The Mongoliad: Book Three

“Oooh,” Yasper sighed, holding out the lacquer box. “You have got to try these.” He went back to licking his fingers.

After delivering a short version of her scouting trip to Karakorum, Cnan announced she was going to take a nap. She had slept little in the last few days, and not at all since dawn the day before, and it had taken all of her willpower to keep her eyes open long enough to find the Shield-Brethren camp. She knew the cornucopia of salted meats, dried and ripe fruit, and sugared confections would keep the rest of the company occupied for a few hours while she slept.

Plus there were two small casks of ale. With any other group, she suspected her news would be desultory to the company’s morale (in which case the ale would bolster sunken spirits); however, she suspected the Brethren would find her report uplifting and welcome the ale as a surprising bounty.

The sun had fled the sky by the time she woke, and she was drawn to the light of the crackling fire that Eleazar had built in the stone-ringed pit. One of the casks had been opened, and judging from the merriment she heard in a few voices, its contents had been drunk.

“Ho, the Great Provider awakens,” Eleazar chortled as she approached the group gathered around the fire. He passed her a bowl of dried figs and a piece of salted deer meat. She accepted both, her stomach grumbling with eagerness for sustenance.

Yasper and Raphael were arguing over the ingredients used in the sugar cakes she had brought. She smiled to herself as she listened to their speculations, which grew more and more fanciful. She had not had sweets like this since she was a child, and it had been a childish indulgence on her part when she had run across the baker in Karakorum’s extensive market. The glaze contained spices she had tasted nowhere else but in China, and they reminded her of a tiny period of her life when she had been innocent and happy.

It made her happy now to hear people she would consider friends arguing so vociferously-and with such joy- over the flavors hidden within tiny seedpods, roots, and flowers. This argument suggested the world was not altogether a bleak place, that there were ways in which even those most bereft of home could find family.

“It is cassia, I tell you,” Raphael was arguing. “I have had it before, in the Levant. It has a taste that is neither bitter nor sweet, and somewhat dry. The spiciness comes from this pink strand, a piece of a root is my guess, sliced very thinly.”

Istvan cackled with laughter, drawing everyone’s attention. The Hungarian stared into the fire, not seeing anything but the shivering dance of the flames. “Sliced very thinly,” he whispered.

“Is he-?” Cnan leaned over toward Vera, keeping her voice quiet enough that only the Shield-Maiden could hear her.

Vera shook her head. “I have not seen him under the influence of the freebuttons for months. This is a different madness,” she whispered. She said a word in a language Cnan did not understand, though she nodded anyway. She could surmise what Vera meant. Blood-fever. Istvan’s predilection for the mushrooms had infected his blood, and he would never be truly free of the visions unleashed by the freebuttons.

Feronantus cleared his throat. He poured a tiny measure from the open cask into his cup, and then passed the cask to Percival, on his left. “We have eaten and drunk and argued”-he raised his cup toward Yasper and Raphael-“of the provisions you have brought us, Cnan. Now it is time for us to hear of the other matters you have procured from your visit to the heart of our enemy’s empire.”

Cnan swallowed her last piece of salted meat, felt it get stuck in her throat, and realized that Percival had filled his cup and was holding it out to her. She accepted it, blushing only slightly, and washed the meat down into her belly.

“In the late fall, the Khagan usually moves to his southern camp,” she started after she handed Percival’s cup back. “This year he not only left early, but he went north instead of south.”

“As you mentioned earlier,” Feronantus reminded her. “He went on a pilgrimage.”

“Yes,” Cnan nodded. “Every year, there is a large festival near the harvest season where the Khagan’s brother, Tolui, is honored. Within a month after this festival, Karakorum empties out for the winter. This year, however, there is still a thriving market and a number of traders who are in no hurry to return to their routes. They have not sold all their goods.”

“Is it a bad year for commerce?” Raphael asked.

“No, they expect the Khagan and his retinue to return.”

Yasper groaned. “We’re early. Now we’re going to have to sit here in this hole until he comes back.”

“Not necessarily,” Cnan pointed out. “There are two minghan quartered in Karakorum. The Khagan is surrounded-night and day-by one thousand warriors. If you were going to assassinate him, you would not be able to accomplish it while he was in the palace.”

Yasper’s face fell even farther. “I guess we should have thought of that before we left Legnica,” he said as he scanned the faces of the others, looking for some sign that he had not stumbled into a moonlit pagan ritual.

“How many men did he take with him on his pilgrimage?” Feronantus asked.

“Three jaghun,” Cnan said.

“And where was he going?”

“A place called Burqan-qaldun. A sacred site in the mountains to the north of here. He goes to commune with his ancestors,” Cnan shrugged. “Or to receive guidance from the spirits the Mongols worship. Or even to appease the mood of his people by proving himself a great warrior by slaying a cave bear. Or all three of these things. I heard them all as reasons.”

“But the location was consistent?”

Cnan nodded. “Yes. Burqan-qaldun.”

“Very well,” Feronantus said. “Do you know where it is?” he asked Raphael.

“I think so,” Raphael said. “If the map is accurate.”

Cnan let loose a huff of surprise. What map is ever accurate? she wondered. “It will be fine,” she heard herself saying.

“Then our course is clear,” Feronantus said. “We chase after the Khagan. He is vulnerable away from the security of his palace. We shall find an opportunity at this Burqan-qaldun. That is where we end his life.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

A Day of Rest

The Darkhat leader had mastered the art of catching a nap while riding his horse, and his steed dutifully followed Chucai’s horse as they picked their way along the narrow track that wound down to the valley. The moon tripped along the rim of the horizon, ready to flee at the first glimmering of dawn. The bonfires of the feast no longer filled the valley with red-orange light; they, like the rest of the Khagan’s caravan, were slumbering. The nocturnal birds-owls and tiny swifts-had fallen silent too, no longer chasing prey and filling the night with their cries. This last hour before dawn was always the emptiest, the time when the world appeared to be holding its breath.

Chucai was no stranger to this hour; he had always found the silence enormously satisfying. This was the time when he normally did his qi exercises, and the persistent ache in his lower back from all the time spent in the saddle over the last few weeks was a reminder of how long it had been since he had properly exercised. Today, he promised himself. There was much to think about, and the mental clarity of the exercises always helped.

The carving of the tree in the cave had done little to illuminate the mystery surrounding the Spirit Banner, though Chucai’s suspicions were now confirmed. He had to learn more about the history of the banner.

Ghaltai stirred as a quarter of Torguud riders approached. The men recognized both the Darkhat and Chucai, and they let the pair pass without issue. Ghaltai yawned