The Mongoliad: Book One

CHAPTER 22: TO SAVE THE EMPIRE

Gansukh kept his left hand on the pommel of his saddle and stretched his right hand out in front of him. He looked at his hand against the green of the vast grasslands of the Orkhun River Valley. The width of a man’s hand was called an aid, and it was used to measure everything a man could lay his hands on. Out here, he could measure the height of the grass, the depth of his stride, the length of his horse’s shadow, but all of these things were insignificant against the endlessness of the steppe.

The late-summer pasture grasses undulated like water, revealing the capricious pathways of the wind. The sighing sound of the stalks was a song the Blue Wolf had taught him to hear. He could anticipate the gusts and brace himself against the sudden blows that tried to rock him and his horse.

He closed his eyes and stretched both arms out to embrace the wind; bracing against a strong blast, he squeezed his thighs to stay in the saddle. His horse lowered its head and laid back its ears, groaning deep in its chest. The wind carried the scents of men—smoke, meat cooking for an evening meal, the musky scent of sheep, camels, and cattle—olfactory markers of the pervasive spread of the Khagan’s empire. Along with that came an underlying stink of shit from both beast and man, and abattoir offal, that no city could ever hide—and many didn’t try as hard as Karakorum to hide it.

There are no secrets here.

His nose flared again, and he leaned his head back to draw in more of the cool air—finding other wilder and more promising smells. The scent of rain was faint, the tiniest whiff of the oncoming change in the seasons, that time of year when the clans turned south and east.

Ögedei would be leaving Karakorum soon, heading for his winter palace, and while Chagatai Khan had laid no fixed deadline on Gansukh’s task to curb the Khagan’s drinking, he could not escape the feeling that time was running out. Time for what, though? Gansukh had tried to flee that thought since he had visited the Khagan’s chambers, but now, out where no one could see the expression on his face or hear any word that might slip from his lips, he could face it.

What was he supposed to save? The Khagan was a drunk, and the entire court was caught in an inward turning spiral of sycophancy. Was this the pinnacle of the Mongol Empire? Like an arrow fired at the sun, eventually it flies as high as it can and then begins its calamitous plunge back to the ground.

Gansukh’s horse lifted its head and nickered, shifting beneath him, as if to offer an answer to his question. He looked out across the grasslands again. The sun hung like a coal over his left shoulder; he was facing west and north, the same direction he had ridden a few nights ago when he had pursued the thief. Momentarily he indulged in the fantasy of escaping all this decline and misery—by simply kicking his horse into a trot. He would ride west to the Orkhun, and then beyond, across the endless plain to the edge of the empire.

Leaving it all behind before it destroyed him too.

Lian.

What would happen to her? Why did he care? He frowned. She had nothing to do with his duty—other than the pledge that she was going to help him. She was a slave—and a rather demanding one at that. Most of the time, he was sure she was laughing at him, and while he thought of punishing her for her insolence—both imagined and real—he knew it would only prove her point. He would gain nothing by such physical domination, and he was starting to realize he would actually lose something valuable by indulging in such brutish behavior.

An image of the thief’s terrified expression flashed through his head, that last instant before Munokhoi dragged her away. The look in her eyes. Despair, and a glint of anger, directed at him. He had failed her somehow, and he couldn’t shake that sensation. He couldn’t shake the impression that he had seen something similar in Ögedei’s expression as he had raged about his chamber. Failure.

If he rode away—if he fled—it would be his failure that he was running from, not the empire’s.

The wind shifted again, carrying now the rhythmic thump and hissing stalk rustle of an approaching rider. Gansukh looked back at Karakorum. He squinted, trying to guess the identity of the rider. Not Munokhoi. Too short. Too slender. He felt like a fool as his breath caught in his chest. A woman?

He curled his lips at the sour taste in the back of his mouth—his stomach’s reaction to the elation he felt at the possibility that the approaching rider might be Lian. What is she doing? he thought. How had she managed to get out of the city without an escort? The horse and rider were unhurried in their approach, signaling there was no urgency, which made the possibility that it was Lian both more real and stranger.

The mounted figure slowly dropped out of sight behind a gentle hill, and when it reappeared, there was no doubt as to the rider’s identity. Lian lowered her head to hide her smile, but not before Gansukh saw a flash of white teeth.

He turned away, shoulders twitching, to face the honesty and honor of the endless steppe, and to hide from her the grin stretching across his lips. By the time she brought her horse alongside, he had his face under control, burying his delight under the stern expression he tried to maintain in anyone’s presence.

The wind died back, and the grasses rose to their full height. The riders sat quietly for a minute, watching the verdant plain settle into stillness, and finally Lian broke the silence.

“Your world,” she said.

“Yes,” he nodded. “Simpler. Safer.”

“For you,” she said. “I would have thought I would feel safe too, but all this emptiness frightens me. I don’t know what is out there.”

“True, but the rules are less complicated. It is easier to know what to do.”

Lian smiled. “The rules at court are simple too, Gansukh. You have shown a ready ability to learn them. It is just that they are…foreign to you. Still. It is a matter of comfort. You look across the land of grass and you see… What? Freedom?”

“The falcon soars,” he said, pursing his lips. “The rabbit knows to hide.”

“Freedom for you,” Lian said. “Not for me. And why is that? Because I am a woman? Because I am Chinese?”

“Are those truths any smaller inside the walls of Karakorum?”

“No,” she said, “but there is less wind.” She braced as the grasses bent again. “A moment ago, I would have felt confident in being able to aim an arrow, but now…the wind plays tricks. How can people from the land of grass ever hit their mark?” As if taunting her, the wind rushed in and flung Lian’s hair about her face. She used her left hand to push aside the black strands—pulling one moist from between her lips, he noticed—while her right gripped the reins. “You know that secret, don’t you?”

Gansukh nodded. Above all the things he’d grown to appreciate about Lian—her beauty, her intelligence, and her knowledge about the ways of the court—it was her confounding way of speaking about two things at the same time that continued to surprise him. He wondered if Master Chucai knew this about her, or if he simply saw her as a useful tutor for an ill-attired steppe barbarian.

Gansukh tried to think of a clever response, and failing to come up with anything that seemed remotely daring or insightful, he opted for cautious response and a simple question. “We’ll return to the secret of shooting through and between the wind,” he said. “For now, tell me why you risk leaving the city walls alone.”

“I’m not alone.” She again stroked hair out her eyes and looked for his reaction.

Gansukh twisted in his saddle and peered back toward Karakorum, in time to see a second rider disappear behind the hill. Gansukh recognized the peaked hat. Master Chucai.

“He invited me to ride with him.” Lian folded both hands across the pommel of her saddle, giving up on trying to keep her hair in place. He studied the freedom of her hair, then the sweep of the grass. The secret is studying the flow of the wind between your arrow and the target, measuring the battle between gusts, and finally—watching your target’s hair. The arrow must be nudged a cat’s whisker against the direction of that hair.

With a sinking feeling, Gansukh acknowledged that Chucai arranging a meeting was far more believable than Lian risking leaving Karakorum alone. Although he was pleased she had sought him out, he should have known she would have done so at her master’s request.

Gansukh had not sought out the Khagan’s advisor since the day they had last spoken—that day when everything had changed—nor had he felt any urge to. He should have reported Ögedei’s behavior that night, as well as confronted Chucai about their unfinished conversation from the throne room—not to mention the issue with the lacquered box (which he had not been able to open)—but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. It was much simpler—like a rabbit hiding—to simply avoid Master Chucai until he could decide what to do.

Which had also meant staying away from Lian, and that had been harder to do.

Still… Seemingly by accident, he nudged his horse closer to hers. Taking advantage of their proximity, as well as the privacy the open plain offered—inside the Khagan’s compound, it was impossible to have any real privacy—he reached out and laid his hand over hers where they gripped the saddle.

Lian bowed her head but didn’t pull her hands away. The wind-whipped hair made it impossible to read her expression—another way for a rabbit to hide—and then, just as Chucai’s hat again rose into view, Lian raised the little finger of her left hand and wrapped it around Gansukh’s thumb. Before he could react, she slipped free and tugged at the reins. Her horse exhaled noisily and took several prancing steps sideways, moving Lian out of reach. Only a few aid away.

“Young Gansukh!” Chucai called as his horse topped the rise. “Lian told me she had seen you ride out earlier. I am most pleased we have found you.” His face was bright with windburn and exertion, and his voice was brisk and cheerful, as if the events of the past few days did not weigh in the slightest. As if he had not presided over the torture and execution of a defenseless woman.

“Master Chucai,” Gansukh returned. “Indeed, it is a surprise that we must meet so far from where we pass our days.” He was trying for the same sort of cheer, even levity, but judging by the flat response in Chucai’s eyes, his tone did not convince.

Chucai brought his horse around in front of Gansukh and Lian, blocking their view. Making sure he could keep an eye on both of them. “Had I been able to find you, we could have spoken this in the city.”

“I have been—” Gansukh started.

“It doesn’t matter,” Chucai cut him off. “It is what you haven’t been doing that concerns me.”

Gansukh flushed. Was this all that Chucai worried about? “Do you mean, learning how to simper and preen at court? To what end? Ögedei is blind to everything and everyone around him.”

Chucai’s face was impassive and his eyes still flat, but he nodded. “You are plain spoken, Gansukh. It is, as Lian has mentioned to me on more than one occasion, one of your best traits, and most dangerous. I had hoped that she could teach you how to wriggle your tongue like a snake’s rather than shoot it out like an arrow. A devious tongue would allow you to more readily gain the Khagan’s ear. But that skill is still beyond you, and you do not yet rise above his lobes…and penetrate…with soft words, do you?”

Gansukh glanced at Lian, who was looking down at her horse’s flank, not embarrassed by this metaphor, but not affording it the dignity of a response.

“Does the fault lie with your tutor?” Chucai said, noticing Gansukh’s glance. “Is she incapable of teaching you the ways of the court?”

“She teaches well enough,” Gansukh growled.

“Is he not an able student?” Chucai asked Lian.

“Able enough,” Lian replied.

Chucai peered at Gansukh. “Then what is distracting you from your education?”

Neither answered, and Gansukh dared not glance at her this time. His heart beat quickly, and he wiped his hands on his pants. Is she thinking the same thing?

“I see,” said Chucai, leaning back and tugging at the few long hairs on his cheek. “Perhaps you need to refocus your efforts. Both of you.”

Gansukh controlled his breathing. As stung as he was by Master Chucai’s words—as well as by the implication therein—he couldn’t so easily forget what he had witnessed in the throne room.

“Master Chucai—” Lian began, but Gansukh cut her off.

“What goals are those?” he demanded. “Yours? The empire’s? Ögedei’s? Chagatai Khan sent me to help the Khagan, and I thought my mission was simply to stop his drinking, but now I am confused. Now I wonder if the assistance the Khagan needs is far greater than taking away his drink…” His words stumbled to a stop. He found himself unwilling to say more, fearing he had already said too much. Arrow for a tongue…

A tiny muscle twitched in Master Chucai’s cheek, making the corner of his mouth lift, as if he might smile. Or he might have been trying to suppress a roar of outrage. Gansukh wasn’t sure which, but like a standoff with a wounded predator, he knew it was best to show no fear. To give no ground until his adversary made the next move.

Master Chucai almost seemed to deflate a little in his saddle. “Plain speech,” he sighed, allowing his gaze to rove out across the land of grass. “In the court, the more refined refer to this as the ‘country eye,’ and they whisper of it as if they fear its coming. The horrible day when the horsemen would follow this longing gaze back to the plains of grass, back to chasing the endlessly migrating herds. Back to…oblivion.” A thin smile creased his lips. “The court, however, would be vastly improved if there were more men like you, young Gansukh, and fewer of the two-faced creatures that surround Ögedei now.”

This caught Gansukh off guard. Lian was surprised by Chucai’s candor as well.

“I need to speak plainly with you, Gansukh—that is why I followed you out here.” Master Chucai sounded tired. “It is possible that even if you succeed in reducing the Khagan’s drinking, we will still have accomplished nothing.”

“I do not…” Gansukh met Chucai’s gaze, and in the older man’s small, dark eyes Gansukh saw conflicting emotions: hope and resignation, elation and exhaustion. He said “we.” Chucai did understand his confusion. Gansukh had witnessed Ögedei’s frustrated outburst, the Khagan’s desperate cry for someone to share his view of the world, to understand his country eye, and while he hadn’t confided that information to Chucai, it was apparent such information would not be news to Chucai.

Gansukh was startled. If we accomplish nothing, then what has been saved? Was Chucai suggesting the very thought he had been turning over in his head before they arrived? The idea felt like a betrayal, not just of the Khagan, but of the whole of the Mongolian Empire, and he immediately wished he could undo it, that he could wipe his mind clean and go back to the innocent naïveté he had been full of on the first day he had rode into Karakorum.

Was Ögedei Khan worthy of leading the empire?

“The Khagan is great,” he muttered, trying to muster some enthusiasm for what those words meant, but he felt off balance, his mind and spirit fractured by the revelation he had seen—reflected—in Chucai’s expression.

Chucai was still looking at him. “The empire must be great, Gansukh. Not just the Khagan. You have seen what lies beneath the mask, haven’t you? Not just the Khagan, but everything—and everyone—around him. It is our duty to help him. It is our duty to help the empire. Your duty.”

“Why me?” Gansukh asked.

Chucai laughed. “Why not?”

“But it is…too great…”

“Of course it is,” Chucai snorted. “No one person can change the course of the empire, and yet one man created this very empire.” He swept an arm out to indicate the open steppe. “Before Temujin brought the clans together, this was just grasslands. Before Ögedei inherited the empire, Karakorum was nothing more than a few tents clustered around the river. Look at it now. All change happens because one man wants something different. Ögedei has forgotten this; most of the men who cluster around him and dog his steps don’t want the world to change—as much as they claim otherwise.

“You are not special, Gansukh,” Chucai continued. “When you came to Karakorum, you were nothing more than a bumbling warrior from the steppe, regardless of all the glory heaped on your shoulders from your exploits on the edge of the empire. You were nothing to the court; you still may account for nothing. But…” Chucai stopped with a shrug.

“But what? Is your speech supposed to inspire me?” Gansukh asked.

“The anniversary of Tolui’s death approaches.” Chucai pointed toward Karakorum, ignoring Gansukh’s question. “A grand festival is planned, to distract the Khagan from the depression that always falls upon him at this time. Caravans arrive each day bearing gifts from every corner of the empire. Games will be conducted—wrestling, riding, shooting, fighting. There will be minstrels, acrobats, dancers, poets—every sort of entertainment possible. The festival grows every year, but Ögedei attends to less and less of it, as he drowns himself in drink.”

Tolui. The younger brother of both Ögedei and Chagatai. Chagatai had spoken briefly of his younger brother’s death, and Gansukh tried to recall the details: Ögedei had fallen ill during a campaign in Northern China—a disease caused by angry spirits. The dead had demanded blood, payment for what had been taken from them.

Gansukh shivered. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said, pushing aside the thoughts of ghosts.

“I didn’t think I needed to,” Chucai said with a grim smile. “What we taught you about court protocol and practice was meant to open your eyes—and it has, has it not? I’ll ask you a question in return: what is worth saving?”

Gansukh rubbed his arms, feeling chilled even under the gaze of the sun. A sacrifice, he thought, to save the empire.

“You don’t need inspiration, Gansukh,” Chucai said. “You simply need permission, and not from me or the Khagan.”