The Mongoliad: Book One

by Neal Stephenson

  She wasn’t going to stay here forever.

  “But you weren’t planning on training like that, were you?” Gansukh gestured at her green silk robes—much finer than the one she wore earlier in the day. “Tie your hair back, at least.”

  She gathered it up—slowly, knowing he was watching her—and wound it into a bun.

  “What?” he asked, some irritation creeping into his voice.

  “I need something to hold it in place,” she pointed out.

  Exasperated, he grabbed a willow branch and snapped off a long piece. With a jerk, he stripped the leaves from it and held out the thin stick. “Will this do?”

  She smiled and took the offered twig. She slid it into place without a word.

  Gansukh admired her. “You’re too small,” he noted, and as she drew breath to object, he continued. “Until you get a little more muscle, I don’t think you’re going to beat anybody in hand-to-hand combat. If it comes to that, you don’t have a chance. We need to try something else.” He stepped out of the confines of the tree and scanned the garden grounds. “Yes,” he said when he spotted a pair of guards. “Wait here.”

  Before she could object, he hurried off. He called to the guards, getting their attention, and they came together, their heads bent toward Gansukh as he launched into some complicated story. Somewhat curious, she stepped forward so as to better see what the three men were talking about, and when Gansukh paused and the two men looked in her direction, she realized she was standing out in the open.

  The guards laughed, and one of them handed Gansukh his bow and quiver before slapping the young man on the back. Saluting them with the weapon, Gansukh trotted back to Lian. “Come,” he said, handing her the quiver to carry. “Let’s go over by the wall. There will be less distractions.” He looked back over his shoulder and waved at the guards as they walked off the path.

  “What did you tell them?” Lian wanted to know.

  “They’re Khevtuul,” Gansukh said.

  “Yes, I know that.” The Khevtuul were the imperial Night Guard, the ones who watched over the Khagan while he slept. “What did you tell them?”

  “Munokhoi is Torguud. Day Guard.” He grinned at her. “You said it yourself. People like to talk at court. Word has gotten around already.”

  She stared at him, amazed at what she was hearing. He shrugged, misinterpreting her look. “I told them I wanted to show you my bow, but as I had left it in my chamber, I was in danger of losing face to a pretty woman. I asked if they could lend me one.” He hefted the weapon. “They were happy to be of assistance.”

  He slowed, glancing around at the open space they had wandered into. “Plus,” he noted, “they’ll leave us alone, thinking that we’re…”

  Lian nodded, trying her best not to smile. “Engaged in an archery lesson,” she finished for him, arching an eyebrow. Yes, she thought, Master Chucai was right. He does have promise.

  Gansukh blushed. He took the quiver from her and gave her the bow instead. “Try it,” he said gruffly, embarrassed now.

  She lifted the weapon and put her left hand on the grip. She drew the string back and let it go with a faint twang.

  “Not like that.” Gansukh moved behind her and touched her shoulders lightly—pulling them back, adjusting her stance. “Arm all the way out. Point your knuckle at the target. Now draw back across your body.” He brought her elbow back slowly, guiding her arm. “Same thing with this hand, knuckle at the target.” Her body turned slightly under his guidance until she was pointed toward a stand of aspen trees, their pale trunks glowing in the late-afternoon light.

  He stepped back and she let go of the string, feeling a difference in the motion. “I feel it,” she said.

  “Okay,” Gansukh said. “Try it a few more times, but without letting go. Just work on making the motion of pulling back smooth.”

  Lian shifted her footing and shook her shoulders loose. She took a deep breath and raised the bow as Gansukh had shown her. Wrapping her first two fingers around the bowstring, she used her back and shoulders to pull the string back—farther this time. She wished she could see Gansukh’s expression, but couldn’t spare a glance in his direction; she’d lose her grip if she let her concentration lapse that much. Satisfied that she could draw the bow, she relaxed and then repeated the exercise two more times before letting her arms collapse. Her biceps were burning.

  “Well done,” Gansukh said. “You took to that very naturally.”

  Lian said nothing as she reached for one of the arrows in the quiver Gansukh held.

  Gansukh caught her hand before she could pull it out. “Careful, that’s sharp.”

  “I’m not a child.” Her tone was petulant enough that she might as well have stomped her foot and threatened to throw a fit.

  “Just try not to cut those soft hands,” Gansukh said, not averse to needling her more. “Place the arrow here.” He put the quiver down and approached, intending to show her more directly. “Grip the end tightly like this. See?” He drew the bowstring back in one smooth motion. It was testament to their difference in size that Gansukh could reach around her and pull the bow back nearly without touching her. Nearly.

  After a moment, when they both silently acknowledged their proximity to one another, he let out the tension in the bowstring and moved away. “Your turn,” he said.

  Lian firmly grasped the bow and tried to draw the arrow back, but the taut bowstring barely moved. The combination of gripping the arrow and pulling back the string was thwarting her efforts. Gansukh was right. She had drawn a bow before, but this one was much stiffer than others she’d used. Gansukh had made it look so effortless. Determined, she pulled her shoulders back and, firmly wrapping two fingers around bowstring and arrow, managed to stretch the bow half as far as Gansukh had.

  “Good,” he noted. “Now shoot that tree.” He pointed at the one they had been aiming at earlier.

  She grunted as she released the arrow. It flew wide, to the right, and vanished, with a whisper of sound, into a thick bush. Her fingertips burned from the rough string. She looked at them, expecting to see blood, and was surprised when there was none.

  “I should’ve told you to hold your breath when you aim,” said Gansukh.

  “You’re not a very good teacher,” she said, embarrassed to have missed the tree completely.

  “Weren’t you prattling on about patience a few days ago,” he said, “in one of those scrolls you’ve been reading to me?”

  She smiled as she bent over and pulled another arrow from the quiver on the ground. “I didn’t say I was giving up.” She nocked it and drew the string back, trying to remember everything she was supposed to do. Gansukh tried to guide her with his hands on her arms, and she shrugged him off. “I’d prefer to try without your help.”

  She tried not to think about him watching her. Hold your breath! she thought at the last second. Her right hand opened and the arrow sprang from the bow, sailing across the garden to land square in an aspen’s trunk.

  “There,” she said. “Perfect shot.”

  Gansukh shrugged. “Not bad. Can you do that again?”

  She glared at him and then bent to retrieve another arrow. “How went the hunt?” She tried to keep her tone nonchalant.

  “Fine.”

  She looked at him. “Fine?”

  He remained oblivious to her tone. “Yes, it was fine.” When she stood in front of him—eyebrow cocked, hand placed on hip—a bewildered expression crossed his face. “Oh,” he realized. “Thank you for your encouragement. You were very helpful.” He nodded toward the bow and arrow in her hands. “Now nock that arrow and see if that last shot was just luck.”

  “Luck?” she said, not moving. Is that all you’re going to tell me? she suggested with the tilt of her head, and when he didn’t respond, she turned her back to him with a sweep of her skirts. “I’ll show you luck.”

  Lian braced her shoulders and pulled the bowstring back as she had before. It was still very hard to pull it
back far, but the motion felt a little easier, a little more natural. She even remembered to hold her breath this time. The bowstring gave a soft twang and the arrow stuck into the tree three hands below the first.

  “Not luck,” Gansukh acknowledged. “Let’s try something a little more advanced then, shall we?”

  “Wouldn’t you say that was a good shot?” she asked.

  Gansukh gave the matter some thought. “I’d say it was a good shot,” he said, “for someone shooting a non-moving target at close range in near-perfect conditions.” He glanced around the quiet garden. “But I’ve never been given a shot like this in hunting…much less in battle.”

  He was going to be impossible.

  She sighed. “What would you have me do then?” she asked.

  “You mean, in terms of archery?” He smiled.

  Lian gave him a cold stare.

  His grin faded and he cleared his throat. “I’d have you take the same shot while walking.” He picked up the quiver and held it out to her. There were only three arrows left.

  “While walking?” Lian asked.

  Gansukh nodded.

  Lian took the arrow and nocked it without looking. She started to her right, but quickly realized she’d lose sight of the target in a few steps as she passed behind a row of manicured hedges. She switched directly and raised the bow, front knuckle pointed at the tree. Even at a slow walk, her front knuckle refused to stay on target—bouncing not only up and down, but also side to side. She tried to predict when she would be on target and let the arrow loose. It hit the ground barely a horse-length in front of her and skipped across the grass.

  Gansukh offered her another arrow. “Don’t look at your knuckle this time; look at the target.”

  Lian grabbed the arrow from him and nocked it quickly in the bow. He knew what he was talking about and she should listen to him, but his calm was getting under her skin. She pulled the bowstring back, and as she walked to her right, she released the arrow almost immediately. She had been shooting blindly, just trying to use up the arrows so that this lesson could be over. The arrow flipped end over end and rattled into the tree’s lower branches.

  “Not bad!” Gansukh said, much to her surprise.

  “You are laughing at me,” she said.

  He shook his head. “You stopped thinking about what you were doing. That is a large part of shooting well. It’s also the hardest thing to teach.” Gansukh grinned again. Lian couldn’t decide if this near-constant grin of his was getting annoying or endearing. Perhaps both.

  “You lied to me,” she said, holding the bow in both hands.

  “When?” he asked.

  “When I said you weren’t a very good teacher.”

  Gansukh shrugged. “I didn’t correct you,” he said. “But you didn’t tell me you’d handled a bow before either.” He took the last arrow out of the quiver and held out his other hand for the bow. The grin was gone and his face had become unreadable.

  Lian handed him the bow. “Not that tree,” she said, swallowing hard. She couldn’t tell what his intention was and thought it best to try to redirect him. Had she gone too far? Trust had to be mutual. “That’s too easy for you.”

  “Pick a tree, then,” he said and swept his left hand wide to indicate she had the entire courtyard to choose from.

  Lian looked about and spied a sapling some ten horse lengths away. “The young birch, by the wall there,” she pointed.

  Gansukh turned abruptly and walked away from her at a brisk pace. For several moments, she was sure she had made a terrible mistake, and when he turned and began sprinting toward her, she was certain she had. As he closed the distance between them, he showed no sign of stopping; in fact, he was increasing his pace.

  “Gansukh!” She threw herself to the grass. He jumped over her, bow raised and arrow drawn back. She heard the bowstring twang. Where she had fallen clumsily, breaking her fall with her hip, he tucked his head and rolled in the grass three paces in front of her.

  “Are you okay?” He walked over to her as if nothing had happened.

  Wanting to get off the grass as quickly as possible, she accepted his hand. His grip was firm, and she flew off the ground as he pulled her up. Their bodies pressed together, their faces but a few fingers’ width apart.

  “Did you hit your target?” she asked in an attempt to make him turn around and look. Even though she didn’t want him to move.

  He didn’t. “I don’t know, did I?”

  Lian rolled her eyes and failed to stifle a laugh. His grin came back, larger than before. She pushed him roughly away.

  “The tree, Gansukh. Did you hit the birch?”

  Gansukh feigned surprise. “I was supposed to shoot a tree?”

  She looked. The sun had gone beyond the palace now, and the entire wall was covered with shadows. She could still see the thin sapling, but she couldn’t tell if his arrow had found its mark. She started walking toward it, and Gansukh fell in beside her.

  “Nice fall,” he said. “But you’ll need more practice.”

  Lian shot him a look.

  “I’m serious!” he protested. “Falling is an important skill in hand-to-hand combat. You’ll see.”

  “I can’t wait,” Lian replied sarcastically, but couldn’t help but notice how her body thrilled at the thought of being so engaged with this man.

  Preoccupied, she came to a full stop in front of the birch before focusing on the arrow buried a quarter of the way up its shaft. Without comment, Gansukh began gradually working the arrow loose.

  “Gansukh, you should have…” she faltered.

  Gansukh continued to loosen the arrow from the tree but looked at her.

  She met his gaze and started again. “Why didn’t you shoot the crossbow as Ögedei Khan requested?”

  His face darkened and he chose to focus on the task of retrieving the arrow for a little while longer before answering. “There’s a difference between hunting,” he said as the arrow popped out of the tree, “and slaughter.”

  “You killed your deer with a bow,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “With my father’s bow. And Ögedei appreciated the significance of my choice.” He dropped the arrow in the quiver. “After the hunting was done, we walked in the garden together for a little while. He told me a story about hunting with his father, the Great Khan, when they were on campaign together.”

  She was surprised. The serving woman had failed to mention that the two men had had a private moment together. “Excellent, Gansukh. That was beyond my expectations. You are proving to be a good study.”

  They retraced their steps to the aspen grove.

  “I need to be,” Gansukh said as they walked. “I may have impressed the Khagan, but I fear I made Munokhoi even more my enemy.”

  “Any time spent trying to curry Munokhoi’s favor is not only futile but dangerous,” Lian pointed out. “It is wiser to focus your energy on the Khagan.”

  Gansukh nodded thoughtfully. “I think you’re right.” They reached the tree with Lian’s arrows in it, and he plucked them out with a sharp twist of his left wrist. “Enough archery for tonight,” he said, changing the subject. “How about some basics in hand-to-hand…”

  Lian raised an eyebrow. “I think all this archery has worn me out.”

  Gansukh laughed. She liked his laugh, low in timbre and from the belly. His eyes nearly disappeared when he laughed, much like her father’s.

  “Next time, then,” he said. He slung the bow across his back and indicated the path toward the servants’ quarters. “Let me walk you back to your chamber, at least.”

  She accepted his offer and kept the notional pleasure of more physical contact with him to herself.

  The sun had departed, and the palace was transitioning to its nighttime activities. Voices could be heard from the main palace, and servants carrying dirty dishes and piles of clean linen scurried around Gansukh as he ambled toward his own chamber. He stepped aside for a group of concubines. They glided past
with effortlessly small steps, their elegantly coiffured heads bowed down in polite deference, leaving a scent of flowers in their wake. Groups of dark-cloaked Khevtuul were out there in the gloom, patrolling the grounds.

  Near the garden gate, Gansukh encountered a familiar imposing figure. Gansukh bowed respectfully. “Master Chucai. Good evening.”

  Ögedei’s chief advisor responded with a slight nod. “I trust the evening finds you well.” His robe and beard were dark spots in the gloom, making the man seem like an apparition, a floating head come to haunt him.

  “It does,” Gansukh replied. “I was just getting some fresh air. This first hour of nightfall has a splendid quality to it.”

  “You have been keeping up on your reading?” Chucai smiled. “Or I should say, has Lian been reading you up?”

  “Yes. She’s a talented young woman, as far as the Chinese go,” Gansukh said. “The scrolls are boring, but she certainly gives me something to look at.”

  Chucai looked at him shrewdly. “I heard about the hunt today,” he said.

  Gansukh nodded and waited for him to continue.

  “Karakorum is different from anywhere else in the empire. We are transformed by it, would you not say?” Chucai pursed his lips. “No, that’s not correct. We are revealed by it.”

  Gansukh shrugged, mainly to hide the shiver that ran up his spine at Master Chucai’s words. He was spared from replying by a crashing sound behind him. He turned, and for a second, he couldn’t place the source of the sound, but then he spotted the broken tile on the ground. His pulse racing, he immediately looked up at the roof of the palace, and a flash of movement caught his eye.

  “Intruder!” Chucai shouted behind him.

  An assassin, Gansukh thought. Here to kill the Khagan.

  “Guards!” Chucai continued to raise the alarm.

  The figure had disappeared already, and Gansukh glanced around wildly for any sign of the Khevtuul.

  Too late, he thought. He started to run toward the back of the palace—in the direction it seemed the figure had been moving. By the time the guards arrive, he’ll be gone.