The Mongoliad: Book Two

4

As he approached the Khagan’s private quarters, Gansukh considered how he was going to talk his way past the guards. He doubted Ogedei would see him if he simply walked up and asked to be presented to the Khagan. It was quite possible that Ogedei’s reaction might be less restrained than it had been at the dinner celebration, though the lingering bruises on the young man’s face spoke otherwise. It had been several days since he had presented the cup to Ogedei, and he had bided his time before attempting to seek the Khagan’s audience once more. He felt he was making progress in his efforts to curb Ogedei’s drinking, but he was still cautious. The Khagan was not unlike a wounded mountain lion.

The two guards outside the Khagan’s chambers looked even more nervous than he did. They stared past him, refusing to acknowledge his presence, and Gansukh paused, his conviction wavering.

“I…” He cleared his throat. Tell them what you want, he thought. Do not spin a story. “I need to see the Khagan.”

Neither guard replied. The one on the left rested his hand on the hilt of his scimitar, while the other blinked several times and licked his lips. Being ignored is better than being assaulted.

Their behavior was odd, though; he would have expected them to take joy in telling him that the Khagan had expressly commanded them to treat him like this, like a worm not worthy of notice. After a month at court, he knew well the delight the Imperial Guard took in reminding visitors of their lower station.

“I have an important-”

He was cut off by a loud wail from inside the room. At first, he thought he had imagined the sound because the guards did not react, but then he caught the nervous twitch of their eyes-toward the door, at him, and then back to the empty hallway.

“Sounds like someone in pain,” Gansukh said. “Shouldn’t we investigate?”

The lip-licker’s tongue darted several times, and he glanced at Gansukh, then intercepted a hard stare from his companion. “The Khagan is not to be disturbed,” he said gruffly, as if none of them had heard the scream from within the room.

He’s afraid.

The shriek again rent the quiet hallway. Gansukh looked between the guards, whose decorum was fraying rapidly. This time, they refused to meet his eyes.

“I think that’s the Khagan,” Gansukh said.

“No it isn’t,” the man on the left said. The other guard nodded fervent agreement. He wanted to appear stern and threatening, but the slackness of his jaw only made his face quiver, defeating his attempt to appear menacing. “We have strict orders,” the left-hand guard continued. “We are not to enter, nor are we to allow anyone else to do so.”

“Is that wise?” Gansukh stepped closer to the door, and while both guards tensed, neither took action to stop him. “Is that what you are going to tell Master Chucai when he finds out that the Khagan has…impaled himself on a dagger or slipped and broken bones…or something worse…?” Gansukh leaned in toward the door and cupped his hand to his ear, almost enjoying himself, pretending to listen intently for any noise from the suite. “He could be dead…”

“He’s not dead,” the second guard said doubtfully, his face pale and damp.

“No, no. Of course not. I was just suggesting that it was possible such a calamity had occurred,” Gansukh replied. Moving his hands slowly so as to not alarm them, he innocently indicated the door. “But we don’t really know, do we? Are you going to take responsibility for the Khagan’s death, if indeed that is what has happened and he bleeds out while you stand here? Is that the sort of Mongol you are? The kind who follows orders blindly without ever thinking for himself? Maybe you should be thinking that this situation has changed…”

With a muttered oath, the left-hand guard stepped aside. “You check,” he snapped at Gansukh. “It is your head she will take. Not mine.”

She. Gansukh pretended to not have heard the guard’s slip, and he inclined his head as his hand found the latch of the door. “I accept the responsibility,” he said. “May the Blue Wolf take pity on me.” Before the guards could change their minds-or locate their courage-he opened the door a crack and slipped through.

Inside, he pressed his back against the door panel and shut it as gently as he could-trying not to draw anyone’s attention while he surveyed the chamber and figured out what was going on.

A white haze of incense smoke curled about the ceiling, making the room seem larger than it was. On the far side of the chamber, Ogedei lay prone on a couch, his body wracked with heaving sobs. The Khagan, conqueror of the world, reduced to a frightened child. One of his wives-Toregene, Gansukh recalled-knelt on the floor beside the couch, leaning against his shaking bulk. She was stroking his back, speaking to him in a low voice, her words plaintive and comforting. “…such a strong speech. They loved you. Did you not hear how they cheered for you…?”

She caught sight of Gansukh, and her face became wild-vicious, like a cornered wolf intent on killing as many as it can before it dies. “Get out!” she shrieked. “How dare you disturb the Khagan!”

Gansukh stood his ground. “How drunk is he? During his speech, the Khagan could barely stand. Have you let him drink since then?”

“The Khagan does as he pleases,” she snapped.

“And what does the Khagan-the Great Khan of Khans-have to say, then?” Gansukh approached the couch. If he stayed back near the door, he feared his courage would fail. Do not let them see your fear. Be stronger than your enemy.

Hearing Gansukh’s voice, Ogedei raised his head. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, his face bloated and red. When he spotted Gansukh, he scowled and briefly looked more like the Khagan-the leader of the Mongol Empire-than a tired old man. “Get out of my sight, whelp,” he barked. “Run back to my brother and tell him I will drink as I please.”

Toregene smiled, and the sight of her cold diplomacy chilled Gansukh. “The Khagan is pained by the death of his younger brother. He simply wishes a reprieve from the weight of those memories.”

What she felt for Ogedei was not love, Gansukh realized. She was devoted, but not to the man. She was devoted to her position. She had given the guards their instructions. She wanted Ogedei weak and malleable, susceptible to her whims and desires. The wine gave her that power. Lian had warned him, hadn’t she? So long ago, that day in the garden. Who is closest to the Khagan at court? Not his generals. Not his warriors. His wives.

“I…I only…” Gansukh’s head reeled as he struggled to see a solution to this new puzzle. If there was any hope of sobering up the Khagan, it had to be away from Toregene’s influence. Away from the court and its revelries and dinners, away from everything. “I only wished to bring the Khagan a message,” he blurted out in desperation.

“There is no message,” Toregene snarled.

But Ogedei heard him-and not only heard him but wanted to hear more. To Gansukh’s surprise, the Khagan motioned his wife to silence. Grunting, he pushed himself upright on the couch. “Tell me,” he sighed.

Thinking quickly-this was his only chance-Gansukh tried to piece together a plan. He had to get the Khagan out of his chambers, had to get him to where there were more people. When the Khagan fell into his drink’s dark grasp tonight-and Gansukh was now certain that he would-he would need someone to slow his descent, or at the very least pull him back.

“M-m-master Chucai requests your p-presence,” Gansukh lied, his tongue stumbling at this audacity. “Your warriors were inspired by your speech today. They want to show you their devotion. You should be seen, my Khan.”

Toregene gave him such a hateful stare that Gansukh’s skin itched as if she had drawn a bow on him.

I just have to get him away from her. Away from all of them…

The dancer twisted and swayed like a tree in the wind. Firelight made the gold threads in his belt twinkle, and the fabric of his red robe seemed to crawl and writhe on his body. He jigged a merry circle, his arms undulating to the rhythm of the horse-head fiddle. A crowd surrounded the pair, enraptured by both song and dance, mesmerized by how the two twined together.

All the tribes were demonstrating their traditional dances this evening. Chucai had said it had been his decree-this demonstration of tribal heritages so that all Mongols would learn each other’s history and character-but he could not recall making such a noble resolution.

Ogedei slumped in his gilded chair and stroked his beard. In fact, he could not even recall leaving his chambers. Yet he had, and now he was out here, in the open courtyard of his palace, trying not to be sick. All this motion and noise. I wish they’d all go away and let me be. Let me drink…

The fiddler’s tempo increased, his bow skillfully gliding along the strings, and the dancer kept perfect pace. The fire behind him cast a long shadow over the ground, a tall partner matching and exaggerating each gesture. A breeze, stirred up by the energy of the revelers and the bright fire, lifted the plaintive melody aloft, making it run free, like the wild horse in the heart of every man.

Ogedei could not move his limbs, and his head felt as if it were packed with earth. Trapped-prisons within prisons. The words kept repeating themselves in his head, and he tried to understand them. He tried to figure out where they had come from, what they meant, and why they frightened him so. He couldn’t walk, but he could raise his arm. Raising his arm was easy. It came up like so-and with it, a cup of wine. The big vessel rested against his lip naturally, and without any more effort, he could tip it back and let the wine flow into his mouth. Some of it escaped, dripping down his chin, and when he lowered the cup, he saw drops had stained his robe, a dark blotch just above the embroidered dragon’s claw. He tried to flick it away, and when it didn’t vanish, he rubbed it harder, which only served to make the stain bigger. Trapped, he thought, scraping his fingernail across the silk. I just have to get it out.

The crowd was not paying any attention to him. They stared at the dancer, rapt, swaying unconsciously to the music. These two caste-men were all they cared about, while he, the Khagan, was invisible. He jerked the cup to his lip, drinking deeply; the wine stung his mouth, but when it flowed inside him, it warmed him, an insulating blanket that kept him safe from all the noise and light of the world.

He focused, blearily, on the dancer.

…dare he…do… Ogedei thought, or had he said those words aloud? Inside was blending with outside. His spirit was being crushed beneath the enormous weight of his robes, of what they represented, of who he was supposed to be. Prisons within prisons. Only a faint persistent nausea reassured him that he even still had a body. “I’m…rullr of…” No one paid him any attention. Maybe he had just thought the words this time. Rullr… What had he said or thought he had said? Everything was running together, the way blood and mud ran together in the rain.

He stood, or he thought he stood; it was getting so very hard to tell. He felt like a child’s toy, or worse, like he was watching someone play with a child’s toy.

The crowd had lost interest in the dancer, finally turning their attention toward him. Look at me. He stretched, growing taller than his skin allowed, and lurching unsteadily, he stumbled toward the red-robed dancer.

The man’s face was long where it should be narrow, pitched where it should be open. His arms spread like bird wings. Ogedei snorted, blowing snot out of his nose, and then giggled. How could this man even pretend to be a dancer? Could they not see how ugly he was? The man stumbled toward the edge of the crowd, flapping his bird wings in alarm. Ogedei laughed, and flapped his arms too. Watch me fly. Watch me dance. The ground tilted beneath him, and watching from a vast distance, he grew worried about that child’s toy. It was about to fall over-

He caught himself at the last second and spun around. The faces of the crowd swirled past, a crazy panorama of heads, lips, eyes-laughing, shouting, smiling, crying. They loved him. He could see the glow of adoration on all their faces, and the energy of their affection made him spin faster.

He was dancing. He could see it quite plainly-his movements had neither rhythm nor tempo, almost comic and yet almost horrifying. The fiddler kept playing-yes, like he should; play for your Khagan-and the birdman who thought he was a dancer flew away. Ogedei threw out his arms and flailed them wildly, chasing his opponent away with his wild display of avian aggression. He threw back his head and brayed a great laugh. They are all watching me.

“This’s how da-da-dancing is.” It was difficult to speak and move at the same time, and he pitched back alarmingly. Whirling his arms-I am not a bird! — he arrested his fall and remained upright. Chest heaving, he stared at the crowd and realized they were silent. They were not shouting and cheering. They stood and stared, as if what they saw horrified them.

“What’s it?” he cried. “Not enough f’r you?” He tottered as he whirled, not to dance but to glare at all of them. If he spun fast enough, he could see them all at the same time. “I’m the…greatest. Youuu’re worms. In dirt.”

The crowd began to shrink, folding back on itself with each of his rotations. Fewer and fewer faces stared at him. They wouldn’t even look at him. Cowards, he raged. I am Khagan of an empire of cowards.

A hand grasped his arm, and he turned to strike the man foolish enough to lay a hand on him, but he was still spinning and his legs crossed themselves. He would have fallen on his face, a discarded child’s toy, but the hand holding him was strong and it kept him upright. He grasped the hand that held him and traced his eyes up. Forearm to elbow to shoulder to head. To a face.

A young face, with eyes that did not look away. Nor were they filled with fear or disgust. There was a bruise on the cheek and a thin line-red and scabbed. I know this face.

Ogedei smiled and fell into the embrace of the man who had caught him. Friend, he thought, you did not run away. After that, he remembered nothing.