Steppe

enemies—who now were the enemies of the child. That did not augur well!

The older boy, Jamuqa, was obviously the better choice. But Alp had struggled along for several parts and learned that often the least likely prospect had the best actual potential. Why not gamble all the way?

No—he had to trust his judgment, though it might be flawed. He would start from the better base and work to make it become what—

'Deletion,' the Machine said. 'The part of Jamuqa has just been taken. Will you consider the remaining one or go to another tribe?'

Alp sighed. Even as he dawdled here, other players in other booths were moving in, making faster decisions. 'I will accept Temujin,' he said with resignation.

Alp sat silently in his ger. Just a few minutes ago, Game time, his Game-father Yesugei had been treacherously poisoned at a banquet by the Tatars of the east. Now he was Temujin, barely thirteen years old, the nominal heir to the leadership of the Kiyat clan of the Mongols—already deserted by two- thirds of its membership. Who would trust the leadership of a mere boy?

And he was a boy. The Machine had applied makeup that made him seem youthful and slender, and the Machine had drawn away some of his manly strength. In a few days these handicaps would fade, and he would be himself again; but right now his resources were those of the age he represented. It was an amazing transformation, and not one he liked.

Temujin's mother, Oelun-eke, was an energetic woman. She was to have been the wife of a chief of the Markit, for she was beautiful; but Yesugei had abducted her on her nuptial night and married her himself. The Markit had been vengeance-minded for some time thereafter, and they were formidable fighters—but Yesugei had been too strong in his home region. He had assumed the chiefship not only of the minor Kiyat clan, but of the powerful Borjigin tribe of Mongols. As such, he had been a natural leader among all the Mongol clans and tribes. Now that he was dead, there could be renewed trouble from the Markit.

Meanwhile, Oelun's concern was for the safety of her children. She struggled valiantly to salvage what she could of her eldest son's heritage, carrying the banner of the nine yak-tails from one Kiyat family to another, pleading for their return. But it was useless. Only Munlik, the confidential adviser to Chief Yesugei and his wife, remained loyal. The Kiyat clan had been fragmented by the death of its leader—and how could a newly-orphaned child hope to bring it back together?

Alp had been in difficult situations before and had no intention of letting Temujin's potential go to waste. The boy, though young, had specifications that made him smart and strong—as smart and strong as Alp had been at that age, by no coincidence. If he could prove himself among the Mongols—and Alp's Turkish pride made him certain that he could!—many of the deserting tribesmen would remember their faltering loyalty and return. Temujin would not remain thirteen indefinitely; if he survived to full manhood, he could be physically and politically powerful.

The time to act was now. Theoretically he was overcome by grief for his father, so that it was his mother who had to rally the tribe—but that was not the aspect of his new part he cared to stress. Alp touched the button of the intercom. 'Munlik!' he called.

There was a long pause, but finally the Mongol's face appeared on the screen. 'Yes, Temujin, my boy?'

'Yes chief!' Alp snapped. 'Report to my ger at once for conference.'

Munlik looked weary. He was an older man who might once have been physically strong; now his face was sallow and lined. He wore his dark hair in the Mongol tonsure, with a strip three fingers wide shaved from ear to ear and a crescent-shaped fringe covering his forehead to the eyebrows. The rest of his hair was gathered up and braided down the back, as was Alp's own. 'Son, I have seven boys of my own to look out for, and no wife to tend them. The clan is done for. You'll survive longer if you accept reality and drop your pretensions.'

Alp suppressed the sudden fury he felt at this insolence. Munlik's advice would have been well-taken—for an ordinary player. There was scant profit in taking a losing part too seriously. But Alp was driven by more than player success. This was his major chance to win the tremendous stake he needed to preserve his Galactic identity beyond the Game of Steppe. Failure meant the end—of everything. A long-lived but indifferent part was worthless; he would achieve greatness in the Game, or die—in life as in history. Let this sycophant Munlik beware!

'My father was chief,' Alp said with all the even authority of his thirteen years. It no longer seemed as if he were animating a part; he really felt it! 'I am his eldest son. The Kiyat clan is strong enough—if it only stays together.'

'So your attractive mother tells me,' Munlik said tolerantly.

That was no better. Oelun's beauty was the envy of lesser tribeswomen, and the boy Temujin was the first to know it. This bastard already had his eye on the fair widow! 'You and I are going to keep it together,' Alp said. 'You say you have a family of seven to look out for—do you think I don't? Five brothers, two sisters—and a mother.'

Munlik studied him a moment. Alp had tacitly served notice that permission would not be forthcoming from the new head of the family for whatever designs the man might have on Oelun. Not unless he obeyed Temujin implicitly. 'You leave me little choice,' Munlik said sadly. 'I must seek sanctuary with a functioning and hospitable tribe.'

So now the man was threatening to desert him too, thinking Alp would have to capitulate. 'Munlik, you swore to serve me as you did my father, when you sought me out among the Qongirat a few days ago!' Ten minutes ago, Game time—but it was the same.

'And so I do, Temujin, in the best fashion I know. When I spoke to you then, I had to put up a proper front before the Qongirat chief, whose pretty little daughter you so recently betrothed. But now I perceive that the situation of the Kiyat clan is hopeless, so I serve you by making you understand this at the outset.' His voice became gentle: the tone of one who knows best. 'Do as I do, Temujin—enlist with an intact clan, for your own safety and that of your family. Perhaps the Qongirat—they should succor you for the sake of young Borte. Or go to Togrul the Kerayit, who owes your father a blood-debt. This course at least will offer you some protection from your many enemies.'

'Enemies? Like the dour Markit?' Alp said contemptuously, though his older Uigur mind knew this was bravado. 'They are far away!'

'I mean the Tays, lad: the Tayichiut clan. Chief Targhutai Kiriltug and his brother have laid claim to the chiefship of the entire Borjigin tribe, now that your father is dead. Targ means to kill you, and is even now assembling his warriors for that task. As long as you live, his claim is insecure, for that position is nominally yours