Lords of the Bow (32 page)

“There is nothing more we can do,” he said. “Dawn is not far off and there are things we must discuss. Walk with me, Khasar, for a little while.”

Khasar followed him to where they would not be heard. It was a long time before they were clear of the camp, their footsteps crunching on frozen grass.

“What is it? What do you want?” Khasar said at last, stopping his brother with a hand on his arm.

Kachiun turned to him, his face darkly furious. “We failed tonight. We failed to keep the camp safe. I should have considered that the emperor would send assassins. I should have had more guards watching the walls.”

Khasar was too tired to debate the point. “You cannot change it now,” he said. “If I know you, it will not happen again.”

“One time could be enough,” Kachiun snapped. “If Genghis dies, what then?”

Khasar shook his head. He did not want to think of that. As he hesitated, Kachiun gripped him by the shoulders, almost shaking him.

“I don’t know!” Khasar replied. “If he dies, we will return home to the Khenti mountains and lay him out for the hawks and vultures. He is a khan; what would you expect me to say?”

Kachiun let his hands fall. “If we do that, the emperor will claim a great victory against us.” He seemed almost to be speaking to himself and Khasar did not interrupt. He could not begin to imagine the future if Genghis were not there.

“The emperor would see our army retreat,” Kachiun went on grimly. “In a year, every Chin city would know we had been turned back.”

Khasar still said nothing.

“Can’t you see, brother?” Kachiun said. “We would lose everything.”

“We could return,” Khasar replied, yawning. Had he slept at all? He wasn’t sure.

Kachiun snorted. “Within two years, they would be attacking
us.
The emperor has seen what we can do and he will not make the same mistakes again. One chance we have made for ourselves, Khasar. You cannot wound a bear and run. It will chase you down.”

“Genghis will live,” Khasar said stubbornly. “He is too strong to fall.”

“Open your eyes, brother!” Kachiun replied. “Genghis can die like any other man. If he does, who will lead the tribes, or will we see them splinter apart? How easy would it be then for the Chin army when they come hunting?”

Khasar saw the first pink light of dawn behind Yenking in the distance. He welcomed it in a night he’d thought would never end. Kachiun was right. If Genghis died, the new nation would break apart. The old khans would assert their authority over the quarreling tribes. He shook his head to clear it.

“I understand what you are saying,” he told Kachiun. “I am not a fool. You want me to accept you as khan.”

Kachiun stood very still at that. There was no other way, but if Khasar could not see it, the new day would begin with bloodshed as the tribes fought to leave or remained loyal. Genghis had bound them together. At the first hint of weakness, the khans would taste freedom and fight to keep it.

Kachiun took a deep breath, his voice calm. “Yes, brother. If Genghis dies today, the tribes will need to feel a strong hand on their necks.”

“I am older than you,” Khasar said softly. “I command as many warriors.”

“You are not the man to lead the nation. You know it.” Kachiun’s heart was racing with the strain of making Khasar understand. “If you think you
are,
I will take an oath to you. The generals will follow my lead and carry the khans with them. I will not fight you for this, Khasar, not with so much at stake.”

Khasar knuckled the tiredness out of his eyes as he thought it through. He knew what it must have cost Kachiun to make the offer. The thought of leading the tribes was intoxicating, something he had not dreamed of before. It tempted him. Yet he was not the one who had seen the dangers to the fragile nation. That remained like a thorn in his flesh to worry him. The generals would come to him expecting him to solve their problems, to see a way through difficulties that they could not. He would even have to plan battles, with triumph or failure resting on his word.

Khasar’s pride warred with the knowledge that his brother was better able to lead. He did not doubt that Kachiun would give him complete support if he became khan. He would rule his people and no one would ever know this conversation had taken place. As Genghis had been, he would be father to all their people. He would be responsible for keeping them all alive against an ancient empire bent on their destruction.

He closed his eyes, letting the glowing visions drain from his mind.

“If Genghis dies, I will take an oath to you, little brother. You will be khan.”

Kachiun sighed in exhausted relief. The future of his people had hung on Khasar’s trust in him.

“If he does, I will see every Chin city destroyed in fire, beginning with Yenking,” Kachiun said. Both men glanced at the looming walls of the city, united in their desire for vengeance.

Zhi Zhong stood on an archery platform, high above the plain and the Mongol camp. A cold breeze was blowing and his hands were numb on the wooden railing. He had been standing there for hours, watching the tribes for some sign that the assassin had been successful.

Just a little while before, his vigil had been rewarded. Points of light sprang up among the gers and Zhi Zhong had gripped the railing tighter, his knuckles whitening as he squinted into the distance. Dark shadows raced through the flickering pools of light and Zhi Zhong’s hopes rose, imagining the spreading panic.

“Be
dead,”
he whispered, alone in the watchtower.

CHAPTER 28

G
ENGHIS OPENED BLOODSHOT EYES,
finding both of his wives and his mother at his side. He felt appallingly weak and his neck throbbed. He raised a hand to it and Chakahai caught his wrist before he could disturb the bandage. His thoughts moved sluggishly and he stared at her, trying to remember what had happened. He recalled standing outside the ger, with warriors rushing around him. It had been night and it was still dark in the ger, with only a small lamp to banish the gloom. How much time had passed? He blinked slowly, lost. Borte’s face was pale and worried, with dark circles under her eyes. He saw her smile at him.

“Why . . . am I lying here?” he asked. His voice was feeble and he had to force the words out.

“You were poisoned,” Hoelun said. “A Chin assassin cut you and Jelme sucked out the filth. He saved your life.” She did not mention Kokchu’s part. She had endured his chanting, but not allowed him to stay, nor anyone else to enter. Those who did would always remember her son this way, and it would undermine him. As wife and mother to a khan, Hoelun knew enough of the minds of men to know the importance of that.

With a vast effort, Genghis struggled up onto his elbows. As if it had waited for exactly that moment, a headache slammed into his skull.

“Bucket,” he groaned, leaning over. Hoelun was just fast enough to shove a leather pail under his head as he emptied black liquid from his stomach in a series of painful spasms. The action made his headache almost unbearable, but he could not stop, even when there was nothing more to come out. At last he slumped back on the bed, pressing a hand over his eyes to shut out the dim light that pierced him.

“Drink this, my son,” Hoelun said. “You are still weak from the wound.”

Genghis glanced at the bowl she held to his lips. The mixture of blood and milk was sour on his tongue as he swallowed twice, then pushed it away. His eyes felt gritty and his heart thumped in his chest, but his thoughts were clearing at last.

“Help me to rise and dress. I cannot lie here, knowing nothing.”

To his irritation, Borte pressed him back onto the bed as he tried to rise. He lacked the strength to push her away and considered calling for one of his brothers. It was unpleasant to be so helpless and Kachiun would not ignore his commands.

“I have no memory,” he said hoarsely. “Did we catch the man who did this to me?”

The three women exchanged glances. It was his mother who replied.

“He is dead. It has been two days, my son. You were close to death for all that time.” Her eyes filled with fresh tears as she spoke, and he could only stare at her in bewilderment. Anger surfaced without warning in his mind. He had been fit and well, then suddenly awoke to find himself in this state. Someone had hurt him: this assassin that they mentioned. Fury seeped into him like smoke as he tried again to rise.

“Kachiun!” he called, but it was just a breath in his throat.

The women fussed around him, laying a cool wet cloth on his brow as he lowered his head onto the blankets, still glaring. He could not remember both of his wives being in the same ger before. He found the idea uncomfortable, as if they would discuss him. He needed . . .

Sleep came again without warning and the three women relaxed. It was the third time he had woken in two days, and each time he asked the same questions. They were thankful he did not remember them helping him to urinate into the bucket, or changing the blankets when his bowels emptied in a black slick, carrying the poison out of his body. Perhaps it was the charcoal Kokchu had brought, but even his urine was darker than any of the women had seen before. There had been tension in the ger as the bucket filled. Neither Borte nor Chakahai had moved to empty it, though they glanced in its direction and challenged each other with their eyes. One was the daughter of a king and the other was first wife to Genghis himself. Neither gave way. In the end, it was Hoelun who had carried it out with bad grace, glaring at both of them.

“He seemed a little stronger that time,” Chakahai said. “His eyes were clear.”

Hoelun nodded, wiping a hand across her face. They were all exhausted, but they left the ger only to take away waste, or to bring fresh bowls of blood and milk.

“He will survive. And those who attacked us will regret it. My son can be merciful, but he will not forgive them for this. Better for them that he died.”

The spy moved quickly through the darkness. The moon had passed behind clouds and he had only a little time. He had found his place among thousands of Chin recruits. As he had hoped, no one knew if a man was from Baotou or Linhe or any of the other cities. He could have passed as a resident of any of them. There were only a few Mongol officers to train the city men as warriors, and they saw no great honor in the task. It had been easy enough for him to wander up to a group and report for work. The Mongol officer had barely looked at him as he handed him a bow and sent him to join a dozen other archers.

When he had seen the wooden tokens changing hands in the camp, he had worried that they were proof of some controlling bureaucracy. It would not have been possible to join a Chin regiment in such a way, or even to approach without being challenged many times. Chin soldiers understood the danger of spies in their midst and had evolved techniques to balk them.

The spy grinned to himself at the thought. There were no passwords or codes here. His only difficulty was in forcing himself to show as much ignorance as the others. He had made a mistake on the very first day when he fired an arrow straight into the center of the target. At that time, he had no idea of the useless Chin farmers he was working with, and as they loosed after him, not one did as well. The spy had hidden his fear as the Mongol officer strolled over to him, asking in mime for him to shoot another arrow. He had been careful to shoot poorly after that, and the warrior had lost interest, his face barely hiding his disgust at their skills.

Though all the guards grumbled about taking a watch in the middle of the night, the failed assassination had rippled an effect through the entire camp. The Mongol officers insisted on maintaining a perimeter against another attempt, even in the section of the camp that housed the Chin recruits. The spy had volunteered for a late watch, from midnight to dawn. It put him out on the edge of the camp and alone. Even then, leaving his position was a risk, but he had to check in with his master, or all his efforts would be wasted. He had been told to gather information, to learn anything. It was up to them what they did with what he discovered.

He ran on bare feet in the darkness, pressing away the thought of an officer checking his guards were awake. He could not control his fate and would surely hear the alarm if they found him gone. He did have a password he could call up to the wall, and it would be only moments before his people threw down a rope and he was safe once more.

Something moved to his right and he collapsed to the ground, controlling his breath and lying absolutely still as he strained his senses. Since the attack on the khan, the scouts rode all night, in shifts, more alert than they had ever been before. It was a hopeless task for them to patrol the dark city, but they were fast and silent, deadly if they caught him. As he lay there the spy wondered if there would be other assassins coming for the khan if he survived the first.

Whoever the rider was, he saw nothing. The spy heard the man clucking softly to his pony, but the sounds faded away and then he was off again like a hare. Everything depended on speed.

The city walls were black under the clouds and he depended on his memory for the right place. He counted ten watchtowers from the southern corner and ran right up to the moat. He went down on his belly to feel along the edge, smiling as he felt the roughness of the reed coracle they had tied for him. He dared not get wet and he was careful in the dark as he knelt in it, crossing the water with a few strokes. In the darkness, he did everything by feel, stepping out of the coracle and whipping the wet rope around a stone. It would not do to have the tiny boat float away.

The moat did not reach the walls that loomed over him. A wide stone walkway ran all round the city, damp and slippery with mold. On summer days, he had seen the nobles race horses along it, wagering huge sums on the first man back to the beginning. He crossed it quickly and touched the city of his birth, a brief press of a hand on the wall that meant safety and home.

Above his head, perhaps a dozen men crouched beneath the crest in silence. Though they would not speak, they were his people, and for those few moments, the tension he lived with dwindled to nothing, unnoticed except in its absence.

His hands ran quickly along the ground, searching for a pebble. Far above his head, the clouds were blown quickly across the sky. He judged the position of the moon with care. There would be a gap in the cover in only a short while and he had to be away from the walls by then. He tapped the stone on the wall, the sound loud in the night silence. He heard the slithering rope before he saw it. He began to climb its length and at the same time, they dragged it back so that he rose at great speed.

After only moments, the spy was standing on the top of Yenking’s walls. A bow team were coiling the rope, ready to drop it back. One other man stood there and the spy bowed before him.

“Speak,” the man said, gazing out over the Mongol camp.

“The khan was wounded. I could not get too close, but he still lives. The camp is full of rumors and no one knows who will take control if he dies.”

“One of his brothers,” the man replied softly, and the spy blinked, wondering how many others reported to this one.

“Perhaps, or the tribes will break apart under the old khans. This is a time to attack.”

His master hissed under his breath in irritation. “I do not want to hear your conclusions, just what you have learned. If we had an army, do you think the lord regent would be content to sit inside the walls?”

“I am sorry,” the spy replied. “They have supplies enough for years, with what they salvaged from the army’s stores at Badger’s Mouth. I have found a faction who wish to try again with more catapults against the walls, but they are only a few and none of them have influence.”

“What else? Give me something to report to the lord regent,” his master said, gripping his shoulder tightly.

“If the khan dies, they will return to their mountains. All the men say that. If he lives, they could remain here for years.”

His master swore under his breath, cursing him. The spy endured it, dropping his gaze to his feet. He had not failed, he knew. His task was to report truthfully and he had done that.

“Find me one we can reach. With gold, with fear, anything. Find me someone in this camp who can make the khan take down the black tent. While it stands, we can do nothing.”

“Yes, master,” the spy replied. The man turned away from him and he was dismissed, the rope already snaking down the wall. He climbed down almost as fast as he had gone up and moments later he was tying the coracle on the far side and running lightly across the grass to his post. Someone else would take it in and the Mongols would know nothing.

It was hard to watch the clouds at the same time as remaining aware of the land around him. The spy was good at his work, or he would never have been chosen. He ran on, and as the moon broke through and lit the plain, he was already down, hidden by scrub bushes and still outside the main camp. In the silver light, he thought of the men around the khan. Not Khasar, or Kachiun. Not any one of the generals. They wanted nothing more than to see Yenking broken, stone by stone. He considered Temuge for a moment. He at least was not a warrior. The spy knew very little about the Master of Trade. Clouds darkened the land once more and he darted to the outer ring of sentries. He resumed his place as if he had never left, taking up his bow and knife and stepping into a pair of rope sandals. He stiffened suddenly as he heard someone approach, standing straight like any other guard.

“Anything to report, Ma Tsin?” Tsubodai called from the darkness in the Chin language.

It took a huge effort to control his breath enough to reply. “Nothing, General. It is a quiet night.” The spy breathed through his nose in silence then, waiting for some sign that his absence had been discovered.

Tsubodai grunted a response and strode away to check on the next man in the line. Left alone, fresh sweat broke out on the spy’s skin. The Mongol had used the name he had given. Was he suspected? He thought not. No doubt the young general had checked with his officer before beginning his rounds. The other guards would be in awe of such a feat of memory, but the spy only smiled in the darkness. He knew armies too well to be impressed by the tricks of officers.

As he stood his watch and allowed his pounding heart to settle, he considered the reasoning behind the order. It could only be surrender. Why else could the lord regent want the black tent removed if not to offer tribute for Yenking? Yet if the khan heard, he would know they were close to breaking and rejoice that the siege was nearing its end. The spy shook his head in numb fear as he thought it through. The army had taken the city’s stores and lost them all to the enemy at the pass. Yenking had been hungry almost from the beginning, and Zhi Zhong was more desperate than anyone knew.

His pride surfaced then. He had been chosen for the task because he was as skillful as any assassin or soldier, more useful than any of them. He had time to find a man who valued gold more than his khan. There was always one. In just a few days, the spy had learned of disaffected khans whose power had been stripped from them. Perhaps one of them could be made to see the value in tribute over destruction. He considered Temuge once again, wondering why his instincts returned to the man. He nodded to himself in the dark, relishing the challenge to his skill, for the highest stakes.

When Genghis woke again on the third day, Hoelun was outside fetching food. He asked the same questions, but this time he would not lie back down. His bladder was full to the point of pain, and he swung his legs out of the blankets, placing his feet firmly before trying to stand. Chakahai and Borte helped him to the central pole of the ger, wrapping his fingers around it until they were certain he would not fall. They placed the bucket where his arc of urine would reach and stood back.