The Mongoliad: Book Three

provided by a nearby brazier of orange and red coals. His large cup-the one provided by Gansukh and later dented by the young man’s skull-dangled perilously in his slack hands.

There were white feathers scattered all over the floor. Chucai frowned, wondering about the source of the down, and his gaze roamed across the chamber. He hoped the Khagan hadn’t slaughtered a live bird in here…

The roof of the ger was low enough that Chucai had to duck slightly to avoid hitting his head on the support poles. He walked around (still keeping an eye out for any sign of a mangled bird), until the Khagan could see him. “My Khan,” he said, sweeping into a deep bow. “I wish to report on the Chinese raid.”

The Khagan stiffened slightly, drawing in breath, though he still appeared lost in thought. Chucai hesitated, watching the Khagan intently. Was Ogedei in some sort of trance, a passing vegetative state in the wake of channeling the vision? Traveling to the spirit realms exacted a harsh toll on shamans, and he had heard stories of seekers who had been so moved by their experiences that they never fully returned to their bodies. Their spirits, loosened in their flesh, eventually drifted away. One day, the body would just stop breathing.

Chucai cleared his throat noisily. Such foolishness, he thought sourly. I am behaving like a superstitious herdsman.

Ogedei stirred, blinking heavily. His hands closed more firmly around his cup, and he came back to himself. “Master Chucai,” he mumbled. “What news have you for me?”

“The Chinese rebels have been defeated, my Khan. Their efforts to destroy your magnificent caravan were futile, and-”

“Any prisoners?”

“No, my Khan.” Chucai ground his teeth. He had given strict orders, but he had been too late.

“What did they want?” Ogedei asked. “They did not fire on my ger.” He raised the cup to his lips. “I have had much time to reflect on their strategies,” he continued after drinking. “They were not idiots, I presume. Fools, but not idiots.”

Chucai nodded. “No, My Khan. They were not idiots.”

“How many were there?”

“Forty, perhaps. I have sent out a number of arban to ensure there are no more of them hiding nearby.”

“How many of my Imperial Guard did we lose?”

“About the same number. Plus a number of-” Chucai waved a hand to indicate the inconsequence of having lost some of the nonessential members of the Khagan’s retinue.

“What was their mission?”

“I suspect they were after the Spirit Banner,” Chucai confessed. “Though I do not know why.”

Ogedei’s eyes twitched toward the wall of the tent, and as carelessly as possible, Chucai glanced over to see what Ogedei had been looking at. There was nothing on the wall, nothing but a vague shadow-a misshapen circle with tiny strands descending from it. A shadow of a head with long hair, he interpreted.

“Do they think I am that weak?” Ogedei asked. “If they stole my father’s banner, would the empire fall apart instantly? Would I wake in the morning to find that every clan had deserted me?” He snorted, answering his own questions.

“I doubt it, my Khan,” Chucai said. He wet his lips, suddenly disturbed by the shadow on the wall. Glancing around the room, he could not figure out how it was being projected on the wall. And when he looked at the wall again, the shadow had changed into an amorphous streak, as if the previous shape had started to run, like ink staining a page.

“What did your father tell you of the banner?” he asked curtly. The shadow was unsettling. The more he tried to ignore it, the more it crept into the periphery of his vision. “Where did he get it?”

Ogedei shrugged. He peered into his cup, seeming to have lost interest in Chucai’s questions. “It’s just a stick,” he muttered. “Father made it.”

He didn’t, Chucai realized with an absolute certainty. He wanted to look at the wall once more, but the shadow was gone. All that remained was a blur in his mind, a shape that flowed and wavered. Like a horse’s tail. Or the tassels of the Spirit Banner.

Why had the Chinese sought the banner? He recalled the rough spot on the wood, and wondered if he was asking the wrong question.

Chucai had meant to retire to his own ger to reflect more on the puzzle of the Spirit Banner, but he had been accosted almost immediately by Jachin, Ogedei’s second wife, who had decided to place the blame of the Chinese attack on him. While he had been trying to extricate himself from the tiresome woman’s ranting, they had been interrupted by Munokhoi. The Torguud captain had swept back into the camp, demanding an audience with the Khagan. Chucai, welcoming the opportunity to escape Jachin’s tirade, had directed Munokhoi to his ger, knowing that Ogedei was in no shape to listen to the headstrong warrior. A decision which, in retrospect, might not have been the wisest. Out of sight of his underlings, Munokhoi unleashed a raging torrent of invective that appeared to have no end in sight. It was as if the man has kept a tally of every perceived slight against him since Gansukh arrived at court, he thought, and now they are all being counted.

“Enough,” he snapped, waving his hands to get Munokhoi to stop.

Munokhoi came up short, caught in midsentence and midstep. He glared at the Khagan’s advisor, his eyes glittering with a copious amount of still untapped rage.

“Captain Munokhoi,” Chucai said after a moment, “I appreciate your concern about young Gansukh and Mistress Lian. I will…” He was torn between several responses, and with a sign, decided to address the underlying matter directly by responding in a way that would further enrage the Torguud captain. “I will take it under consideration.”

Munokhoi quivered. “Under consideration?” he hissed. “You will imprison-”

“You will do well to remember who is in charge of the Khagan’s court,” Chucai snapped. The Torguud captain hadn’t been able to contain himself, as Chucai had anticipated. His own frustration had an outlet now. “And wherever the Khagan is, wherever he takes an audience, that is his court. We are not at war, Captain. This is not the battlefield. Your concerns are noted.”

Munokhoi did not say anything, but he refused to budge, staring daggers at Chucai. The fingers of his right hand twitched. He was not wearing his sword-Chucai had smartly requested that he leave his blade with one of the servants standing outside the ger-but the Torguud captain still had his knife.

For a long moment, Chucai held his stare, examining Munokhoi’s eyes for some sign that the man was foolish enough to draw the blade. Are you such a fool? he projected. What do you think will happen to you if you draw that knife? If you kill me, what will the Khagan think of you?

Munokhoi seemed to be having similar thoughts. His hand relaxed and he looked away. He exhaled, and it was as if a storm cloud fled his body with his released breath.

“Gansukh and Lian are surrounded by the entire caravan. They know they are under scrutiny,” Chucai explained, knowing that Munokhoi was actually listening to him now. “They know you are watching them. Whatever Gansukh and Lian may be, they are not fools. Even if Gansukh wanted to leave the Khagan’s service-and I don’t believe he does-he’s too smart to attempt it on this pilgrimage to Burqan-qaldun. And even if Lian wants to escape-which I grant you is something she desperately wants to do-she’s too smart to attempt it without Gansukh’s help. Now, consider the needs of someone other than yourself.”

Munokhoi blinked, and then slowly nodded as he realized Chucai was not going to continue until he had physically acknowledged Chucai’s words.

“What drives the empire? Is it not an awareness of a grander destiny for all Mongol people? And in whom does this awareness reside?” Chucai paused, as if to give Munokhoi a moment to realize the