Gansukh realized the mountain clan archer wasn’t that much younger than himself-only a few years. What a difference those years made, he thought. I would be just like him if I hadn’t gone to Kozelsk, if Chagatai Khan hadn’t picked me as his envoy.
“I’m sorry,” Tarbagatai said, dropping his gaze. “I have said something to offend you.”
“No, no,” Gansukh assured him, brushing aside his melancholic thoughts. “Forgive me. I am… distracted this morning. It is the excitement of this…” he struggled to focus his attention, “of the Khagan’s hunt.”
“Yes,” Tarbagatai agreed. “But not today.”
“What?”
“You haven’t heard? The Khagan”-Tarbagatai mimed drinking from a cup-“We will go tomorrow.” He brightened. “I have never participated in a hunt with the Khagan before.”
Gansukh reflected on the hunting technique typically used by the Khagan. “I fear it will…” He paused, all too aware of the other man’s enthusiasm. “It will be fantastic,” he amended, clapping Tarbagatai on the arm. Privately he was relieved to have another day in the camp. Another chance to draw Munokhoi out…
Tarbagatai smiled, losing the consternation that had been clinging to his face. “We could… practice,” he said, trying to appear nonchalant. “To be sure that we are ready for tomorrow.”
“Practice?” Gansukh asked.
Tarbagatai gestured at the bow slung over Gansukh’s shoulder. “Our archery. You have your bow with you. You wouldn’t have to borrow one this time.”
Gansukh touched the horn-and-sinew shape of his father’s bow. “Oh, yes, I suppose,” he feigned a look of sudden realization, “but I am supposed to pick flowers with some of Second Wife’s attendants this morning. They wanted someone along to ensure no wild animal disturbed them.”
“Of course,” Tarbagatai said, clearly crestfallen. “Very well, then, Gansukh. Perhaps some other time.”
Gansukh kept a straight face until the mountain archer had turned his back and started to walk away, and then he relented, releasing the laugh that was clamoring to get out of his mouth. “I am joking,” Gansukh said in response to the hurt look on Tarbagatai’s face. “I would enjoy a rematch. I think that is an excellent idea.”
Tarbagatai guffawed. “When I saw you with your bow, I hoped you would,” he said, grinning and ducking his head like a tongue-tied boy talking to his first courtesan.
“Yes, we do think alike, don’t we?” Gansukh said, “A free afternoon. Good weather. It is a perfect opportunity to match our skills once more.” He offered Tarbagatai a guileless smile, and he let it stretch wider in response to the other man’s grin. He felt a twinge of shame for lying to Tarbagatai, but he couldn’t admit to the mountain archer the real reason he was carrying his bow and sword with him around camp.
One more day.
He hoped it would be enough.
Jachin was uncharacteristically quiet when she returned from the Khagan’s ger. Lian shooed the other attendants out of Second Wife’s sumptuous ger and attended to the distracted woman herself. She helped Jachin out of her silk gown and into her favorite robe. It was plain and unadorned-not the proper costume for the Khagan’s second wife-but she knew it was warm and soft. Its simplicity also allowed Jachin to put aside her role as wife of the Khagan, and Lian suspected Jachin wanted some respite from the burden of her office.
Let us just be girls, she thought as she quietly combed out the snarls in Jachin’s long hair.
“Do you love him?” Jachin asked suddenly. She had said nothing since Lian had sequestered the two of them in the ger, quietly accepting Lian’s ministrations. Lost in thought.
“Who, my Lady?” Lian asked quietly. Her hands had hesitated for only a fraction of a second with the comb.
“The Khagan calls him young pony. That one. What is his name?”
“Gansukh, my Lady.”
Jachin turned her body and looked at Lian. “Do you love him?” she repeated.
“I am but a humble attendant to the Khagan’s court,” Lain demurred, dropping her head into a more submissive pose. “I would not assume to love a proud Mongol warrior.”
Jachin grabbed her chin and raised her head. She peered intently at Lian’s eyes, and Lian was surprised at Jachin’s expression. She had thought Second Wife would have been angry or annoyed at her refusal to answer, but what she was in Jachin’s own gaze was a frank honesty, a plain desire for companionship, for understanding.
“Yes, my Lady,” Lian said quietly, gently removing herself from Second Wife’s grip. “I do.”
Jachin dropped her hands to her lap, fussed with them for a moment as if she didn’t quite know what to do with them. “Does he love you in return?”
“I… I think so,” Lian replied.
Jachin nodded. She gestured for Lian to give her the comb. “Turn around,” she said. “I want to brush your hair.” Jachin’s face was composed, her lips firm. Lian complied, and she sat quietly as Second Wife took out the ornamental sticks in her hair and began to brush it. “Tell me about him,” Jachin said.
Lian did-haltingly at first, but the words came more easily after a while. Jachin even laughed lightly when she told the story about the dancer in the market and the bells.
“Ogedei loved me,” Jachin said quietly when Lian finished. “Once.” She gave a tiny laugh, choking back some other emotion.
“I know, my Lady,” Lian said. She glanced down and noticed two dots of moisture darkening her robe. She carefully wiped her cheek so no more tears would fall.
On the other side of the river, a long meadow sloped down to a sparse wood of alder and cedar. The Torguud had set up a series of targets-small shields lashed to spears that were rammed into the ground-ranging across the field to the edge of the wood, and as Gansukh peered at the tree line, he noted more targets within with shelter of the trees. Each of the targets had a slash of red paint across it, signifying the heart of the imaginary enemy.
A handful of Torguud were already practicing, and Gansukh and Tarbagatai milled about somewhat aimlessly while they waited. Gansukh kept scanning the forest below them as well as the line of scattered ger on the other side of the river, keeping an eye out for Munokhoi.
“That is a very nice bow,” Tarbagatai said, breaking their silence.
Gansukh unslung the weapon in question and offered it to Tarbagatai, who ran his hands along the smooth shape of the bow. “Is this goat horn?” the younger man asked after his examination.
Gansukh nodded. “My grandfather killed it so that my father could have its horns. This is the first bow he ever made, and when I…” he paused, recalling the story he had told Lian about his first kill. “When I came of age, it became mine.”
“I made this one,” Tarbagatai said, offering Gansukh his bow. “It took much longer than it should have.”
Gansukh admired the shape of Tarbagatai’s bow. It was darker than his, made from some wood other than birch, though the siyah were light, like the tips of antelope ears. The string was looser than he preferred, and he wondered if Tarbagatai had switched his string yet. The air, while warm in the sun, was generally colder than it had been in Karakorum. He would need to use a tighter string. Or maybe he just likes a little more play. Gansukh toyed with the tension in the bowstring a little longer, and then handed the weapon back to its owner. “The product of your own hard work. It is an excellent bow. I hope that it serves you well.”
“Is there going to be shooting or talking here today?” The new speaker was a stocky man, wide in the neck and gregarious in his expressions. He and a half dozen other Torguud had wandered up while Gansukh and Tarbagatai had been admiring each other’s bow. The newcomer planted his feet wide and put his hands on his hips as he voiced his jovial query. He looked like nothing more than a smaller version of Namkhai, and Gansukh realized the similarity was not accidental. Namkhai had a cousin in the Torguud. What is his name?
Tarbagatai came to his rescue. “There will be more talking than shooting
now that you are here, Subegei.”
“Is that so?” Subegei laughed. “Someone has to bore your enemies so they will stand still long enough for you to hit them.” He gestured toward the archery targets. “Come on, you two. We heard there was going to be a contest.”
“Still have some money from last night, eh?” Gansukh asked.
“I understand you have forty-nine more cows than you know what to do with,” Subegei said. “Maybe we can help you part with some of them.”
“What makes you think I know what to do with the first one?” Gansukh said, and the group laughed uproariously. He grinned at Tarbagatai and motioned the younger man toward the crooked line of dark rocks that marked the edge of archery field. “How shall we do this?” he asked.
Subegei overheard him and offered his own interpretation of the rules. “Seven arrows,” he said. “Tarbagatai gets dark fletching; Gansukh will have the light-colored fletching.” He gestured at the archers who had just finished shooting, and they started to dig through their quivers to assemble the requisite arrows. There were some friendly disagreements about what constituted light and dark among the arrows.
Subegei rolled his eyes and shrugged at Gansukh’s inquiring glance. “You’ll be judged for speed and accuracy,” he continued, ignoring the altogether too-complicated process of arrow selection. “The archer who finishes first will be awarded one additional point, and then we’ll examine the targets. Does that sound fair?”
Gansukh gave Tarbagatai back his bow and received his own in turn. “That sounds fair,” he said as he slipped the string loose and bent his bow to restring it properly. Tarbagatai agreed too, and both men stepped up to the edge of the range and collected their arrows. Gansukh took the other arrows out of his quiver, placing them on the ground, and arranged his seven carefully so they were ready to be pulled. He noticed Tarbagatai lagging behind him, the younger man carefully copying every motion-the mountain archer wasn’t going to make the same mistake he had last time when he had failed to set up his arrows for rapid shooting.
Gansukh nocked the first arrow and looked down the range, checking the location of each of the targets. There were ten targets in all, but no more than two were at any given distance, and they started fairly close-not much more than ten strides away. He would start with the closest pair-that would allow him to gauge the distance more readily-and he suspected Tarbagatai would employ the same tactic. But Gansukh also suspected Tarbagatai would be seduced by possibility of the extra point for firing all his arrows first, and in his mind, Gansukh had already conceded that point. He knew Tarbagatai was faster, so he had to be more accurate.
“Quiet,” Subegei called behind him, and when the assembled soldiers didn’t stop their chatter quickly enough, he raised his voice. “Shut up, you louts!”
Gansukh turned his head to the left and glanced at Tarbagatai; the mountain archer favored him with a tiny grin. “Are you ready?” Tarbagatai asked, and Gansukh nodded. As the crowd finally settled down, Gansukh returned his attention down range. The morning sun made the red paint gleam, and a slight breeze wafted up the rise. The conditions were perfect.
“Archers!” Subegei cried. “Ready!” Gansukh raised his bow, pulling the string back to his ear. His shoulders were tight, and he tried to relax. He tried to focus on the first target, but something seemed amiss. A bead of sweat slid down the left side of his face, almost going into his eye, and he blinked heavily.
“Fire!” Subegei shouted, and Tarbagatai let out a tiny grunt as he released his arrow.
Gansukh took one step back.
He heard a whisper of sound, the fluttering noise of an arrow as it passes. He sensed more than saw a black blur flying past him, moving from his left to his right. Without thinking, he stepped forward and turned, causing Tarbagatai to flinch, fumbling his second arrow. Gansukh ignored him, looking across the river for his target.
Looking for the source of the arrow that would have hit him if he hadn’t taken that backward step.
Behind him the crowd was making noise-not all of it pleasant-and Tarbagatai had stepped back from the edge of the range, his eyes wide. Gansukh studiously ignored all of the distractions, his eyes scanning for some sign of Munokhoi.
He was out there. Gansukh hadn’t imagined the arrow.
“Gansukh, hold,” Subegei tried to get his attention. “Put your bow down.”
Growling in his throat, Gansukh lowered his arms and let out the tension in his bowstring. His eyes kept scanning the row of ger, looking for any sign of movement. Finally, he relented, letting out a pent-up rush of air. “I am sorry, Tarbagatai,” he said, looking toward the mountain archer. “That was very unsporting of me. I was…” he cast about for some suitable explanation, “momentarily dazzled by the sun. Disoriented.” He let out a short bark of laughter. “I was so frightened by your first arrow that I thought I was in the midst of a terrifying battle.”
Tarbagatai raised an eyebrow, but the tension remained in his face and shoulders. “You are a bad liar, Gansukh.”
“Bah,” Gansukh said, dismissing Tarbagatai’s claim. “It is a good thing to be bad at, don’t you think?”
Tarbagatai managed a weak grin.
Gansukh glanced at the row of ger again. “Shall we try again?” he asked, even though part of him wanted to charge across the river and search for the elusive Munokhoi. “I promise to be less frightened of your magnificent shooting.”
Someone in the crowd groaned noisily, and a voice piped up: “Make him give you his bow if he does it again!”
Gansukh nodded in agreement. “Fair enough. You may have my bow if I am nothing less than virtuous in my shooting.”
Tarbagatai tried to remain aloof, but his gaze lingered overlong on Gansukh’s bow. “I suppose we can try again,” he said.
Gansukh gestured at the crowd. “My opponent will need two more arrows,” he called.
“Only one,” Tarbagatai corrected. He pointed. “I’ll keep that first one.” Tarbagatai’s first shot was dead-center in the nearest target’s red heart.
“Fair enough,” Gansukh said, squinting at the target.
An arrow was provided, and Subegei counted them off again. Gansukh shot slowly, striving for accuracy, and Tarbagatai took care with his shots as well, knowing that Gansukh would not be rushing. Still, in very little time, the quivers of both archers were empty.
“Extra point for Tarbagatai,” Subegei called. The crowd shouted, pleased with the performance of both men. “Let us go check the arrows,” Subegei said, and the crowd moved forward, sweeping both Tarbagatai and Gansukh up with it.
Gansukh let the group pass around him, and once the bulk of the men were past, he turned to his right and walked in a straight line, his eyes scanning the ground for the straight shaft of dark arrow.
He didn’t have to walk far. Munokhoi’s arrow was buried in the scrub grass, and only a short span of the shaft and the fletching were visible. Gansukh looked back, tracing the path of the arrow, and gauged from between which two ger Munokhoi had most likely shot the arrow. He stepped purposefully on the shaft, breaking it beneath his boot, and then went to join the others.
The flaps of Gansukh’s ger sagged open like the slack mouth of a dead man, and Gansukh knew what he would find inside. He paused, out of direct line with the opening, and looked around once more, checking for any out of the ordinary movement.
He had seen no sign of Munokhoi since the incident with the arrow at the archery range, but he knew that meant little. The ex-Torguud captain was watching him, stalking him throughout the camp. Waiting for an opportunity to strike with impunity.
The fact that Munokhoi hadn’t openly assaulted him meant the ex-captain was still aware of the consequences of assassinating another Mongol, especially one whose death the Khagan would notice. In some ways, that made him more dangerous.
Satisfied that there was no one watching him, Gansukh approached his ger and cautiously peeked inside. As he suspected, all of his gear was in disarray. Munok
hoi had been here and had taken out his frustrations on Gansukh’s belongings. Gansukh wrinkled his nose as he smelled the acrid stench of urine. Munokhoi had done more than shred his shirts and slash all of his water skins; he had pissed all over everything.
Gansukh sighed, and calmly laced up the flaps on his ger. He had come to Karakorum with nothing more than what fit in a pair of saddlebags on his horse; he could survive being reduced to that again. In some ways, Munokhoi’s wanton destruction was a blessing-a reminder of who he really was. Most of the clothing he had acquired at Karakorum wasn’t all that functional out on the open steppe, and Gansukh felt oddly free of the weight of those belongings.
I am a Mongol clansman. I belong outside-the steppes beneath my feet, Eternal Blue Sky above my head. I want nothing else.
He had his knife, his sword, his bow, and his horse. On the first night of the trip, he had sewn a tiny pocket on the inside of his favorite jacket-a home for the lacquer box and the sprig. At the time he hadn’t given the urge to do so much thought, but now he was glad he had.
He did not understand the importance of the tiny twig, but it had meant something to the shaman and Ogedei. The sprig, in some ways, was the reason the Khagan was taking this trip. Ogedei had told him to hang on to it until the Khagan found himself worthy of it once more. Worthy of what? It didn’t matter; it was Gansukh’s job to keep it safe.
The afternoon shadows were getting long as Gansukh wandered past the fighters’ cages. There were only six men left now, and they all had suffered minor injuries during the last round of bouts for the Khagan’s entertainment. The red-haired giant had lost a chunk out of his left forearm when his opponent had desperately tried to chew his way out of the giant’s crushing bear hug. The one who braided his beard had almost lost an eye.
Gansukh drifted past Haakon’s cage, watching the young man as he calmly and slowly performed a series of exercises that worked the muscles in his upper body. He had stripped off his ragged shirt, and the cut across his chest was red and swollen, but it looked like it wasn’t infected. The bruise on his cheek had turned a sullen purple color.
The Mongoliad: Book Three tfs-3 Page 42