The Mongoliad: Book Three

by Neal Stephenson

  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, Cnán. 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.”

  Cnán 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,” Cnán 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,” Cnán 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,” Cnán 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,” Cnán 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?”

  Cnán 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.”

  Cnán 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 and rolled his shoulders as their horses picked up their pace, sensing the end of the journey. When the two men reached the edge of the camp, Ghaltai reined his horse to a stop. “I will go join my men,” he said.

  Chucai nodded. Chucai had had a number of questions for the Darkhat commander after they had emerged from the subterranean temple, but Ghaltai had refused to provide any answers. I have shown you, was all that he had offered. I will not speak of what we have seen. It is not for me to offer any explanation.

  On one hand, Chucai suspected Ghaltai’s words were motivated by petty revenge for Chucai having pulled him away from the feast, but Chucai suspected Ghaltai’s reticence also stemmed from a long-standing superstitious apprehension.

  Not that he could blame the Darkhat chieftain. The banner unnerved him too.

  He was tired. Everything seemed too obtuse for him to figure out. A good rest would reinvigorate his brain; he would see things much more clearly after a few hours of sleep.

  His servants were all still sleeping, and he didn’t bother waking them. He could manage his own preparations. He would just sneak into his ger, lie down for a few hours, and—

  There was someone in his ger, lying on the floor beneath a pair of fur skins. A brazier sat nearby, its coals cold and gray. Chucai kicked the supine figure—none too gently—startling him awake. The man sat up.

  “Master Chucai,” Gansukh said sleepily. “I have been waiting—” The young man yawned mightily, his words getting lost in the open depths of his mouth.

  “Whatever it is,” Chucai snapped, “It could have waited until midday, at least.”

  Gansukh adjusted the skins around his shoulders. “I doubt that,” he said. “I would not count patience among Munokhoi’s qualities.”

  “What does Munokhoi have to do with you sleeping in my ger?”

  “I couldn’t very well go back to mine, could I?”

  “Why?” Chucai sat down in his chair. “What are you talking about?”

  “You missed the fights last night, didn’t you?” A sleepy smile crawled across Gansukh’s face. “Well, let me tell you a story then...”

  It seemed like only moments after he had gotten rid of Gansukh and laid down, intending to get a few hours of sleep, that Chucai started awake. Where there had been darkness in his tent, there was now light.

  Seated in the center of his ger was the Khagan’s shaman. Beside the old man, the brazier—which had previously been filled with cold ash—glowed with an orange light. The bits of metal attached to the shaman’s clothing gleamed as if they were tiny chips of fire clinging to the oily cloth.

  “What do you want, old man?” Chucai growled. Part of him thought this was nothing more than a dream, and he resented the phantasmal intrusion.

  The shaman chose this moment to fall into a paroxysm of coughing that made every shard of bone and bit of metal attached to his headdress and robe jangle frantically. With a final wheezing cough, he got something unstuck. He worked it around in his mouth for a moment and then spat in the brazier. A finger of flame reached up and grabbed whatever noisome thing that had come from the shaman’s throat. “Nothing is more visible than what is hidden directly in front of you,” the old man intoned.

  Chucai slumped back on his bedding, turning his face toward the ceiling of his ger. “I am tired, old man,” he said. “I do not have time for your games.”

  “The empire does not sleep,” the shaman said.

/>   Chucai shook his head. Hadn’t he said something similar to Ögedei once? Years ago, when the Khagan had first started drinking heavily.

  “Does a tree ever stop growing?” the shaman asked.

  Chucai sat up in a rush. “You told me about the spirit that never dies,” he heard himself saying as he recalled his previous conversation with the old shaman. “Is that what the tree is? Is that what the banner is? A living spirit?”

  “All life comes from Tengri,” the shaman whispered. “All life returns. Nothing is lost.”

  “What is the banner?” Chucai demanded.

  “The banner is a piece of wood,” the shaman said.

  He said that before, Chucai remembered, fighting a swell of frustration. “And what of pieces that might be cut from it?” he asked.

  The shaman smiled, and an involuntary shiver raced up Chucai’s spine. The light from the brazier highlighted the lines on the shaman’s face, a pattern that resembled the twisted branches of the tree carved on the wall of the temple.

  “Not what,” the shaman said, shaking his head. “Ask yourself why.” He clapped his hands, and a cloud of smoke erupted from the brazier.

  The smoke filled the ger and Chucai tried to wave it away, succumbing to a coughing fit nearly as physically wracking as the one he had seen the shaman suffer. His eyes watered, and he squeezed them shut, wiping at the tears.

  When he opened his eyes, the shaman was gone. As was the smoke and the fire in the brazier. The coals were cold and gray, much like they had been when he had first found Gansukh in his ger.

  There was no sign the shaman had been anything other than a dream.

  Ögedei hurt all over. He wanted to lie still beneath the pile of furs on his sleeping platform until the pain went away, but the aches in his body were there even when he was immobile. He groaned, shuffling around beneath the pile of furs, and he felt someone grab his foot. He tried to pull away, but their grip was strong. Dimly, he heard the muffled sound of a woman’s voice, and he gradually realized it belonged to Jachin. She was telling someone that the Khagan was not to be disturbed, a sentiment which he heartily endorsed.

  She remained, though, and her hands began working on his foot. She massaged each toe individually, her hands slick with scented oils, and once each toe had been worked on, she moved on to his ankle, and then his calf, and then his thigh, and then...

  Her ministrations helped, albeit briefly. For all her efforts, the headache remained, and its pounding rhythm sent aching waves cascading through his body—down his spine, echoing through his chest, into his pelvis, and down his legs to his feet and toes, which started to throb again.

  He dug his way out of his bedding, and squinted at both the light and the sight of Jachin hovering nearby. She had a cup in her hand. “Water,” she said.

  He groaned and started to burrow under the furs again, but she stopped him. “Drink it,” she said. She did not have the same forceful personality as Toregene, but the concern in her voice was enough to arrest his burrowing. Lifting his head slightly, he accepted the cup and sipped from it. The water was cold, freshly drawn from the nearby river, and his body shivered as he found himself gulping the water. She poured him another cup, and this one he drank more slowly.

  “I have sent someone to get your cook, who will make you soup,” she said, and when he started to protest, she shook her head and pressed her hand against his chest. “It will ease your discomfort,” she said. “Lie still. Rest.”

  It was all that he wanted to do, anyway. He felt a distant urge to piss, brought about by drinking the water, but he couldn’t imagine getting up right now to do so. He would have to venture outside his ger—into the sunlight—and he feared he would burst into flames.

  It was best to stay here, lying very still, as Jachin commanded. The aches would pass. They always did. This was the spirits’ revenge for his drinking. In the past, he simply kept the pain at bay with another cup of wine, but as he sprawled on his bed, covered by a heavy layers of furs, he knew such succor would not be forthcoming. He could smell the fermented stink of his own sweat, a stench that made his stomach rebel.

  He was a drunk. He knew his father would not have approved. For the most part, such awareness didn’t disturb him. Those thoughts only came to the forefront of his thinking at times like this, when he was in the aftermath of a bout of heavy drinking, and he knew—like all thoughts of inadequacy and fear—that they would pass. He was the Khan of Khans, ruler of the largest empire the world had ever seen. He was the master of thousands and thousands of fighting men. He was not a slave. He could stop drinking if he wanted to.

  In fact, he was going to do just that. As soon as I return to Karakorum, he promised, squeezing his eyes shut. Rainbows danced across the inside of his eyelids as the headache flared again—thum thum—and then relented, releasing its hold as if it had accepted his promise.

  He heard voices, the muffled sound of more than one person talking, and his nose encountered a delicious aroma—fish, garlic, ginger, and the sharp tang of a Chinese pepper. He opened his eyes, blinking heavily in the pale light.

  The flaps of the ger had been pulled back, enough to allow a single figure to enter and still keep most of the sunlight out. Soup, he thought, somewhat surprised he could even consider eating. He sat up as the man carrying the tray approached his bed. The flaps of the ger were lowered, and as his eyes adjusted to the happy dimness again, he recognized the weathered face and the long gray hair of the man who brought his food.

  Alchiq.

  “Where is my cook?” Ögedei grumbled.

  “He was only too happy to allow me the honor of bringing you your food, my Khan,” Alchiq said, a touch of a smile twisting his lips.

  Ögedei grumbled some more, but kept the words to himself.

  “Master Chucai said I should attend to your needs,” Alchiq said.

  “Why?”

  Alchiq shrugged. “He did not say, though when has he ever explained his commands?”

  “Ha,” Ögedei said, scooting toward the edge of his sleeping platform. His stomach growled, vociferously eager for food, though, and he wondered if it was strong enough for such fare. “He is like an old fruit tree: as he gets older, he gets stiffer and his fruit becomes more sour.” He picked up the wide spoon that was resting beside the bowl and gingerly slurped up a mouthful of the broth.

  It burned all the way down to his stomach, and his scalp started prickling immediately. “Ah,” he complained. “It is worse than I thought. This isn’t food. Why is my cook trying to poison me?”

  “He’s trying to make you sweat,” Alchiq said, favoring Ögedei with his unwavering gaze.

  Ögedei stared at his old guard for a moment and then, trying his best to ignore the pain still lacing his throat, he scooped up several of the floating pieces of fish with the spoon. “You used to drink with me,” he said around a mouthful of fish. “In fact, I remember you being able to drink more than me.”

  “I do too, my Khan,” Alchiq replied.

  “But not anymore.”

  Alchiq shook his head slowly.

  Ögedei sighed. “Now I understand why Chucai was eager to let you close to me again.” His stomach quailed as he filled his spoon with more broth. “I will need some distraction if I am to get this all down,” he said. “Tell me of the West. My sons and their cousins are conquering it in my name, but I know so little about it.” He laughed. “Did you ever imagine that our empire would be so vast that there would parts of it that I have never seen?”

  “I did not, my Khan.”

  “My father did.” A huge sigh welled up from his belly, and he shuddered as it worked its way out of his body. His cheeks felt wet, and he swiped a hand across his face. “This soup,” he laughed raggedly, “it is very spicy.”

  “It is, my Khan.” Alchiq had the grace to look away.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Smoke Signals

  A trio of billowing columns of gray smoke marred the otherwise clear sky. The late after
noon sun winked through the twisting plumes, and Dietrich shook his head in disbelief as his horse galloped around a copse of oak trees that hugged a bend in the river.

  The bridge was on fire.

  No wind stirred the scene, and the pluming smoke billowed and roiled at its own whim. The plain near the bridge had been flattened by the passage of so many horses and men that it was nothing more than a flat field between the high banks of the river and the verge of a narrow band of trees that demarked fallow fields to the west. There was no shelter on this plain—it was exposed ground that Dietrich had hoped to cover swiftly before his Mongol pursuers could get within arrow range. His goal had been the bridge, but that hope died in his breast as soon as he realized where the smoke was coming from.

  The road to Hünern was blocked.

  Desperate, Dietrich urged his horse toward the river, pulling up short of the steep incline of the bank. Had he the presence of mind when they’d earlier crossed, he might have paid more attention to the depth and speed of the water. To misjudge either would be the death of him, especially dressed as he was in armor, and he did not have time to discard it. With the Mongols at his back, he dared not even try. He could force his horse into the water, but the animal would probably drown trying to carry him and swim. It was too great a risk, and it would take too long to discard his maille.

  He heard the Mongols coming, their voices echoing with equal parts glee and anger. Dietrich suspected they would not kill him quickly.

  His horse snorted and tossed its head. It sensed his panic and wanted to get away from the smoke. Dietrich glanced at the bridge one last time, his brain struggling to put together a viable plan, and his brow furrowed as his frenzied mind finally focused on a fundamental peculiarity of the scene.