The foreign commanders were grouped around a table and easels with maps on them, itself shielded from the wind by fabric screens on poles. He recognized the Japanese from descriptions, but saw with surprise that their self-evident ruler was a young woman. You could tell the bubble of deference through your skin if you’d grown up with courts, and it was even less likely that she’d be a general or something of that order, considering that the armed followers with her were all men and included a scarred middle-aged obvious commander with a curved blade in place of his left hand.
So. A monarch, or someone else of very high hereditary rank.
A moment later he saw that the foreign leader . . .
The Mon-ti-vallan leader, he reminded himself, mentally pronouncing it for practice sake; if he spelled it out in his head he could see that it said something about mountains and valleys.
. . . was also female and about his own age. It took a moment or two to be sure of her sex, longer than it had with the Japanese woman.
Because she was towering, easily three inches taller than he, and wearing trousers tucked into boots and a long padded jacket with leather laces here and there that was obviously intended to be worn under armor, with the expected smells of old cold sweat and oil. Her braided hair was grain-yellow with hints of a fire color, and her eyes were bright blue; the face was blade-thin, and at first glance harshly ugly, a cruel eagle-like caricature of a human being. Then he saw it was regular and quite handsome, even beautiful in a strange way, simply so in a manner very different from what he was used to. Even his own mother had been normally stocky and snub-nosed, though pale and taller than average.
Their eyes met, and he felt a slight shock. They stayed locked for a moment and then he looked down, feeling slightly winded.
Crossed belts of tooled leather at her waist held the things you’d expect, a dagger and pouches . . . and a long straight double-edged sword. Apart from the alien form and the superlative workmanship—the pommel was some sort of strange jewel the size of a chukar’s egg that almost seemed to glow on its own in the lamplight—there was something about it that made his eyes prickle. If you looked into the moon-colored jewel, distances seemed to open. Each beyond the other, deeper and deeper. And deeper, like the patterns you saw in the clouds, and deeper, until a tune hummed in your head. . . .
He wrenched his vison away. Then his eyes flicked back to the Japanese ruler. Her sword was a katana, a form he knew about even if he hadn’t seen it often. The sheath was lacquered black . . . but there were specks of golden light in it, and they were moving. Like golden stars in the deepness of a night sky, but in motion. He had the same prickling feeling from looking at it. Or not, though it was similar and similarly uncanny; it was hotter, somehow. Threatening, but in an impersonal way.
Like watching an idugan working a summoning, he thought, his eyes going wide. He pulled his eyes away from that, too.
All three of the Mongols bowed; Gansükh adjusted his to be deeper than the two children of the Khan, though the degree made him scowl.
No, not born to ride a diplomat’s saddle, Dzhambul thought.
Then Dzhambul spoke in slow Russian, as he remembered it from his mother. She had taught her children off and on, if only to have someone she could speak to in her own tongue, but she had died when he and Börte were in their mid-teens and he hadn’t had much occasion to use it since.
“Does anyone here speak this language?”
“I do,” the Montivallan leader said.
Then she shifted into his own:
“But wouldn’t you rather that we spoke Mongol? We are closer to your home than to mine . . . or to Russia, for that matter.”
All three of them simply stared for a moment, astonished; he felt his own mind slip and gibber, Gansükh swore under his breath, and if you knew her well you could tell Börte only just managed to smother a startled laugh. The Montivallan Queen spoke Mongol. She spoke very good Mongol, without any accent that he could detect.
Dzhambul drew a breath. When he spoke it was proudly. These people had great power at their backs, but so did he . . . even if it was a little farther behind his back right now, while they could rest their shoulders against their backing.
“I am Prince Dzhambul son of Qutughtu, Qutughtu Kha-Khan of all the Yeke Mongghol Ulus; of the clan of the Borjigin, descendant of the Ancestor, Temujin, Genghis Khan, who was by the blessing of the Tengri ruler of all that lay beneath the Eternal Blue Sky. This is my sister, the Princess Börte; and our trusted commander Gansükh son of Tömörbaatar.”
The yellow-haired woman smiled and inclined her head rather than bowing; which was fair enough, she was a sovereign and he wasn’t. And a sovereign with a large army around her, a fleet behind her, and the ruler of Japan beside her.
“And I am Órlaith Arminger Mackenzie, High Queen of Montival and all its realms, heir of House Artos, and my totem is the Golden Eagle. This is my ally, the Tennō Heika of Dai-Nippon, the Empress of Victorious Peace. It appears we have a common enemy, Prince Dzhambul.”
She must have seen his surprise that she demanded no proof. Dropping her left palm to the hilt of the strange sword she said:
“I know you’re speaking the truth. Except that your officer . . . who I have no doubt is a strong axe against your enemies and a true iron hero, and well-trusted . . .”
Those were plays on Gansükh’s name, and that of his father Tömörbaatar. Dzhambul blinked again. It was one thing to know a language, and another to be able to easily and diplomatically jest in it.
“. . . is not your supreme commander, is he? As you . . . perhaps . . . meant to imply.”
“Commander of a hundred,” Dzhambul corrected himself. “We were on a scouting mission and became separated from our forces. Our main army is . . . to the north.”
This time she grinned . . . and was that the shadow of a wink?
“Quite a few miles to the north, eh?”
He was startled into a nod, and she returned the gesture and went on:
“Come, let’s talk. Briefly for now, then at length tomorrow. I can tell that you’ve been doing some hard traveling, descendant of the Universal Khan.”
* * *
• • •
“Well,” Dzhambul said considerably later, as the Mongol leaders sat around a fire.
It will not do to say that the Montivallan Queen is like a heroine from an ancient tale, he thought. I must be more practical.
The rest of the Mongol party was grilling mutton and organ meat from the sheep they’d been given on skewers, toasting barley, and drinking from skins of airag, which the late Red Wolf had evidently taught his adopted people to make, and with which the Lakota contingent in this army was plentifully supplied. The Montivallans had politely furnished food, fuel and fodder and plenty of space to let the Mongols talk among themselves.
Most of the troop settled for stolidly stuffing themselves to bursting, after week upon week of stinted rations of raw horsemeat, and then falling deeply asleep in relief . . . after week upon week of rest snatched while standing guard. Mongols learned to take what was available when it was, because soon enough it wouldn’t be, whether in war or riding herd in a blizzard.
Though after a while giggles and other sounds from convenient shadowed places showed other priorities for some.
“The Montivallan Queen is like a heroine from an ancient tale,” Börte said.
Stoic discipline kept Dzhambul from laughing out loud—that and a desire not to offend his sister, and the thought of explaining that he was laughing at himself. Instead the three leaders stared blankly into the blaze for several minutes before Dzhambul went on:
“Well, well.”
Gansükh shivered, something that Dzhambul sympathized with profoundly.
“Ancient tale? Ancient tale with magical powers! Ten thousand devil-spirits! How are we going to deal with people we can
’t lie to?” he said plaintively.
Börte laughed, but there was a quaver in it. “I suppose we’ll have to tell the truth,” she said.
At Gansükh’s threatened explosion she went on: “Or we can simply refuse to discuss some matters.”
He snorted. “Princess, refusing to answer a question is also an answer! Not as good as the full details, but still very good! We can’t even hide what we believe of what they tell us!”
Dzhambul made a chopping gesture. “You are both right. And we will not quarrel with each other!”
After a moment they both bowed their heads. He took a skewer from the fire and bit into the meat, clearing his mind and enjoying the crispy taste of the fat at the edge of the lump. He had been hungry for a long time, and he could feel the meat and juices giving him back strength; it was cold enough that the morsel steamed as he fastened his teeth in it. Roasting was a bit wasteful, but he really preferred the taste to boiled mutton.
“We certainly found something worth being away from the main army for so long,” he said after he swallowed. “Even my uncle won’t be able to complain.”
All three of them laughed at the understatement. The three leaders were passing a skin after they ate, but slowly; not that you could really get drunk on fermented mare’s milk without a lot of time and effort, since the alcohol content was below two parts in a hundred, usually well below. Even rice wine was like vodka by comparison. The main reason to ferment the stuff was to make it more digestible, since raw mare’s milk was a laxative for most people, and to improve the keeping qualities. This was a good skin, dry and slightly tart. Red Wolf had taught his hosts well; they made ger of the Mongol style to live in too, apparently, and their country was much like the homeland north of the Gobi.
“Toktamish will most certainly complain,” Börte said. “He’d complain about it if we brought the Ancestor back to fight with us, unless he could get all the credit for it! Toktamish cares about the glory of Toktamish and nothing else. And he will complain about the strangers’ . . . powers . . . as well. Claiming that they league with evil spirits, in order to discredit you and me, brother.”
Dzhambul wondered about the . . . powers . . . himself. He wasn’t a superstitious man, not being the type who couldn’t piss behind a bush without a prayer or a gesture of aversion. Though of course he believed in the Tengri and the Bodhisattvas—the Buddhist side of his people’s inherited religion had been less prominent since the Change—and performed the rites and sacrifices. He certainly believed in the powers of the Miqačin. They were evil powers, of course. And idugan were in touch with things beyond the world of common day as well. Neither helped him much with this.
Gansükh coughed slightly, took another pull, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and elaborately looked up at the stars.
“This is good airag,” he said. “By the way, did you notice that the foreign khatun didn’t just speak Mongol, she spoke perfect Sükhbaatar dialect, like someone from court? Like you, Noyon, and your sister the Princess.”
That was a gentle reminder that he couldn’t get involved with the disputes of the Royal family, especially not when he was a minor officer in an army commanded by the Kha-Khan’s brother but containing two of his children, with no love lost between the two branches. He could be diplomatic, at home among his own folk and in the world he knew.
Dzhambul and Börte looked at each other. “That’s a very acute observation,” he said neutrally. “But then, we’ve seen that you are an intelligent and energetic officer, Zuun-Commander Gansükh, and impeccably loyal.”
Which translated as: yes, we’ll look after you. That would be comforting . . . assuming that the brother and sister could look after themselves. Gansükh was a hard-charging young officer, and probably dreamed of commanding a tümen or more someday. Sharing danger and hardship with the heir would be a straight path to rank, if the heir actually was the heir. Dzhambul certainly didn’t grudge him a dream of success, since he was able and wanted to shine while helping the Mongols to victory and glory.
He glanced at his sister again, and she smiled thinly and nodded. It had occurred to her earlier than it did to him, but if they could produce an alliance with these Montivallans against the man-eaters it would certainly help the realm . . . and it would almost certainly help the children of their mother against their uncle Toktamish. If Toktamish gladly accepted the results it would show that he had the good of the Khanate first in his mind. If he didn’t . . .
Well, that would clarify some of my choices. May my father live long!
One of the disadvantages of being the child of a man with many wives with separate households was that you didn’t see your father much; he’d often envied ordinary men, whose sires were not remote and godlike figures who swept in and departed with no more than a nerve-racking interview. It had probably made him closer to his mother and certainly had given him and Börte a tight bond. And it let him see the man more objectively; he was a competent ruler, if no new Ancestor, and had kept the clans and regions in harmony with one another.
After a spell of silence he took another skewer of meat and blew on it.
“We’ve stumbled across something new and uncanny,” he said after another mouthful. “But we can’t let that daunt us—any more than we let the evil spirits who rule the Miqačin frighten us out of fighting them when they crossed the Yalu to attack our tributary tribes.”
He caught the eyes of both. “We are Mongols. We are descendants of the Ancestor. When we ride to war, our hoofbeats shake the earth. Whatever we find here, we will use.”
Gansükh drew himself up and threw out his chest. “The Noyon wishes!” he said.
“You should be the one to speak with the Montivallan Queen, mostly,” she said thoughtfully.
“Why?” Dzhambul said.
Börte is not shy, nor does she take a step back unless she must, he thought.
“Because you are so brainlessly honest that the power this Sword gives her will not matter much,” she said.
Gansükh coughed and covered his lower face with a hand, turning his eyes aside again. Dzhambul looked ruefully at her.
“How have I survived uncorrupted this long, surrounded by oil-tongued flatterers like you, my sister?”
She threw the bag of airag at his head, and he caught it and drank.
“And besides,” she said sardonically. “You are the handsomest of us. Perhaps you will charm her! You will make her heart flutter with love and she will accept that the Ancestor gave us the right to rule the world!”
Dzhambul chuckled.
Gansükh made a face. “There are things you cannot rightly ask of a man, even for the kingdom and the Kha-Khan,” he said, and shuddered. “Death in battle or by torture, yes . . . but not that. She is hideous!”
Dzhambul laughed again, uneasily. “Yes, I am better fitted for diplomacy—our sturdy warrior here is even more blunt and honest than I.”
“Or a complete idiot,” Börte said. “Pass the skin.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHOSŎN MINJUJUŬI INMIN KONGHWAGUK
(KOREA)
DECEMBER 15TH
CHANGE YEAR 47/2045 AD
“Well, that settles the question of whether they’re going to stand and fight,” Órlaith said tightly, tapping their location on the map with a gloved finger—it was cold enough that their breaths were smoking even inside the big command tent. “They’re not, except for these sacrificial rearguards that protect their withdrawal.”
“It makes sense,” Thurston said. “Since we couldn’t take Pusan or its forts. They may be trying to draw us in, cut us off from our base.”
Reiko nodded thoughtfully. “The forts we have attacked have fallen,” she said. “But the cost is always high.”
Órlaith looked over at Dzhambul. The Mongol prince was looking down at the map, his bluntly handsome face frowning in thought. The
evening light and the overhead lanterns lit his face through the gauze windows of the tent.
Not any sort of a fool, she thought. Quite clever. Straightforward, earnest, but clever. His sister’s twice the politician he’ll ever be, but I think he’d make a good commander. Or a ruler, with her to advise him. For example, right now she’s keeping in the background and absorbing everything the way a piece of hot toast does butter.
Dzhambul’s finger moved on the map. “We’ve come a long way,” he said, tracing the route up from Pusan, past the ruins of Seoul, and farther north. “You’ve dropped off a lot of troops to cover the enemy fortresses.”
Órlaith nodded. “We want to end this war as quickly as we can,” she said. “That means . . . well, when my father fought an enemy ruled by the same . . . force, entity . . . in our own land, destroying its central node, its passage into the world in Montival . . . left the rest to die like the body of a headless snake. He told me once that all the battles and marches were preparations for that, not ends in themselves as they might be in a war that was strictly one of human-kind.”
“You mean, we must kill their ruler?”
“Yes,” she said. “And with the Sword of the Lady—though the Grasscutter would probably do as well. I’m fairly certain he’s like the Prophet of the Church Universal and Triumphant was in Montival. The central . . . channel. Deepened over time; more deeply here, because there has been so much more time.”
“They do not let him be exposed to danger,” Dzhambul said. “He does not lead armies in the field; in fact, our reports are that he virtually never leaves his citadel of Majimag bam-ui geulimja, of which we know little. No living man who’s seen it has ever fallen into our hands . . . and no scout we sent has returned alive.”
Órlaith’s mind absently corrected his terrible mispronunciation of the Korean words, and then she felt a flush of irritation at how automatic that was . . . automatic in a literal sense. The name translated roughly as Fortress of Eternal Night, though her Sword-given knowledge of the modern form of Korean suggested overtones of Peace and Final Rest in the last part of that. Or possibly sacred nonexistence.
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