The Khan Series 5-Book Bundle

by Conn Iggulden

  “What is the alternative?” Temujin said from the door.

  Both men spun to face him and he glanced at the dark bruise on Jelme’s jaw, understanding it in an instant.

  He looked exhausted as he came to stand by the forge.

  “I could not sleep with three women and my sister chattering like birds, so I came here.”

  Neither son nor father replied and Temujin went on, closing his eyes as the warmth reached him.

  “I do not ask for blind followers, Arslan,” he said. “You are right to question our purpose here. You see a ragged group with barely enough food to get through to the thaw. Perhaps we could find ourselves a valley somewhere and raise herds and children while the tribes continue to roam and butcher each other.”

  “You won’t tell me you care how many strangers die in those battles,” Arslan said with certainty.

  Temujin fixed his yellow eyes on the swordsmith, seeming to fill the small space of the ger.

  “We feed the soil with our blood, our endless feuding,” he said after a time. “We always have, but that does not mean we always should. I have shown that a tribe can come from the Quirai, the Wolves, the Woyela, the Naimans. We are one people, Arslan. When we are strong enough, I will make them come to me, or I will break them one at a time. I tell you we are one people. We are Mongols, Arslan. We are the silver people and one khan can lead us all.”

  “You are drunk, or dreaming,” Arslan replied, ignoring his son’s discomfort. “What makes you think they would ever accept you?”

  “I am the land,” Temujin replied. “And the land sees no difference in the families of our people.” He looked from one to the other. “I do not ask for your loyalty. You gave me that with your oath and it binds you until death. It may be that we will all be killed in the attempt, but you are not the men I think you are if that will stop you.” He chuckled to himself for a moment, knuckling his eyes against the weariness made worse by the warmth.

  “I climbed for an eagle chick once. I could have stayed on the ground, but the prize was worth the risk. It turned out that there were two of them, so I was luckier than I had hoped to be.” His chuckle seemed bitter, though he did not explain. He clapped father and son on the shoulder.

  “Now stop this bickering and climb with me,” he said. He paused for a moment to see how they took his words, then went back out into the cold snow to find somewhere to sleep.

  CHAPTER 24

  WEN CHAO KEPT A CLOSE EYE on his servants through the hangings of the litter as they struggled under its weight. With three men to each wooden handle, the labor should have been just enough to keep them warm, but when he glanced out of the silk awning, he noticed more than one was growing blue around the lips. He had not moved before the winter snow had begun to melt, but there was still crunching ice underfoot and the wind was cruel. He suspected he would lose another slave before they reached the Mongol camp, if not two. He pulled his furs around him and wondered peevishly if they would find the camp at all.

  He amused himself for a time by cursing Togrul, the khan of the Kerait, who had claimed to know where the raiding band were waiting out the winter. With a little more heat and imagination, he practiced even more complicated insults for the members of the Chin court in Kaifeng.

  He had known he had been outmaneuvered from the moment he laid eyes on the expressions of the eunuchs. They were as bad as gossipy old women, and there was little that went on in the court that they did not hear. Wen remembered the acid delight in little Zhang, the first amongst them, as he had ushered him into the presence of the first minister.

  Wen pursed his lips in irritation at the memory. He prided himself on his expertise in the games of power, but there it was. He had been lulled by a woman of the best Willow house in Kaifeng and missed just one important meeting. He sighed at the thought of her skill, remembering every wanton touch and the peculiar thing she had tried to do with a feather. He hoped her services had cost his enemies dearly, at least. When he had been summoned from her bed in the middle of the night, he had known immediately that he would pay for his pleasures. Ten years of cleverness had been wasted by one drunken night of poetry and love. It hadn’t been good poetry, either, he reflected. The minister had announced a diplomatic mission to the barbarous tribes as if it were a great honor, and of course, Wen had been forced to smile and knock his head on the floor as if he had been given his heart’s desire.

  Two years later, he was still waiting to be recalled. Away from the machinations and games of the Chin court, no doubt he had been forgotten. He addressed copies of his reports to trusted friends with instructions to send them on, but it was likely none of them was ever read. It was no great chore to lose them amongst the thousands of scribes who tended the court of the Middle Kingdom, not for one as devious as Zhang, at least.

  Although Wen refused to despair, there was a chance he would end his days among the ugly Mongol tribes, frozen to death or poisoned by their endless rancid mutton and sour milk. It was really too much for a man of his position and advanced years. He had taken barely a dozen servants, as well as his guards and litter-bearers, but the winter had proved too much for the weaker ones, passing them back into the wheel of life for their next reincarnation. Remembering the way his personal scribe had caught a fever and died still made him furious. The man had sat down in the snow and refused to go on. One of the guards had kicked him, on Wen’s instructions, but the little fellow gave up the spirit with every sign of spiteful pleasure as he died.

  Wen hoped fervently that he would return as a scrubber of floors, or a pony that would be beaten regularly and with much enthusiasm. Now that the man was gone, Wen could only regret the beatings he had not inflicted himself. There was never enough time, even for the most conscientious of masters.

  He heard the thumping rhythm of hoofbeats and considered twitching back the hanging that kept out the wind from his litter, before thinking better of it. No doubt it would be the guards reporting a complete lack of sign, as they had done for the previous twelve days. When he heard them shout, his old heart thumped with relief, though it was beneath him to show it. Was he not the fifth cousin of the Emperor’s second wife? He was. Instead, he reached for one of his most annotated scrolls and read the words of philosophy, finding calm in their simple thoughts. He had never been comfortable with the high moral tone of Confucius himself, but his disciple Xun Zi was a man Wen would have liked to take for a drink. It was his words he turned to most often when his mood was low.

  Wen ignored the excited chatter of his guards as they decided who should disturb him in his solitary splendor. Xun Zi believed the path to excellence was the path of enlightenment, and Wen was considering a delicious parallel in his own life. He was just reaching for his writing tools when the litter was laid down and he heard a nervous throat being cleared by his ear. He sighed. The travel had been dull, but the thought of mingling once more with unwashed tribesmen would try his patience to the limit. All this for one night of debauchery, he thought, as he moved the hanging aside and stared into the face of his most trusted guard.

  “Well, Yuan, we seem to have stopped,” he said, letting his long fingernails click on the parchment in his hand to show his displeasure. Yuan was crouching by the litter and dropped flat as soon as Wen spoke, pressing his forehead against the icy ground. Wen sighed audibly.

  “You may speak, Yuan. If you do not, we will be here all day.” In the distance, he heard the mournful note of warning horns on the wind. Yuan glanced back in the direction he’d ridden from.

  “We found them, master. They are coming.”

  Wen nodded. “You are first among my guards, Yuan. When they have finished blustering and yelping, let me know.”

  He let the silk hanging fall back into place and began tying his scrolls in their scarlet ribbons. He heard the rumble of approaching horses and felt the tickle of curiosity become overwhelming. With a sigh at his own weakness, Wen slid back the spyhole in the wooden edge of the litter, peering through it.
Only Yuan knew it was there and he would say nothing. To the slaves, it would seem as if their master scorned the danger. It was important to present the right image for slaves, he thought, wondering if there was time to add a note to his own small thoughts on philosophy. He would have his work bound and sent back to be published, he promised himself. It was particularly critical of the role of eunuchs in the court of Kaifeng. As he squinted through the tiny hole, he thought it would be best to publish it anonymously.

  Temujin rode with Arslan and Jelme on his flanks. Ten of his best men came with them, while Khasar and Kachiun had split smaller forces around the camp to look for a second attack.

  From the first sighting, Temujin knew something was wrong with the little scene. He wondered why so many armed men seemed to be guarding a box. The men themselves were strange, though he recognized seasoned warriors when he saw them. Instead of attacking, they had formed a defensive square around the box to wait for his arrival. Temujin glanced at Arslan, with his eyebrows raised. Over the sound of the galloping hooves, Arslan was forced to shout.

  “Tread carefully, my lord. It can only be a representative of the Chin, someone of rank.”

  Temujin looked back at the strange scene with renewed interest. He had heard of the great cities in the east, but never seen one of their people. They were said to swarm like flies and use gold as a building material, it was so common. Whoever it was, they were important enough to travel with a dozen guards and enough slaves to carry the lacquered box. In itself, that was a strange thing to see in the wilderness. It shone blackly and at its sides were draped hangings the color of the sun.

  Temujin had an arrow on the string and was guiding his pony with his knees. He lowered the bow, giving a short call to those around him to do the same. If it was a trap, the Chin warriors would find they had made an error coming into those lands.

  He reined in. For those with an eye to see it, his men kept their formation perfectly as they matched him. Temujin tied his bow neatly to the thong on his saddle, touched the hilt of his sword for luck, and rode up to the man at the center of the strange party.

  He did not speak. Those lands were Temujin’s by right and he did not have to explain his presence in them. His yellow gaze was steady on the warrior, and Temujin noted the overlapping armor with interest. Like the box itself, the panels were lacquered in a substance that shone like black water, the fastenings hidden by the design. It looked as if it would stop an arrow, and Temujin wondered how he could obtain a set to test.

  The warrior watched Temujin from beneath the rim of a padded helmet, his face half covered by cheekpieces of iron. He looked ill to Temujin, a ghastly yellow color that spoke of too many evenings drinking. Yet the whites of his eyes were clear and he did not flinch from the sight of so many armed men as they waited for orders.

  The silence stretched and Temujin waited. At last, the officer frowned and spoke.

  “My master of the Jade Court wishes to speak with you,” Yuan said stiffly, his accent strange to Temujin’s ears. Like his master, Yuan disliked the warriors of the tribes. They had no discipline of the sort he understood, for all their ferocity. He saw them as ill-tempered hounds and it was undignified to have to converse with them like human beings.

  “Is he hiding in that box?” Temujin asked.

  The officer tensed and Temujin dropped his hand near the hilt of his sword. He had spent hundreds of evenings training with Arslan, and he did not fear a sudden clash of blades. Perhaps his amusement showed in his eyes, for Yuan restrained himself and sat like stone.

  “I am to say a message from Togrul of the Kerait,” Yuan continued.

  Temujin reacted to the name with intense curiosity. He had heard it before and his camp contained three wanderers who had been banished from that tribe.

  “Say your message then,” Temujin replied.

  The warrior spoke as if he were reciting, looking off into the far distance. “Trust these men and offer them guest rights in my name,” Yuan said.

  Temujin grinned suddenly, surprising the Chin soldier. “Perhaps that would be wise. Have you considered the alternative?”

  Yuan looked back at Temujin, irritated. “There is no alternative. You have been given your orders.”

  Temujin laughed aloud at that, though he never lost his awareness of the soldier in reach of a sword.

  “Togrul of the Kerait is not my khan,” he said. “He does not give orders here.” Still, his interest had grown in the party who had come into the lands around his war camp. The officer said nothing more, though he radiated tension.

  “I might just have you all killed and take whatever is in that fine box you are protecting,” Temujin said, more to sting the man than anything else. To his surprise, the officer did not grow angry as he had before. Instead, a grim smile appeared on his face.

  “You do not have enough men,” Yuan replied with certainty.

  As Temujin was about to respond, a voice from the box snapped an order in a language he could not understand. It sounded like the honking of geese, but the officer bowed his head immediately.

  Temujin could not resist his curiosity any longer.

  “Very well. I grant you guest rights in my home,” he said. “Ride in with me so that my guards do not send arrows down your throat as you come.” He saw that Yuan was frowning and spoke again. “Ride slowly and make no sudden gestures. There are men in my camp who do not like strangers.”

  Yuan raised a fist and the twelve bearers gripped the long handles and stood as one, gazing impassively forward. Temujin did not know what to make of any of it. He snapped orders to his men and took the lead with Arslan, while Jelme and the others trotted their ponies around the little group to bring up the rear.

  As he came abreast with Arslan, Temujin leaned over in the saddle, his voice a murmur.

  “You know these people?”

  Arslan nodded. “I have met them before.”

  “Are they a threat to us?” Temujin watched as Arslan considered.

  “They could be. They have great wealth and it is said their cities are vast. I do not know what they want with us, in this place.”

  “Or what game Togrul is playing,” Temujin added. Arslan nodded and they did not speak again as they rode.

  Wen Chao waited until his litter had been placed on the ground and Yuan had come to the side. He had watched their arrival in the camp with interest and suppressed groans at the sight of the familiar gers and scrawny sheep. The winter had been hard and the people he saw had a pinched look to their faces. He could smell the mutton fat on the breeze long before he came to the camp, and he knew the odor would stay in his robes until they were washed and washed again. As Yuan drew back the silk hangings, Wen stepped out amongst them, breathing as shallowly as he possibly could. From experience, he knew he would get used to it, but he had yet to meet a tribesman who troubled to wash more than once or twice a year, and then only if he fell in a river. Nonetheless, he had a task to perform and, though he cursed little Zhang under his breath, he stepped out into the cold wind with as much dignity as he could muster.

  Even if he had not seen how the other men deferred to the young one with the yellow eyes, Wen would have known him for the leader. In the court of Kaifeng, they knew of those who were “tigers in the reeds,” those who had the warrior’s blood running in them. This Temujin was one of those tigers, Wen decided, as soon as he faced those eyes. Such eyes they were! Wen had seen nothing like them.

  The wind was bitter for one dressed in thin robes, but Wen showed no discomfort as he faced Temujin and bowed. Only Yuan would know the gesture was far short of the angle courtesy dictated, but it amused Wen to insult the barbarians. To his surprise, the raider merely watched the movement and Wen found himself prickling.

  “My name is Wen Chao, ambassador of the Chin court of the Northern Sung. I am honored to be in your camp,” he said. “Word of your battles with the Tartars has spread far across the land.”

  “And that brought you here in your
little box, did it?” Temujin replied. He was fascinated by every aspect of the strange man waited upon by so many servants. He too had the yellow skin that looked ill to Temujin’s eyes, but he bore himself well in the wind as it plucked at his robes. Temujin estimated his age as more than forty, though the skin was unlined. The Chin diplomat was a strange vision for those who had grown up in the tribes. He wore a green robe that seemed to shimmer. His hair was as black as their own, but scraped back on his head and held in a tail with a clasp of silver. To Temujin’s astonishment, he saw that the man’s hands ended in nails like claws that caught the light. Temujin wondered how long the man could stand the cold. He seemed not to notice it, but his lips were growing blue even as Temujin watched.

  Wen bowed again before speaking.

  “I bring greetings of the Jade Court. We have heard much of your success here, and there are many things to discuss. Your brother in the Kerait sends his greetings.”

  “What does Togrul want with me?” Temujin replied.

  Wen fumed, feeling the cold bite at him. Would he not be invited into the warm gers? He decided to push a little.

  “Have I not been granted guest rights, my lord? It is not fitting to talk of great issues with so many ears around us.”

  Temujin shrugged. The man was clearly freezing and he wanted to hear what had brought him across a hostile plain before he passed out.

  “You are welcome here”—he tasted the name on his tongue before mangling it horribly—“Wencho?”

  The old man controlled a wince and Temujin smiled at his pride.

  “Wen Chao, my lord,” the diplomat replied. “The tongue must touch the roof of the mouth.”

  Temujin nodded. “Come in to the warmth then, Wen. I will have hot salt tea brought to you.”

  “Ah, the tea,” Wen Chao murmured, as he followed Temujin into a ragged ger. “How I have missed it.”