He had no love for Tsubodai, for all he needed him. If the general had refused Genghis’s most brutal order, Ogedai’s older brother Jochi would have been khan long since. If Tsubodai had stayed his hand, disobeyed just once, there would be no crisis of leadership heading toward them, threatening to destroy them all.
“Thank you for waiting. I hope my servants have made you comfortable?” he asked at last.
Tsubodai frowned at the question. He had expected the rituals of ger courtesy, but Ogedai’s face was open and visibly weary.
“Of course, lord. I need very little.”
He paused as footsteps sounded outside the doors, and Ogedai rose as new Guards entered, followed by Tolui and his wife, Sorhatani.
“You are welcome in my home, brother,” Ogedai said, “but I did not expect your beautiful wife to attend me.” He turned to Sorhatani smoothly. “Your children are well?”
“They are, my lord. I brought only Mongke and Kublai. I do not doubt they are causing trouble for your men at this very moment.”
Ogedai frowned delicately. He had asked for Tolui to come to the palace for his own safety. He knew of at least two plots that sought to dispose of the younger brother, but he had expected to explain in private. He glanced at Tolui and saw his brother’s gaze rise and drop for a moment. Sorhatani was hard to refuse in anything.
“Your other sons? They are not with you?” Ogedai said to his brother.
“I have sent them to a cousin. He is taking a fishing trip out west for a few months. They will miss the oath-taking, but I will have them make it good when they return.”
“Ah,” Ogedai said, understanding. One pair of sons would survive, no matter what happened. He wondered if it had been Sorhatani who had changed his order for the whole family to appear at the palace. Perhaps she was right to be less than trusting in such bleak times.
“I have no doubt General Tsubodai is bursting with news and dire warnings, brother,” Ogedai said. “You may return to your rooms, Sorhatani. Thank you for taking a moment to visit me.”
The dismissal could not be refused and she bowed stiffly. Ogedai noticed the furious glance she shot at Tolui as she turned. The gates swung open again and the three men were left alone, with eight Guards along the walls.
Ogedai gestured to a table and they sat, all warier than he could once have believed possible. Losing patience with it all, Ogedai clinked cups together and filled each one, pushing them toward his guests. They reached for them at the same time, knowing that to hesitate would show they feared poison. Ogedai did not give them long, emptying his own in three quick gulps.
“You two I trust,” he said bluntly, licking his lips. “Tolui, I have stopped one attempt to kill you, or your sons.” Tolui narrowed his eyes a fraction, growing tense. “My spies have heard of one other, but I do not know who it is and I am out of time. I can deal with those who seek my death, but I must ask that you stay in the palace. I cannot protect you otherwise, until I am khan.”
“Is it so bad then?” Tolui asked, astonished. He had known the camp was in turmoil, but to hear of open attacks had shaken him. He wished that Sorhatani were there to hear it. He would only have to repeat it all later.
Ogedai turned to Tsubodai. The general sat in simple clothes, but he radiated authority. Ogedai wondered for a moment if it was simply reputation. It was difficult not to look on Tsubodai with awe if you knew what he had achieved in his life. The army owed their success to him as much as to Genghis. Yet for Ogedai it was harder not to look on him with hatred. He locked it away, as he had for more than two years. He still needed this man.
“You are loyal, Tsubodai,” he said softly, “to my father’s will, at least. From your hand, I have word of this ‘Broken Lance’ each day.” He hesitated, struggling for calm. Part of him wanted to leave Tsubodai outside Karakorum on the plains, to ignore the strategist his father had valued over all others. Yet only a fool would waste such a talent. Even now, challenged openly, Tsubodai did not confirm he was the source of the messengers who appeared at the palace, though Ogedai was almost certain.
“I serve, lord,” Tsubodai said. “You had my oath, as heir. I have not wavered in that.”
For an instant, Ogedai’s anger rose in him like a white spike in his head. This was the man who had cut Jochi’s throat in the snow, sitting there and talking of his oath. Ogedai took a deep breath. Tsubodai was too valuable to waste. He had to be managed, thrown off balance.
“My brother Jochi heard your promises, did he not?” he said softly. To his pleasure, the color fled from the general’s face.
Tsubodai remembered every detail of the meeting with Jochi in the northern snows. The son of Genghis had exchanged his life for his men and their families. Jochi had known he was going to die, but he had expected a chance to speak again to his father. Tsubodai was too much of a man to quibble over the rights and wrongs of it. It felt like a betrayal then and it still did. He nodded, jerkily.
“I killed him, lord. It was wrong and I live with it.”
“You broke your word, Tsubodai?” Ogedai pressed, leaning across the table.
His cup fell with a metallic clang, and Tsubodai reached out and set it upright. He would not take less than his full share of blame; he could not.
“I did,” Tsubodai replied, his eyes blazing with anger or shame.
“Then redeem your honor!” Ogedai roared, slamming his fists into the table.
All three cups crashed over, spilling wine in a red flood. The Guards drew swords and Tsubodai came to his feet in a jerk, half expecting to be attacked. He found himself staring down at Ogedai, still seated. The general knelt as suddenly as he had risen.
Ogedai had not known how the death of his brother had troubled Tsubodai. The general and his father had kept all that between them. It was a revelation and he needed time to think about what it meant. He spoke instinctively, using the man’s own chains to bind him.
“Redeem your word, General, by keeping another son of Genghis alive long enough to be khan. My brother’s spirit would not want to see his family torn and abandoned. My father’s spirit would not. Make it so, Tsubodai, and find peace. After that, I do not care what happens, but you will be among the first to take the oath. That would be fitting.”
Ogedai’s chest hurt and he could feel sour sweat under his arms and on his brow. A great lethargy settled across his shoulders as his heart thumped slower and slower, reducing him to dizzy exhaustion. He had not slept well for weeks, and the constant fear of death was wearing him to a shadow, until only his will remained. He had shocked those present with his sudden rage, but at times he could barely control his temper. He had lived under a great weight for too long, and sometimes he simply could not remain calm. He would be khan, if even for just a day. His voice was slurred as he spoke. Both Tsubodai and Tolui watched him with worried expressions.
“Stay here tonight, both of you,” Ogedai said. “There is nowhere safer on the plains, or in the city.”
Tolui nodded immediately, already ensconced in his suite of rooms. Tsubodai hesitated, failing to understand this son of Genghis or what drove him. He could sense a subtle sadness in Ogedai, a loneliness, for all he was surrounded by a great host. Tsubodai knew he could serve better on the plains. Any real threat would come from there, from the tuman of Chagatai. Yet he bowed his head to the man who would be khan at sunset of the following day.
Ogedai rubbed his eyes for a moment, feeling the dizziness clear. He could not tell them that he expected Chagatai to be khan after him. Only the spirits knew how long he had left, but he had built his city. He had left a mark on the plains, and he would be khan.
In darkness, Ogedai awoke. He was sweating in the warm night and he turned over in bed, feeling his wife stir beside him. He was drifting back into sleep when he heard a rattle of running footsteps in the distance. He came alert instantly, raising his head and listening until his neck ached. Who would be running at such an hour—some servant? He closed his eyes again and then heard a
faint knock at the outer door of his rooms. Ogedai swore softly and shook his wife by the shoulder.
“Get dressed, Torogene. Something is happening.” In recent days, Huran had begun the habit of sleeping outside the rooms, with his back to the outer door. The officer knew better than to disturb his master without good reason.
The knock sounded again as Ogedai belted a deel robe. He closed the double door on his wife and crossed the outer room, padding barefoot past the Chin tables and couches. There was no moon above the city, and the rooms were dark. It was easy to imagine assassins in every shadow, and Ogedai lifted a sword from where it hung on the wall. In silence, he removed the scabbard and listened at the door.
Somewhere far away, he heard a distant scream and he jerked back.
“Huran?” he said.
Through the heavy oak, he heard the relief in the man’s voice. “My lord, it is safe to open the door,” Huran said.
Ogedai threw back a heavy bolt and lifted an iron bar that anchored the door to the stone wall. In his nervous state, he had not noticed that the corridor cast no threads of light through the cracks. It was darker out there than in his rooms, where dim starlight gleamed through the windows.
Huran came in quickly, stepping past Ogedai to check the rooms. Behind him, Tolui ushered in Sorhatani and his two eldest sons, wrapped in light robes over their sleeping clothes.
“What is happening here?” Ogedai hissed, using anger to cover his spreading panic.
“The guards on our door went away,” Tolui said grimly. “If I hadn’t heard them leave, I don’t know what would have happened.”
Ogedai tightened his grip on the sword, taking comfort from the weight of it. He turned at a spill of light from the inner doorway, his wife silhouetted against the lamplight.
“Be still, Torogene, I will attend to this,” he said. To his irritation, she came out anyway, her night robe clutched around her.
“I went to the nearest guardroom,” Tolui went on. He glanced at his sons, who stood watching in openmouthed excitement. “They were all dead, brother.”
Huran grimaced as he peered out into the dark corridors. “I hate to lock us in, my lord, but this is the strongest door in the palace. You will be safe here tonight.”
Ogedai was torn between outrage and caution. He knew every stone of the vast building around them. He had watched each one cut and shaped and polished and fitted into place. Yet all his halls, all his power and influence, would be reduced to just a few rooms when the door closed.
“Keep it open as long as you can,” he said. Surely there were more of his Guards on their way? How could such an attempt have slipped past him?
Somewhere nearby they heard more running footsteps, the echoes clattering from all directions. Huran put his shoulder to the door. From the blackness, a figure loomed suddenly and Huran struck with his sword blade, grunting as it slid off scaled armor.
“Put that away, Huran,” a voice came, slipping into the room.
In the dim light, Ogedai breathed in relief. “Tsubodai! What is happening outside?”
The general said nothing. He dropped his sword on the stone floor and helped Huran bar the door, before taking up the blade once again.
“The corridors are full of men; they’re searching every room,” he said. “If it were not for the fact that they have never been inside your palace before, they would be here already.”
“How did you get past?” Huran demanded.
Tsubodai scowled in angry memory. “Some of them recognized me, but the common warriors have not yet been told to cut me down. For all they know, I am part of the plot.”
Ogedai sagged as he stared round at the small group who had run to his rooms.
“Where is my son, Guyuk?” he said. “My daughters?”
Tsubodai shook his head. “I did not see them, lord, but there is every chance they are safe. You are the target tonight, no one else.”
Tolui winced as he understood. He turned to his wife. “Then I have brought you and my sons to the most dangerous place.”
Sorhatani reached out to touch his cheek. “Nowhere is safe tonight,” she said softly.
They could all hear voices and running feet coming closer. Outside the city, the tumans of the nation slept on, oblivious to the threat.
FOUR
Kachiun walked his pony across the churned grass of the encampment, listening to the sounds of the nation all around him. Despite the stillness of the night, he did not ride alone. Thirty of his personal bondsmen went with him, alert for any attack. No one traveled alone in the camps anymore, not with the new moon almost upon them. Lamps and mutton fat torches spat and fluttered at every intersection of paths, revealing dark groups of warriors watching him as he passed.
He could hardly believe the current level of suspicion and tension in the camps. At three points, he was challenged by guards as he approached Khasar’s ger. In the night breeze, two lamps cast writhing yellow shadows at his feet. Even as Khasar came yawning out onto the cart, Kachiun could see bows drawn and sighted on him.
“We need to talk, brother,” he said.
Khasar stretched, groaning. “Tonight?”
“Yes, tonight,” Kachiun snapped.
He didn’t want to say more, with so many listeners nearby. For once, Khasar sensed his mood and nodded without any more argument. Kachiun watched as his brother whistled softly. Men in full armor walked in from the outer darkness, hands near their swords. They ignored Kachiun and walked to their general, standing close by his feet and looking up at him for orders. Khasar crouched and murmured to them.
Kachiun mastered his impatience until the men bowed their heads and moved away. One of them brought Khasar’s current mount, a gelding near black in color that whickered and kicked out as they saddled it.
“Bring your bondsmen, brother,” Kachiun said to him.
Khasar peered at him in the dim light, seeing the strain in Kachiun’s face. He shrugged and gestured to the officers nearby. Another forty warriors trotted to his side, long woken from sleep by the presence of armed men near their master. It seemed that even Khasar was taking no chances on those nights while they waited for the new moon.
Dawn was still hours away, but with the camp in such a state, the movement of so many men woke everyone they passed. Voices called out around them and somewhere a child began wailing. Grim-faced, Kachiun trotted his mount beside his brother, silent as they headed toward Karakorum.
Torches lit the gates in dim gold that night. The walls were pale gray shadows in the darkness, but the western gate gleamed, oak and iron, and clearly shut. Khasar frowned, leaning forward in his saddle to strain his eyes.
“I haven’t seen it closed before,” he said over his shoulder. Without thought, he dug in his heels and increased his pace. The warriors around him matched him so smoothly it could have been a battlefield maneuver. The noises of the camp, the calling voices, all were lost in the thump of hooves, the breath of horses, the jingle of metal and harness. The western gate of Karakorum grew before them. Khasar could now see ranks of men, facing outward as if challenging him.
“This is why I woke you,” Kachiun replied.
Both men were brothers to the great khan, uncles to the next. They were generals of proven authority, their names known to every warrior who fought for the nation. When they reached the gate, a visible ripple ran through the ranks of men there, vanishing into the darkness. The bondsmen halted around their masters, hands on sword hilts. On both sides, the men were strung as tightly as their bows. Kachiun and Khasar glanced at each other, then dismounted.
They stood on dusty ground, the grass long since worn away by traffic through the gate. Both men felt the sullen gaze of those who faced them. The men at the gate bore no marks of rank, no flags or banners to identify them. For Kachiun and Khasar, it was as if they looked upon the raiders of their youth, with no allegiance to the nation.
“You know me,” Khasar roared suddenly over their heads. “Who dares to stand in my
way?”
The closest men jerked under a voice that could carry across battlefields, but they did not respond, or move.
“I see no signs of tuman or minghaan in your ranks. I see no flags, just dog-meat wanderers with no master.” He paused and glared at them. “I am General Khasar Borjigin, of the Wolves, of the nation under the great khan. You will answer to me tonight.”
Some of the men shuffled nervously in the lamplight, but they did not flinch from his gaze. Khasar guessed the best part of three hundred men had been sent to close the gate, and no doubt it was the same on the other four walls of Karakorum. The bondsmen snarling at his back were outnumbered, but they were the best swordsmen and archers he and Kachiun could field. At a word from either of them, they would attack.
Khasar looked at Kachiun once again, controlling his anger at the dumb insolence of the warriors facing them. His hand dropped to his sword hilt in unmistakable signal. Kachiun held his gaze for a moment, and the warriors on both sides tensed for bloodshed. Almost imperceptibly, Kachiun moved his head a finger’s width left and right. Khasar frowned, showing his teeth in frustration for an instant. He leaned in to the closest of those before the gate, breathing into his face.
“I say you are tribeless wanderers, without marks of rank or blood,” Khasar said. “Don’t leave your posts while I am gone. I am going to ride into the city over your bodies.”
The man was sweating and he blinked at the growling voice too close to his neck.
Khasar remounted and he and Kachiun swung away from the pools of light and the promise of death. As soon as they were clear, Kachiun edged his mare over and tapped a hand to his brother’s shoulder.
“It has to be the Broken Lance. Ogedai is in the city and someone does not want us riding to his aid tonight.”
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