The Mongoliad: Book Two

12

Preparations

Ogedei stirred and opened one eye fully. His hand unconsciously started to grope for the low table on his immediate right. The enormous cup Gansukh had given him stood on the table, half full of pale wine.

“You wanted me to tell you about the caravans from Onghwe,” Gansukh reminded the Khagan.

Ogedei sat up, licking his lips. He squinted at Gansukh as his questing hand found the cup. “What did my son send?” Ogedei’s hand shook slightly as he gulped the wine. Gansukh ignored how the Khagan’s eyes twitched in his direction. I am making him aware of his weakness.

“Tribute,” Gansukh said. “Spoils from the lands of Rus and…” He hesitated, unsure how the Khagan would react to the news. “He sent fighting men, captives from some competition that he holds.”

Master Chucai had given him a brief explanation of the arena that Onghwe would erect during the months when the Mongol army was laying siege to foreign strongholds. While he understood the strategy of such an activity, and part of him was even curious as to what it would be like to compete in such a tournament, he found the idea unbecoming of a Mongol. A sure sign of the Empire’s increased dissolution and its departure from the true path given to the Mongolian people by the Blue Wolf.

“How many men?” Ogedei asked.

“Twelve, and the guards say the red-haired one is bigger than two men. Bigger than General Subutai, even.”

“Not likely,” Ogedei laughed. “And even if he were, his talents would be unlike the General’s. Subutai’s genius is not in hand-to-hand combat.” He raised the cup again, but then he changed his mind and lowered it without drinking. Stealthily, he glanced at Gansukh’s hand, the motion of a nervous and guilty child. Gansukh’s hands were empty; he hadn’t brought a bottle with him. “What of the others?” he sighed, sinking his chin into his chest.

“Christians and one Muslim. I do not know what countries they call home. One has yellow-white hair and very pale eyes. A Northerner.”

“Fighters?”

“Yes, my Khan, that is my understanding. Some of them were victorious at your son’s arena.”

“Fights to the death?”

“All but one.” In response to Ogedei’s raised eyebrow, Gansukh explained. “The Northerner fought Onghwe’s ronin. At the end of the fight, the Northerner had taken the ronin’s naginata and could have killed him with it, but chose to spare his life instead.”

Ogedei stared at the Spirit Banner. “Interesting,” he murmured.

Gansukh had heard stories of the warriors from the islands that lay beyond China. More demon than man, the stories went, so impervious to fear that even the Chinese would think twice about facing even a modest army of these skilled swordsmen. A ronin was a disgraced warrior, a man who had lost his lord and who wandered those islands like a ghost, beholden only to his blade. That Onghwe had such a man in his stable of fighters was almost too incredible to believe; that the pale Northerner, almost a ghost himself, had apparently bested the man further beggared belief. Gansukh was inclined to dismiss everything he had heard from the caravan guards as wild rumors, the sort of exaggerated storytelling to which men, bored into foolishness by the tedium of their long journey, would fall prey.

However, the detail that the Northerner had shown mercy to the ronin had piqued his curiosity as well.

“What else?” Ogedei said, his attention drifting. “What other tribute has my son sent? Wine from foreign lands?”

Gansukh nodded, his heart sinking. “Yes, my Khan.” As far as he knew, Ogedei was honoring his wish about the cup-restricting himself to but a single full vessel a day-but he worried that such self-control was a tenuous arrangement, one that could be put aside in an instant. Gansukh wished they would leave Karakorum already. The journey to Burqan-qaldun would offer many distractions-including these fighters. While they remained here, Ogedei had nothing to do but brood.

Gansukh did not know how to fight brooding. Nor, he feared, did the Khagan.

Lian sat on her sleeping platform, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around her knees. On the floor of her room was a large leather bag, half filled with clothing and other items she should take. But the task had become overwhelming, and she had retreated to the safety of her bed. She stared sightlessly out the tiny window of her room, oblivious to the changing colors of the clouds as the sun set.

She was reliving the night of her failed escape. Everyone had been swept up in the celebration of Tolui’s memorial, and she had tried to slip away. But she had run into the guards in the alley, and the experience had made it all too clear to her that her plan had been incredibly foolish.

Running into the guards had been a fortuitous accident. Only after she had escaped them and returned to her chambers had she realized how much a blessing their drunken advances had been. Had they been less-or more- besotted, she could have been raped; had they realized her plan, they probably would have killed her. While her quick thinking and courage had played a large part in saving her from such a horrible fate, she could not ignore how the threat of Master Chucai’s displeasure had helped as well. If she did escape to the steppes outside Karakorum, she would lose the privilege of that security. She would be even more vulnerable, and in some ways, being attacked by marauders would be the most pleasant fate she could hope for.

Lian let her chin drop to her knees. The memory of the men in the alley had vanished, swept aside by a tumbling flood of older memories. Sights and sounds and sensations from when she was a child, when her family was still alive. She wiped angrily at her eyes, shoving aside the memories and the tears that threatened to spill. No, I must think. I must plan.

She needed an accomplice, a warrior who could protect her. But could she convince Gansukh to help her? Could she convince him to betray his Khagan and his tribe? He was fiercely proud of being a Mongolian warrior, and she admired how fervently he clung to the hoary principles of his culture, but she had seen flaws in his devotion. He was beginning to wonder what part he played in the changing Empire. Could the sparks of his discontent be fanned into outright rebellion? How far would he be willing to go for her?

Could she…seduce him? Would that be enough? There was a certain amount of pleasure in that idea-pleasure that had little to do with the actual necessity of her plan-and she toyed with the idea for a moment.

The Khagan’s trip to Burqan-qaldun would take several weeks. The immense caravan of the Khagan’s entourage would distract the Imperial Guard; it would be her best chance to escape. This time, I cannot falter. I must do whatever it takes.

Her resolve restored, she returned her attention to the tedious task before her-packing. Chucai had provided her with a large travel bag, and once it was fully packed, it would be far too large for her to carry by herself, one of Chucai’s little reminders: she enjoyed a great deal of freedom, but that freedom was also a burden. She could, if she so desired, divest herself of a number of her robes as well as many of the lotions, oils, and powders she relied upon, but to do so would be to give up the tools she needed to be something other than a simple chamber slave. Her value to Master Chucai could be readily accounted in the profusion of silks that overflowed the travel bag.

If I left everything, I could fit in this bag, she thought, idly stuffing a poorly folded green silk robe into the gaping mouth of the bag. She had a vision of Gansukh riding away from the Khagan’s caravan, the leather bag thrown across his saddle, her bare feet protruding from the gathered mouth of the bag. I would be free.

Absently toying with the partially packed robe, she let her gaze roam about the room. What was more