bargained with the eldest of a small band of trappers—a wizened brown man who spoke Georgic and Slav, but no Mongol. He was closely attended by three swart, thick-bodied boys, possibly his sons.
After taking his pick of their finest furs, the sable-coated Southerner ordered that some of his own goods be removed from the pack animals and disbursed to the trappers—dried venison and several ceramic jugs.
There followed a round of toasts, and then the merchant and his guards departed. Soon the trappers were happily drunk, and as dusk settled, they curled up on the lakeshore, letting their fire go out.
Cnan hoped to follow the merchant until the last of the daylight, at which point she would build a lean-to and sleep until dawn. But before that time arrived, from her grassy cover, she heard a single, awful scream. Then shouts, rising to cries, each snuffed out in its turn.
The fur trader and his company heard the commotion as well. As she watched from her cover, they bunched together on the periphery of a grassy meadow, murmuring among themselves. Soon they decided it was best to move along—no doubt making note that bandits were about.
But Cnan suspected this was no bandit. She doubled back to the trappers’ camp and found the entire group pieced out along the lakeshore. Two of the younger men sprawled on the ground, a hundred paces or more from the cinders of the campfire, each at the end of a long trail of blood. Both had been shot with arrows that had since been collected, presumably by the assassin who had shot them. Closer to the camp, the third young man had taken an arrow up through his neck, passing into his skull, where it had lodged so deeply that its owner had snapped it in half in a furious effort to worry it loose. Its bloody empennage lay discarded on the ground nearby, and Cnan recognized the fletches of gray goose feathers that Istvan liked to use.
The elder’s death had been quick—a single slice across his throat had nearly severed his head—but he had then been hacked and kicked about, limbs and chunks of flesh mixed with the reeking shards of the jugs. The entire camp smelled of old man’s blood and thick, sweet Georgian wine.
She knew the hoof marks of the horse that had wandered down to the lakeshore to drink while her master did his filthy work. It was Istvan’s blue roan stallion.
That horse and his rider were now moving northwest, hunting the fur traders.
CHAPTER 8:
THIS IS HOW MY FATHER HUNTED
The buck was mad with fear, its hooves tearing up clumps of earth and grass as it tried to escape. The central pathways had been blocked with makeshift fencing, and most of the narrow channels between the groupings of trees and brushes were protected by a soldier with a spear. Its sandy brown hide was dappled with red; it had tried to crash through the brush a few times already, only to be turned back by the metal point of a spear. None of the cuts were fatal; the privilege of the kill was saved for others.
It clattered to a stop in the center of the path, its hooves sliding on the river rock. Its ears flickered, reacting to the unnatural sound of the hunting party.
They were not quiet.
A spray of crossbow bolts ripped the air around the animal, and one jabbed deep into its right foreleg. It brayed with pain and tried to leap away, but the leg didn’t work quite right and the deer stumbled. It shied away from the laughter and shouts that came on quickly in the wake of the crossbow bolts.
Gansukh trailed the main hunting party, bow held at his side. He had an arrow nocked, but he was in no hurry to fire it. The garden had been turned into a fenced arena, and the nobles were hunting captive animals released into the enclosed space. When he had spotted the men setting up the barriers, he had realized how the hunt was going to be held, and at the time, his only concern had been making sure that he would be involved. Now that he was, he found he had no stomach for it. This wasn’t hunting. This was slaughter.
He was uncomfortably aware his attitude mirrored his presence at court these past few weeks: he was on the verge of Ogedei’s inner circle and, at the same time, a step outside it. Lian’s warning kept echoing in his head: it wasn’t just his actions that would be judged, but also what the others said about them. He had to hide his disapproval well, before someone noticed and said something to the
“Missed!” Ogedei shouted at his companion as they jogged toward the quarry. Behind the pair, a retinue of red-faced, panting courtiers struggled to keep pace, lifting the hems of their robes as they ran. The
“I’ve got him next shot,” Munokhoi said as he slowed to finish loading his weapon. The multi-tiered crossbow—a complicated contraption of springs and levers—seemed to Gansukh to be more trouble than it was worth, but there was no arguing that, once it was loaded, it was a deadly instrument. Munokhoi grunted as he finished cocking the slide and raised it to fire.
Munokhoi kept his hair short to the point of baldness, and combined with the gauntness of his face, this gave Munokhoi a skeletal appearance, despite the youthful length of his facial hair. Thick and muscled, his arms were anything but the thin sticks of a corpse. A pale scar ran from behind his left ear and disappeared into his tunic. There was no shortage of rumors as to how Munokhoi had earned the scar, but Gansukh hadn’t cared enough to figure out which one was true. Every warrior had stories about their scars, and most of them were lies.
From behind them, Gansukh watched as Munokhoi focused on the target. Ogedei was still breathing heavily, but the Day Guard stood like a stone, his chest barely moving. The muscles in Munokhoi’s neck tightened as he put pressure on the wide trigger of the crossbow, and he leaned into the recoil of the weapon as he released all three bolts.
The buck was turning as the bolts hit it, and two of them slammed into its neck and shoulder. The third caught it in the eye, spraying blood and humor as it drove clean into the animal’s skull. Its front legs buckled and it fell into a plot of peonies.
“Just one of a dozen marvelous killing machines the Chinese have invented.” Munokhoi grinned and offered the crossbow to Ogedei. “Clever little bastards,” he laughed as he strode toward the fallen deer.
The hunting party flocked around Ogedei, making noises of pleasure and encouragement at the sight of the weapon in his hands. Gansukh didn’t even bother getting any closer. He could see well enough from where he was.
Beyond the clump of fawning courtiers and nobles, Munokhoi stood over the dead animal and raised his sword. Sunlight caught his blade, turning it into a flash of silver as it came down, and the buck’s head was severed with a wet crunch. He knelt and lifted the head by its antlers, blood running down his hands. “For the Lord of All Under the Blue Sky,” he said, turning the head toward Ogedei, “I humbly present this trophy.”
“Keep it,” said Ogedei. “I have far more impressive trophies in my collection.” He laughed, gestured for a servant to bring him another wineskin, which he traded the massive crossbow for, and took a huge thirst-slaking swig.
Another deer was already being led into the garden, and as soon as its handler pulled the rope from about its head, it bolted. It bounded toward the eastern wall and eventually realized there was no escape in that direction. It turned right, disappeared for a second behind a clump of trees, and then came into view again, at the crest of a small rise near the southern edge of the garden. It was still frightened, but it was far enough away that the lure of the short grasses at its feet was stronger. It looked about briefly and then dipped its head cautiously toward the grass.
Ogedei belched and seemed to notice Gansukh for the first time. “What do you think of my guard’s new toy?” he asked, loudly enough that the attention of the hunting party swung toward Gansukh. “It is an impressive weapon, is it not?”
Gansukh bowed his head, recalling Lian’s warnings about reputations and perceptions at court.
