The Mongoliad: Book Three tfs-3

by Neal Stephenson

  “Dead so unexpectedly,” Lena sighed sadly.

  Fieschi paled slightly, at a loss for words all of a sudden. “We depart at once,” he growled, with an impatient gesture. “They are saddling a pony for you.”

  Ocyrhoe gasped. “I don’t know how to ride.”

  “All you have to do is sit,” Lena said reassuringly. And then to Fieschi, “What if the Holy Roman Emperor’s intent is not as malicious as you make it out to be?”

  “Do not insult me,” Fieschi snapped. “I have known Frederick a long time. I know how he thinks. He won’t pass up an opportunity to force concessions from the Church. What do you think his blockade of Rome was for? I don’t trust him.”

  “He will be saddened to hear that,” Lena pointed out. “He considers you one of the most rational men in Rome.”

  Fieschi slashed his hand through the air, silencing her. “Be that as it may, you will stay here,” he said.

  “Well, I’m happy to stay,” Lena observed, and for a second, Ocyrhoe thought Fieschi was going to change his mind, but when Lena smiled innocently at the Cardinal, he stormed out of the room.

  “Off you go,” Lena said, shooing Ocyrhoe toward the door.

  “Wait,” Ocyrhoe argued. “I don’t understand any of this. I thought you said you weren’t tied to Frederick. How can he be trying to get you back if you don’t belong to him?”

  Lena put a finger to her lips. “The Cardinal seems to have overlooked that point,” she said with a wink. “Let’s not tell him, shall we?”

  It was a dry, dusty day, even as the shadows began to stretch eastward. Ocyrhoe liked the rocking motion once she had gotten used to it, and to her surprise, her mount sped up, slowed, and shifted at the precise moment she was wondering how to make it move in those ways. As if the pony was itself a Binder, or at least communicated as Binders do. Animals do not have a spoken language, she thought. They must have other ways in which to communicate.

  From the height of the pony, the Holy Roman Emperor’s camp looked very different to Ocyrhoe’s eyes; she could see the boundaries much better now than before, when it was all just a big jumbled maze and she was breathless with anticipation at fulfilling her first Binder assignment.

  From Robert of Somercotes.

  She wondered again at what had passed between Lena and the Cardinal when Cardinal Somercotes’s name had been brought up. The Cardinal had died in the fire, and it was her understanding that it had been a tragic accident, but there had been a mocking note in Lena’s voice. She marveled at how the older Binder had given such a simple declaration such weight. And Fieschi’s reaction! What was he hiding?

  If they weren’t about to arrive in the Emperor’s camp, Ocyrhoe would be more concerned about being in Cardinal Fieschi’s presence. She had seen his face when he had lunged at her early this morning. He was just as dangerous as the Bear, maybe more so.

  Where the camp met the road, guards stopped the group, asking the riders to dismount and for the Cardinal to descend from his carriage. Helmuth had returned with them, so they were admitted immediately into the campsite. The mundane details of daily life teemed around them in the tent city-chickens crooning in cages, women scrubbing laundry in tubs, bakers shaping loaves beside portable ovens, metalworkers and leatherworkers intent upon their crafts. The size of the camp itself did not impress Ocyrhoe-it was smaller than even one neighborhood of Rome. But the fact of its mobility, of its inhabitants and creators having traveled hundreds of miles together to erect this temporary town, it was a marvel she could not quite get her mind around. Cities were permanent things, yet…

  She recognized the Emperor’s pavilion. Strange to think it had been but one overnight since she had left here; how much had happened in so short a time! A week ago she had known nothing of Father Rodrigo, Ferenc, Cardinals, or emperors.

  All the sides and tent flaps were rolled up to the eaves of the tent, so they could see the Emperor, and he could see them, a good twenty paces before they arrived. Frederick was sitting in the camp’s one oak chair, low-slung camp stools scattered before it, as if he were expecting a party. A guard stood at the entrance and others were stationed around the perimeters; a page boy stood behind Frederick’s chair. Otherwise he was alone. When they were half a dozen strides distant, Frederick opened his arms wide as if in greeting. He smiled.

  “Damn him,” Fieschi muttered. But his voice, for once, lacked rancor.

  “Welcome to my home away from home,” Frederick called out. “Won’t you join me for a cup of wine?”

  They entered into the shade of the pavilion. Helmuth, in the lead, saluted, said, “Sire!” then bowed briskly and stepped away to the right. Ocyrhoe wanly imitated his bow.

  “Hello, my young friend,” Frederick said to her, amusement in his eyes. Ocyrhoe managed to squeak out, “Sire” and scurried to the left, away from Helmuth.

  She watched Fieschi and Frederick as they looked each other in the eye without speaking. Neither wore the challenging or angry expressions she had expected-their faces were both neutral, almost pleasant. Neither one would break the stare.

  “I outrank you, Sinibaldo,” Frederick said eventually. “I expect you to at least bow your head.”

  “I will prostrate myself with gratitude,” Fieschi promised, “as soon as you return him to me.”

  Frederick gave him a small, mocking smile. “Who? The priest?” He put a finger to his lips. “No, I am mistaken. The Pope. Yes, is that who you are speaking of?”

  Fieschi closed his eyes a moment, took a careful breath, and said through gritted teeth, “He is not-”

  “Oh, and what was it that he had with him?” He waved away Ocyrhoe’s brightening expression with a wave of his hand. “No, not the boy. The other thing. The cup. Yes, that’s what it was. The Cup of Christ.”

  “What?” Fieschi exploded.

  “The Holy Grail,” Frederick said patiently. “You got my note, clearly, and your rapid arrival confirms my suspicion.” He glanced at Ocyrhoe for a brief second, and she was surprised by both the merriment and caution in his eyes. “I am glad I kept my language circumspect-”

  “What suspicion?” Fieschi asked, his face even darker with rage than before.

  “You wouldn’t come trotting out of the safety of Rome for a mere priest, especially one as addled as that poor man is. Even if he was your newly elected Pope. No, dear Sinibaldo, I think you’ve come for something much more important.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about,” Fieschi raged. “The Holy Grail doesn’t exist.”

  Ocyrhoe heard a ragged breathlessness in the Cardinal’s voice as if he were struggling to hide a different emotion entirely. Panic.

  “Oh, I beg to differ, my dear friend,” Frederick countered heartily. “A dozen or so members of my entourage, after setting eyes on the cup, wished to traipse after the priest on his idiotic crusade; my guards had to physically restrain them. I thank God I have some atheistic sentinels who were immune to the goddamned allure of the thing.”

  Fieschi was still changing color, paling now. “What do you mean, follow after him? Where is he?”

  Frederick shrugged. “No idea. I released him into the wild, a few hours back. I thought it was only sporting to give him a head start if Cardinal Fieschi was on his trail.”

  “Goddamn your-” Fieschi started. The sentinels around the pavilion instantly stepped inside; soldiers passing by on the avenue beside them stopped and turned toward them, as if the entire camp was prepared to assault Fieschi should he shout again. He took a very large breath and let it out forcefully, holding his hands up in a ceding gesture.

  Frederick regarded him calmly. “I have already been excommunicated this week-in a much more official manner-so I will look upon your outburst as nothing more than-”

  “Where is the priest?” Fieschi demanded, his voice quiet but firm. “Why did you let him go?”

  “Well, he was very intent on his mission,” Frederick said, in an approving tone. “And his mission did nothin
g to challenge my authority. His resolve was very admirable. I admire that in a religious authority, especially in one who thinks he is the Pope. Very useful. And appropriate. So I chose to assist him. He and his undomesticated little hunter friend. Gave them clean clothes, and a good meal, and plenty of supplies for the road ahead.” Then as an afterthought, “Oh yes, and a couple of horses. Some of my fastest, as they are both excellent riders.” He grinned at the expression on Fieschi’s face. “You are bursting with the impulse to call me a shithead. It’s all over your face, Sinibaldo. Unfortunately, there are witnesses who would be stricken to hear such language coming from the mouth of a Cardinal, especially after that previous outburst.”

  “Frederick!” Fieschi snapped in a constricted voice. “What are you talking about? What have you done?”

  “Did I not just fucking itemize it for you?” Frederick said with mock exasperation. “Would you like me to write it out for you? I can do it in crude pictures if that will make it easier for you to grasp.”

  Ocyrhoe ducked her head and pursed her lips together as hard as she could bear. Hearing Fieschi spoken to this way was a reviving antidote to the events of the past days.

  Fieschi huffed with frustration, turned away, and began to stalk around the tent like a caged animal. The sentinels followed him with their eyes, adjusting their positions to discourage him from leaving. Ocyrhoe watched his face change mood over and again, as a dozen different strategies and tactics were dismissed. Finally, he returned to his position in front of the Emperor.

  “I am here as a representative of the Holy Roman Church to seek your assistance in the retrieval of Church property.”

  “Go ahead,” Frederick said agreeably, gesturing toward the avenue outside. “I’m not stopping you. Though if you are referring to the Grail-and I find it curious how quickly you’ve gone from complete denial of its existence to calling it Church property-I should point out that I’m not entirely sure it is Church property. At least, not the physical manifestation of it. Oh, I’d be happy to have a long and interesting discussion with you about the metaphysics of the Cup of Christ, given what I’ve seen with my own eyes, but-”

  “I am speaking of the man,” Fieschi ground out.

  “The Pope is Church property?” Frederick asked.

  “And all artifacts that he might carry,” Fieschi amended hastily.

  “Oh yes, of course, my mistake,” Frederick snorted, waving his hand toward the door of his tent. “Be my guest, though I am out of fresh horses. Perhaps you could untether one of the nags from the carriage that carried your august personage here and ride it, though I suspect that would be a most uncomfortable ride.”

  Fieschi again resorted to a groaning sigh to release his frustration. He paced about the tent, his mouth working around words that never came out, and then he stopped and whirled toward them again.

  “You, Binder,” he said, directing his ire at Ocyrhoe. “You are the cause of all this. You have meddled beyond your reach. I will-”

  “Has she?” Frederick interrupted.

  Fieschi whirled on the Emperor. “Stay out of this,” he snapped, shaking a finger at Frederick.

  “I’d like to, but if you’re going to blaming all of this nonsense on a small girl-who, I would like to remind you is not a true Binder, inasmuch as I understand any of their strange rituals and observances-I think that reflects poorly on your own judgment. Which, frankly, is already suspect. I would hate to see that reflected in, say, the next papal election.”

  Fieschi slowly curled his finger back into his hand. “She helped the priest escape.”

  “From a prison you put him in in the first place.” Frederick shook his head. “Sinibaldo, this is beneath you. It gives me great joy to watch you sputter and foam like an old toothless woman, but after awhile, the joy passes and watching you”-he raised his shoulders and sighed-“it fills me with an unremitting sadness.”

  Fieschi curled his hand into a fist, and then realizing what he was doing, he lowered his hand. Regaining his composure, he attempted to affix a smile on his face. “This jest has been ill-timed, Frederick. I am under enormous pressure to facilitate the resolution of this sede vacante. Perhaps, you might rise above your own childish predilections once in a while.”

  “I might,” Frederick offered.

  Fieschi nodded curtly. “We are going to return to Rome. This meeting has been a farce. Given your blasphemous words concerning one of the Church’s greatest symbols and your carefree attitude concerning the disposition of Rome’s missing priest-”

  “Pontiff,” Frederick corrected.

  “Priest,” Fieschi snarled. “It is a tragedy that the Holy Roman Emperor, in a time of great religious strife, could not be bothered to respond appropriately to a call for assistance from a beleaguered and otherwise devoted Church.”

  “Very nicely spoken,” Frederick said, clapping lightly when Fieschi finished. “I almost feel bad for indulging in my-what did you call them? — my childish predilections.” He winked at Ocyrhoe. “Almost.”

  “Perhaps you will respond more appropriately the next time the Church seeks your assistance,” Fieschi said slowly, his face darkening again.

  “Perhaps,” Frederick said. He waved his hand. “Thank you for stopping by, Cardinal Fieschi. You may go now. Oh, and when you say we, I assume that is limited to yourself and your immediate attendants, yes?”

  Fieschi’s eyes darted toward Ocyrhoe.

  “While I may not be leaping to your aid, Cardinal Fieschi, I cannot-in good conscience-let this girl return to Rome with you. Not after you tried to blame all of your current troubles on her. Letting you keep her would be akin to throwing her to the lions, don’t you think?”

  Fieschi’s lip started to curl, and Ocyrhoe was worried that he might press his argument with the Emperor, but he came to a decision. “Keep her,” he snapped. “If she ever enters Rome again…” He left the threat unfinished, stalking out of the tent before any more could be said.

  Ocyrhoe watched him go, both stunned and awed by what had just transpired. It had been delightful to watch the Emperor castigate the Cardinal, and in the end it had turned out as Lena had wished. She was safe, and out of Rome.

  “Well,” the Emperor said in the silence that filled the tent in the wake of Fieschi’s departure. “That was an interesting conversation.” He looked at Ocyrhoe. “And here you are,” he noted.

  Ocyrhoe had presence of mind to bow before the Emperor. “Here I am,” she said quietly, her mind still awhirl.

  Frederick leaned forward, peering at Ocyrhoe. “Why did the Cardinal bring you along?” he asked. “Is it because he thought you might be useful to him?”

  “They… they are my friends,” she said.

  “And because they are your friends, Fieschi thought you might influence them, yes? Perhaps turn them against me?”

  “I don’t know what the Cardinal was thinking,” Ocyrhoe admitted.

  “I’m not sure he did either,” Frederick murmured. “It is true that I gave your friend and the priest horses,” he continued. “The Cardinal will send riders out to find them, and given the priest’s condition, I doubt they will be lost very long, and that concerns me because, unlike the Cardinal who prefers strut about and squawk denial like an outraged peacock, I am concerned that the priest is carrying something he shouldn’t. Something dangerous.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  The Fight for Hunern

  Kim took a deep breath as he stepped out of his cage. He’d dreamed of the possibility of freedom, or at least dying in the act of attempting to secure his freedom, and now, he could not quite believe this might come true. The rage he had expected to be coursing through him was strangely absent. As he stood free of the cage, he felt only an all-encompassing certainty of purpose.

  It was time to repay what had been done to him, to all of them. He met Lakshaman’s gaze and saw the same unmistakable sense of clarity in the other man’s eyes. He turned to Zug, expecting to see the same expression, b
ut his gaze was arrested by the appearance of several Mongol guards at the entrance to the ger.

  The guards, summoned by the Lakshaman’s noisy attempts to break the locks, were not entirely caught off guard by the escaped prisoners, but they were startled by the pair of Rose Knights. They paused a second too long, uncertain who to attack first.

  Zug closed with the foremost of the three, intercepting a wild slash of the man’s curved sword by stepping under the cut. Zug seized the Mongol by the wrist, and levered a powerful palm strike to the guard’s elbow joint. The Mongol screamed as his elbow shattered. Zug, seizing the curved sword as the man released his hold on it, delivered a spine-snapping kick to the man’s hip that sent him careening into his companion to the left. The third Mongol’s attack was met with steel, and Zug used the momentum of the bind to wind his sword around and into the side of his enemy’s terrified face.

  The uninjured Mongol extricated himself from his screaming friend in time to receive a death blow to the head from the sword of one of the Rose Knights, and Lakshaman pushed past the Rose Knight to shove the remaining Mongol down. He placed a foot on his chest to hold him in place, and then broke his neck with a savage heel kick to the side of his head.

  Zug walked out of the tent with a supple insouciance that Kim found both intoxicating and infuriating. The Rose Knights trailed behind him, babbling in their tongue. Zug ignored them, walking with a purpose that seemed to agitate the young knights further with each step. Kim jogged after them, Lakshaman trailing behind him. Finally Zug stopped, looked at the young men, and then quietly shook his head. “Khan,” he said, enunciating the word clearly so that the Rose Knights would understand.

  One of the knights nodded, and pointed off toward a line of flags that indicated the location of Onghwe’s massive tent. Zug nodded in a different direction, and the knights started jabbering at him again.

  Zug looked at Kim. “Make them understand,” he said.

  “Why me?” Kim retorted. “I agree with them. The Khan’s tent is that way.”