Authors: Conn Iggulden
With a grimace, Yao Shu stepped aside to let him pass, his gaze falling onto the desk with its still-wet inkstone and writing materials scattered in confusion. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but Kublai had already vanished, his footsteps echoing.
It was not far to the yam way station, the central hub of a network that extended as far as Chin lands to the east and beyond. Kublai raced through the palace outbuildings, across a courtyard and along a cloister around a garden, where the wind caught him up and passed him with a cold breath. He could see torches in the garden, lighting a spot in the distance as men gathered by the khan’s body. Yao Shu would hear the terrible news soon enough.
Out of the palace, he ran along a street made gray in the dawn. He skidded on the cobbles as he rounded a corner and saw the lamps of the yam. There was always someone awake there, at every hour of the day. He called as he passed under the stone arch into a large yard, with horse stalls on either side. Kublai stood panting, listening as a pony snorted and tapped the door of its stall with its hoof. Perhaps the animal sensed the excitement that gripped him; he did not know.
It was just moments before a burly figure came into the yard. Kublai saw the yam master had only one hand, his job a compensation for losing his ability to fight. He tried not to look at the stump as the man approached.
“I speak with the authority of Sorhatani and Torogene, wife to Ogedai Khan. This has to reach Tsubodai’s army as fast as you have ever run before. Kill horses and men if you have to, but get it into the hands of the heir, Guyuk. No other but Guyuk. His hands alone. Do you understand?”
The old warrior gaped at him. “What is so urgent?” he began. It seemed the news had not yet spread to those who carried it. Kublai made a decision. He needed the man to jump quickly and not waste a moment longer.
“The khan is dead,” he said flatly. “His heir must be told. Now
move
, or give up your post.”
The man was already turning away and calling for whoever was on duty that night. Kublai stayed to watch the pony brought out to a taciturn young rider. The scout stiffened as he heard the order to kill horses and men, but he understood and nodded. The papers went deep into a leather satchel that the scout strapped tightly to his back. At a run, yam servants brought a saddle that jingled with every movement.
The pony chosen for the task raised its head at the sound, snorting once more and flicking its ears. It knew the sound of saddle bells meant it would run fast and far. Kublai watched the rider kick in his heels and canter under the arch, out into the waking city. He rubbed his neck, feeling the stiffness there. He had done his part.
Torogene was awake and weeping when Sorhatani arrived at her rooms. The Guards at the door let her pass with no more than a glance at her expression.
“You have heard?” Torogene asked.
Sorhatani opened her arms and the older woman came into her embrace. She was larger than Sorhatani, and her arms came fully round her, so that they clung to each other.
“I’m just going to the gardens,” Torogene said. She was shuddering with grief, close to collapse. “His Guards are standing over … him there, waiting for me.”
“I must speak to you first,” Sorhatani said.
Torogene shook her head. “Afterwards. I cannot leave him out there alone.”
Sorhatani weighed her chances of stopping Torogene and gave up. “Let me walk with you,” she said.
The two women moved quickly along the corridors that led to
the open gardens, Torogene’s guards and servants falling behind. As they walked, Sorhatani heard Torogene choke into her hands, and the sound tore at her own control. She too had lost a husband and the wound was still fresh, ripped open by the news of the khan’s passing. She had the unpleasant sensation of events slipping beyond her control. How long would it be before Chagatai heard that his brother had fallen at last? How long after that would he come to Karakorum to challenge for the khanate? If he moved quickly, he could bring an army before Guyuk could come home.
Sorhatani lost track of the corners and turns in the palace until she and Torogene felt the breeze on their faces and the gardens lay before them through a cloister. The torches of the Guards still lit the spot, though dawn had come. Torogene gave a cry and broke into a run. Sorhatani stayed with her, knowing she could not interrupt.
As they reached the stone bench, Sorhatani stood rooted, letting Torogene cross the last few steps to her husband. The Guards stood in mute anger, unable to see an enemy, but consumed with the failure of their office.
Ogedai had been turned to face the sky by whoever had found him. His eyes had been closed and he lay in the perfect stillness of death, his flesh as white as if he had no blood in him. Sorhatani rubbed tears from her eyes as Torogene knelt at his side and brushed his hair back with her hand. She did not speak, or weep. Instead, she sat on her heels and looked down at him for a long time. The breeze passed through them all and the gardens rustled. Somewhere close, a bird called, but Torogene did not look up or move from the spot.
Yao Shu arrived in the silence, still in his sleeping robe and with a face almost as pale as his master’s. He seemed to age and shrink as he looked on the fallen khan. He did not speak. The silence was too deep for that. In misery, he stood as one of the sentinel shadows in the garden. The sun rose slowly and more than one man looked at it almost in hatred, as if its light and life were not welcome there.
As the morning light turned the city a bloody gold, Sorhatani stepped forward at last and took Torogene gently by the arm.
“Come away now,” she murmured. “Let them take him to be laid out.”
Torogene shook her head and Sorhatani bent closer to her, whispering into her ear.
“Put aside your pain for today. You must think of your son, Guyuk. You hear me, Torogene? You must be strong. You must shed your tears for Ogedai another day if your son is to survive.”
Torogene blinked slowly and began to shake her head, once, then twice, as she listened. Tears came from under her closed eyelids, and she reached down and kissed Ogedai on the lips, shuddering under Sorhatani’s hand at the terrible coldness of him. She would never feel his warmth, his arms around her, again. She reached out to touch the hands, rubbing her fingers over the fresh calluses there. They would not heal now. Then she stood.
“Come with me,” Sorhatani said softly, as if to a frightened animal. “I will make you tea and find you something to eat. You must keep up your strength, Torogene.”
Torogene nodded and Sorhatani led her back through the cloister to her own rooms. She looked back almost at every step, until the garden hid her view of Ogedai. The servants ran ahead to have tea ready as they arrived.
The two women swept into Sorhatani’s rooms. Sorhatani saw the Guards were taking positions on her door and realized they too were without direction. The death of the khan had taken away the established order, and they seemed almost lost.
“I have orders for you,” she said on impulse. The men straightened. “Send a runner to your commander, Alkhun. Tell him to come to these rooms immediately.”
“Your will, mistress,” the Guard said, bowing his head. He set off and Sorhatani told her servants to leave. The tea urn was already beginning to steam, and she needed to be alone with Ogedai’s wife.
As she closed the doors, Sorhatani saw how Torogene sat staring, stunned with grief. She bustled about, deliberately making noise with the cups. The tea was not fully hot, but it would have to do. She hated herself for intruding on a private grief, but there was no help for it. Her mind had been throwing sparks from the moment she had woken to find Kublai standing beside her. Some part of her had known even before he spoke.
“Torogene? I have sent a runner to Guyuk. Are you listening? I am truly sorry for what has happened. Ogedai …” She choked off as her own grief threatened to overwhelm her. She too had loved the khan, but she forced the sadness away once again, pressing it into a closed part of her mind so that she could go on.
“He was a good man, Torogene. My son Kublai has sent a letter to Guyuk, with the yam riders. He says it will not reach him for months. I do not suppose Guyuk will return as quickly.”
Torogene looked up suddenly. Her eyes were terrible.
“Why would he not come home, to me?” she said, her voice raw.
“Because by then he will know that his uncle Chagatai could be in the city with his tumans, Torogene. Chagatai will hear the news faster and he is far closer than Tsubodai’s armies. By the time Guyuk returns, Chagatai could be khan. No, listen to me now. At that point, I would not give a copper coin for your son’s life. Those are the stakes, Torogene. Put aside your grief now and listen to counsel.”
The sound of boots on the stones outside made them both look up. The senior minghaan of the khan’s Guards entered the room in full armor. He bowed briefly to the two women, unable to hide his irritation at such a summons. Sorhatani glanced at him without warmth. Alkhun may not have realized how power had shifted in the palace since dawn, but she did.
“I do not wish to intrude on your grief,” Alkhun said. “You will both understand that my place is with the Guard tuman, keeping order. Who knows how the city will react when the news spreads. There could be riots. If you will excuse me …”
“Be silent!” Sorhatani snapped. Alkhun froze in amazement, but she did not give him time to think and realize his error. “Would you walk in on the khan without so much as a knock on the door? Then why show less honor to us? How
dare
you interrupt?”
“I was … summoned,” Alkhun stammered, his face flushing. It was many years since anyone had raised a voice to him in anger. Sheer surprise made him hesitate.
Sorhatani spoke slowly, with complete confidence.
“I
have title to the ancestral lands, Minghaan. There is but one in the nation senior to me.
She
sits here.” Sorhatani saw Torogene was staring at her
in bewilderment, but went on. “Until Guyuk arrives in Karakorum, his mother is regent. If it is not obvious to even the least of men, I decree it from this moment.”
“I …” Alkhun began, then fell silent as he considered. Sorhatani was willing to wait and she poured more tea, hoping that neither one noticed the way her shaking hands made the cups clink together.
“You are correct, of course,” Alkhun said, almost with relief. “I am sorry to have disturbed you, mistress. My lady.” He bowed again to Torogene, this time much deeper.
“I will have your head if you displease me again, Alkhun,” Sorhatani continued. “For the time being, secure the city as you say. I will let you know details of the funeral as I have them.”
“Yes, my lady,” Alkhun replied. The world had ceased spinning wildly, at least in those rooms. He did not know if the sense of chaos would return outside them.
“Bring your nine minghaan officers to the main audience chamber at sunset. I will have further orders for you by then. I do not doubt Chagatai Khan will be considering an assault on Karakorum, Alkhun. He must not set one
foot
in this city, do you understand?”
“I do,” Alkhun replied.
“Then leave us,” Sorhatani said, waving her hand to dismiss him. He closed the door carefully behind him, and Sorhatani let out a huge breath. Torogene was watching her with wide eyes.
“May all our battles go so smoothly,” Sorhatani said grimly.
Baidur rode north with a fierce pride in his heart, leaving Tsubodai and Batu behind. He suspected that Ilugei would report back his every action, but he was not daunted by thought of close scrutiny. His father, Chagatai, had trained him in every discipline and tactic—and his father was a son of Genghis Khan. Baidur had not gone into the wilderness unprepared. He just hoped he would have the chance to use some of the things he had packed onto spare horses. Tsubodai had given his approval to leave carts behind. The vast herd of ponies that traveled with a tuman could carry almost anything except the spars of heavy catapults.
It was difficult to smother his visible joy as he rode with two tumans through lands he had never imagined. They covered around sixty miles a day, by the best reckoning. Speed was important, Tsubodai had made that clear enough, but Baidur could not leave armies in his wake. That was why he had taken a path almost true north of the Carpathian Mountains. Once he was in position, he would drive west in concert with Tsubodai, breaking anything that stood in his way. His men had begun to scour the land clear as they reached a position with Krakow to the west and the city of Lublin ahead of them.
As Baidur reined in, he stared at the walls of Lublin with a sour expression. The land around him was barren in winter, the fields black and bare. He dismounted to feel the soil, crumbling the black muck in his hands before moving on. It was good land. Only rich earth and horses could excite a real greed in him. Gold and palaces meant nothing at all; his father had taught him that much. Baidur had never heard of Krakow until Tsubodai had given him the name, but he hungered to claim the Polish principalities for the khan. It was even possible that Ogedai would reward a successful general with a khanate of his own. Stranger things had happened.
Tsubodai had given him vellum skins with all he knew about the land ahead, but he had not yet had a chance to read them. It did not matter. No matter who he faced, they would be as wheat.
He mounted again and rode closer to the city. It was not long till sunset and the gates were closed against him. As he approached he saw the walls were shored up, showing the patches and marks of generations of poor repairs. In places, there was little more than a barrier of piled wood and stone. He smiled. Tsubodai expected speed and destruction.
He turned to Ilugei, who sat his mount and watched with an impassive expression.
“We will wait for darkness. One jagun of a hundred men will climb the walls on the other side, drawing their guards to them. Another hundred will go in and open the gates from inside. I want this place burning by sunrise.”
“It will be done,” Ilugei said, riding away to pass on the orders of the younger man.