the shoulders that her breasts were mere flat sacks on muscles.
Arik-Boke shouted for her to ride clear as he saw a flash of dark yellow in the press of animals. Only a Persian leopard could move so swiftly and he felt his heart leap at the glimpse. He lunged forward and almost collided with Aigiarn as her mount danced in front of him, spoiling his shot. The noise of roaring men and screaming animals was all around them and she had not reacted to his shout. As he yelled again, she lowered her lance and leaned into a blow as a flash of gold and black tried to dart under the hooves of her horse. The leopard snarled and yowled, seeming to curl around the long birch spear as it punched into its chest. Algiarn cried out in triumph, her voice as ugly to Arik-Boke’s ear as the rest of her. While he swore, she leapt down, drawing a short sword that resembled a cleaver as much as anything. Even with the lance through its chest, the leopard was still dangerous and Arik-Boke shouted again for her to stand clear for his shot. She either ignored him or didn’t hear and he muttered in anger, easing the bow. He was tempted to send a shaft into the young yak herself for her impudence, but he had travelled a long way to flatter her father and he restrained himself. In disgust, he saw her cut the leopard’s throat as he turned his mount away.
With the burning sun so high, the circle hunt was almost at an end and there were no great prizes left in the swarming mass of fur and claw all round the riders. Arik-Boke dropped a warthog with a neatly aimed shaft behind its shoulder, cutting into its lungs so the animal sprayed red mist with every breath. Two more deer fell to him, though neither had the spread of horns he wanted. His mood was still sour as a shout went up and children ran in among the warriors, killing hares and finishing off the wounded beasts. Their laughter only served to irritate him further and he passed over his bow to his servants before dismounting and leading his horse out of the bloody ring.
Lord Alghu had known better than to take the best animals. His servants were already dressing the carcases of deer for the night’s feast, but none of them had a great spread of antlers. The only leopard had fallen to his daughter, Arik-Boke noted. She had waved away the servants and taken a seat on a pile of saddles to begin skinning the animal with her own knife. Arik-Boke paused as he walked past her.
‘I thought the shot was mine, for the leopard,’ he said. ‘I called it loud enough.’
‘My lord?’ she replied. She was already bloody to the elbows and once again Arik-Boke was struck by the sheer size of her. In build, she reminded him almost of his brother Mongke.
‘I didn’t hear you, my lord khan,’ she went on. ‘I haven’t taken a leopard pelt before.’
‘Yes, well …’ Arik-Boke broke off as her father strode across the bloody grass, looking worried.
‘Did you enjoy the hunt, my lord?’ Alghu asked. His eyes flickered to his daughter, clearly nervous that she had managed to offend his guest. Arik-Boke sniffed.
‘I did, Lord Alghu. I was just saying to your daughter that she came across my shot as I was lining up on the leopard.’
Lord Alghu paled slightly, though whether it was anger or fear, Arik-Boke could not tell.
‘You must take the pelt, my lord. My daughter can be blind and deaf in a hunt. I’m sure she meant no insult by it.’
Arik-Boke looked up, realising the man was genuinely afraid he would demand some punishment. Not for the first time, he felt the thrill of his new power. He saw Aigiarn look up in dismay, her mouth opening to reply before her father’s glare made her drop her head.
‘That is generous of you, Lord Alghu. It is a particularly fine pelt. Perhaps when your daughter has finished skinning the animal, it could be brought to my quarters.’
‘Of course, my lord khan. I will see to it myself.’
Arik-Boke walked on, satisfied. He too had been one of many princes in the nation, each with their own small khanates. Perhaps he’d had a greater status than most as the brother of the khan, but he had not enjoyed instant obedience then. It was intoxicating. He glanced back to find the daughter glaring at him, then quickly looking away as she realised she had been seen. Arik-Boke smiled to himself. He would have the skin tanned into softness, then make a gift of it to her as he left. He needed her father and the small gift would reap much greater rewards. The man obviously doted on his yak of a daughter and Arik-Boke needed the food his khanate produced.
He rubbed his hands together, ridding himself of flakes of dried blood. It had been a good day, the end of months touring the small principalities that made up the greater khanate. He had been feted wherever he went and his baggage train groaned under the weight of gifts in gold and silver. Even his brother Hulegu had put aside the strife of his new lands, though General Kitbuqa had been slaughtered there by Islamic soldiers when Hulegu came back to Karakorum for the funeral of Mongke. His brother had carved a difficult khanate for himself, but he had paraded his men for Arik-Boke and given him a suit of armour shaped from precious jade as a gift and token of affection.
In the company of Lord Alghu’s court, Arik-Boke entered the palace grounds in Samarkand, walking under the shadow of a wide gate. On all sides were carts covered in the heaped carcases of animals they had taken that day. Women came out to greet them from the palace kitchens, laughing and joking as they stropped their knives.
Arik-Boke nodded and smiled to them, but his thoughts were far away. Kublai had not yet replied to him. His older brother’s absence was like a thorn in his tunic, pricking him with every movement. It was not enough to have men like Alghu bowing to him. Arik-Boke knew the continuing absence of Kublai was being discussed all over the small khanates. He had an army with him that had not sworn allegiance to the new khan. Until they did, Arik-Boke’s position remained uncertain. The yam lines were silent. He considered sending another set of orders to his brother, but then shook his head, dismissing the idea as weakness. He would not plead with Kublai to come home. A khan did not ask. He demanded - and it was done. He wondered if his brother had lost himself in some Chin ruins, oblivious to the concerns of the khanate. It would not have surprised Arik-Boke.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Kublai rode in pouring rain, his horse labouring and snorting as it plunged through thick mud. Whenever they stopped, he would change to a spare horse. The sturdy animals were the secret of his army’s power and he never envied the much larger Arab stallions, or the Russian plough horses with shoulders higher than his head. The Mongol ponies could ride to the horizon, then do it again the next day. He was not so sure about himself. His numb hands shook in the cold and he coughed constantly, sipping airag from a skin to ease his throat and let a trickle of warmth spread down his chest. He did not need to be sober to ride and it was a small comfort.
Twelve tumans rode with him, including the eight who had fought their way to within reach of Hangzhou. There was no road wide enough for such a horde and they left a trail of churned fields half a mile wide. Far ahead, his scouts rode without armour or equipment, taking over the yam stations and holding the riders there long enough for the tumans to arrive and swallow them up. He was able to judge the distance they travelled each day by the number of them he passed - the regular spacing set by the laws of Genghis himself. Passing two meant he had ridden fifty miles, but on a good day, when the ground was firm and the sun shone, they could pass three.
This was not that day. The front ranks did better, but by the time the second or third tuman rode over the same ground, it had become deep, churned clods that wearied the mounts and cut the distance they could travel.
Kublai raised his hand to signal one of his personal bondsmen. The drummer boys on camels could not have kept up the pace of the previous fifteen days of hard riding. No camel alive could run fifty or seventy miles a day over rough terrain. Kublai grinned at the sight of the man. His bondsman was so spattered with mud that his face, legs and chest were almost completely black, his eyes showing as red-rimmed holes. The bondsman saw the gesture and raised a horn to his lips, sounding a low note that was immediately echoed by others down the lines.
It took time to stop so many, or even for them to hear the order. Kublai waited patiently as the lines ahead and behind began to slow to a walk, and finally he was able to dismount, grunting in discomfort as tired muscles creaked. He had been riding at speed for a morning and if his men felt half as tired as he did, it was time to rest and eat.
Three hundred thousand horses needed to graze for hours each day to keep up the pace. Kublai always chose stopping points by rivers and good grass, but they had been hard to find as they pushed into the west. Xanadu was over a thousand miles behind him, his half-built city showing clearly what it would become in a few more years. The wide streets had been laid in fine, smooth stone, perfect and ready to be worn down by his people. Great sections
