Guyuk looked at him from under lowered brows, forcing the words out. “His heart. I must see Tsubodai now.”
Batu and Baidur fell in at his side. Baidur had paled and he was lost in thought as they rode. He knew his father better than anyone, and he was suddenly afraid the men around him had become his enemies.
THIRTY-THREE
Batu stayed with Guyuk, Mongke, and Baidur as they entered the river city of Buda and made their way through the streets to the palace Tsubodai was using for his base. It was left to their senior minghaan officers to find lodging and food for the men in the ransacked city. The four princes rode to the royal palace and dismounted at the outer gate. They passed the guards without a challenge. The orlok’s officers took one look and chose discretion rather than the letter of their orders.
For once, Guyuk led the small group, with Batu striding at his right shoulder. They found Tsubodai in an empty ballroom, where a huge dining table had been dragged in and piled with maps and papers. The orlok was deep in conversation with Jebe, Chulgetei, and Ilugei. The other men were nodding as Tsubodai adjusted coins to show the position of tumans on the landscape. Batu took in the scene at a glance and smiled tightly to himself. It was a meeting of young and old, and for the first time, Batu was confident he could predict the outcome.
Tsubodai looked up as the four princes crossed the hall, their steps echoing in the space. He frowned at the sight of their stern expressions and stood back from the table.
“I did not summon you here,” he said. He was looking at Batu, but his gaze snapped over in surprise as Guyuk answered.
“My father is dead, Orlok.”
Tsubodai closed his eyes for a moment, his face stiff. He nodded to himself.
“Please sit down,” he said. His authority was so deeply ingrained that all four moved to the chairs around the table, though Batu held back, wanting to keep the impetus they had brought with them. Tsubodai spoke again before anyone else.
“Was it his heart?” he said.
Guyuk took in a breath. “So you knew then? Yes, it was his heart.”
“He told me, when he told his brother Chagatai,” Tsubodai replied. His eyes fell on Baidur as Guyuk turned in the chair.
“I knew nothing,” Baidur said coldly.
Guyuk turned back, but Tsubodai let his eyes remain on Baidur until the young man was shifting uncomfortably.
Tsubodai had a hundred things he wanted to say, but he controlled himself with an effort of will.
“What are your plans?” he asked Guyuk. The more detached part of him was interested to see how Guyuk would respond. Whatever remnant there was left of his youth had been suddenly strangled. Tsubodai looked at the young prince, understanding the quiet reserve he now saw. There was new weight on Guyuk’s shoulders, whether he wanted it or not.
“I am my father’s heir,” Guyuk said. “I must return to Karakorum.”
Once more Tsubodai looked to Baidur. The orlok grimaced, but the words had to be said.
“Are you aware of the threat from your uncle? He has a claim to the khanate.”
Neither man looked directly at Baidur as he flushed.
Guyuk cocked his head slightly in thought, and Tsubodai was pleased to see him weigh his response. There was no place for the foolish young man he had been, not any longer.
“The yam rider reached me a month ago. I have had time to consider it,” Guyuk said. “I will require an oath of allegiance from the tumans here.”
“That will have to wait,” Tsubodai said. “When we are finished here, you will summon the nation as your father did.”
Baidur shifted again and was ignored. His was an impossible position, but he was growing desperate to speak.
“I can let you have four tumans, leaving me only three,” Tsubodai said. “You must return in force to secure the khanate. Chagatai cannot put more than two, perhaps three, in the field.” He stared coldly at Baidur. “It is my recommendation that you have Baidur remain with me, rather than force him to choose between cousin and father.” He dipped his head to Baidur. “My apologies, General.”
Baidur opened his mouth, but he could not find the words. It was Batu who spoke next, for the first time. Tsubodai’s eyes and jaw tightened instantly at his voice, betraying an inner tension.
“You know Chagatai Khan better than any of us, except for Baidur. How do you think he will react when he hears the news?”
Tsubodai did not look at Batu as he replied, keeping his gaze locked on Guyuk. Every word seemed to be dragged out of him.
“If he is rash, he will take his tumans to Karakorum.”
“If he is rash … I see,” Batu replied, enjoying the discomfort he saw. “And what will follow, when Guyuk Khan returns home?”
“Chagatai will either negotiate, or he will fight. No one can know his mind.” Tsubodai clasped his hands on the table and leaned closer to Guyuk. “Believe me: Chagatai Khan is not the threat you believe.”
It looked as if he might go on, but then Tsubodai clamped his jaw and waited. The decision was not simply a military one. Batu could hardly control the quirking of his lips at seeing Tsubodai at a loss.
Guyuk let the men at the table sweat for a time before he shook his head.
“If you can offer me no more than that as assurance, Orlok, I must take the tumans home. All of them.” He glanced at Jebe and Chulgetei, but the older men were not part of the decision. Tsubodai had ultimate authority over the army, but this was not a military problem.
Tsubodai let out a long breath. “General, I have new maps that show lands that are not even legends to us. The city of Vienna is but a hundred miles farther west. The homeland of the Templar knights is beyond it. Italy is to the south. Already I have scouts in the mountains there, planning the next stage. This has been my life’s achievement.” He stopped himself rather than beg, as Guyuk gazed stonily at him.
“I will need all the tumans, Orlok Tsubodai. All.”
“You do not need the ragged conscripts. Leave me but those and two tumans and I will go on.”
Slowly, Guyuk reached out his hand and gripped Tsubodai’s shoulder. The gesture was one he would not have dreamed of making a month before.
“How could I leave you behind, Tsubodai? The general of Genghis Khan, at the time I need him most? Come home with me. You know I cannot allow you to stay. You will come back another year, when there is peace.”
Tsubodai stared at Baidur and his pain was visible to all. Baidur looked away rather than see. When the orlok’s gaze swept over Batu, his eyes blazed.
“I am an old man,” Tsubodai said. “And I saw the beginning of it all, when Genghis himself was young. I will not come back here again. I have spoken to prisoners. There is nothing between us and the ocean, nothing. We have seen their knights, Guyuk, do you understand? They cannot stop us. If we go on, the land is ours to take, sea to sea, forever. Sea to sea, General. Ours for ten thousand years. Can you imagine such a thing?”
“It is not important,” Guyuk said softly. “The homeland is where we began. I cannot lose all that for lands here.” He brought his hand back and his voice was steady.
“I will be khan, Orlok Tsubodai. I need you with me.”
Tsubodai slumped slowly in his chair, the energy draining from his face. Even Batu looked uncomfortable at the changes they had wrought in him.
“Very well. I will make them ready to ride home.”
• • •
Chagatai stood looking out at the river as the sun came up. The room was bare of furniture, the palace itself empty, beyond a few servants who would clean the rooms. He did not know if he would ever come back there again, and he felt a pang of loss at the thought. He heard footsteps approaching and turned to see his servant Suntai enter the room. The man’s scarred face was welcome, while Chagatai’s heart soared with visions.
“It is time, my lord khan,” Suntai said. His gaze fell to the crumpled parchment in Chagatai’s hand, read and reread a thousand times since it had come just days
before.
“It is time,” Chagatai echoed. He took a last look at the sun rising, lighting the backs of a flight of geese rising from the still waters. In such a mood, he stared straight at the ball of gold on the horizon, daring it to burn him.
“I can be in Karakorum months ahead of him,” Chagatai said. “I will take the oath of our people as khan, but there will be war when he returns. Unless I take the example of my beloved brother Ogedai. What do you think, Suntai? Would Guyuk accept my khanate here in exchange for his life? Come, give me your counsel.”
“He may, my lord. After all, you did.”
Chagatai smiled, at peace with the world for the first time in years. “Perhaps I would be storing up trouble for the future, or for my son Baidur. I must think of his life now. By the spirits, if Guyuk would just die in his sleep, my path would be clear! Instead, I have sent him a hostage to my goodwill.”
Suntai knew his master well and he smiled as he came to stand behind him. “Guyuk may believe so, my lord, even Orlok Tsubodai, but will such a hostage truly stay your hand?”
Chagatai shrugged. “I have other sons. The prize is too great to turn aside for just one. Baidur will have to fight his own way out. After all, Suntai, I gave him my best warriors for his tuman. They have no equal in the nation. If he falls, I will grieve for him, but his fate is in his own hands, as always.”
Chagatai had not noticed Suntai’s soft boots in place of his usual sandals. He did not hear the final step. He felt a sting at his neck and choked in surprise, reaching up to his throat. To his astonishment, there was a terrible wrongness there. As he pulled his hand away, he saw it was covered in blood. He tried to speak, but his voice was lost to him and only creaked through the line that striped his skin.
“It is said that the kirpan dagger is so very sharp that little pain attends a death,” Suntai said. “I have never had the opportunity to ask. Its name translates as ‘hand of mercy’ for that reason.”
The servant leaned closer as he saw Chagatai’s lips move, though a low gargling was the only sound he could make. Suntai stood well back as his master sank to one knee, still clutching his throat.
“The wound is mortal, my lord. Try to be calm. Death is coming swiftly.”
Chagatai’s head sank slowly to his chest. His right hand came away bloody and reached for the sword on his hip, but he did not have the strength to draw it beyond the first gleaming line of steel.
“I was told to pass on a message to you, my lord, if there was a chance to do so. I have memorized the words. Can you still hear?”
Suntai watched as Chagatai fell forward in a clatter. Someone shouted nearby and Suntai frowned at the thought of what must come.
“The message is from Ogedai Khan, my lord, to be given at the moment of your death: ‘This is not vengeance, Chagatai. It is for my son. I am no longer the man who let you live. By my hand striking far, you will not be khan.’ ” Suntai sighed. “I have never been truly your servant, my lord, but you were a fine master. Go with God.”
Chagatai’s hands fell limp and his guards came storming into the room, drawing their blades as they saw Suntai kneeling and whispering into the ear of their master. He stood as they rushed toward him, his face peaceful as the swords swung.
On a cold, clear morning, Tsubodai mounted his horse and looked back. There were no clouds and the sky was a perfect blue. Seven tumans were waiting in formation, the best warriors of his nation. Behind them, the baggage and carts stretched for miles. He had taken generals, some of them almost boys, and he had shown them their strengths. Despite his flaws, Guyuk would be a better khan because of what he had learned on the great trek. Baidur would be more of a man than his father before him. Mongke would make his father’s soul proud.
Tsubodai sighed. He knew he would never see such an army again. Old age had crept up on him and he was tired. For a time, he had thought he could ride forever with the young men, the lure of the sea bringing him farther from home than he could once have dreamed. When Guyuk had called a halt, it was like a whisper of death in his ears, an ending. He stared into the distance, imagining cities with spires of gold. He knew their names, but he would never see them: Vienna, Paris, Rome.
It was done. He knew he would take arms if Chagatai challenged for Ogedai’s khanate. Perhaps he would see battle one last time. With the princes, he would take the field in glory and show Chagatai why Tsubodai Bahadur had been the general of Genghis Khan.
The thought lifted him for an instant, enough to raise his hand and drop it. At his back, the Mongol tumans began the journey of five thousand miles that would take them home at last.
EPILOGUE
Xuan looked out of the windows in a long cloister as he walked. Each one revealed a view of Hangzhou, with the river leading out into the bay. He had been moved often since coming into Sung lands, as if they could not think what to do with him. On rare occasions, he was even allowed to sail on the river, and he saw his wives and children twice a year, in strained meetings, with Sung officials watching on all sides.
The cloister ran along the spine of yet another official building. Xuan amused himself by timing his steps so that his left foot hit the stone at the center of each pool of sunlight. He did not expect great news from the summons. Over the years, he had realized the Sung officials delighted in demonstrating their power over him. Too many times to count, his presence had been demanded in some private office, only to find the official had no connection with the court. On two occasions, the men involved had brought their mistresses or children to observe as they fussed with permissions and the allocation of his small income. The meeting itself was irrelevant. They had just wanted to parade the Chin emperor, the Son of Heaven himself, for their wide-eyed dependents.
Xuan was surprised when the small group of officials did not stop at the usual branching corridors. The apartments of more important men lay beyond, and Xuan controlled the first stirring of excitement as they went farther and farther still. More than one door was open, as dedicated scholars and bureaucrats labored inside, peering out at the footsteps they heard. Xuan took a grip on his hopes. They had been dashed too many times to expect his letters to have been answered at last, though he still wrote every day.
Despite his forced calm, he felt his heart beat faster as the bowing servants brought him to the door of the man who administered the examinations for almost all the posts in Hangzhou. Sung Kim had taken the name of the royal house as his own, though Xuan suspected he had been born a commoner. As one who controlled the funds Xuan was given to maintain his small household, Sung Kim had received many of his letters over the years. Not a single one had been answered.
The servants announced him and then stood back with their heads bowed. Xuan walked into the room, pleasantly surprised to see how it opened up before him. The administrator lived in luxury, amidst sculpture and art of better than average taste. Xuan smiled to himself at the thought of complimenting Sung Kim. In such a way, he could force the odious little man to make him a present of whatever he admired, but it was just a spiteful thought. His upbringing would not allow him to be rude, despite his circumstances.
While other servants trotted away to announce his arrival, Xuan wandered from one painting to another, taking care not to linger too long on each. Time was something he had in abundance, and he knew Sung Kim would make him wait.
To his intense surprise, Sung Kim himself came out of the inner rooms almost immediately. Xuan inclined his head and accepted an equally brief bow from the other man. He endured the polite observances with his usual restraint, showing no sign of his mounting impatience.
At last he was guided into the inner rooms and tea was brought for him. Xuan settled himself comfortably, waiting.
“I have extraordinary news, Son of Heaven,” Sung Kim began. He was a very old man, with white hair and wrinkled skin, but his own excitement was visible. Xuan raised an eyebrow as if his heart did not beat harder with every moment. It was all he could do to remain silent.
&
nbsp; “The Mongol khan is dead, Son of Heaven,” Sung Kim went on.
Xuan smiled, then chuckled, confounding the older man. “Is that all?” he said bitterly.
“I thought … I must offer my apologies, Son of Heaven. I thought the news would bring you great joy. Does it not signal the end of your time of exile?” Sung Kim shook his head in confusion and tried again. “Your enemy is dead, Your Majesty. The khan has fallen.”
“I meant no offense, Sung Kim. I have outlived two Mongol khans and that is indeed welcome news.”
“Then … I do not understand. Does it not fill your heart with happiness?”
Xuan sipped the tea, which was excellent.
“You do not know them as I do,” he said. “They will not mourn the khan. Instead, they will raise one of his sons and they will look for new enemies. One day, Sung Kim, they will come here, to this city. Perhaps I will still be a prisoner here when that time comes. Perhaps I will stare down from these very corridors as they bring their armies to the city walls.”
“Please, Son of Heaven. You are the guest of the emperor, never a prisoner. You must not say such things.”
Xuan grimaced and set his cup down gently.
“A guest can walk away when he pleases. A guest can ride without guards. Let us be honest with each other, Sung Kim.”
“I am sorry, Your Majesty. I had hoped to bring you joy, not sadness.”
“Be assured, you have done both today. Now, unless you wish to discuss my written requests, I will return to my rooms.”
The administrator bowed his head. “I cannot grant your desire to see your soldiers, Son of Heaven. Such things are far beyond my small powers.”
Xuan rose from his seat. “Very well, but when the new khan comes, they will be needed, strong and fit. You will need every man then, I think.”
It was Sung Kim’s turn to smile. The city of Hangzhou was ancient and powerful. It lay far from the border with the old Chin lands. The idea of an army ever coming close enough to cause concern was amusing.
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