Temuge had no way to judge the passage of time. He sat for an age in perfect stillness, then was jerked out of his reverie by Kokchu’s voice, hoarse and distant. The words filled the ger and Temuge inched back from the rush of nonsense syllables. Genghis too stirred at the sound, opening glassy eyes as Kokchu began to talk louder and faster.
Without warning, the shaman collapsed, breaking his hold on Genghis’s hand. Genghis felt the fingers slip away and blinked slowly, still deep in the grip of the opiate.
Kokchu lay on his side, spittle dribbling from his mouth. Temuge stared at him in distaste. Without warning, the babble of alien sounds ceased and Kokchu spoke without opening his eyes in a firm, low voice.
“I see a white tent raised before the walls. I see the emperor talking to his soldiers. Men pointing and pleading with him. He is a little boy and there are tears on his face.”
The shaman fell silent and Temuge leaned close to him, worried that his stillness meant the man’s heart had given way. He touched the shaman’s shoulder lightly, and as he did so, Kokchu jerked, writhing, producing sounds that had no meaning. Once more he fell silent and the low voice spoke again.
“I see treasures, a tribute. Thousands of carts and slaves. Silk, weapons, ivory. Jade in mountains, enough to fill the sky. Enough to build an empire. It gleams so!”
Temuge waited for more, but no more came. His brother had slumped against the wicker-braced wall of the ger and was snoring softly. Kokchu’s breathing relaxed and his clenched fists fell loose as he too slept. Once more Temuge was alone and in awe of what he had heard. Would either of the men remember the words? His own recollection of visions was patchy at best, but he recalled that Kokchu had not taken the black paste into his own mouth. No doubt he would tell the khan everything he had seen.
Temuge knew he could not shake his brother awake. He would sleep for many hours, long after the camp had risen around him. Temuge shook his head wearily. Genghis was sick of the siege as the end of the second year approached. He might well grasp at any chance. Temuge grimaced to himself. If Kokchu’s vision was true, Genghis would turn to him in future, in all things.
Temuge considered cutting Kokchu’s throat as he lay in sleep. For a man who dabbled in dark magics, it would not be too hard to explain away. Temuge imagined telling Genghis how a red line appeared on Kokchu’s throat while he watched in horror. It would be Temuge who told Genghis what the shaman had seen.
Temuge drew his knife slowly, making no sound. His hand shook slightly, even as he told himself to act. He leaned over the shaman, and at that moment, Kokchu’s eyes snapped open, warned by some sense. He jerked his arm to knock the blade aside, trapping it in the folds of his robe.
Temuge spoke quickly. “You live then, Kokchu? I thought for a moment that you had been possessed. I was ready to kill whatever spirit had taken you from your body.”
Kokchu sat up, his eyes sharp and alert. A sneer touched his face. “You fear too much, Temuge. There is no spirit that can harm me.” Both men knew the truth of the moment, but for their own reasons, neither was willing to force it into the open. They stared at each other as enemies, and at last, Temuge nodded.
“I will have the guard carry my brother back to his ger,” he said. “Will his cough ease, do you think?”
Kokchu shook his head. “There is no curse that I could find. Take him, as you wish. I must think about what the spirits revealed to me.”
Temuge wanted to prick the man’s vanity with a barbed comment, but he couldn’t think of one and crawled out of the door to fetch the guard for his brother. Snow whirled around him as the burly warrior hefted Genghis onto his shoulders, and Temuge’s expression was bitter. No good could come of Kokchu’s rise, he was certain.
Zhi Zhong woke abruptly at the clatter of sandals on a hard floor. He shook his head to clear it of sleep and ignored the spasm of hunger that remained with him at all hours. Even the emperor’s court was suffering in the famine. The day before, Zhi Zhong had eaten only a single, watery bowl of soup. He had told himself the floating slivers of flesh were the last of the emperor’s horses, slaughtered months before. He hoped it was true. As a soldier he had learned never to refuse a meal, even if the meat was rotten.
He stood, throwing aside his blankets and reaching for his sword as a servant entered.
“Who are you to disturb me at this hour?” Zhi Zhong demanded. It was still dark outside and he was drugged with exhausted sleep. He lowered his blade as the servant threw himself down, touching his head to the stones.
“My lord regent, you are summoned to the presence of the Son of Heaven,” the man said without looking up. Zhi Zhong frowned in surprise. The boy emperor, Xuan, had never dared to summon him before. He repressed the twitch of anger he felt until he knew more, calling for his slaves to dress and bathe him.
The servant quivered visibly as he heard the call. “My lord, the emperor said to come at once.”
“Xuan will wait on my pleasure!” Zhi Zhong snapped, terrifying the man further. “Wait outside for me.” The servant scrambled to his feet and Zhi Zhong considered starting him on his way with a kick.
His own slaves entered, and despite his response, Zhi Zhong had them hurry. He chose not to bathe and merely had his long hair tied behind with a bronze clasp so that it hung down his back over his armor. He could smell his own sweat and his mood soured even further as he wondered if the emperor’s ministers were behind this summons.
When he left his rooms, with the servant trotting ahead of him, he could see the grayness of dawn from every open window. It was his favorite time of day, though again, his stomach clenched.
He found the emperor in the audience chamber where Zhi Zhong had killed his father. As the lord regent passed through the guards, he wondered if anyone had told the boy he sat on the same chair.
The ministers were in attendance like a flock of brightly colored birds. Ruin Chu, first among them, was standing at Xuan’s right hand while the boy sat on the throne, which dwarfed his tiny frame. The first minister looked nervous and defiant at the same time, and Zhi Zhong was curious as he approached and went down on one knee.
“The Son of Heaven summoned me and I have come,” he said clearly into the silence. He saw Xuan’s eyes fasten on the sword at his hip, and he guessed the boy knew very well what had happened to his father. If so, it made the choice of room a statement, and Zhi Zhong mastered his impatience until he knew what had given the emperor’s birds their new confidence.
To his surprise, it was Xuan himself who spoke.
“My city is starving, lord regent,” he said. His voice trembled slightly, but firmed as he went on. “With the lottery, perhaps as many as a fifth have died, including those who threw themselves from the walls.”
Zhi almost snapped an answer at the reminder of that shameful incident, but he knew there had to be more for Xuan to have dared to call him to his presence.
“The dead are not buried, with so many mouths to feed,” the emperor continued. “Instead we must endure the shame of eating our own, or joining them.”
“Why have I been summoned here?” Zhi Zhong said suddenly, tired of the boy’s airs. Ruin Chu gasped at his effrontery in interrupting the emperor. Zhi Zhong cast a lazy glance in the man’s direction, hardly caring.
The boy on the throne leaned forward, summoning his courage. “The Mongol khan has raised a white tent once more on the plain. The spy you sent was successful and we can pay a tribute at last.”
Zhi Zhong clenched his right fist, overwhelmed. It was not the victory he had wanted, but the city would soon be a tomb for all of them. Still, it took an immense effort of will to force a smile onto his face.
“Then His Majesty will survive. I will go to the walls and see this white tent, then send word to the khan. We will talk again.”
He saw scorn on the faces of the ministers and hated them for it. To a man, they saw him as the architect of the disaster that had befallen Yenking. The shame of surrendering would ripple through
the city along with the relief. From the high court to the lowest fisherman, they would know the emperor had been forced to pay a tribute. Still, they would live and escape the rat trap that Yenking had become. Once the Mongols had been paid their blood money, the court could travel south and gather strength and allies in the southern cities. Perhaps they would even find support from the Sung empire of the far south, calling on blood to smash the invader. There would be other battles with the Mongol horde, but they would never again allow the emperor to be trapped. Either way, they would live.
The audience room was cold and Zhi Zhong shivered, realizing he had been standing in silence while the emperor and his ministers watched. He had no words that could ease the bitter pain of what he must do, and he tried to shrug off the enormity of it. There was no point in seeing the entire city starve to death, so that the Mongols could climb the walls and find only dead men. In time the Chin would be strong again. The thought of reaching the soft luxury of the south raised his spirits a little. There would be food and an army there.
“It is the right decision, Son of Heaven,” he said, bowing deeply before he left the room.
When he had gone, one of the slaves standing against the wall stood forward. The boy emperor’s eyes flickered to him and now there was malice and anger showing where there had been only nervousness before.
The slave straightened subtly, altering the way he held himself. His head was completely hairless, even to bare brows and eyelids, and it shone with some rich unguent. The man stared after the lord regent as if he could see through the great doors to the chamber.
“Let him live until the tribute has been paid,” Xuan said. “After that, he is to die as painfully as possible. For his failure and for my father.”
The master of the Black Tong of assassins bowed respectfully to the boy who ruled the empire.
“It will be so, Imperial Majesty.”
CHAPTER 32
IT WAS A STRANGE THING to see the gates of Yenking open at last. Genghis stiffened in the saddle as he watched the first heavily laden cart come trundling through. The fact that it was pulled by men and not draught animals showed the state of the city within. It was hard not to dig in his heels and attack, after so many months dreaming of this moment. He told himself that he had made the right decision, glancing at Kokchu across the field, the shaman sitting a pony from the best bloodline in the tribes.
Kokchu could not hold back a smile as his prophecy was confirmed. When he had told Genghis the details of his vision, when the black tent still sat before the city, Genghis had promised him the pick of the tribute if it ever came. Not only had he risen in power and influence in the tribes, he would be wealthier than he had ever dreamed. His conscience was quiet as he watched the treasure of an empire coming out. He had lied to his khan and perhaps deprived him of a bloody victory, but Yenking had fallen and Kokchu was the architect of the Mongol triumph. Thirty thousand warriors cheered the approach of the carts until they were hoarse. They knew they would be wearing green silk before the day was over, and for men who lived for plunder, it was a sight they would describe to their grandchildren. An emperor had been brought to heel for them and the impregnable city could only vomit forth its riches in defeat.
With the gates open, the waiting generals could catch a glimpse of the inner city for the first time, a road that vanished into the distance. Genghis coughed into his fist as the tribute came out like a tongue, with men buzzing around the column in what was almost a military operation. Many were almost skeletal from starvation. They staggered as they worked, and when they tried to rest, Chin officers whipped them savagely until they moved or died.
Hundreds of carts had been brought out to the plain, placed in neat lines while their sweating teams walked back to the city for more. Temuge had warriors making a tally of the total, but it was already chaos and Genghis chuckled to see him trotting around red-faced, calling orders as he walked down new streets of wealth, sprung from nothing on the plain.
“What will you do with the tribute?” Kachiun asked at his side.
Genghis looked up from his thoughts. He shrugged. “How much can a man carry without being too slow to fight?”
Kachiun laughed. “Temuge wants us to build our own capital, did he tell you? He is drawing up plans for a place that has more than a little resemblance to a Chin city.”
Genghis snorted at that, then bent over his saddle in a fit of coughing that left him gasping for air.
Kachiun spoke again as if he had not seen the weakness. “We cannot just bury the gold, brother. We should do something with it.”
When Genghis was able to respond, he had lost the sharp reply he would have made. “You and I have walked down streets of Chin houses, Kachiun. Do you remember the smell? When I think of home, I think of clean streams and valleys soft with sweet grass, not a chance to pretend we are Chin nobles behind walls. Have we not shown that walls make you weak?” He gestured to the train of carts still coming out of Yenking to make his point. More than a thousand had left the city, and still he could see the line stretching back along the gate road inside.
“Then we will have no walls,” Kachiun said. “Our walls will be the warriors you see around you, stronger than any construction of stone and lime paste.”
Genghis looked at him quizzically. “I see Temuge has been persuasive,” he said.
Kachiun looked away, embarrassed. “I do not care for his visions of market squares and bathhouses. But he talks of places of learning, of medicine men trained to heal the wounds of the warriors. He looks to a time when we are not at war. We have never had such things, but that does not mean we never should.”
Both men stared at the lines of carts for a time. Even with every spare horse from the tumans, they would be hard pressed to move such a hoard. It was natural to dream of the possibilities.
“I can barely imagine peace,” Genghis said. “I have never known it. All I want is to return home and recover from this illness that plagues me. To ride all day and grow strong again. Would you have me building cities on my plains?”
Kachiun shook his head. “Not cities. We are horsemen, brother. It will always be so. But perhaps a capital, one single city for the nation we have made. The way Temuge told it, I can imagine great training grounds for our men, a place for our children to live and never know the fear we knew.”
“They would grow soft,” Genghis said. “They would become as weak and useless as the Chin themselves, and one day someone else will come riding, hard and lean and dangerous. Then where will our people be?”
Kachiun looked over the tens of thousands of warriors who walked or rode through the vast camp. He smiled and shook his head. “We are wolves, brother, but even wolves need a place to sleep. I do not want Temuge’s stone streets, but perhaps we can make a city of gers, one that we can move whenever the grazing has gone.”
Genghis listened with more interest. “That is better. I will think about it, Kachiun. There will be time enough on the journey home, and as you say, we can hardly bury all this gold.”
Thousands of slaves had come out with the carts by then, standing miserably in lines. Many were young boys and girls, given as property by the young emperor to the conquering khan.
“They could build it for us,” Kachiun said, indicating them with a jerk of his hand. “And when you and I are old, we would have a quiet place to die.”
“I have said I will think about it, brother. Who knows what lands Tsubodai, Jelme, and Khasar have found to conquer? Perhaps we will ride with them and never need a place to sleep that is not on a horse.”
Kachiun smiled at his brother’s words, knowing not to push him any further. “Look at all this,” he said. “Do you remember when it was just us?” He did not need to add details. There had been a time for both of them when death was just a breath away and every man was an enemy.
“I remember,” Genghis said. Against the images of their childhood, the plain with its carts and swarming warriors was awe inspiring. As he gaz
ed across the scene, Genghis saw the figure of the emperor’s first minister trotting toward him. He sighed to himself at the thought of another strained conversation with the man. The emperor’s representative pretended goodwill, but his distaste for the tribes was evident in every shuddering glance. He was also nervous around horses and made them nervous in turn.
As Genghis watched, the Chin minister bowed deeply to him before unrolling a scroll.
“What is that?” Genghis asked in the Chin language before Ruin Chu could speak. Chakahai had taught him, rewarding his progress in inventive ways. The minister seemed flustered, but he recovered quickly.
“It is the tally of the tribute, my lord khan.”
“Give it to my brother, Temuge. He will know what to do with it.”
The minister flushed and began to roll the scroll into a tight tube. “I thought you would want to check the tribute is accurate, my lord,” he said.
Genghis frowned at him. “I had not considered that anyone would be foolish enough to hold back what was promised, Ruin Chu. Are you saying your people have no honor?”
“No, my lord . . .” Ruin Chu stammered.
Genghis waved a hand to silence him. “Then my brother will look it over.” He thought for a moment, staring over the minister’s head to the line of laden carts.
“I have not yet seen your master to offer formal surrender, Ruin Chu. Where is he?”
Ruin Chu grew even redder in the face as he considered how to answer. General Zhi Zhong had not survived the night, and the portly minister had been called to his apartments at dawn. He shuddered at the memory of the body’s stripes and marks. It had not been an easy death.
“General Zhi Zhong has not survived these difficult times, my lord,” he said at last. Genghis looked blankly at him. “What do I care for another of your soldiers? I have not seen your emperor. Does he think I will take his gold and ride away without ever laying eyes on him?”
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