The Bird and the Blade

by Megan Bannen

  Timur strokes his mustache and lets his hand fall down the length of his beard.

  “Where will you go once you have rested here?” asks Abbas. “Although, of course, you may stay as long as you like.”

  “You are very good.” Timur dabs at his mouth with a napkin, an incongruously delicate gesture. “We may head west toward the Bulgarian kingdom. We’ll have to sell our slave, of course, although I don’t think she’ll bring enough to buy a horse, much less two.”

  “You wish to sell your slave?”

  “Yes. Would you happen to know of a trader nearby who might wish to take her off our hands?”

  I can’t believe how casually two men can discuss the selling of me when I’m standing right here. The other slaves stare at me and shuffle their feet uncomfortably. I grasp a tray until my knuckles turn white, and I try not to cry.

  “I wouldn’t sell her just yet,” advises Abbas, halting my panic.

  Please, I beg the universe.

  “You think we should hang on to her?” Timur asks.

  “I’ll supply you as best I can—”

  “You are too generous. I could not accept so much.”

  “I am happy to do it,” Abbas assures him. “Hang on to your slave. You may have need of more funds down the road, and you can sell her then. What possessed you to bring a female slave with you to begin with?”

  “I didn’t bring the slave.”

  “Ah.” Abbas grins. “Your son is young yet. All the better to keep her with you, then, if he has a use for her.”

  A “use” for me? If the man hadn’t just saved my life, I’d shake him till his teeth rattled. As it is, Timur nods his reluctant assent, and I can’t believe my luck. I’ve won this volley, and I give him a smug look when our host isn’t paying attention.

  After a moment, Abbas says, “It’s a sad circumstance that brings you here, sir, but I’m glad of the company.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality. When our goods are restored to us, I won’t forget you, sir.” It’s amazing how civilized Timur sounds when he puts his mind to it.

  Abbas inclines his head graciously. “Sadly, you are not alone in your misfortunes these days. As your son said, the khan of the Kipchak Khanate has had to flee his own country. His pursuers are relentless. They look for him throughout the Mongol lands, even as far as Mosul.” The man locks eyes with Timur. “Even here.”

  Oh. That is bad. That is very, very bad.

  “I see,” Timur says carefully. His body tenses the way it did when Abbas first found us under the tree outside town.

  “The reports say that all his sons are dead. All of them,” Abbas emphasizes. “Can you imagine?”

  “That is a grave misfortune, indeed.”

  Abbas nods gravely. “Hulegu Il-Khan is a vindictive little upstart, and his sacking of Baghdad is unforgivable, as is his attack of the Kipchak Khanate. If the Great Khan is dying, as rumor has it, this move against the Kipchaks bodes ill for us all, especially now that the il-khan has troops lined up near Constantinople to stop Timur Khan from seeking asylum across the border of the Il-Khanate. I tell you, if Timur were yet living, I’d tell him to cross the Oxus River to the east and seek asylum with his cousin Qaidu in the Chagatai Khanate. The free Mongols are hardly high society, to be sure, but they owe allegiance to no one but themselves, not even the Great Khan.”

  The man’s tone is light and chatty, but the meaning is clear. Our escape route west has just been cut off, which means we now must head in the opposite direction.

  And the opposite direction is going to take me closer to home. I have to clamp my lips to hide the unseemly grin that wants to spread across my face.

  Timur’s tension eases. “I’m sure Timur Khan would gladly receive your counsel, sir,” he says. “You are very wise.”

  Abbas’s smile thins.

  “I don’t know about that. Timur is a direct descendant of Genghis Khan, and I have no love for the Mongols, if you’ll forgive my saying so.” Abbas smiles fondly at Khalaf, who is now drooling on the carpet. “But his heirs—or one of them, at least—showed great promise.”

  11

  ABBAS HAS ARRANGED FOR OUR TRANSPORT to the Chagatai Khanate with a camel trader whom he finances, a man named Mazdak. We meet up with him at the Shah Abbasi Caravanserai in Ray, a city to the south of Rasht that sits on the trade routes running between the Yuan and the rest of the Il-Khanate. It’s a logical place to begin our journey, since the caravanserai provides lodging for all the traders coming and going through the city. But the bazaar is set up just outside, and it’s all so very public. Anyone could spot Timur and his son here, especially since they’re bickering with each other. They stand side by side, facing forward, each inclining his head toward the other as he speaks.

  “Did you know the Great Khan was dying?” Khalaf asks his father in a low voice.

  “I do now.”

  I play the good slave and stand behind them as befits my station. I can hear every word, clear as a bell.

  “What about four months ago, when you and your sons made a plan to fight the Il-Khanids? Did you know then?” Khalaf presses.

  “Would it have changed anything if I did?”

  “Is that a yes?”

  Timur turns his head to face his son. “No, it isn’t. And I don’t like your tone.”

  “Is there anything else you haven’t shared with me?” Khalaf asks, his face still turned away from his father, his tone frosty. But that’s when Abbas arrives with Mazdak to make the introductions, and the conversation comes to an abrupt end.

  The trip between Rasht and Amul, where we will cross the Oxus River into the Chagatai Khanate, will run anywhere from six to eight weeks, depending on the weather and how often we stop to sell and trade. For the most part, it’s a day’s journey between caravanserais, but there are times when we’ll have to sleep under the stars, especially in the desert. I’m not really looking forward to that. Even though it’s spring, the temperatures are sure to be frigid once the sun goes down despite the daytime heat.

  We walk on foot beside the camels—the stinking, obnoxious beasts I have already come to loathe—as Mazdak leads us south toward our first stop, the Dayr-i gachīn Caravanserai. We’re not an hour on the road when Khalaf comes over to walk beside me. We move in silence, which is good, since I don’t want to talk to him.

  “You’re mad at me,” he says at last.

  What can I say to that? I am mad at him. And yes, I’m aware that makes me a hypocrite.

  “You have every right to that anger,” he goes on, “so please believe me when I say that we are not going to sell you. We owe you our lives, and we need every friend we can get. You may live under our protection—however little that may be worth—for as long as you please. This is my promise to you. I will never go back on that promise. Do you understand?”

  No niceties. No preface. He cuts right to the chase, a paragon of sincerity and honesty with eyes that make me want to either crawl under a rock or burst into song. In a way, it was easier to be angry with him. This? I have no idea what to do with this. The only thing I can manage to do in response is nod.

  “Good,” he says. “Thank you.”

  Thank you. Who tells a slave Thank you? His kindness makes everything so incredibly difficult. Not that I believe he’ll be able to override his father on this point, but it’s a nice gesture. At least I can rest easy in the fact that Timur won’t try to sell me before we cross the border into the Chagatai Khanate—if we make it that far—and in the meantime, I can get three thousand lĭ closer to home under Khalaf’s protection, maybe even nearer. I just need to figure out exactly where and when to cut and run after that.

  Because I definitely can’t follow Khalaf all the way to Khanbalik—if that is, in fact, his ultimate goal as I suspect. He was as hopeful as a puppy with the promise of table scraps when Mustapha mentioned Turandokht’s riddles back in Rasht. For now, ostensibly, we’re heading first south and then east in search of an old ally named Qaidu, b
ut since I’m a little fuzzy on the details, I decide to ask for more clarification.

  “My lord?” I say, but he’s looking behind us again to make sure we’re not being followed. It must be contagious, because I look, too. While we may not be able to see our enemies, I know that Hulegu Il-Khan moves somewhere behind us, and Turandokht Khatun waits before us, and here’s little, insignificant me, slowly squeezed between the two like a pressed flower.

  “Who exactly is Qaidu?” I ask him when he turns back to me.

  He glances behind us one more time for good measure before answering. “Qaidu is the grandson of Ogodei, Genghis Khan’s third son, the one who was elected Great Khan when Genghis passed. When the coup happened, Qaidu fled to the Chagatai Khanate, and he’s been staging regular attacks against the Great Khan ever since. My father was more than happy to assist him in carving out a chunk of the Chagatai Khanate for himself. They’re old allies, my father and Qaidu. The Kipchaks supported Qaidu when he needed it most. We’re hoping that he’ll return the favor.”

  My mind is still trying to sort out the complexities of the Mongols’ family tree when Khalaf changes the subject. “That song you sang in the Caucasus, ‘Mòlìhuā.’ Your name is in the lyrics.”

  “It is?” My mind runs through the verse trying to scrounge up my name, which is most certainly not there.

  “Mòlìhuā,” he says. “And your name is Jìnghuā. It’s the same word, right?”

  “Oh, my name is pronounced ‘Jīnghuá,’ my lord,” I correct him.

  “And that’s not what I’m saying?” He looks a little embarrassed, which is frustratingly endearing.

  “I’m afraid not, my lord,” I admit.

  “What am I saying?”

  “You tend to call me ‘jìnghuā.’”

  He cringes apologetically. “I have a hard time hearing the difference. Is what I’m saying bad?”

  “It’s not bad. It means something like ‘quiet flower’ when you say it.” For a moment, I’m tempted to tell him that my name actually means “illustrious capital city,” but I imagine it would seem like a strange name for a humble slave girl, so I keep it to myself.

  “Quiet flower,” he repeats in Mongolian, mulling it over. “That seems appropriate.”

  He smiles that small smile that got me into so much trouble in the first place. A pathetically stupid giggle escapes my throat, and I have to fight the urge to slap a hand over my mouth.

  “Does ‘huā’ mean ‘flower,’ then?” he asks.

  “It does.”

  “So ‘mòlì’ means ‘jasmine’?”

  “Yes, my lord.” I’m oddly pleased that he figured this out. “Mòlìhuā. Jasmine flower.”

  “I am now a student of Hanyu, it would seem. How do you greet someone in Hanyu?”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “We’re heading east, aren’t we? Who knows how far we’ll go?”

  “And you want to learn Hanyu?”

  “I want to learn lots of things.” He makes an expansive gesture with his arm, indicating the whole world. “At the moment, I’d like to learn how to greet someone in Hanyu.”

  He can play off this urge to learn Hanyu as casually as he likes. I’m on to him. He’s thinking about what the slave Mustapha said back in Rasht. He’s thinking about going to the Yuan, to Khanbalik. He’s thinking he’s smart enough to face Turandokht’s riddles.

  And, really, why shouldn’t he go to Khanbalik? He’s the one person in the world who could answer Turandokht’s riddles, isn’t he? That makes him more than a boy, more than a prince. That makes him a weapon. In a way, he’s my weapon, and I take some satisfaction out of that.

  “Greeting someone in Hanyu is complex,” I explain. “It depends on the person, on the relationship.”

  “Well, how would I greet you?”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Which only goes to show how little you know about me. Fine, then, how would you greet me?”

  “Cān jiàn Diànxià.”

  He tries to repeat the phrase, but he botches the intonations. It sounds like he’s saying, “bashful silkworm, Prince.” I laugh another fluttering, stupid laugh, which quickly disappears when I consider how fluttering and stupid I sound. I remind myself to guard my feelings, but his eyes are shining, and how can I guard myself against that? I may as well sail the ocean on a river gondola. I’m going to drown in this boy.

  “Cān jiàn Diànxià,” I correct him, and he repeats it far more successfully this time. I nod with approval.

  “Is that how you would greet a friend?”

  “No.”

  “How would you greet a friend, then?”

  “Hăo jiŭ bú jiàn, xiōngtái,” I tell him. I have to walk him through the intonations several times before he finally gets it.

  “Hăo jiŭ bú jiàn, xiōngtái,” he says, almost perfectly. “How was that?”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  “Hăo jiŭ bú jiàn, xiōngtái.” He smiles again, wider, dimple and all, and I know that it’s me he’s greeting as a friend, even if he has no idea that he’s calling me something along the lines of “brother.”

  Oh, Jinghua, I think, my unguarded heart singing in my chest, how on earth did you manage to get yourself into such a mess?

  Dayr-i gachīn Caravanserai is a huge brick structure built in a square with a circular tower at each corner and a semicircular tower on each side of the south-facing entrance. The white gypsum roof glows brightly in the fading light of dusk. Inside, there’s a mill, a bathhouse, large kitchens, and a mosque. The well at the center of the courtyard is salty, but there are two cisterns that collect rainwater for drinking.

  When we stable the camels, I notice low, raised platforms built into the wall, presumably for sleeping. For one depressing moment, I assume that I’ll have to camp out here for the night with the spitting, biting, stubborn camels, but it turns out Mazdak prefers to stay close to his inventory, and I get to sleep in the vaulted antechamber of our room. Not too shabby.

  I lie on the floor, wrapped in a warm blanket furnished by Abbas, and consider how my fortunes have changed. A week ago, I was recovering from starvation and dehydration. Now I’m heading east toward the Yuan in the company of, maybe, the nicest person I’ve ever met. Granted, his father wants to sell me somewhere along the way, and Hulegu Il-Khan might catch us yet. Even so, I can’t help but feel hopeful for the first time since we fled Sarai. Maybe I didn’t mess everything up. Maybe the decisions I’ve made are solid.

  Maybe I can go home.

  That night, I dream my way back to Lin’an. I’m standing at the window in the women’s quarters that gives the best view of the West Lake. It’s late morning, and the fine mist that cloaks the Six Harmonies Pagoda begins to dissipate. The scene looks like a painting, a work of art come to life. I hum under my breath, free of all cares.

  A harsh voice calls my name and rends my peace in two.

  Jinghua.

  One moment I was alone, and the next, Weiji stands beside me. His wound is rotting in mottled shades of black, green, and white. His eyes have been picked clean by carrion birds, leaving nothing but empty sockets. The stench of his putrid flesh shreds the floral scent of the air, filling my lungs with my brother’s decay.

  I wouldn’t get my hopes up too high if I were you, he tells me, his mouth a cavernous black void that expands farther and farther until I fall into it.

  Timur and Khalaf have decided to hide in plain sight by masquerading as a pair of traders, selling Abbas’s wares in the market of each town along the way. What’s hilarious is how well Timur takes to the merchant’s life. The man is a born salesman.

  “Feel the weave on this,” he tells a veiled, chaperoned woman two days outside Ray. “I have it on good authority that the prince of Mosul clothes his own daughter in this very same muslin.”

  “Hold it up to the light,” he instructs a man looking at glassware. “Not a single imperfection. The glassblower’s hands are truly a gift from God.”
/>   Not that Timur gives a rat’s ass for his customer’s god, but the sucker pays too much for the glass anyway.

  When Khalaf gives a discount to an old widow in Damghan, Timur lectures him. “No, no, no. You let that lady run all over you. When they start getting shirty, just walk away. They’ll practically beg you to take their money at that point.”

  “You know this is just a cover, right?” Khalaf says to his father under his breath.

  “Why bother doing anything if you’re not going to do it well?”

  Khalaf raises his eyebrows in amusement. “That almost sounds like wisdom.”

  “That’s because it is. Watch and learn. There’s not much difference between being a salesman and being a khan.”

  Timur is so good at selling from caravanserai to caravanserai, no one seems to notice that what he’s actually doing is hiding.

  At first, Khalaf glances over his shoulder every five minutes while we’re on the road, expecting Hulegu Il-Khan to come riding up behind us at any moment, but as the days stretch on with no sign of the Il-Khanids on our tails, and as the landscape changes from the sultry green on one side of the Alborz Mountains to the barren scrub on the other, Khalaf peers behind us less and less. I wonder if we’re rightfully hopeful or simply waiting to fail. We have so much time to fill with waiting or hoping. Hours of it. Days of it. Weeks of it.

  The deserts and mountains connecting the network of oasis towns comprise our classroom. The lessons begin simply.

  “How do you say ‘sun’ in Hanyu?” Khalaf asks me in the beginning.

  “How do you say ‘bird’?”

  “How do you say ‘mountain’?”

  Hours. Days. Weeks. He learns as we travel from Sabzevar to Nishapur to Merv, piecing together words and phrases like a child stringing fat wooden beads on thick twine.

  Khalaf takes off his turban in the afternoon heat, pulling his sleek hair in a knot behind his head. He has traded in the green silk Abbas gave him for a plain, woven, mustard-colored tunic and black jacket.

  “How do you say ‘I’m so hot that I have sweated off half my body weight’?” he jokes as he takes off the jacket, but now I’m thinking rather shamelessly of how his tunic clings to his sweat-dampened torso, which grows harder and leaner with each passing day. I don’t even try to turn off that train of thought anymore. Just because I think it doesn’t mean he has to know I think it.