The Mongoliad: Book One

The Order was about to throw their children from the walls.

The Kinyen was still silent, waiting for Feronantus to explain the other half of his plan.

“And the rest,” Feronantus said, “shall ride into the East, passing over the Land of Skulls and into the sacred heartland of the Mongols, and find the Khagan. And kill him.”

CHAPTER 6: IN THE GARDEN

“On the field of battle, who has the power?”

Lian’s tone implied she knew the answer to the question. Gansukh found this habit of hers irritating, but knew if he didn’t answer, she would only repeat the question. She would phrase it differently or seem to ignore his lack of answer for a short time before suddenly returning to the question. She was like a horsefly: always out of reach, buzzing and biting endlessly, and never landing on the same patch of flesh twice.

“The general,” he replied, mentally swatting her away. “He makes the battle plans and gives the order to execute them.”

Lian nodded. She was framed by the midmorning sun, and the light tinged her hair red. This was their third time meeting in the eastern gardens. Gansukh liked it much better here, outside, than in his tomb of a room. He could see the sky.

It was only when he couldn’t see the endless expanse of blue that he realized how much he missed it. Not like a sword or a horse, or even one of the other tribesmen who had survived the siege at Kozelsk. Those were all parts of a Mongol’s life that changed: swords would be broken or lost, horses would fall in battle or grow too old to carry a warrior, friends and comrades would die too. This was all part of the cycle of life under the Endless Blue Heaven, and throughout that cycle, the sky never changed. It was always there.

Until it wasn’t.

He hated sleeping in a bed. He was always sore in the morning. Muscles in his lower back and shoulders were knotted in a way that made no sense to him. He had once spent a week in the saddle—riding, sleeping, fighting, pissing, eating—and at the end of the week, he hadn’t been as stiff as he felt after a single night in that bed.

“And here, in Karakorum…” Lian paused until she was sure she had his attention. “Who has the power?”

“The Khagan, of course,” Gansukh muttered.

The east garden had become Gansukh’s refuge, and after the way the first few lessons had left him feeling even more confused and frustrated, he had insisted they take place outside. The grounds were nothing like the open steppe, but there was some room to wander, enough that he didn’t feel quite as caged.

The garden was huge, extending from the northern wall and the Khagan’s private quarters, along the east wall, to the gate. There were several paths, courses of river stone laid in winding paths through an endless procession of groves and bowers of trees. Gansukh had tried to count the different types of trees one afternoon and had given up after several dozen. If the trees were all taken from various places in the Khagan’s empire, then it must be far greater than Gansukh could ever imagine. And the flowers: swathes of color on raised beds, tiny blossoms strung like beads on vines that embraced the naked trunks of trees, tall stalks that bore flowers that looked like flaming birds, and long stems that craned overhead to look down on him with their mottled faces.

In the center of the garden was a long pond. Fish as bright as the flowers swam lazily in the clear water. Fat and indolent, they did not fear any predator. Not in the Khagan’s garden. Arranged around the pond were a number of stone benches, carved with animals and flowers.

Gansukh rarely sat.

“Yes, of course, the Khagan has power.” Lian snapped her fingers. His answer was obvious—of little value to their lesson. “Who else?”

Gansukh flushed. He could stand his ground against an approaching enemy without losing his focus, but this tiny woman with her tongue and her dismissive gestures—treating him as if he were an addled child—made him lose his temper so quickly. He kept his mouth shut.

Sometimes it was better to say nothing than to fill a void badly. He had—grudgingly—learned that much.

Lian returned to her initial question, but with one change. “Who besides the general has power on the battlefield?”

Gansukh exhaled. This was familiar territory. “The captains. They carry out the general’s orders; they are the ones who instruct the soldiers on the battlefield.”

Lian nodded. She stared at Gansukh purposefully, and he felt his cheeks flush again. He’d given her a suitable answer, but there was something else he was missing, some subtlety of this game that he could not follow. What was the connection between the battlefield and the balance of power in the court?

She had rouged her cheeks and applied some color to the skin around her eyes, a turquoise that matched the pattern of leaves that ran along the edges of her jacket—collar, cuff, and down the front…

“Do the captains execute the general’s orders blindly?” Lian asked. “Or do they sometimes offer counsel to their leader?”

Gansukh snapped his attention back to her face. “During battle,” he said, “we execute our orders without question.” Yes, familiar territory. When she nodded, he continued. “But before the battle the general often confers with his captains.”

Lian began to smile, and emboldened by this sign of encouragement, he rushed on. “For example, before the siege of Kozelsk, General Batu asked me—”

“Please,” Lian’s smile vanished, “no more war stories.” She crossed her arms and her hands vanished into the wide sleeves of her jacket. The gesture transformed her into a stern matron, an instructor displeased with her student’s inattentiveness. “Master Chucai did not ask me to be a doe-eyed companion, one who would listen raptly to your boastful tales of combat.”

Growling deep in his throat, Gansukh let go of the tension caused by her interruption. He forced his lungs to move more slowly. This was not the battlefield. This was court, and if he had been raised here, this education would be easier, but he hadn’t. He had been born in a small camp—a few dozen families wintering on the western slope of a mountain—and his only education had been in how to use his hands and his mind to survive. He knew how to hunt, to fight, and to kill. He wanted to show her. He wanted her to see that he wasn’t a helpless child; he commanded respect from other men, and they did his bidding without question.

Why did Chagatai choose me?

Lian was relentless in her focus. “Who else has power in the court?” she asked, reminding him of the point of this… torturous…conversation.

Gansukh looked away, letting his gaze roam around the garden. There was no escape. He had to learn these lessons; he had to understand how to survive at court. Otherwise…

A slight wind touched the trees that bordered the path on the eastern side of the pond. They were well groomed—Gansukh had counted more than ten gardeners who kept the gardens immaculately manicured—and as the breeze blew through their branches, they moved as one unit. Almost like soldiers, moving in formation.

In a flash, Gansukh saw the answer. “Those close to the Khagan,” he said. It was more than physical proximity, though. In battle, a warrior didn’t worry about what happened on his left or right, because he knew he was part of a formation. He knew he was protected by those around him. “It’s about trust,” he said, looking at Lian.

“Yes, good. And who is close to the Khagan?”

“His generals.”