“The spirits hold him here, for now,” he told them, his eyes shining. “Yesugei is here, with his father Bartan. Bekter is here to hold the khan, his own brother.” He shuddered in the cold, his eyes glazing for a moment. “Jelme has sucked out a great deal of poison, but the heart is fluttering; sometimes strong, sometimes weak. He needs rest. If he will eat, give him blood and milk for strength.” Kokchu could no longer feel the deep coldness of the spirits clustering around him, but they had done their work. Genghis still lived. He called the man’s brothers forward to carry him into the ger. Kachiun broke from his trance to order the camp searched for any other enemy still hiding. After that, he shouldered his brother’s limp weight with Khasar and carried Genghis into Borte’s ger.
Jelme was left kneeling, shaking his head in distress. His father, Arslan, reached him just as the young general vomited over the bloody ground.
“Help me with him,” Arslan ordered, heaving his son to his feet. Jelme’s face was slack and his full weight fell on his father before two warriors stepped in and draped his arms over their shoulders.
“What is wrong with him?” Arslan demanded of Kokchu. The shaman broke his gaze from the ger of Genghis. He used his fingers to open Jelme’s eyes to their widest, staring into them. The pupils were large and dark and Kokchu swore softly.
“He may have swallowed the blood. Some of the poison has entered him also.” Kokchu shoved a hand under Jelme’s wet tunic, feeling his chest.
“It cannot be much and he is strong. Keep him awake if you can. Walk him. I will bring a draft of charcoal for him to drink.”
Arslan nodded. He motioned to one of the warriors supporting Jelme and took his place, pulling his son’s arm around his neck like an embrace. With the other man, he began walking Jelme between the gers, talking to him as he went.
The growing crowd of warriors, women, and children did not move. They would not go back to sleep until they were certain their khan would live. Kokchu turned from them, filled with the need to make a paste of charcoal that could soak up whatever poison Jelme had taken in. It would be little use to Genghis, but he would bring a second bowl for him as well. As he approached the ring of staring faces, they gave way before him and it was then that he saw Temuge pushing his way through to the front. Malice sparkled in Kokchu’s eyes.
“You are too late to help the khan,” Kokchu said softly as Temuge came close. “His brothers killed the assassin and Jelme and I kept him alive.”
“Assassin?” Temuge exclaimed, staring around at the misery and fear on so many faces. His gaze passed over the dark-clad figure lying sprawled on the ground, and he swallowed in horror.
“Some things must be handled in the old ways,” Kokchu told him. “They cannot be counted or put into one of your lists.”
Temuge reacted to the shaman’s scorn as if he had been struck. “You dare to speak so to me?” he said.
Kokchu shrugged and strode away. He had not been able to resist the barb, though he knew he would regret it. That night, death had walked the camp and Kokchu was in his element.
The crowd became thicker as late arrivals pressed forward, desperate for news. Torches were lit across the camp as they waited for dawn. The body of the assassin lay crushed and broken on the ground, and they stared at it in simple dread, unwilling to come too close.
When Kokchu returned with two bowls of thick black liquid, he thought they resembled a herd of yaks on a day of slaughter, miserable and dark-eyed but unable to understand. Arslan held his son’s jaw and tilted his head as Kokchu forced the bitter liquid into him. Jelme choked and coughed, spattering black drops onto his father’s face. He had regained some awareness in the time it had taken to grind the charcoal, and Kokchu did not linger with him. He pressed the half-empty bowl into Arslan’s free hand and went on with the other. Genghis could not die, not in the shadow of Yenking. Kokchu was filled with a cold dread as he considered the future. He crushed his own fear as he entered the tiny ger, dipping his head to pass under the lintel. Confidence was part of his trade and he would not let them see him so shaken.
As dawn approached, Khasar and Kachiun came out, blind to the thousands of eyes that fastened on them. Khasar retrieved his sword from where it had stuck in the dead man’s chest and kicked the lolling head before sheathing the blade.
“Does the khan live?” someone called.
Khasar cast a weary gaze over them, not knowing who had spoken. “He lives,” he said. His words were repeated as a whisper until they all knew.
Kachiun picked up his own blade from where it had fallen and raised his head at the sound. He was helpless to aid his brother in the ger, and perhaps that was why his temper kindled at the sight of them.
“Will our enemies sleep while we are gathered here?” Kachiun snapped. “They will not. Go home to your gers and wait for news.” Under his fierce gaze, the warriors turned away first, pressing through the throng of women and children. They too began to drift away, staring backwards as they went.
Kachiun stood with Khasar as if they guarded the ger where Genghis lay. The khan’s second wife, Chakahai, had come, her face a mask of pale fear. All the men had looked to Borte to see how she would react, but she had only nodded to the Xi Xia woman, accepting her presence. In the silence, Kachiun could hear the drone of Kokchu’s chanting in the ger. For a moment, he did not want to return to the fetid interior, packed with those who loved his brother. His own grief felt undermined somehow by the presence of the others. He breathed deeply in the cold air, clearing his head.
“There is nothing more we can do,” he said. “Dawn is not far off and there are things we must discuss. Walk with me, Khasar, for a little while.”
Khasar followed him to where they would not be heard. It was a long time before they were clear of the camp, their footsteps crunching on frozen grass.
“What is it? What do you want?” Khasar said at last, stopping his brother with a hand on his arm.
Kachiun turned to him, his face darkly furious. “We failed tonight. We failed to keep the camp safe. I should have considered that the emperor would send assassins. I should have had more guards watching the walls.”
Khasar was too tired to debate the point. “You cannot change it now,” he said. “If I know you, it will not happen again.”
“One time could be enough,” Kachiun snapped. “If Genghis dies, what then?”
Khasar shook his head. He did not want to think of that. As he hesitated, Kachiun gripped him by the shoulders, almost shaking him.
“I don’t know!” Khasar replied. “If he dies, we will return home to the Khenti mountains and lay him out for the hawks and vultures. He is a khan; what would you expect me to say?”
Kachiun let his hands fall. “If we do that, the emperor will claim a great victory against us.” He seemed almost to be speaking to himself and Khasar did not interrupt. He could not begin to imagine the future if Genghis were not there.
“The emperor would see our army retreat,” Kachiun went on grimly. “In a year, every Chin city would know we had been turned back.”
Khasar still said nothing.
“Can’t you see, brother?” Kachiun said. “We would lose everything.”
“We could return,” Khasar replied, yawning. Had he slept at all? He wasn’t sure.
Kachiun snorted. “Within two years, they would be attacking us. The emperor has seen what we can do and he will not make the same mistakes again. One chance we have made for ourselves, Khasar. You cannot wound a bear and run. It will chase you down.”
“Genghis will live,” Khasar said stubbornly. “He is too strong to fall.”
“Open your eyes, brother!” Kachiun replied. “Genghis can die like any other man. If he does, who will lead the tribes, or will we see them splinter apart? How easy would it be then for the Chin army when they come hunting?”
Khasar saw the first pink light of dawn behind Yenking in the distance. He welcomed it in a night he’d thought would never end. Kachiun was right. If
Genghis died, the new nation would break apart. The old khans would assert their authority over the quarreling tribes. He shook his head to clear it.
“I understand what you are saying,” he told Kachiun. “I am not a fool. You want me to accept you as khan.”
Kachiun stood very still at that. There was no other way, but if Khasar could not see it, the new day would begin with bloodshed as the tribes fought to leave or remained loyal. Genghis had bound them together. At the first hint of weakness, the khans would taste freedom and fight to keep it.
Kachiun took a deep breath, his voice calm. “Yes, brother. If Genghis dies today, the tribes will need to feel a strong hand on their necks.”
“I am older than you,” Khasar said softly. “I command as many warriors.”
“You are not the man to lead the nation. You know it.” Kachiun’s heart was racing with the strain of making Khasar understand. “If you think you are, I will take an oath to you. The generals will follow my lead and carry the khans with them. I will not fight you for this, Khasar, not with so much at stake.”
Khasar knuckled the tiredness out of his eyes as he thought it through. He knew what it must have cost Kachiun to make the offer. The thought of leading the tribes was intoxicating, something he had not dreamed of before. It tempted him. Yet he was not the one who had seen the dangers to the fragile nation. That remained like a thorn in his flesh to worry him. The generals would come to him expecting him to solve their problems, to see a way through difficulties that they could not. He would even have to plan battles, with triumph or failure resting on his word.
Khasar’s pride warred with the knowledge that his brother was better able to lead. He did not doubt that Kachiun would give him complete support if he became khan. He would rule his people and no one would ever know this conversation had taken place. As Genghis had been, he would be father to all their people. He would be responsible for keeping them all alive against an ancient empire bent on their destruction.
He closed his eyes, letting the glowing visions drain from his mind.
“If Genghis dies, I will take an oath to you, little brother. You will be khan.”
Kachiun sighed in exhausted relief. The future of his people had hung on Khasar’s trust in him.
“If he does, I will see every Chin city destroyed in fire, beginning with Yenking,” Kachiun said. Both men glanced at the looming walls of the city, united in their desire for vengeance.
Zhi Zhong stood on an archery platform, high above the plain and the Mongol camp. A cold breeze was blowing and his hands were numb on the wooden railing. He had been standing there for hours, watching the tribes for some sign that the assassin had been successful.
Just a little while before, his vigil had been rewarded. Points of light sprang up among the gers and Zhi Zhong had gripped the railing tighter, his knuckles whitening as he squinted into the distance. Dark shadows raced through the flickering pools of light and Zhi Zhong’s hopes rose, imagining the spreading panic.
“Be dead,” he whispered, alone in the watchtower.
CHAPTER 28
GENGHIS OPENED BLOODSHOT EYES, finding both of his wives and his mother at his side. He felt appallingly weak and his neck throbbed. He raised a hand to it and Chakahai caught his wrist before he could disturb the bandage. His thoughts moved sluggishly and he stared at her, trying to remember what had happened. He recalled standing outside the ger, with warriors rushing around him. It had been night and it was still dark in the ger, with only a small lamp to banish the gloom. How much time had passed? He blinked slowly, lost. Borte’s face was pale and worried, with dark circles under her eyes. He saw her smile at him.
“Why . . . am I lying here?” he asked. His voice was feeble and he had to force the words out.
“You were poisoned,” Hoelun said. “A Chin assassin cut you and Jelme sucked out the filth. He saved your life.” She did not mention Kokchu’s part. She had endured his chanting, but not allowed him to stay, nor anyone else to enter. Those who did would always remember her son this way, and it would undermine him. As wife and mother to a khan, Hoelun knew enough of the minds of men to know the importance of that.
With a vast effort, Genghis struggled up onto his elbows. As if it had waited for exactly that moment, a headache slammed into his skull.
“Bucket,” he groaned, leaning over. Hoelun was just fast enough to shove a leather pail under his head as he emptied black liquid from his stomach in a series of painful spasms. The action made his headache almost unbearable, but he could not stop, even when there was nothing more to come out. At last he slumped back on the bed, pressing a hand over his eyes to shut out the dim light that pierced him.
“Drink this, my son,” Hoelun said. “You are still weak from the wound.”
Genghis glanced at the bowl she held to his lips. The mixture of blood and milk was sour on his tongue as he swallowed twice, then pushed it away. His eyes felt gritty and his heart thumped in his chest, but his thoughts were clearing at last.
“Help me to rise and dress. I cannot lie here, knowing nothing.”
To his irritation, Borte pressed him back onto the bed as he tried to rise. He lacked the strength to push her away and considered calling for one of his brothers. It was unpleasant to be so helpless and Kachiun would not ignore his commands.
“I have no memory,” he said hoarsely. “Did we catch the man who did this to me?”
The three women exchanged glances. It was his mother who replied.
“He is dead. It has been two days, my son. You were close to death for all that time.” Her eyes filled with fresh tears as she spoke, and he could only stare at her in bewilderment. Anger surfaced without warning in his mind. He had been fit and well, then suddenly awoke to find himself in this state. Someone had hurt him: this assassin that they mentioned. Fury seeped into him like smoke as he tried again to rise.
“Kachiun!” he called, but it was just a breath in his throat.
The women fussed around him, laying a cool wet cloth on his brow as he lowered his head onto the blankets, still glaring. He could not remember both of his wives being in the same ger before. He found the idea uncomfortable, as if they would discuss him. He needed . . .
Sleep came again without warning and the three women relaxed. It was the third time he had woken in two days, and each time he asked the same questions. They were thankful he did not remember them helping him to urinate into the bucket, or changing the blankets when his bowels emptied in a black slick, carrying the poison out of his body. Perhaps it was the charcoal Kokchu had brought, but even his urine was darker than any of the women had seen before. There had been tension in the ger as the bucket filled. Neither Borte nor Chakahai had moved to empty it, though they glanced in its direction and challenged each other with their eyes. One was the daughter of a king and the other was first wife to Genghis himself. Neither gave way. In the end, it was Hoelun who had carried it out with bad grace, glaring at both of them.
“He seemed a little stronger that time,” Chakahai said. “His eyes were clear.”
Hoelun nodded, wiping a hand across her face. They were all exhausted, but they left the ger only to take away waste, or to bring fresh bowls of blood and milk.
“He will survive. And those who attacked us will regret it. My son can be merciful, but he will not forgive them for this. Better for them that he died.”
The spy moved quickly through the darkness. The moon had passed behind clouds and he had only a little time. He had found his place among thousands of Chin recruits. As he had hoped, no one knew if a man was from Baotou or Linhe or any of the other cities. He could have passed as a resident of any of them. There were only a few Mongol officers to train the city men as warriors, and they saw no great honor in the task. It had been easy enough for him to wander up to a group and report for work. The Mongol officer had barely looked at him as he handed him a bow and sent him to join a dozen other archers.
When he had seen the wooden tokens changing hands
in the camp, he had worried that they were proof of some controlling bureaucracy. It would not have been possible to join a Chin regiment in such a way, or even to approach without being challenged many times. Chin soldiers understood the danger of spies in their midst and had evolved techniques to balk them.
The spy grinned to himself at the thought. There were no passwords or codes here. His only difficulty was in forcing himself to show as much ignorance as the others. He had made a mistake on the very first day when he fired an arrow straight into the center of the target. At that time, he had no idea of the useless Chin farmers he was working with, and as they loosed after him, not one did as well. The spy had hidden his fear as the Mongol officer strolled over to him, asking in mime for him to shoot another arrow. He had been careful to shoot poorly after that, and the warrior had lost interest, his face barely hiding his disgust at their skills.
Though all the guards grumbled about taking a watch in the middle of the night, the failed assassination had rippled an effect through the entire camp. The Mongol officers insisted on maintaining a perimeter against another attempt, even in the section of the camp that housed the Chin recruits. The spy had volunteered for a late watch, from midnight to dawn. It put him out on the edge of the camp and alone. Even then, leaving his position was a risk, but he had to check in with his master, or all his efforts would be wasted. He had been told to gather information, to learn anything. It was up to them what they did with what he discovered.
He ran on bare feet in the darkness, pressing away the thought of an officer checking his guards were awake. He could not control his fate and would surely hear the alarm if they found him gone. He did have a password he could call up to the wall, and it would be only moments before his people threw down a rope and he was safe once more.
Something moved to his right and he collapsed to the ground, controlling his breath and lying absolutely still as he strained his senses. Since the attack on the khan, the scouts rode all night, in shifts, more alert than they had ever been before. It was a hopeless task for them to patrol the dark city, but they were fast and silent, deadly if they caught him. As he lay there the spy wondered if there would be other assassins coming for the khan if he survived the first.
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