.
After delivering a short version of her scouting trip to Karakorum, Cnan announced she was going to take a nap. She had slept little in the last few days, and not at all since dawn the day before, and it had taken all of her willpower to keep her eyes open long enough to find the Shield-Brethren camp. She knew the cornucopia of salted meats, dried and ripe fruit, and sugared confections would keep the rest of the company occupied for a few hours while she slept.
Plus there were two small casks of ale. With any other group, she suspected her news would be desultory to the company’s morale (in which case the ale would bolster sunken spirits); however, she suspected the Brethren would find her report uplifting and welcome the ale as a surprising bounty.
The sun had fled the sky by the time she woke, and she was drawn to the light of the crackling fire that Eleazar had built in the stone-ringed pit. One of the casks had been opened, and judging from the merriment she heard in a few voices, its contents had been drunk.
“Ho, the Great Provider awakens,” Eleazar chortled as she approached the group gathered around the fire. He passed her a bowl of dried figs and a piece of salted deer meat. She accepted both, her stomach grumbling with eagerness for sustenance.
Yasper and Raphael were arguing over the ingredients used in the sugar cakes she had brought. She smiled to herself as she listened to their speculations, which grew more and more fanciful. She had not had sweets like this since she was a child, and it had been a childish indulgence on her part when she had run across the baker in Karakorum’s extensive market. The glaze contained spices she had tasted nowhere else but in China, and they reminded her of a tiny period of her life when she had been innocent and happy.
It made her happy now to hear people she would consider friends arguing so vociferously-and with such joy-over the flavors hidden within tiny seedpods, roots, and flowers. This argument suggested the world was not altogether a bleak place, that there were ways in which even those most bereft of home could find family.
“It is cassia, I tell you,” Raphael was arguing. “I have had it before, in the Levant. It has a taste that is neither bitter nor sweet, and somewhat dry. The spiciness comes from this pink strand, a piece of a root is my guess, sliced very thinly.”
Istvan cackled with laughter, drawing everyone’s attention. The Hungarian stared into the fire, not seeing anything but the shivering dance of the flames. “Sliced very thinly,” he whispered.
“Is he-?” Cnan leaned over toward Vera, keeping her voice quiet enough that only the Shield-Maiden could hear her.
Vera shook her head. “I have not seen him under the influence of the freebuttons for months. This is a different madness,” she whispered. She said a word in a language Cnan did not understand, though she nodded anyway. She could surmise what Vera meant. Blood-fever. Istvan’s predilection for the mushrooms had infected his blood, and he would never be truly free of the visions unleashed by the freebuttons.
Feronantus cleared his throat. He poured a tiny measure from the open cask into his cup, and then passed the cask to Percival, on his left. “We have eaten and drunk and argued”-he raised his cup toward Yasper and Raphael-“of the provisions you have brought us, Cnan. Now it is time for us to hear of the other matters you have procured from your visit to the heart of our enemy’s empire.”
Cnan swallowed her last piece of salted meat, felt it get stuck in her throat, an
d realized that Percival had filled his cup and was holding it out to her. She accepted it, blushing only slightly, and washed the meat down into her belly.
“In the late fall, the Khagan usually moves to his southern camp,” she started after she handed Percival’s cup back. “This year he not only left early, but he went north instead of south.”
“As you mentioned earlier,” Feronantus reminded her. “He went on a pilgrimage.”
“Yes,” Cnan nodded. “Every year, there is a large festival near the harvest season where the Khagan’s brother, Tolui, is honored. Within a month after this festival, Karakorum empties out for the winter. This year, however, there is still a thriving market and a number of traders who are in no hurry to return to their routes. They have not sold all their goods.”
“Is it a bad year for commerce?” Raphael asked.
“No, they expect the Khagan and his retinue to return.”
Yasper groaned. “We’re early. Now we’re going to have to sit here in this hole until he comes back.”
“Not necessarily,” Cnan pointed out. “There are two minghan quartered in Karakorum. The Khagan is surrounded-night and day-by one thousand warriors. If you were going to assassinate him, you would not be able to accomplish it while he was in the palace.”
Yasper’s face fell even farther. “I guess we should have thought of that before we left Legnica,” he said as he scanned the faces of the others, looking for some sign that he had not stumbled into a moonlit pagan ritual.
“How many men did he take with him on his pilgrimage?” Feronantus asked.
“Three jaghun,” Cnan said.
“And where was he going?”
“A place called Burqan-qaldun. A sacred site in the mountains to the north of here. He goes to commune with his ancestors,” Cnan shrugged. “Or to receive guidance from the spirits the Mongols worship. Or even to appease the mood of his people by proving himself a great warrior by slaying a cave bear. Or all three of these things. I heard them all as reasons.”
“But the location was consistent?”
Cnan nodded. “Yes. Burqan-qaldun.”
“Very well,” Feronantus said. “Do you know where it is?” he asked Raphael.
“I think so,” Raphael said. “If the map is accurate.”
Cnan let loose a huff of surprise. What map is ever accurate? she wondered. “It will be fine,” she heard herself saying.
“Then our course is clear,” Feronantus said. “We chase after the Khagan. He is vulnerable away from the security of his palace. We shall find an opportunity at this Burqan-qaldun. That is where we end his life.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
A Day of Rest
The Darkhat leader had mastered the art of catching a nap while riding his horse, and his steed dutifully followed Chucai’s horse as they picked their way along the narrow track that wound down to the valley. The moon tripped along the rim of the horizon, ready to flee at the first glimmering of dawn. The bonfires of the feast no longer filled the valley with red-orange light; they, like the rest of the Khagan’s caravan, were slumbering. The nocturnal birds-owls and tiny swifts-had fallen silent too, no longer chasing prey and filling the night with their cries. This last hour before dawn was always the emptiest, the time when the world appeared to be holding its breath.
Chucai was no stranger to this hour; he had always found the silence enormously satisfying. This was the time when he normally did his qi exercises, and the persistent ache in his lower back from all the time spent in the saddle over the last few weeks was a reminder of how long it had been since he had properly exercised. Today, he promised himself. There was much to think about, and the mental clarity of the exercises always helped.
The carving of the tree in the cave had done little to illuminate the mystery surrounding the Spirit Banner, though Chucai’s suspicions were now confirmed. He had to learn more about the history of the banner.
Ghaltai stirred as a quarter of Torguud riders approached. The men recognized both the Darkhat and Chucai, and they let the pair pass without issue. Ghaltai yawned and rolled his shoulders as their horses picked up their pace, sensing the end of the journey. When the two men reached the edge of the camp, Ghaltai reined his horse to a stop. “I will go join my men,” he said.
Chucai nodded. Chucai had had a number of questions for the Darkhat commander after they had emerged from the subterranean temple, but Ghaltai had refused to provide any answers. I have shown you, was all that he had offered. I will not speak of what we have seen. It is not for me to offer any explanation.
On one hand, Chucai suspected Ghaltai’s words were motivated by petty revenge for Chucai having pulled him away from the feast, but Chucai suspected Ghaltai’s reticence also stemmed from a long-standing superstitious apprehension.
Not that he could blame the Darkhat chieftain. The banner unnerved him too.
He was tired. Everything seemed too obtuse for him to figure out. A good rest would reinvigorate his brain; he would see things much more clearly after a few hours of sleep.
His servants were all still sleeping, and he didn’t bother waking them. He could manage his own preparations. He would just sneak into his ger, lie down for a few hours, and-
There was someone in his ger, lying on the floor beneath a pair of fur skins. A brazier sat nearby, its coals cold and gray. Chucai kicked the supine figure-none too gently-startling him awake. The man sat up.
“Master Chucai,” Gansukh said sleepily. “I have been waiting-” The young man yawned mightily, his words getting lost in the open depths of his mouth.
“Whatever it is,” Chucai snapped, “It could have waited until midday, at least.”
Gansukh adjusted the skins around his shoulders. “I doubt that,” he said. “I would not count patience among Munokhoi’s qualities.”
“What does Munokhoi have to do with you sleeping in my ger?”
“I couldn’t very well go back to mine, could I?”
“Why?” Chucai sat down in his chair. “What are you talking about?”
“You missed the fights last night, didn’t you?” A sleepy smile crawled across Gansukh’s face. “Well, let me tell you a story then…”
It seemed like only moments after he had gotten rid of Gansukh and laid down, intending to get a few hours of sleep, that Chucai started awake. Where there had been darkness in his tent, there was now light.
Seated in the center of his ger was the Khagan’s shaman. Beside the old man, the brazier-which had previously been filled with cold ash-glowed with an orange light. The bits of metal attached to the shaman’s clothing gleamed as if they were tiny chips of fire clinging to the oily cloth.
“What do you want, old man?” Chucai growled. Part of him thought this was nothing more than a dream, and he resented the phantasmal intrusion.
The shaman chose this moment to fall into a paroxysm of coughing that made every shard of bone and bit of metal attached to his headdress and robe jangle frantically. With a final wheezing cough, he got something unstuck. He worked it around in his mouth for a moment and then spat in the brazier. A finger of flame reached up and grabbed whatever noisome thing that had come from the shaman’s throat. “Nothing is more visible than what is hidden directly in front of you,” the old man intoned.
Chucai slumped back on his bedding, turning his face toward the ceiling of his ger. “I am tired, old man,” he said. “I do not have time for your games.”
“The empire does not sleep,” the shaman said.
Chucai shook his head. Hadn’t he said something similar to Ogedei once? Years ago, when the Khagan had first started drinking heavily.
“Does a tree ever stop growing?” the shaman asked.
Chucai sat up in a rush. “You told me about the spirit that never dies,” he heard himself saying as he recalled his previous conversation with the old shaman. “Is that what the tree is? Is that what the banner is? A living spirit?”
“All life comes from Tengri,” the shaman whisper
ed. “All life returns. Nothing is lost.”
“What is the banner?” Chucai demanded.
“The banner is a piece of wood,” the shaman said.
He said that before, Chucai remembered, fighting a swell of frustration. “And what of pieces that might be cut from it?” he asked.
The shaman smiled, and an involuntary shiver raced up Chucai’s spine. The light from the brazier highlighted the lines on the shaman’s face, a pattern that resembled the twisted branches of the tree carved on the wall of the temple.
“Not what,” the shaman said, shaking his head. “Ask yourself why.” He clapped his hands, and a cloud of smoke erupted from the brazier.
The smoke filled the ger and Chucai tried to wave it away, succumbing to a coughing fit nearly as physically wracking as the one he had seen the shaman suffer. His eyes watered, and he squeezed them shut, wiping at the tears.
When he opened his eyes, the shaman was gone. As was the smoke and the fire in the brazier. The coals were cold and gray, much like they had been when he had first found Gansukh in his ger.
There was no sign the shaman had been anything other than a dream.
Ogedei hurt all over. He wanted to lie still beneath the pile of furs on his sleeping platform until the pain went away, but the aches in his body were there even when he was immobile. He groaned, shuffling around beneath the pile of furs, and he felt someone grab his foot. He tried to pull away, but their grip was strong. Dimly, he heard the muffled sound of a woman’s voice, and he gradually realized it belonged to Jachin. She was telling someone that the Khagan was not to be disturbed, a sentiment which he heartily endorsed.
She remained, though, and her hands began working on his foot. She massaged each toe individually, her hands slick with scented oils, and once each toe had been worked on, she moved on to his ankle, and then his calf, and then his thigh, and then…
Her ministrations helped, albeit briefly. For all her efforts, the headache remained, and its pounding rhythm sent aching waves cascading through his body-down his spine, echoing through his chest, into his pelvis, and down his legs to his feet and toes, which started to throb again.
The Mongoliad: Book Three tfs-3 Page 39
