He seated himself on Guyuk’s ornate throne with an expression of disgust. They rose hesitantly and Mongke frowned as he looked closely at them. There was not a true Mongol in the room, the legacy of Guyuk’s few years as khan as well as his father before him. What good had it done to conquer a nation if the khanate was taken over from within? Blood came first, though that simple truth had been lost to men like Guyuk and Ogedai. The men in the room ran the empire, set taxes and made themselves rich, while their conquerors still lived in simple poverty. Mongke showed his teeth at the thought, frightening them all further. His gaze fell on Yao Shu, the khan’s chancellor. Mongke studied him for a time, remembering old lessons with the Chin monk. From Yao Shu he had learned Buddhism, Arabic, and Mandarin. Though Mongke disdained much of what he had been taught, he still admired the old man and Yao Shu probably was indispensable. Mongke rose from the throne and walked along their lines, marking senior men with a brief hand on their shoulders.
“Stand by the throne,” he told them, moving on as they scurried to obey. In the end, he chose six, then stopped at Yao Shu. The chancellor still stood straight, though he was by far the oldest man in the room. He had known Genghis in his youth and Mongke could honor him for that at least.
“You may have these as your staff, Chancellor. The rest will come from the nation, from those of Mongol blood only. Train them to take over from you. I will not have my city run by foreigners.”
Yao Shu looked ashen, but he could only bow in response.
Mongke smiled. He was wearing full armor, a signal to them that the days of silk were at an end. The nation had been raised in war, then run by Chin courtiers. It would not do. Mongke walked to one of his guards and murmured an order into his ear. The man departed at a run and the scribes and courtiers waited nervously as Mongke stood before them, still smiling slightly as he gazed out of the open window to the city beyond.
When the warrior returned, he carried a slender staff with a strip of leather at the end. Mongke took it and rolled his shoulders.
“You have grown fat on a city that does not need you,” he told the men, swishing the air with the whip. “No longer. Get out of my house.”
For an instant, the assembled men stood in shock at his words. It was all the hesitation he needed.
“And you have grown slow under Guyuk and Ogedai. When a man, any man, of the nation gives you an order, you move!”
He brought the whip across the face of the nearest scribe, making sure that he struck with the wooden pole. The man fell backward with a yelp and Mongke began laying about him in great sweeps. Cries of panic went up as they struggled to get away from him. Mongke grinned as he struck and struck again, sometimes drawing blood. They streamed out of the room and he pursued them in a frenzy, whipping their legs and faces, whatever he could reach.
He drove them down the cloisters and out into the marshaling yard of the palace, where the silver tree stood shining in the sun. Some of them fell and Mongke laughingly kicked them to their feet so that they stumbled on with aching ribs. He was a warrior among sheep and he used the whip to snap them back into a group as he might have herded lambs. They stumbled ahead until the city gate loomed, with Guards looking down in amusement from the towers on either side. Mongke did not pause in his efforts, though he was running with sweat. He kicked and shoved and tore at them until the last man was outside the walls. Only then did he pause, panting, with the shadow of the gate falling across him.
“You have had enough from the nation,” he called to them. “It is time to work for your food like honest men, or starve. Enter my city again and I will take your heads.”
A great wail of distress and anger went up from the group and for a moment Mongke even thought they might rush him. Many had wives and children still in the city, but he cared nothing for that. The lust to punish was strong in him and he almost wished they would dare to attack, so he could draw his sword. He did not fear scholars and scribes. They were Chin men and, for all their fury and cleverness, they could do nothing.
When the group had subsided into impotent muttering, Mongke looked up at the Guards above his head.
“Close the gate,” he ordered. “Note their faces. If you see a single one again inside the walls, you have my permission to put an arrow in them.”
He laughed then at the spite and horror he saw in the crowd of battered and bruised courtiers. Not one had the courage to challenge his orders. He waited as the gates were pushed closed, the line of sight to the plains shrinking to a crack and then nothing. Outside, they wailed and wept as Mongke nodded to the Day Guards and threw down the bloody whip at last, walking back alone to the palace. As he went, he saw thousands of Chin faces peering out from houses at the man who would be khan in spring. He grimaced, reminded once again that the city had fallen far from its origins. Well, he was no Guyuk to be balked for years in his ambition. The nation was his.
The smell of aloes wood had faded since the morning. The city reeked again, reminding Mongke of a healing tent after a battle. He thought sourly of festering wounds he had seen, fat and shiny with pus. It took courage and a steady hand to drain such a wound: a gash and a sharp pain to let the healing begin. He smiled as he walked. He would be that hand.
THE ENTIRE CITY WAS IN UPROAR BY THE TIME DARKNESS came. On Mongke’s orders, warriors had entered Karakorum in force, groups of ten or twenty walking every street and examining the possessions of thousands of families. At the first hint of resistance, they dragged owners into the street and beat them publicly, leaving them on the cobbles until their relatives dared to come out and take them back. Some lay where they had been thrown all night.
Even sickbeds were searched for hidden gold or silver, with the occupants tossed out with their sheets and made to stand in the cold until the warriors were satisfied. There were many of those, coughing listlessly and still feverish as they stood with blank eyes. Chin families suffered more than other groups, though the Moslem jewelers lost all their stock in a single night, from raw materials to finished items ready for sale. In theory, all things would be accounted, but the reality was that anything of value disappeared into the deels the warriors wore over their armor.
Dawn brought no respite and only revealed the destruction. There was at least one sprawled body in every street and the weeping of women and children could be heard across Karakorum.
The palace was the center of it, beginning with a search of the sumptuous rooms that had belonged to the khan’s staff and favorites. Wives were either claimed by Mongke’s officers or put outside the walls to join their husbands. The trappings of status were ripped down, from tapestries to Buddhist statuary. There at least, Mongke’s eye could be felt and what treasures they found were dutifully collected and piled in the storerooms below. More were burned in great fires on the streets.
As evening came on his second day back in the city, Mongke summoned his two most trusted generals to the audience room in the palace. Ilugei and Noyan were Mongols in his mold, strong men who had grown up with a bow in their hands. Neither man affected any sign of Chin culture and already those who had done so were shaving their heads and ridding themselves of the artifacts of that nation. The orlok’s will had been made clear enough when he whipped the Chin scribes from the city.
Simply meeting his officers without Chin scribes to record was a break with Guyuk’s court. Mongke knew Yao Shu was outside, but he would let the old man wait until the real business was concluded. He was not filled with excitement at the need to meet Guyuk’s debts. The sky father alone knew how the khan had managed to borrow so much against a treasury that stood empty. Already there had been nervous delegations of merchants coming to the palace to collect gold for their paper. Mongke grimaced at the thought. With the wealth he had wrenched out of the foreigners in Karakorum, he could meet most of Guyuk’s paper promises, though it would leave him without funds for months. His honor demanded he do so, as well as the practical consideration that he needed the merchants’ goodwill and their trade.
It seemed the role of a khan involved more than winning battles.
Mongke was not yet sure if he had acted correctly in removing the palace staff from their soft positions. Part of him suspected Yao Shu brought every small problem to him as a way of criticizing what he had done. Even so, the memory of whipping them from the city was immensely satisfying. He had needed to show he was no Guyuk, that the city would be run on Mongol lines.
“You have sent men to Torogene?” Mongke asked Noyan.
The general stood proudly before him in a traditional deel, his skin greasy with fresh mutton fat. He wore no armor, though Mongke had allowed him to keep his sword for the meeting. He would not fear his own men, as Guyuk and Ogedai had.
“I have, my lord. They will report directly to me when it is done.”
“And Guyuk’s wife, Oghul Khaimish?” Mongke said, his eyes passing on to Ilugei.
He tightened his mouth before replying. “That is not … settled yet, my lord. I had men go to her rooms, but they were barred and I thought you would want it handled quietly. She will have to come out tomorrow.”
Mongke grew very still and Ilugei began to sweat under the yellow gaze. At last the orlok nodded.
“How you carry out my orders is your concern, Ilugei. Bring me the news when you have it.”
“Yes, my lord,” Ilugei said, breathing out in relief. As Mongke looked away, Ilugei spoke again. “She is … popular in the city, my lord. The news of her pregnancy is everywhere. There could be unrest.”
Mongke glared at the sweating man.
“Then take her by night. Make her vanish, Ilugei. You have your orders.”
“Yes, lord.” Ilugei chewed his lip as he thought. “She is never without her two companions, lord. I have heard rumors that the old one knows herbs and ancient rites. I wonder if she has infected Oghul Khaimish with her spells and words?”
“I have heard nothing …” Mongke broke off. “Yes, Ilugei. That will serve. Find out the truth of it.” To be accused of witchcraft carried a terrible penalty. There would be no one willing to stand up for Oghul Khaimish once that was suspected.
Mongke found himself weary as he dismissed his officers and let Yao Shu in. The days were long for one who would be khan, but he had found his purpose. The wound would be cut and it would bleed itself clean. In just a few months, he would rule a Mongol empire without the corruption of the Chin at its heart. It was a fine dream and his eyes were bright with satisfaction as Yao Shu bowed before him.
ELEVEN
IN HER HUSBAND’S SUMMER PALACE, TOROGENE SAT IN A silent hall, lit by a single, gently hissing lamp. She was dressed neatly in a white deel and new shoes of stitched white linen. Her gray hair was tied back tightly, so that not even a wisp escaped the twin clasps. She wore no jewels, as she had given them all away. At such a time, it was hard to look back on her life, but she could not focus on the present. Though her eyes were still swollen with weeping for Guyuk, she had found something resembling calm. Her servants were all gone. When the first one had reported soldiers coming along the road from Karakorum, she had felt her heart skip in her chest. There had been twelve servants, some of whom had been with her for decades. With tears, she had given them whatever silver and gold she could find and sent them away. They would only have been killed when the soldiers arrived, she was sure of that. News of Mongke’s death lists had already reached her, with a few details of the executions in the city. Mongke was clearing away anyone who had supported Guyuk as khan and she was not surprised he had sent soldiers to her, only weary.
When the last of her servants had gone onto the road, heading away from Karakorum, Torogene had found herself a quiet place in the summer palace to watch the sun set. She was too old to run, even if she thought she could have lost her pursuers. It was strange to see death as finally inevitable, but she found she could put aside all her fear and anger in the face of it. The grief for her beloved son was still fresh, perhaps too great to allow any sorrow for herself. She was worn down, as one who has survived a storm and lies sprawled on rocks, too dazed to do more than breathe and stare.
In the darkness outside, she heard voices as Mongke’s men rode in and dismounted. She could hear every whisper of sound, from the crunch of their feet on the stones, to the jingle of their harness and armor. Torogene raised her head, thinking back over better years. Her husband, Ogedai, had been a fine man, a fine khan, struck down too early by a vengeful fate. If he had lived … She sighed. If he had lived, she would not be alone and waiting for death in a palace that had once been a happy home. She thought suddenly of the roses Ogedai had given her. They would run wild in the gardens without someone to tend them. Her mind flitted from one thing to another, always listening for the steps coming closer.
She did not know if Ogedai would have been proud of Guyuk in the end. Her son had not been a great man. With all her future stripped away, she saw the past more clearly and there were many regrets, many paths she wished she had not taken. It was a foolish thing to look back and wish things had been different, but she could not help it.
When she heard a boot scrape at the outer door of the hall, her thoughts tore into rags and she looked up, suddenly afraid. Her hands twisted together in her lap as the warriors slid into the room, one after the other. They walked lightly, ready with weapons in case they were attacked. She could almost laugh at their caution. Slowly, she stood, feeling her knees and back protest.
The officer came to her, looking into her eyes with a puzzled expression.
“You are alone, mistress?” he asked.
For a moment, her eyes shone.
“I am not alone. Do you not see them? My husband, Ogedai Khan, stands on my right hand. My son, Guyuk Khan, stands on my left. Do you not see those men watching what you do?”
The officer paled slightly, his eyes sliding right and left as if he could see the spirits watching over her. He grimaced, aware that his companions would be listening and every word reported to Mongke.
“I have my orders, mistress,” he said, almost apologetically.
Torogene raised her head further, standing as straight as she could.
“I am brought down by dogs,” she muttered, contempt banishing her fear. Her voice was strong as she spoke again. “There is a price for all things, soldier.” She looked up, as if she could see through the stone roof above their heads. “Mongke Khan will fall. His eyes will fill with blood and he will not know rest or sleep or peace. He will live in pain and sickness and at the end—”
The officer drew his sword and brought it across her throat in one swift movement. She fell with a groan, suddenly limp as blood poured out of her and spattered on his boots. The watching men said nothing as they waited for her to die. When it was finished, they left quietly, unnerved in the silence. They did not look at each other as they mounted their horses and rode away.
AS HE FACED MONGKE, GENERAL ILUGEI FOUND HIMSELF strangely troubled, an unusual emotion for him. He knew it was a sound tactic for a new leader to sweep away all those who had supported his predecessor. Beyond that, it was the merest common sense to remove anyone with a blood tie to the previous regime. There would be no rebellions in the future, as forgotten children grew to manhood and learned to hate. The lessons of Genghis’s own life had been learned by his descendants.
Ilugei had taken particular pleasure in putting his own enemies on the lists he prepared for Mongke, a level of power he had never enjoyed before. He simply spoke a name to a scribe and within a day the khan’s loyal guards tracked them down and carried out the execution. There was no appeal against the lists.
Yet what Ilugei had seen that morning had unnerved him, ruining his usual composure. He had known stillborn children before. His own wives had given birth to four of them over the years. Perhaps because of that, the sight of the tiny flopping body had sickened him. He suspected Mongke would think it a weakness in him, so he kept his voice calm, sounding utterly indifferent as he reported.
“I think Guyuk’s wife may have lo
st her mind, my lord,” he said to Mongke. “She talked and wept like a child herself. All the time she cradled the dead infant as if it was still alive.”
Mongke bit his lower lip in thought, irritated that such a simple thing should become so complicated. The heir had been the threat. Without one, he might have sent Oghul Khaimish back to her family. He was khan in all but name, he reminded himself. Yet his new authority stretched only so far. Silently, he cursed Ilugei’s man for going into such detail of her crimes. A public accusation of witchcraft could not be ignored. He clenched his fist, thinking of a thousand other things he had to do that day. Forty-three of Guyuk’s closest followers had been executed in just a few days, their blood still wet on the training ground of the city. More would follow in the days to come as he lanced the boil in Karakorum.
“Let it stand,” he said at last. “Add her name to the list and let there be an ending.”
Ilugei bowed his head, hiding his own obscure disappointment.
“Your will, my lord.”
TWELVE
OGHUL KHAIMISH STOOD ON THE BANKS OF THE ORKHON River, watching the dark waters flowing. Her hands were bound behind her, grown fat and numb in the bonds. Two men stood at her sides to prevent her throwing herself in before it was time. In the dawn cold, she shivered slightly, trying to control the terror that threatened to steal away her dignity.
Mongke was there, standing with some of his favorites. She saw him smile at something one of his officers said. Gone were the days when they would have made a bright and lively scene. To a man, his warriors and senior men were dressed in simple deels, without decoration beyond a little stitching. Most wore the traditional Mongol hairstyles, with a shaven scalp and topknot. Their faces shone with fresh mutton fat. Only Yao Shu and his few remaining Chin scribes were unarmed. The rest wore long swords that reached almost to their ankles, heavy cavalry blades designed for cutting down. Karakorum had its own foundry, where armorers sweated all day at their fires. It was no secret that Mongke was preparing for war once he had butchered the last of Guyuk’s supporters and friends.
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