“I see you don’t flatter my skills,” Zhang said ruefully from the ground.
Ouyang pulled him up. “You know how well your talents are! You don’t need my flattery.”
Zhang brushed himself off. Ouyang saw he was considering whether or not to deliver advice. But in the end all he said was, “Good luck, General,” and left the field with a parting smile.
“The Third Prince!” the herald called, as a handsomely broad-faced young Mongol strode onto the field. The beads in his braids were lapis and silver, to match his earrings and armor.
“General Ouyang,” greeted the Third Prince. Despite being on the very cusp of adulthood, and having a well-developed warrior’s build much like Esen’s, there was a poorly masked vulnerability in his bearing that made Ouyang think of someone much younger. The Third Prince examined Ouyang with perverse interest, as if excited by his own repulsion at meeting something new and unnatural. “Would you like to rest a moment before our match?”
Ouyang prickled beneath the examination. He made a point of not lowering his gaze, so that when the Third Prince’s assessment came up to his face the young man startled. Ouyang knew that surprise: it was that of someone who had forgotten that Ouyang’s face concealed a man, with a man’s thoughts and experience. “Your Highness. It is an honor for this unworthy servant to compete against you. Please, let us continue.”
The Third Prince lifted his sword. He might have resembled Esen physically, but his form was nothing like: it was as pretty as it was useless. “Then let’s begin.”
Ouyang struck. One quick, irritable blow, as he would give a fly. The Third Prince slammed into the dirt. Even as he lay sprawled, Ouyang had already forgotten him. The Third Prince meant nothing, either as a threat or an opportunity, just as this victory was nothing but an opportunity he should know better than to take. A mysterious sensation was building inside him. His heart pounded from the strength of it; the pain of it drove him to action. I want to see the face of my fate. The crowd rumbled.
“The victor shall approach the Great Khan!”
Ouyang approached the imperial pavilion and knelt. He felt stretched thin around that terrible, unknowable feeling. Perhaps it was his whole life, condensed into a single emotion. He bowed his forehead to the worn grass three times. Then, finally, he looked up at the Great Khan. He beheld that golden figure on the throne, and the world stopped. There, not twenty paces distant, was the one who had killed his father. The one who had ordered the Prince of Henan to slaughter every Ouyang male to the ninth degree, and ended the Ouyang bloodline forever. Ouyang stared at that ordinary face and saw his fate, and felt that opaque emotion swell until there was nothing else left inside him. The Great Khan was his fate and his end. The thought of that end brought a burst of relief. After everything, that would be the moment when it would all stop.
Black spots crept across his vision. He came back to himself, gasping; in all that time, he hadn’t breathed. He was shaking. What did the Great Khan think of him, trembling down there? Did he look at him and feel his fate, as Ouyang felt his?
Ouyang had no idea how he would be able to speak, but he did. “Ten thousand years to the Great Khan!”
There was a long silence from above. Far longer than Ouyang would have expected, until it disturbed. The crowd murmured.
“Rise,” the Great Khan said. When Ouyang pushed back onto his heels he was unsettled to find the Great Khan staring fixedly at some point behind him. For a moment Ouyang was possessed by the mad idea that if he whipped around fast enough he might actually see something: the miasma of his emotions, casting a withering shadow upon the grass. Seemingly addressing himself to whatever it was that held him transfixed, the Great Khan said distantly, “We would know this general’s honorable name.”
Ouyang found he was no longer shaking, as if he had entered the last stages of death by exposure. “Great Khan, this unworthy servant’s family name is Ouyang.”
The Great Khan startled and looked at Ouyang for the first time. “An Ouyang from Henan?” His hand clenched on the armrest of his chair, and weak blue flame spurted from between his fingers. It seemed completely involuntary. Was he only remembering, or was it something else that disturbed him? All of a sudden Ouyang had the terrible feeling that there was something at play that was outside the grasp of his understanding. That somehow, he had made an awful mistake—
But then the Great Khan shook himself free of whatever haunted him. He said forcefully, “This general’s skills are exceptional. You bring the highest honor to your master the Prince of Henan. Please continue to serve him loyally and well.” He gestured to a servant. “Reward him!”
The servants came out with boxes borne on richly embroidered cushions. Wealth equivalent to the spoils of a successful campaign. Two, even.
The whiplash from impending disaster to success left Ouyang euphoric. As he touched his forehead to the grass, behind his eyes he already saw the next time they would meet. “The Great Khan is generous. Ten thousand years to the Great Khan! Ten thousand years!”
He could still feel the Great Khan looking at him as he backed away.
* * *
The day’s competitions yielded to the evening’s entertainments. The feasting and drinking had begun several hours ago, and the air was greased with the aroma of stone-roasted lamb. Hundreds of tables had been laid out on the grass, the pearl-inlaid table ornaments twinkling in the light of tiny lamps. Above, silk canopies bellied in the night wind, their undersides catching the glow of the huge lanterns set on tripods throughout the space. Ouyang sat next to General Zhang, several empty ewers of wine between them, watching the line of dignitaries bearing gifts up to the raised table where the Great Khan sat with the Empress, the Third Prince, and the Grand Councilor.
Zhang observed, “One of the courts of hell must be reserved for this kind of boredom.” He looked effortlessly masculine in a gown of decadent Pingjiang brocade, but as the night had worn on his elegant topknot had started to come loose.
“Just drink more.” Ouyang poured him another cup. The drunker he got, the more startled he became by the sound of his own distant voice speaking Han’er. It was like having a series of realizations that there was someone inside his body who spoke and thought a different language.
“You Mongols drink more than I could have ever believed.”
Ouyang scoffed. “This is nothing. All the next week will be drinking too; you had better be prepared.”
“I can only prepare to endure,” Zhang said sadly. Ouyang wondered if his own cheeks had the same hectic flush as Zhang’s. Compared to Mongols, Nanren were notoriously bad at holding their wine. Zhang glanced at the throne and said, “Was it hard for you to meet the Emperor?”
Ouyang was so well numbed he didn’t even have to repress a flinch. “Why? Because of my sorry origins?” He downed his drink and waited for Zhang to pour him another. “That’s all past history. I never think of it.”
Zhang regarded him. The unstable lantern light made a more impressive show of his golden hair clasp than it did the gold beads in the Great Khan’s own hair, and cast deep shadows into the noble creases of his brow. What was that expression? Ouyang might be drunk, but he knew from experience that he could be all but passed out and still keep his blank facade intact. Now, though, he had the unpeeled feeling that Zhang could tell, in some very specific way, that he was lying. But perhaps Zhang decided to take pity on him, because in the end all he said was, “And the Third Prince? You’re not worried he’ll remember you badly?”
Ouyang relaxed; this was safer territory. “Let him remember. I don’t care.”
“Not just you, but the Prince of Henan and your Lord Esen. What of when they want to advance out of the regions, to the Dadu court?”
The unfamiliar Han’er name for Khanbaliq gave Ouyang a discombobulated feeling, as if he and Zhang were denizens of different worlds who had chanced upon each other in the uncanny space between. “Esen would never thrive at court,” he said, feeling a proph
etic sadness.
“Clearly neither would you. And what if you meet the Third Prince again next year?”
Another set of nobles approached the throne, performed their reverences, and presented their gifts. Ouyang’s whole body felt hot from the wine. Despite Esen’s constant urging, he usually moderated his intake. Tonight, however, he was gripped by the awareness of what tomorrow would bring. He thought muzzily: I should suffer.
“This is the first time I’ve been at one of these things in seven years,” he said. “We’re always on campaign in spring. I don’t plan for it to happen again.”
“Ever? Surely one day you’ll crush the rebels. Finish your war.”
“Do you believe that? That one day we’ll be out of a job, because of peace?” Ouyang could imagine the death of the Great Khan, but he couldn’t imagine the end of an empire. Neither could he truly imagine its return to stability. Imagination was, after all, powered by one’s investment in the outcome.
“You could put yourself out of work,” Zhang said. “But what’s peace for merchants? Since the driving force of commerce is only to expand itself, the job of its general is never done. I’ll be serving my master’s ambition until I’m dead.”
“Your brother’s?”
“Ah, I had thought you knew us so well. Don’t you trust the reports you receive of my brother? He has no ambition. Come visit us one day and you’ll see. But to say we have no ambition would also be wrong.”
“Ah,” Ouyang said slowly. “Madam Zhang.”
Zhang smiled. “Do you not believe a woman can head an enterprise?”
Esen often imputed a competence to his wives that Ouyang had never witnessed, and didn’t actually believe existed. Whole men were biased when it came to women, although they always insisted that what they saw was objective fact. Ouyang said diplomatically, “You’re too modest. You downplay your own contributions.”
“Not at all. I’m a general like you. You carry out the orders of your master Lord Esen; I carry out the orders of mine. I know my own talents within my realm, but I also know I have little vision when it comes to commerce. It’s her ambition we serve, and it’s by her decision that our loyalty lies with you. Those who underestimate her tend to regret it.”
There was a particular tone in Zhang’s voice when he spoke of Madam Zhang, but deciphering it seemed like too much effort. Ouyang poured them both drinks instead. “Then our partnership is sound: within the broader Great Yuan, may your commercial endeavors succeed.”
Zhang raised his cup. For an instant his eyes slid past Ouyang, finding interest in the empty space between the tables. This time Ouyang knew that look. It was the same distant look the Great Khan had worn, and as soon as Ouyang recognized it he was gripped by the cold, acute horror of being watched from behind. All the hairs on his neck stood up. For all that he knew there was nothing there, he still shuddered with the urge to turn and fight.
And then the light changed, and the dread ebbed away. From across the table Zhang was smiling at him. “Cheers.”
They drank, watching Military Governor Bolud of Shanxi approaching the Great Khan’s table. He was followed by his sons. Altan, being the youngest, came last.
“Seems that boy wants to make a good impression,” said Zhang, referring to the great cloaked box borne alongside Altan by four servants.
“Better that he had focused such efforts into pleasing his general,” said Ouyang. He was aware of betraying a rather un-general-like annoyance with an inferior, but found it hard to care. “I can’t stand him. Unfortunately the Prince of Henan believes we need Bolud’s support to successfully put down the Red Turbans. But all Bolud provides is numbers! Numbers can always be found elsewhere, can’t they?”
“And with the Empress out of favor, Bolud is no longer a big fish,” Zhang said consideringly.
In front of the high table Altan gestured to his servants, and the cover was whisked off the box. Even in that rowdy space of drunk people, the reveal of its contents produced a sudden intake of breath and silence.
The box was a cage, containing a very fine hunting cheetah. One of the rarest and most coveted gifts, its procurement must have taken great pains, over a very long period of time. Its cost was inestimable.
It was dead.
The Great Khan recoiled. With a thunderous brow he rose and bellowed, “What is the meaning of this insult?”
Everyone present knew the insult: a dead animal wished nothing but the same for the Great Khan. It was the grossest treason.
Altan, who had been staring at the cage with his mouth hanging open and his face gone gray, fell to his knees and began crying his innocence. His father and brothers threw themselves down beside him and began shouting over the top of each other. The Great Khan towered over them, glaring with lethal rage.
Zhang said, “I didn’t expect that.”
Ouyang found himself laughing. Even to himself it sounded hysterical. A distant part of him, the part that never let go despite how much he drank, realized he had just received an unexpected gift. Out loud he said, “Ah, that bastard has my respect.”
“What?”
“I’m not the only one who dislikes Altan.”
The Great Khan shouted again, “Who is responsible for this?”
Bolud, having groveled forwards until his head was nearly upon the Great Khan’s instep, cried, “Forgive me, Great Khan! I had no part in this. I have no knowledge of it!”
“How can the fault of the son not also be the fault of the father!”
Suddenly the Empress rose, her red and gold ornaments glittering and swaying. Of all the Great Khan’s women she was the only one who wore the traditional Mongolian hat. Its long column rose up under the lantern-light and cast dancing shadows as she trembled. She cried, “Great Khan! This useless woman begs your forgiveness for my father. Please believe that he had nothing to do with this. The boy is at fault. Please let your punishment be for him alone!”
Kneeling and shivering at the Great Khan’s feet, Altan seemed small and pathetic: a boy, abandoned by his family.
The Third Prince was watching the Empress with a small smile. Of course he had no fondness for the woman who could bear a Heaven-favored son to displace him.
Seeing the Third Prince’s look, Zhang said, “Him?”
Ouyang leaned his head back against his chair. His pleasure at the usefulness of what had just happened was muddled with a terrible sadness. The canopied space shone and vibrated around him. A world he wasn’t part of, but was just passing through on his way to his dark fate. He said, “No.”
“Take him!” the Great Khan roared, and two bodyguards sprang forwards and hauled Altan up by the elbows. “For the gravest insult to the Son of Heaven, we sentence you to exile!”
Altan was dragged away, limp with shock.
Across the twinkling tables Ouyang saw Lord Wang watching with satisfaction, his catlike eyes sleepy with amusement.
* * *
“This,” Chaghan said. “This is your doing, Wang Baoxiang!”
Even inside their father’s ger Esen could hear the uproar of people bustling from ger to ger to discuss the night’s events. As Esen had crossed the camp he had seen that Bolud’s household had already packed up and disappeared: all that was left were the flattened circles in the grass.
Chaghan was standing over Baoxiang, the lanterns swinging as if blown by the force of his anger. The Prince was only the same height as his adopted son, but from his breadth and the bristling of his beard and braids he appeared much larger.
Esen winced as Baoxiang looked their father insolently in the eye. Just like Chaghan, Esen had known instantly who had been the cause of the Shanxi contingent’s downfall. At least Baoxiang had responded to insult, as a man should. On the other hand, it had been a dishonorable attack: a coward’s response. Esen felt a familiar surge of frustration. Why couldn’t Baoxiang just be easier, and do what was expected of him? Esen might be suited to his occupation, but it wasn’t as if he had never struggled or ma
de personal sacrifices to fulfil his father’s expectations. It was what a son did. But Baoxiang refused. He was selfish and difficult, and to Esen impossible to understand.
Baoxiang said, “Do you even have reason to think it was me, Father?”
“Tell me it wasn’t.”
Baoxiang smirked. Under the bravado, though, there was something bruised-looking.
“You selfish egg! How dare you put your own petty revenge over the concerns of everyone in this family! If Bolud finds out—”
“You should be thanking me! If you bothered to think for a moment, maybe you’d realize that now Bolud has lost favor in court, you finally have the chance to step up!”
“Thanking you! How can you say with that shameless face that you did this for us? Without Bolud’s support everything we’ve fought for will be lost! Our house will be ruined! Do you spit on the graves of your ancestors so easily?”
“You don’t need Bolud,” Baoxiang shouted. “Haven’t I done everything to help you break free of your dependence? Stop thinking that you need that buffoon, and have the courage to take power for yourself! Do you think it will come to you if you wait?”
“You helped me?” Chaghan’s voice could have melted sword steel.
Baoxiang gave a brittle laugh. “Ah. Surprise. You have no idea what I’ve been doing for you this entire time. You don’t even care enough to know! Don’t you realize that I’m the only reason you still have an estate? Without the roads and irrigation and tax collections, do you think you’d even have the funds to continue serving the Great Khan? Your only value to him lies in your army, and you wouldn’t even have an army. You’d be nothing but a washed-up provincial whose lands are being swallowed on one side by the rebels, and Bolud on the other!”
Esen felt a pang of embarrassment on Baoxiang’s behalf. Didn’t he see how badly it reflected on himself to try to equate the work that Esen and Ouyang did, and that Chaghan had done before them, with the paperwork that occupied Baoxiang’s days?
Chaghan spat, “Listen to you. Irrigation. We’re Mongols! We don’t farm. We don’t dig ditches. Our armies are the Great Khan’s arm in the south, and as long as the Great Yuan exists our family will defend it with honor and glory.”
She Who Became the Sun Page 20