Dragonwall (36 page)

Batu nodded. In similar circumstances, he would have had the same suspicions as the khahan. “There are not many horses in Shou Lung,” Batu answered. “Perhaps that is because the masters do not protect the mares and foals while the stallion is away at war.”

The khahan asked, “Am I to take it that one of your wives and her children were killed while you fought us?”

“In Shou Lung, we have only one wife and but a few children, Mighty One,” Batu replied. “They died under the protection of the Shou emperor.”

“That is why you have renounced your duty to your master?” the khahan asked. “Because he allowed your household to die?”

Batu nodded, uneasy about revealing this weakness.

“That is no reason!” Chanar said. “An honorable soldier does not place his family above his commander!”

Chanar had barely finished the sentence before Batu stepped toward him, placing a hand on his sword hilt. As the Tuigan saw the Shou’s intention, his jaw went slack and his eyes opened wide in surprise. He quickly rose to his feet and gripped the hilt of his own weapon.

“Apologize!” Batu hissed.

“I will not,” Chanar responded, regaining his composure. “You must see that you’ll be killed the instant you draw your weapon.”

As if to emphasize the point, a dozen Tuigan stepped toward Batu.

The ronin paid them no attention. “Where or when I die does not matter,” Batu said, stepping closer to the object of his wrath. “Apologize!”

Chanar looked to the khahan. “Let me kill this insolent mongrel,” he said.

“Leave your blade in its sheath,” the khahan replied, his voice perfectly calm. “Batu is a guest in my camp, and I will not be dishonored by having his blood spilled—especially when it is your own dull wit and sharp tongue that provoked him. Batu warned you not to insult his honor.”

Chanar’s face reddened, but he left his weapon in its sheath. Glaring at Batu, he said, “I meant no disrespect, renegade. I apologize.”

“For now, that will do,” Batu responded. He took his hand off his weapon. Chanar returned to his seat, staring at the Shou with undisguised hatred.

Yamun addressed Batu. “The next time you threaten one of my officers, you had best be prepared to use your weapon.”

“I was prepared,” Batu responded, bowing to show that he meant no disrespect to the khahan.

The Tuigan’s eyes narrowed. “Yes—I suppose you were.”

Yamun took a long pull from his goblet, his brow furrowed in reflection. Finally, he lowered the cup and said, “I will consider your request, General Batu. Until I decide, you shall remain a welcome guest in my camp.” He looked at his officers to be certain they had heard and understood his words, pausing for special emphasis at Chanar.

A moment later, the khahan turned his gaze back to Batu. “You have given me a gift and I must give you a better one. Is there anything in this camp you want?”

Batu studied the courtyard carefully. Though there was enough wealth in it to ransom a lord, Batu was not interested in gold. His eyes came to rest on Ju-Hai Chou, the one man in the government whom he had been justified in trusting.

“Great Khahan,” Batu answered, “when a man goes too long without wine, it becomes more valuable than gold, does it not?”

The khahan scowled, but he said, “This is true. No man can drink gold.”

“Then, in all of your camps, there is only one gift equal to the wine I brought,” Batu replied, pointing at Ju-Hai. “Him.”

Koja quickly grasped Batu’s arm. “No!” the lama hissed. “He tried to kill the khahan, so he must die. If you try to save him, you will perish with him.”

Batu shook the man off and pointed at Ju-Hai again. “Him,” he repeated.

“What Koja says is true,” the khahan warned. “Ju-Hai Chou must die.”

Ju-Hai could not understand the Tuigan language, but he clearly knew he was being discussed. He looked at Batu with a hopeful expression, though his complexion remained pale.

“I know,” Batu answered. “I merely ask for the privilege of killing him.”

The khahan smiled. “What you ask is a great gift, but I am a man of honor and will keep my word. Bring the prisoner forward.”

Two officers rose and led Ju-Hai into the center of the circle. Batu drew his sword. “Minister Ju-Hai, please turn around,” he said, speaking Shou.

“What are you going to do?” the ex-mandarin demanded, his voice trembling.

Ju-Hai had ridden all the way from Tai Tung to Shou Kuan with his head held high, but the renegade general did not blame him for being frightened now.

“Turn around,” Batu repeated. “It will be quicker and less painful.”

As he realized that his friend had not saved him, Ju-Hai began to shake. Nevertheless, he did as instructed. “I understand,” he began. “My grat—”

Batu swung. The sword bit into the back of Ju-Hai’s neck, killing him instantly and mercifully.

“What do you mean by that?” Chanar demanded. Even before Ju-Hai’s body had hit the snowy cobblestones, the Tuigan had risen to his feet and pointed an angry finger at Batu.

“This man was a friend,” Batu responded simply, cleaning his blade on Ju-Hai’s samfu. “I did not want to see him die like an animal.”

“You’ve insulted the khahan!” Chanar insisted.

“I will decide when I have been insulted,” Yamun responded. “The prisoner’s death was Batu’s gift. If he wished to waste it, that is his privilege. Now sit down, Chanar, We have much to discuss.”

After Chanar returned to his rug, the khahan turned to Batu. “Your loyalty to your friend is impressive, and I no longer doubt your motivations. If you are going to fight in my army, you must learn that I am the Illustrious Emperor of All Peoples. Obviously, this other emperor, the one who allowed your wife and children to die under his protection, must be an impostor. Is this not so?”

“Clearly, you are correct, Mighty One,” Batu said, bowing. He could not help but compare the magnificence of the summer palace to the disorder of the khahan’s besieged court, but he also knew there was more to being an emperor than the trappings of priceless and pointless luxury.

“You swear allegiance to me?” Yamun asked.

“For as long as you feed and pay me,” Batu replied.

The khahan grinned. “Honestly spoken,” he said. “Sit down.” The khahan waved Batu to his side.

“I am honored,” the Shou said, taking the seat to the khahan’s right. “I look forward to fighting at your side.”

After Batu was seated, the khahan began a general discussion about where his armies should attack next. Chanar favored breaking their word and riding on the Shou capitol. Another officer wanted to invade Tabot, the mountain kingdom on Shou Lung’s southwestern border. One man, clearly a fool in Batu’s opinion, even suggested capturing a fleet and sailing against the islands of Wa.

After listening patiently to each recommendation, the khahan turned to Batu. “You know this land better than any of us,” he said. “Which option do you recommend?”

Batu did not even have to consider his answer. “None,” he said. “You know less about sailing than Shou do about horsemanship, so I would not recommend attacking the Wa Islands. In the high mountains of Tabot, horses would prove more of a hindrance than an advantage, so attacking there would be bad judgment.”

“And what about the Shou capitol?” the khahan asked, studying Batu with a raised eyebrow.

“You have made a peace agreement with Shou Lung,” Batu responded, meeting Yamun’s gaze with an intentionally blank expression.

“As you have said, in war, there are no rules,” the khahan countered.

“True,” the Shou replied cautiously. “In war, there are no rules. In personal conduct, however, there are. You have given your word, and I cannot recommend that you break it.”

Batu paused, studying the khahan. The ruler’s expression was unreadable, but he did not doubt the man was seriously considering riding against Shou Lung once more.

But to his surprise, the Tuigan ruler said, “What you say is wise, Batu. A man should keep his word.” The khahan studied the faces of his officers for a moment, then returned to the Shou and asked, “So, where do we go?”

“If you cannot go east, north, or south, there is only one direction left,” Batu answered. “West.”

As Batu stepped into the khahan’s yurt, the Illustrious Emperor of All Peoples asked, “Where are the kingdoms you promised?”

Accustomed to the khahan’s impatience and no longer concerned by it, Batu did not respond immediately. Instead, he stamped the snow off his boots and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. After the brilliance of the snow-covered wasteland outside, the interior of the yurt was as dark as a bear’s den.

It also smelled like one. The air was heavy with the stringent scent of unwashed bodies, the acrid smell of burning dung, and the putrid sour-milk stench of kumiss. For over two months now, Batu had been traveling across the barren horse plains with the Tuigan. He was still astonished by the incredible filth of the horse nomads. They never cleaned themselves, or even changed clothes. The khahan himself still wore the same silk kalat in which he had been dressed when Batu met him. The renegade could not imagine why the grimy thing had not rotted away.

Batu removed his del, a heavy robe-like coat given to him by the khahan, and hung it from a hook on a support post. The khahan had installed the hook so that Batu would have a place to hang his del. The Tuigan required no such amenities, for they wore their coats inside as well as outside. In this and a hundred other things, the renegade Shou remained an outsider to the people of his ancestors.

When his eyes finally adjusted to the light, Batu faced his commander and kneeled, his gaze taking in the near-empty yurt. Besides himself, the ever-present Kashik guards, and a slave, the only other person in the room was one of the khahan’s wives. Batu did not know which one, for he no longer had any interest in women, at least in Tuigan women, and paid them no attention.

“I should have listened to Chanar,” the khahan said testily, motioning Batu to rise. “Perhaps you are leading us into an empty wasteland to protect your home.”

An angry knot formed in Batu’s chest and he narrowed his eyes at the khahan. “My home is where I stand,” he said sharply, repeating one of the Tuigan’s favorite mottos. “If I am no longer trusted here, I will find a different place to stand.” He stood and reached for his del.

“Leave your coat on the post,” the khahan ordered. “Around Chanar and the others, it is fine to be arrogant. But I am the khahan, and your pride is nothing to me. If we cannot speak freely between ourselves, our friendship is worthless.”

Batu returned his coat to the hook, unimpressed by the Yamun’s profession of friendship. He and the khahan had developed a certain rapport, but the renegade would hardly have described it as friendship. He still felt like a visitor in the Tuigan camp.

The fault was his, he knew. Batu dutifully spent his evenings drinking sour kumiss with Yamun and the khans, but he made poor company. Though it had been close to three months since he had learned of his family’s fate, he still had not accepted the loss. He could not shake the feeling that he was just on campaign, that he would soon return to his home in Chukei to find Wu waiting and his children an inch taller than when he had last seen them.

That could never happen, of course, but the realization did not change what his heart felt. On most nights he was so lonely he could only fall asleep by pretending that his family still lived, or by drinking so much kumiss that the slaves had to carry him back to his own yurt. It was a terrible circle: the more he thought of his family, the more he withdrew from his Tuigan companions. The more he withdrew from them, the more he thought of Wu and Ji and Yo.

The fighting to which Batu had hoped to dedicate himself, and which had been his reason for joining the Tuigan, had not materialized. Anxious to reach the kingdoms of the west, the khahan had led his army through the barren wastes of the horse plains. After passing the smoking peaks that marked the end of the territory known to the Tuigan, Yamun had turned the responsibility for guiding the army over to Batu.

Realizing that he had lost himself in his thoughts and was ignoring his commander, Batu turned his attention to the khahan. “You wished to see me?”

Yamun motioned to a nearby pillow. “Come and sit with me, or must I wait until Chanar’s return for lively company?”

The Tuigan ruler was trying to use Chanar’s rivalry with Batu to draw the Shou’s thoughts away from his family. It was a trick the khahan had tried many times before. The tactic would never work, for Chanar’s rivalry was onesided. Batu did not care to play at politics with the lanky general. It was not a game he had enjoyed in Shou Lung, and he had no intention of concerning himself with it now.

Without responding to the khahan’s barbed question, Batu took his place. As the renegade sat, the Tuigan ruler observed, “You are not the man I fought in Shou Lung.”

“How do you mean?” Batu asked, adjusting his cushion.

“The man I fought in Shou Lung did not fear death,” the khahan replied.

Batu absentmindedly accepted a cup of kumiss from a quiverbearer. “My contempt for death has not changed,” the Shou responded. “I fear nothing.”

“I know,” the khahan said. “That is why Chanar is leading the scouts and you are here with me.”

Batu scowled, for the khahan had touched upon a sore point. After two months of crossing the frozen deserts between Shou Lung and their present location, the Tuigan armies had reached a range of high mountains that seemed to block further progress. It had taken Batu’s scouts several days to locate a narrow pass.

Yamun had sent five thousand men through the gap to reconnoiter the lands beyond. Batu had wanted to lead the expedition, but the khahan had sent Chanar instead.

That had been seven days ago, and the renegade had been quietly fuming about the decision ever since. Now that the khahan seemed willing to discuss the matter, Batu was determined to find out why he had been overlooked.

The renegade asked, “Why should my fearlessness disqualify me for command?”

“As you say, you no longer fear anything—including defeat.”