Slaves undressed Zhi Zhong with casual efficiency as he gazed at the two girls waiting to rub his skin with oils in the pool. Silently he congratulated Emperor Wei on his taste. The slave women of the Imperial household would be wasted on his son, at least for a few more years.
Naked, Zhi Zhong lowered himself into the water, enjoying the sense of space in the high-ceilinged room. Water dripped and echoed and he began to relax as the girls soaped his skin with soft brushes. Their touch revived him. After a time, he drew one of them out of the pool, laying her on her back on the cold tiles. Her nipples stiffened in the sudden chill. Only her lower legs remained in the hot water as he took her in silence. She was well trained and her hands writhed across his back as she gasped under the man who ruled the city. Her companion observed the rutting pair with dispassionate interest for a few moments, then resumed soaping his back, pressing her breasts into him so that he groaned in pleasure. Without opening his eyes, Zhi Zhong reached for her hand, guiding it down to where the bodies met so that she could feel him enter her companion. She clung to him with professional skill and he smiled, his mind growing calm even as his body tensed and jerked. There were compensations in ruling Yenking.
Three nights after the destruction of the Mongol catapults, two men slipped unseen down the walls of Yenking, dropping the last few feet without a sound. The ropes disappeared above their heads, pulled up by the lord regent’s guards.
In the darkness, one of the men glanced at the other, controlling his nervousness. He did not like the company of the assassin and would be pleased when their paths diverged. His own mission was one he had undertaken before for Emperor Wei, and he relished the prospect of stealing among the Chin recruits who labored so tirelessly for the Mongol khan. To a man, the traitors deserved death, but he would smile at them and work just as hard as they while he gathered information. In his own way, he knew his contribution would be as valuable as that of any of the soldiers on the walls. The lord regent needed every scrap of information about the tribes, and the spy did not underestimate his own importance.
He had not learned the name of the assassin, perhaps as well protected as his own. Though they had stood together inside the wall, the dark-clothed man had not spoken a word. The spy had not been able to resist watching as the man checked his weapons, tying and securing the small blades of his trade as they waited. No doubt Zhi Zhong had paid a fortune in gold for the service, one that would almost certainly mean death for the assassin himself.
It was strange to crouch next to a man who expected to die that night, yet showed no sign of fear. The spy shuddered delicately. He would not want to exchange places and could hardly understand the way such a man must think. What devotion could inspire such fanatical loyalty? As dangerous as his own missions had been in the past, he had always hoped to make it back to his masters, to his home.
In his dark cloth, the assassin was little more than a shadow. His companion knew that he would not reply even if he dared to whisper a question to him. The man was focused, his life bought. He would not allow distraction. In utter silence, they stepped into a small wooden boat and used a pole to cross the black moat. A rope trailed from it to the other side for it to be pulled back and hidden, or sunk. There would be no trace of the men to cause suspicion in daylight.
On the far side, both men crouched as they heard a jingle of harness. The Mongol scouts were efficient, but they could not see into every pool of darkness and they watched for a show of force, not two men waiting to walk stealthily into their camp. The spy knew where the Chin recruits had pitched their gers, mimicking the homes of their new masters without shame. There was a chance that they would discover him and then he too would be killed, but that was a risk weighed against his skill and he did not let the thought disturb him. He glanced again at the assassin and this time he saw the man’s head turn toward him. He looked away, embarrassed. All his life, he had heard of the cult, men who trained every waking hour to bring death. They had no honor as soldiers understood honor. The spy had played the part of a soldier enough times to know the creed, and he felt a twinge of disgust at the thought of a man who lived only to kill. He had seen the vials of poison the man tucked away and the wire garrote he had looped expertly about his wrist.
It was said the assassins’ victims were their sacrifice to dark gods. Their own death was the ultimate proof of faith and guaranteed them a high place on the wheel of life. The spy shuddered again, disturbed that his work should have brought him into contact with such a destroyer.
The sounds of Mongol scouts died away and the spy jerked in surprise as he felt a light touch on his arm. The assassin pressed a sticky jar into his hand. It stank of rancid mutton fat and the spy could only look at it in confusion.
“Rub it onto your skin,” the assassin murmured. “For the dogs.”
As the spy understood, he looked up, but the black figure was already padding away on noiseless feet, vanishing in the darkness. The spy thanked his ancestors for the gift as he rubbed the muck over his skin. He thought at first that it had been kindness, though it was more likely the assassin did not want the camp roused while he set about his own work. His face flushed in humiliation at the thought. Let there be no other surprises that night.
When he had composed himself, he stood and trotted through the darkness, heading to a destination he had marked while there was still light. Without his grim companion, he felt his confidence begin to return. In a little while, he would be among the Chin recruits, chatting and talking as if he had known them for years. He had done it before, when the emperor suspected the loyalty of a provincial governor. He put aside the thought, realizing that he must be in place before the assassin struck or he could be caught and questioned. He strolled into the sleeping camp, calling a greeting to a Mongol warrior as the man came out to urinate in the night. The man responded sleepily in his own grunting language without expecting to be understood. A dog raised its head as he passed, but only growled softly as it caught his scent. The spy smiled, unseen in the darkness. He was in.
The assassin approached the great ger of the khan, moving through the dark camp like a wraith. The Mongol leader was a fool to reveal his location to everyone on the walls of Yenking. It was the sort of mistake a man made only once, when he knew nothing of the Black Tong. The assassin did not know if the Mongols would go back to their mountains and plains when the khan died. He did not care. He had been given a scroll tied in black silk ribbon in a formal ceremony by his master, pledging his life in a blood bond. No matter what happened, he would not return to his brothers. If he failed, he would take his own life rather than be captured and perhaps reveal the secrets of his order. The corners of his mouth tightened in dark amusement. He would not fail. The Mongols were sheepherders: good with a bow, but like children against a man of his training. There was little honor in being chosen even to kill a khan of these stinking tribesmen, but he gave no thought to that. His honor came from obedience and a perfect death.
He was not seen as he reached the great ger on its cart, shining whitely in the darkness. It loomed above him as he crept around it, looking for guards. There were two men nearby. He could hear them breathe as they stood in bored stillness, waiting for others to relieve them. From the walls of Yenking, it had been impossible to discern details, and he did not know how often they were replaced in the night. He would have to act quickly once he had brought death to that place.
Standing in perfect stillness, the assassin watched as one of the men moved away and took a tour around the khan’s ger. The warrior was not alert and by the time he sensed someone standing in the shadows, it was too late. The guard felt something whip round his neck and slice into his throat, cutting off his cry. A sigh of bloody air came from his lungs and the other guard called a whispered question, not yet alarmed. The assassin lowered the first and edged to the corner of the cart, taking the second quickly as he came around. He too died without a sound and the assassin left him where he fell, crossing quickly to the steps
that led upwards. He was a small man and they barely creaked under his weight.
In the blackness within, he could hear the slow breaths of a man deep in sleep. The assassin crept lightly across the floor. In perfect balance, he reached the sleeping figure and crouched by the low bed. They were alone. He drew a sharp blade, its metal blackened with oily soot so that it would not shine.
He pressed one hand down on the source of the breath, finding the mouth. As the sleeper jerked, he brought the knife quickly across the throat. A moan was cut off as quickly as it had begun and the spasming body fell still. The assassin waited until silence had returned, breathing shallowly against the stench of opening bowels. In the blackness, he could not see the face of the one he had killed, and he used his fingers to trace the features, a frown creasing his brow. The man did not smell like the warriors outside. His hands quivered slightly as they explored the open mouth and the eyes, moving up to the hair.
The assassin cursed to himself as he fingered the oiled braid of one of his own people. It could only have been a servant, one who deserved death by the rope for aiding the Mongols with his service. The assassin sat back on his heels as he considered what to do. The khan would surely be close, he thought. There were a number of gers clustered around the largest. One of them would contain the man he sought. The assassin composed himself, reciting a mantra from his training that brought instant calm. He had not yet earned the right to die.
CHAPTER 27
THE ASSASSIN COULD HEAR BREATHING as he entered another ger. The darkness was absolute, but he shut his eyes and concentrated on the sounds. There were five sleepers in that small space, all unaware of the man standing over them. Four breathed shallowly and he grimaced to himself. Children. The other sleeper was probably their mother, though he could not be certain without a light. A single spark from a flint and steel would be enough, but it was a risk. If they woke, he would not be able to kill them all before they cried out. He made the decision swiftly.
One quick strike brought a flash of light in the ger, enough to show five sleeping bodies. None of them was large enough to be a grown man. Where was the khan? The assassin turned to leave, aware of time running out. It could not be much longer before the dead guards were discovered. When they were found, the peaceful night would be shattered.
One of the sleeping children snorted in his sleep, the rhythms changing. The assassin froze. He waited an age until the long breaths resumed, then stepped lightly to the ger door. He had greased the hinges and it opened without a sound.
He straightened as he pulled the door closed behind him, turning his head slowly to choose the next ger. With the exception of the impudent black tent facing the city and the one on the cart, all the others looked exactly the same.
The assassin heard a sound behind him and his eyes widened as he realized it was an indrawn breath, the sort that went before a shout or scream. He was moving even as the sound began, darting away into the deep shadows. He could not understand the words that echoed through the night, but the response was almost immediate. Warriors came stumbling out of every ger in sight, bows and swords ready in their hands.
It was Jochi who had shouted and whose sleep had been interrupted by the silent presence of the man in his home. His three brothers were jerked awake by his yell, and as one they began calling questions into the darkness.
“What is it?” Borte demanded over the noise, throwing back the blankets.
Jochi was already standing in the darkness. “There was someone in here,” he said. “Guards!”
“You will wake the entire camp!” Borte snapped. “It was just a bad dream.”
She could not see his face as he replied, “No. I saw him.”
Chagatai rose to stand beside his brother. Alarm horns sounded in the distance and Borte cursed under her breath.
“Pray you are right, Jochi, or your father will have the skin off your back.”
Jochi threw open the door and stepped out without bothering to reply. Warriors were swarming around the gers, searching for an intruder before they even knew there was one. He swallowed painfully, hoping he had not dreamed the figure.
Chagatai came out with him, bare-chested and with only leggings to keep out the cold. There was a little starlight outside, but all was confusion and twice men grabbed them only to loosen a fierce grip when they were recognized.
Jochi saw his father come striding through the gers, his sword drawn, but held loosely in one hand.
“What is happening?” he said. His gaze fastened on Jochi, seeing his nervousness. The boy quailed under the flat stare, suddenly convinced that he had roused them all for nothing. Nonetheless, he brazened it out, refusing to be shamed in front of his father.
“There was a man in the ger. I woke and saw him as he opened the door to leave.”
Genghis snorted, but before he could reply, fresh voices called through the night.
“Dead men here!”
Genghis lost interest in his sons, snarling aloud at the thought of an enemy loose in the camp.
“Find him!” he bellowed. He saw Kachiun coming at a run, a long blade in his hands. Khasar was not far behind and the three brothers stood together as they tried to make sense of the chaos.
“Tell me,” Kachiun said as he came to a halt, his face still puffy from sleep.
Genghis shrugged, tense as a bowstring himself. “Jochi saw a man in his ger and there are dead guards. Someone is among us and I want him found.”
“Genghis!”
He heard Borte call his name and turned to her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark shadow jerk into movement at the name.
Genghis spun and had a glimpse of the assassin leaping at him. He swung his sword and the man twisted aside, coming up from a tumbler’s roll with knives in his hands. Genghis saw he would throw them before he could strike again, and he jumped at the dark figure, hammering him off his feet. A spark of pain touched his throat and then his brothers were stabbing at the assassin, jamming their blades in with such force that they sank into the ground beneath. The man did not cry out.
Genghis tried to scramble up, but the world swam lazily and his vision was strangely blurred.
“I’m cut . . .” he said dazedly, falling to his knees. He could hear the assassin’s feet drumming on the ground as his brothers dropped their knees onto his chest, smashing his ribs. Genghis raised a hand to his neck and blinked at bloody fingers. The hand was terribly heavy and he slumped backwards onto the dry earth, still confused.
He saw the face of Jelme loom above him, moving slowly. Genghis stared upwards, unable to hear what he was saying. He saw Jelme reach down and yank cloth away from the wound in his neck. When he spoke again, the voice seemed to boom in Genghis’s ears, almost drowning out the rushing whispers that deafened him. Jelme picked up the assassin’s knife and cursed at the dark stain along the edge.
“The blade is poisoned,” Jelme said, his own fear reflected in Kachiun and Khasar as they stood dumbstruck over their brother. The general did not speak again, instead lowering his mouth to Genghis’s neck and sucking on the flow of blood. It was hot and bitter, making him gag as he spat it to one side. He did not stop, though Genghis’s hands slapped weakly at his face whenever he pulled away, all strength gone.
Jelme could hear the younger sons of the khan wailing in distress as they saw their father lying close to death. Only Jochi and Chagatai were silent, watching as Jelme spat mouthfuls of blood until the front of his deel was covered in a dark slick.
Kokchu pressed through the crowd, pausing in shock as he saw his khan on the ground. He knelt at Jelme’s side and ran his hands over Genghis’s chest to feel the heart. It was racing at incredible speed, and for a time, Kokchu could not feel individual beats. Sweat had broken out all over the khan’s body and his skin was flushed and hot to the touch.
Jelme sucked and spat and the blood flowed. The general could feel his own lips growing numb and he wondered if the poison would enter him. It did not matter. He th
ought of it as if he watched someone else. Blood dribbled from his lips as he gasped between each attempt.
“You must not take too much blood,” Kokchu warned him, still with his bony hands on the chest. “Or he will be too weak to resist whatever poison remains.” Jelme looked at him with glassy eyes before nodding and dipping his face to the searing skin once more. His own cheeks were flushed from contact with such heat, and he went on because to stop was to watch his khan die.
Kokchu felt the racing heart jolt and he feared it might stop under his hands. He needed the man who had won him such respect among the tribes, especially now that Temuge had abandoned him. Kokchu began to pray aloud, summoning the spirits by their ancient names. He called on the line of Genghis himself in a torrent of sound. Yesugei he called, even Bekter, the brother Genghis had killed. He needed them all to keep the khan from their realm. Kokchu could feel them gather as he chanted their names, pressing in on him so that his ears filled with whispers.
The heart jolted again and Genghis gasped aloud, his open eyes staring blindly. Kokchu felt the fluttering pulse settle, suddenly slowing as if a door had shut inside. He shivered in the cold, thinking that for a few moments, he had held the future of the tribes in his hands.
“Enough now, his heart is stronger,” he said hoarsely. Jelme sat back. As he would have done with a gashed horse, the general made a paste of dust and spit and pressed it over the wound. Kokchu leaned over to observe the process, relieved to see the blood slow to a trickle. None of the major veins had been cut and he began to rejoice at the thought that Genghis might still live.
Once more Kokchu began to pray aloud, forcing the spirits of the dead to attend the man who had formed a nation. They would not want such a man with them while he took their people onwards. He knew it with a certainty that frightened him. The tribesmen watched in awe as Kokchu ran his hands over the supine form, gathering invisible strands as if his trailing fingers wrapped the khan in a web of spirits and faith.
The Khan Series 5-Book Bundle: Genghis: Birth of an Empire, Genghis: Bones of the Hills, Genghis: Lords of the Bow, Khan: Empire of Silver, Conqueror Page 76