“Then choose, Lord Alghu. We have so few real choices in our lives. I will have no choice but to destroy Samarkand if you make the wrong decision here, this morning, but I do not wish to threaten you. The nation is in error, Lord Alghu. I have merely to put right what has gone wrong.”
Alghu thought of his children, already on their way to a safe village. He had no illusions about what Kublai was describing. Arik-Boke had a vast army and he would never surrender to his brother, not now he was khan. No Mongol force had ever fought against their own people in battle, but it would come, and it would bring destruction on a scale he could hardly imagine.
Slowly, carefully, under the watchful eye of Kublai’s orlok, Lord Alghu dismounted and stood by his horse, looking up at the man who claimed to rule the world. The Chagatai khanate was just a small part of that, he told himself. Yet if he gave a new oath, Arik-Boke would send his own tumans in reprisal. There would be no mercy, no quarter for an oath-breaker lord. Lord Alghu closed his eyes for an instant, caught between impossible forces.
At last, he spoke.
“My lord,” he said, “if I give you my oath, my cities lie within reach of Karakorum. It will be an act of war with the great khanate.” He blinked as he realized the words he had used, but Kublai only laughed.
“I cannot promise you safety, Lord Alghu. There is no safety in this world. I can say that I will keep my brother’s attention on me for this summer. After that, the khanate will be restored and I will look kindly on your cities.”
“If you lose, my lord …”
“If I lose? I do not fear some dog-meat brother who thinks he can stand in my place. The sun is hot, Lord Alghu, and I have been patient with you. I understand your fears, but if I stood in your place, I would know what to do.”
Lord Alghu stepped clear of his horse. On the dusty ground, he lowered himself to both knees.
“I offer you gers, horses, salt, and blood, my lord khan,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “You have my oath.”
The tension went out of Kublai’s frame as he spoke.
“The right decision, Lord Alghu. Now welcome my men into your city, that we may rest and drink the dust from our throats.”
“Very well, my lord khan,” Lord Alghu said, wondering if he had just thrown away his honor, as well as his life. He had been considering bringing his children back to the city, but it would do them no harm to spend a season with the villagers, as safe from harm as anyone could be with the khanates about to erupt into civil war.
GENERAL BAYAR WATCHED SOURLY AS BATU PACED UP AND down in the wooden house. The man had not taken the news well and Bayar was still searching for the right words to convince him. He knew most of Kublai’s plan and part of it was making certain the princes of the nation stayed out of the struggle between brothers. It was a difficult request that struck at the root of their honor and their oaths, but Kublai had been clear in his instructions.
“There has never been civil war in the nation,” Kublai had told him. “Make sure Batu understands the normal rules are suspended until my family has made an ending. His oath is to the office of the great khan. Until this is settled, until only one man is khan, he cannot honor his oath. Tell him to stay in his lands and we will have no quarrel.”
Bayar thought back over the words for the hundredth time as Batu sat down at his great oak table and nodded to the servants bringing steaming platters of meat and potatoes in butter.
“Join me, General,” Batu said as he pulled out a bench. “This is beef from my own herd.”
Bayar looked at the bloody slices and his mouth watered. He shrugged, then sat down, pulling pieces toward him with his fingers and chewing so that the juices ran down his chin.
“It’s good,” Bayar said, suppressing a groan of satisfaction. The meat came apart in his mouth almost without chewing and he pulled more into reach, leaving a pink trail on the old wood.
“You’ll never taste anything better,” Batu replied. “I am hoping to sell the meat to the khan’s cities in a few years, when I’ve built the herd up.”
“You’ll make a fortune,” Bayar said, “but not while the fighting goes on. I still need an answer from you, my lord.”
Batu chewed slowly, savoring each mouthful, but always watching the man who sat across from him. At length, he cleared his throat with a long draft of pale wine, then sat back.
“Very well. I have three choices, General, as I see it. I can let you go, do as Kublai wants and stay out of the fighting, tending to my own lands and my own people until it is done. If he loses, I will have the khan—” He raised a hand as Bayar opened his mouth. “I will have Arik-Boke riding here in a fury, asking why I kept my head down while my rightful lord was under attack. If that is the result, I could lose everything.”
Bayar didn’t reply. Neither he nor Batu knew for certain what would happen if Kublai lost. Arik-Boke might well exact some kind of vengeance. A sensible man might declare an amnesty for the small khanates, but nothing in the bloodline suggested Arik-Boke would be sensible.
“My second choice is to mount up with my tumans and ride in support of my lawful khan. I suspect you would oppose me in that, so the first thing would be to slaughter your men.”
“If you think—” Bayar began.
Once again, Batu stopped him with a raised palm.
“You are in my land, General. My people are serving yours with fine meat and drink every day. I could give a single order and see an end to it before sundown. That is my second choice.”
“Just tell me what you have decided,” Bayar said irritably.
Batu grinned at him.
“You are not a patient man, General. My third choice is to do nothing and keep you here with me. If Kublai wins, I have done nothing to injure him. If Arik-Boke triumphs, I have held three tumans from joining the fight. It would allow me to keep my life and lands, at least.”
Bayar paled slightly as the other man spoke. He had already wasted too much time in Batu’s khanate. Kublai had made him repeat his orders to ride for Karakorum and Bayar had some idea of his place in the khan’s plans. If he was held prisoner for months, it would mean the difference between success and disaster.
Batu had been watching his reactions closely.
“I see that does not find favor with you, General. The best choice for my people is perhaps your worst.”
Bayar stared at him in sullen anger. Everything Kublai planned would come down to a battle before Karakorum. Bayar’s tumans were the final bone to throw, the reserve that would hit the enemy rear at exactly the right moment. He swallowed painfully, the rich meat feeling like a stone in his stomach. Kublai would look for him when the time came. If he was not there, his friend would be cut down.
Slowly, Bayar stood up.
“I will leave now,” he said. “You will make whatever choice you think is best, but you will not hold me here.”
He turned sharply at the sound of swords being drawn behind him. Two of Batu’s bondsmen were watching him with grim expressions, blocking the door to the sunlight and open air.
“Sit down, General. I have not finished with you yet,” Batu said, leaning back from the table. He saw the general’s eye drop to the heavy knife that had been used to cut the meat. Batu chuckled as he picked it up and used it to spear another thick slice.
“I told you to sit down,” he said.
THIRTY-SEVEN
ARIK-BOKE DREW BACK HIS BOW AND TRIED AGAIN TO BRING his heartbeat and breathing under control. He couldn’t do it. Whenever he felt the beginning of calm, spiking fury would make his pulse race and his hands tremble.
He loosed with a shout of frustration and saw the shaft strike high on the straw target. In disgust, he threw the bow down, ignoring the wince of his arms master at the treatment of such a valuable weapon. Tellan was in his sixties and had served three khans before Arik-Boke, one of them in the field. There were three boys working brooms around the perimeter of the training square and they all froze in shock to see an act t
hat would have earned any one of them a whipping.
Tellan showed no expression as he gathered up the precious bow and stood patiently, though his hands ran down the length without conscious thought, searching for cracks or damage. When he was satisfied, he held it out again. Arik-Boke waved it away.
“No more now. I can’t keep my mind clear,” he said.
At his side, the orlok of his armies had been in the process of drawing his own bow. Alandar was faced with a delicate choice. His own heart thumped slowly and his hands and arms were like hardwood.
He could have placed the shaft anywhere he chose, but under the khan’s glare, Alandar decided not to take the shot. He released the tension slowly, feeling muscles twitch uncomfortably across his chest.
Alandar untied the quiver from his shoulder and handed the equipment to the arms master of Karakorum’s training ground. He had thought Arik-Boke might benefit from a morning of sweat and practice, but the khan only seemed to grow in anger with every poor shot.
“Would you prefer to work with swords, my lord khan?” he asked.
Arik-Boke snorted. He wanted to hack someone to death, not go through routines and stances until his muscles ached. He nodded with bad grace.
“Very well,” he said.
“Fetch the khan’s training swords, Tellan.”
As the arms master turned, Arik-Boke raised his head in inspiration.
“Bring the wolf’s-head blade as well,” he muttered. “And fetch the training suit.”
Tellan trotted off with the bows into the buildings around the training square. He returned with two swords in scabbards and an armful of stiff leather. Arik-Boke took the swords and felt the heft of each one.
“Put the suit on, Tellan. I’m in the mood to cut something.”
The arms master was a veteran warrior. He had fought alongside Tsubodai and earned his position at the khan’s court. His brows lowered slightly and his expression grew stern. For one of his trainees, it would have been a sign of gathering storm clouds, but Arik-Boke was oblivious.
“Shall I have one of the boys put it on, my lord khan?” Tellan said.
Arik-Boke barely glanced at him.
“Did I ask you to fetch one of the boys?” he snapped.
“No, my lord.”
“Then do as you are told.”
Tellan began to buckle the leather straps around himself. The practice suit had begun life as a blacksmith’s apron with long sleeves, the layers of sewn leather so stiff that it would hardly bend at the waist. To that had been added a padded helmet with neck pieces and heavy guards that buckled under the sleeves and onto the shins. Tellan heaved the main part over his head and stood still as Alandar began to fasten the buckles.
Arik-Boke drew a practice sword and swung it through the air. It was heavier than a normal blade, weighted with lead so that a warrior’s wrist and forearms could develop strength. It lacked much of an edge and the point was rounded. He frowned at it and drew his personal blade, recovered from Mongke’s body.
The eyes of both Alandar and Tellan slid over to him as they heard the sound of shining steel being drawn. It was not just that both men were veterans. The sword had been in the khan’s family for generations. The hilt had been cast in the shape of a stylized wolf’s-head and, in its own way, it was one of the most potent symbols of the risen nation. Genghis had carried it, as had his father before him. The sword was polished and viciously sharp, with every chip or dent smoothed out of it. It looked exactly what it was, a length of sharp metal designed to cut flesh. Arik-Boke swished it through the air with a grunt.
Alandar met Tellan’s eyes and smiled wryly at the man’s expression. He liked Tellan and had spent a few evenings drinking with him. The arms master was not one to faint at a little blood or the prospect of a battering, but he did not look happy. Alandar finished the buckles and stepped away.
“Shall I give him a sword?” he asked.
Arik-Boke nodded. “Give him yours.”
All three of them knew it would make little difference. The suit had been designed for multiple attacks, to let a young warrior try to remain calm and focused as half a dozen of his friends worked him over. It would not let Tellan move quickly enough to defend himself.
Alandar handed his blade to the arms master and grinned as he stood for an instant with his back to the khan. Tellan rolled his eyes in answer, but he took the weapon.
As Alandar stepped clear, Arik-Boke stepped in and swung at Tellan’s neck with everything he had. Alandar’s smile vanished as Tellan staggered backward. The headgear for the suit had heavy pieces overlapping the neck area, but the wolf’s-head sword had almost cut through and one of them hung by a few threads.
The arms master blocked the next strike with a huge effort, using all his strength to make the leather arms bend fast enough. Arik-Boke grunted as sweat appeared on his face, but he moved forward, hitting high and low, groin and neck. His sword left bright slashes in the suit and mouths opened in it so that Alandar could see Tellan’s clothing beneath. The orlok considered making a comment, but chose to remain silent. Arik-Boke was khan.
Tellan seemed to realize he was in a fight and when Arik-Boke stepped too close he reversed his backward motion, using the bulk of the suit to throw his hip into the khan and make him stagger. The reply was another flat blow to the neck, tearing the leather free so that it fell. Tellan’s veined throat was exposed and he knew it, feeling the air on his flesh as soon as it happened. He tried to step aside and back, but Arik-Boke pressed him at every step, swinging the sword as if it were a club rather than a blade. More than one of his wild strikes were turned aside on the leather, wrenching his fingers and making him hiss in pain.
It seemed an age before Arik-Boke paused. The leather suit was in tatters, half of it hanging loose and the rest on the ground at Tellan’s feet. Blood dripped down the man’s legs and slowly pooled as Arik-Boke panted, watching him for a sudden move. To the equal horror of the arms master and Alandar, Arik-Boke rested the point of his sword on the ground, putting his weight on it as if it were a simple stick and not the most famous blade in the history of the nation. Sweat poured from the khan and he breathed in great, rasping breaths.
“That will do,” he said, straightening with an effort and tossing the blade to Alandar, who caught it easily. “Have my shaman look at your cuts, Tellan. Alandar, with me.”
Without another word, he strode off the training square. Alandar collected the scabbard and barely had time to dart a quick look of apology to Tellan before he went after him.
The arms master stood alone and panting in the center of the square. He had not moved for some time when one of the sweeping boys dared to approach him.
“Are you all right, master?” the boy said, peering around the torn remnants of the headgear.
Tellan’s lips were bloody and he showed his teeth to the boy as he tried to take a step.
“Take my arm and help me, boy. I can’t walk back on my own.”
The admission hurt him as much as the wounds he had taken, but his pride wouldn’t let him fall. The boy called a friend and between them they helped Tellan stagger out of the sun.
ARIK-BOKE STRODE QUICKLY DOWN THE CORRIDORS OF THE palace. The tightness of his rage felt as if it had eased slightly and he rolled his shoulders as he walked. He had been imagining Kublai before him as he had battered the arms master and for a time it had taken the edge off his anger. As he walked, it swelled again within him, a red coil that made him want to strike out.
He came to polished copper doors and shoved them open without acknowledging the Guards who stood there. Alandar followed him into the meeting room, seeing his most senior men rise to their feet as if jerked up by strings. Since the khan had stormed out hours earlier, they had been waiting for him to return, unable to leave without his permission. They showed no sign of impatience as they bowed. Alandar noticed the single jug of wine had been drunk dry, but there was nothing else to indicate Arik-Boke had kept a dozen men waiting f
or the best part of a morning.
Arik-Boke walked through them to the table and cursed when he saw the jug was empty. He grabbed it and took it to the copper doors, shoving it into the hands of one of his Day Guards.
“Bring more wine,” he said, ignoring the man as he tried to bow and keep hold of the jug at the same time. When he turned to his officers once more, his eyes glittered with simmering fury and no one would meet his gaze.
“Now, gentlemen,” he grated. “You have had time to think. You know the stakes involved.” He waited for barely a beat before going on. “My scouts find broken yam stations. My orders go unanswered. Supplies have stopped from the north and if my spies have not been turned against me, my brother Kublai has made war on a khanate. My own blood has turned his tumans against his lawful ruler.” He paused, his eyes raking them.
“The world has gone quiet as rabbits with a snake in their hole and you have nothing to offer your khan? Nothing?” He roared the last word, spraying spit. The men in the room were seasoned warriors, but they pulled back from him. His snuffling breath was loud in the room and the scar that ran across the ruined bridge of his nose had grown red.
“Tell me how it is possible for an army to ride into my khanates without us becoming aware of it before this. Did my grandfather set up the yam lines for nothing? For months, I have been asking my advisers why the letters have stopped coming, why the reports are late. I asked my senior officers what fault there could be that might result in Karakorum being cut off from the rest of the world in such a way. Now you tell me how such a thing could happen within a thousand miles of this city and have us know nothing about it.”
His Guard returned with two brimming jugs of wine, erring on the side of caution. Arik-Boke waited while a cup was poured for him and drained it in quick gulps. When he had finished a second, he seemed calmer, though a heavy flush was stealing up his neck, where the veins were clearly visible.
“That is past. When this is over, I will have the heads of those men who told me that the yam lines could never be broken, that they gave me a security and an early warning that no other khan had ever known. I will have the head of Lord Alghu and give his daughter to my bondsmen for their sport.” He took a deep breath, aware that simply ranting at his men would produce no good result.
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