The Mongoliad: Book Two

A riot. There were any number of explanations why the beleaguered people of Rome might flare into anger, but the tight knot in Ocyrhoe’s stomach warned her it was for the reason she feared most.

Her fingers danced rapidly along his arm. “The guards have been alerted,” Ocyrhoe signed.

He was startled. “They are looking for us,” he signed, looking for her confirmation that he read the situation correctly-that they were the cause of the riot up ahead. “The angry tunnel priest did this.” He punctuated his statement with a quizzical look.

She shrugged, then nodded and tapped his wrist twice with two fingers-total agreement. “I will tell you more later,” she fingered. “Angry tunnel priest is F-i-e-s-c-h-i.” Then, aloud, she said, “Fieschi.”

“Fieschi,” Ferenc repeated. His quizzical expression remained.

Ocyrhoe realized that he didn’t understand how a priest could command the city guard. He wouldn’t understand the word Senator, and to explain what a Senator was would take too long. “He works for a Rome leader named Orsini.” As an afterthought, she added, “Orsini imprisons priests.”

Ferenc’s mouth dropped open, and he touched her upper forearm in the simple Rankalba gesture: “Why?”

“Too long to tell now,” she signed again. “Later. Must move quickly now. Must hurry to gate.”

Before it was too late.

24

The Knife Edge

It was the fourth night before Gansukh had an opportunity to do more than take care of his horse, throw his gear on the ground, and collapse into a restless sleep-sleep that was blissfully free of memories of the encounter with Lian in the alley. It was a secret, much like the green sprig he kept hidden in his deel-an impossibility that was somehow true, but which he feared would vanish if examined too closely.

Instead, he sought to lose himself in the steppe-the fresh air, the open sky-but that joy was overshadowed by the ponderous and constant needs of the Khagan’s caravan. Each evening, the call to halt came a half hour before sunset, and it always took until well after nightfall before the last cart came to a complete stop. So many of Ogedei’s retinue were completely unprepared for living on the steppes that Gansukh was kept busy each night sharing his experience at starting fires, setting up tents, assisting in securing the numerous horses and oxen, and otherwise preparing for the chill air that came down from the mountains. Finally, he was able to slip away from the general chaos and set up his ger on a shallow rise that looked down over the main supply train. He could see the rounded dome of the Khagan’s ger where it sat in the center of the camp.

Once he laced up the flaps of his ger, he finally felt confident that he would have a few minutes to himself, and he laid out the contents of Lian’s bag: stiff leather shoes; dried meat and fruit; an empty waterskin; the purse, which was filled with rings, necklaces, and a few coins; and a short knife in a leather sheath.

The knife gave Gansukh pause. In the alley, when he had felt the purse, he had known what it contained. He had tried to think of other reasons she might have it, but he kept coming back to the simplest answer: she was going to try to escape during the trip to Burqan-qaldun.

During the last few days, he had wondered about the contents of the bag, but there had been little time for more than a passing thought here and there. As long as he had her bag, she couldn’t realize her plan to escape.

What had bothered him was the nagging idea to never look. If he didn’t know, then it couldn’t possibly be true. But on seeing the contents, he found himself both saddened and surprised. And the latter depressed his mood even more, and he wasn’t sure why.

Lian was, after all, a Chinese prisoner, regardless of how much freedom she had at court. Why wouldn’t she desire to escape? He was a free Mongol warrior, and court had nearly stifled him. He had, in fact, been eager to start this journey to the sacred grove, as it meant some freedom for him too.

He realized it was the presence of the knife that bothered him so much. It was possible that she was only planning on using it for killing and skinning game, but that was to perpetuate an illusion. She wasn’t a hunter. Was it for self-defense? He took the knife out of its sheath and tested its edge. If someone got in her way while she was trying to escape, would she use the knife?

“Master Gansukh?” A servant, outside his tent.

Gansukh tossed his riding coat over the scattered contents of Lian’s bag and unlaced the top of the tent flaps. “Yes?” he asked, suddenly glad for the interruption.

The man was one of Chucai’s runners. “Master Chucai requests your presence at the evening meal. Outside the Khagan’s ger.”

Gansukh nodded and let the tent flap fall closed. He stared at the lumpy pile beneath his riding coat. Dinner was an opportunity to talk with Lian. He hadn’t seen her since they had left Karakorum; he had wanted to ignore her dictum that they wait three days and seek her out immediately, but he had been too busy and too tired. And there was the issue with the contents of the bag as well. Regardless of the other reasons he wanted to see her, he had to deal with the bag, and having seen the knife and the rest, he knew it was past time to seek her out. He had to try to convince her of the futility of escape. Munokhoi’s men patrolled all around the caravan. He had watched them set up their patrols when the caravan had halted. If she were lucky, they’d only catch her and return her to the camp; more likely, she’d be mistaken for a Chinese rebel and ridden down.

Trying not to think about the sight of her lying in the dust-her body broken and bloody, pierced with arrows and cut by swords-he swept everything but the knife back into her bag. Shoving the sheathed knife into his sash and cradling the bag under his arm, he unlaced his tent flaps and went down to the Khagan’s ger.

The question that kept gnawing at him was whether she would use the knife if he were the one who tried to stop her.

A wide circle of torches surrounded the Khagan’s ger, and carpets had been laid out on the ground in ragged arcs inside the ring of torches. The Khagan’s private cooks had been working steadily since dusk, and the aroma from their cooking fires made Gansukh’s mouth water and his stomach grumble as he approached. Three long tables were set up beside the wheeled ger, and they overflowed with food.

The Khagan slumped in an ornate chair behind a fourth table, and seated around him on low benches were his advisors and special guests. Gansukh spotted Master Chucai on the Khagan’s right side. He was listening to something the Khagan was telling him, his fingers idly picking at the breast meat of a cooked duck.

Not wanting to be seen by either man, Gansukh wandered along the row of torches, looking at the other guests scattered on the carpets. He found Lian sitting by herself, and as soon as he spotted her, she noticed him. For a second, he reconsidered his decision. It was not too late to approach the main table and present himself to the Khagan and Chucai, but the weight of the bag in his hands made his mind up for him. Why had he brought his lessons with him? He did not have a good answer.

He walked over to Lian and sat down. He set the bag down between them and gently pushed it toward her.

“I missed you last night,” she said, glancing down at the bag. Her voice was almost too soft to be heard over the noisy gathering.

“I was busy,” he said awkwardly.

Her hands crept toward the bag and gently pulled it into her lap. “Did you look inside?”

“I did.” Gansukh tapped the knife stuck in his sash.

She remained still, clutching the bag tightly to her stomach. “What are you going to do?”