Another servant of some kind held out his hand for the package of papers.
‘This is for the regent’s own hand,’ the rider said, repeating his instruction.
The servant pursed his mouth as if he tasted something bitter, but he stood back. No one impeded a yam rider.
Torogene had resumed her conversation, but she stopped at his words and accepted the bundle from him. It was a slim package, folded in leather. She undid the ties quickly and pulled out a single folded sheet. The rider watched as her eyes darted back and forth as she read. He could have left immediately, but he was curious. It was the curse of his trade that he carried interesting news, but almost never learned what it was.
To his dismay, he saw Torogene’s face drain of colour. She looked up, suddenly irritated to see the young man standing there expectantly, as if she might share the news with him.
‘That is enough for today,’ she said to the group. ‘Leave me, all of you. Send my son to me. Wake him if you have to.’ She tapped the fingers of one hand on the other and crumpled the paper he had brought to her.
CHAPTER FOUR
The moon was out, the night cloudless, so that its light fell on the vast host before Karakorum. There was already a buzz of interest in the gers; rumours flying, voices calling and whispering like a breeze. The city gates opened in the dark, a troop of riders coming out fast down the western road. They held torches, so that they moved in a pool of light through a flickering landscape, catching glimpses of staring faces and grubby gers by the thousand as they navigated their way through. Guyuk rode at the centre in ornate armour, a shining figure with a wolf’s-head sword on his hip. More surprising to those who glimpsed them was the sight of Torogene riding at his side. She rode like a man, stiff-backed, with her long hair bound into a thick tail. The torch-lit eye of gold covered a mile at a canter before Torogene signalled to the Guards. They swung left off the main road, plunging across the grassy plain between the gers. To ride at night was always dangerous and flocks scattered in panic as they cantered through them. More than a few bleating animals were crushed beneath hooves or sent tumbling. Voices shouted in alarm and torches sprang up all over the hills around them, pinpoints of light as more and more of the nation rolled out of their beds with swords in hand.
Guyuk whistled sharply, gesturing to a shadowy enclave marked with the banners of Sorhatani and her sons. Three of his Night Guards yanked their mounts around and rode in a new direction. The rest went on, following the paths through the gers of the people, which jinked and turned to prevent exactly the sort of manoeuvre they attempted. There were no straight roads on the plain of gers. Guyuk strained his eyes for the banners he wanted. He knew the layout of the gathered nation, but in the darkness it was hard to find his way.
The riders swore as they came to an open area that no one recognised, but at the same moment, one of the Guards shouted, pointing. They wheeled round and drew to a sharp halt at the ger camp of Baidur. His banners fluttered in the night wind above their heads, lit by torches. As Guyuk helped his mother to dismount, he saw how many men had gathered to see what was happening. Row upon row waited with weapons drawn. Guyuk recalled that Baidur’s father Chagatai had attempted a coup in Karakorum years before, on just such a night. Of all men, Baidur would be suspicious of betrayal.
Guyuk saw the man he had once called friend, made distant by the tides of the nation and his own father’s murder. Baidur stood as if he expected to be attacked, his sword drawn and raised to his shoulder. His yellow eyes were cold in the torchlight and Guyuk showed him empty palms, though he would not unbuckle the wolf’s-head sword he wore, not for any man. Baidur was khan of a vast region to the west and Guyuk swallowed bitterness as he realised he had to speak first, as supplicant. It did not matter that he was the one marked to be the gur-khan, over all the lesser khanates. On that night, he was merely an heir.
‘I come with empty hands, Baidur. I still remember our friendship, when we were little more than boys with swords.’
‘I thought all the dealing was done,’ Baidur replied, his voice harsh. ‘Why have you come to disturb my sleep, to set my people in disarray?’
Guyuk blinked, revising his opinion of the man he faced. He almost turned to his mother for guidance, but he knew it would have made him look weak. He had last seen Baidur riding home with his tuman, stiff with the knowledge that his father was considered a traitor. There had been a time when Baidur could have been khan in Karakorum, if the sky father had willed a change in fortune for his family. Instead, he had inherited and lived quietly in the western khanate. Guyuk hardly thought of him as a threat, but authority had changed Baidur. He spoke as a man used to seeing others leap to do his bidding, as if there could be no possible alternative. Guyuk wondered if he too had that air. In the gloom, he grimaced to himself as doubt struck him.
‘I have asked that Mongke join us … my lord.’ Guyuk bit his lip. He saw Baidur had noticed the hesitation, but they stood before Karakorum! It was almost painful to give the man his titles when Guyuk had none of his own. He sensed his mother shift her weight at his side and remembered her words. He was not yet khan. Until then, he would be humble.
Instead of answering, Baidur also reacted to the movement. He bowed deeply to Torogene.
‘My apologies, my lady. I did not expect you to be part of a group riding at night. You are all welcome in my home. The tea is cold, but I will have new leaves boiled.’
Guyuk seethed to himself. The greeting to his mother merely highlighted his own lack of status. He wondered if Baidur had ignored him deliberately, or whether it was genuine respect for the most senior woman in the nation. He followed his mother to Baidur’s ger and watched impatiently as she ducked her head to walk in. Baidur’s soldiers were staring at him. No, not at him, but at the sword on his hip. Guyuk bristled at their attempt to intimidate him. As if he would be foolish enough to draw a blade with his own mother in the ger.
To his astonishment, one of Baidur’s guards stepped close to him and bowed deeply. Guyuk’s men pressed around him at the threat, but he waved them back.
‘What is it?’ he asked, a trace of his irritation still showing.
‘My lord, I wondered if I could touch the sword you wear, just the hilt. It would be something to tell my children one day.’
Guyuk suddenly understood the fixed gaze of Baidur’s warriors and he smiled patronisingly. The wolf’s-head sword had been carried by his father Ogedai, and also by Genghis. He had seen other men gaze on it before with reverent awe. However, he did not want it to be pawed by common warriors. The very idea made him shudder.
‘I have much to discuss with your master …’ he began.
To his anger, the warrior reached out, gazing in a trance at the hilt as if it were one of the Christian relics. Guyuk took a step back. He imagined cutting the hand off to show the man his impertinence, but he was very aware of the staring faces around him, most of them loyal to Baidur rather than himself.
‘Another time,’ he snapped, ducking into Baidur’s ger before the warrior could press him further.
In the ger, Baidur and Torogene were seated close together. It had been some time since Guyuk had seen the inside of one of the felt and wicker homes. He felt cramped and saw with fresh senses how small it was, how it reeked of damp wool blankets and mutton. A battered old kettle hissed in the middle of the space, tended by a servant girl who fussed with cups and made them clink together in her nervousness. There was little space for the trappings of wealth and power in a ger. It was easier to live simply rather than be tripping over some expensive Chin pot at every turn. Guyuk struggled with himself for a moment. It felt like an intrusion to sit on Baidur’s other side, but if he took a place next to his mother, he would be forever subordinate in the conversation. With ill-will, he lowered himself onto the bed by her.
‘It changes nothing,’ Torogene was saying in a low voice. ‘The entire nation has come to Karakorum -
‘If you go on, it is a risk,’ Baidur replied. ‘I know Batu well, Torogene. You dare not leave him outside the nation.’
His face was thoughtful, troubled. Guyuk watched the older man closely, but he saw no sign of delight or treachery.
They all heard the sound of approaching horses and Baidur stood. He glanced at the kettle coming to the boil.
