Chapter Thirteen

AT THE DOOR, GUARDS who had been waiting for the khan’s call brought forth the prisoners. Three had named themselves chieftains among the Uulgar when taken prisoner. Others surely marched among those of lesser rank, but they would wait to see what happened to these three before they presented themselves for judgment. A wise choice, Mergen thought, lounging as casually as his tension allowed while he waited for the prisoners to make their way down the long aisle to the dais. Although necessary, he didn’t relish the decisions he must now make.

“I would wish for Justice at my right hand today,” he muttered under his breath, and meant more than the wisdom of his own judgment. For a while the clans had ridden with a god called Justice among those foreigners who followed the Way of the Goddess. Little more than a boy, on occasion the god had been clumsy as a colt. At other times, of course, he’d shown great powers of compassion and skill, enough to save the Cloud Country from both natural and unnatural foes. But then he’d disappeared into the mountains, leaving the defeated Uulgar clans to Mergen’s less exalted disposal.

Old Bortu had not traveled with the army, but she’d met this young god and had heard his story. He knew she had an opinion, and no hesitance to tell it to him.

“You fear to judge, believing that Justice has departed the kingdom of men,” she chastised him. “But did the wisdom of the Qubal people follow that young man into the mountains? Did the gates of a foreign heaven lock up the heart of a Qubal khan? Or does justice reside in all of us who see the darkness truly and would find our own path into the light?”

Mergen bowed his head to his mother, recognizing the echo of her words in his own heart. “You humble me with your wisdom.”

“Then I would raise you up again,” she said with a wry smile. “Look into the soul of a true khan for justice. Look into the minds of your enemies and know what you must do. But you already knew that, or you wouldn’t be the true khan of your people.”

The mother of two khans could not have a gentle soul. In the crinkle of her eyes, however, he saw pride as he had not since the death of his brother, Chimbai. She had thought him a poor substitute for the great leader they’d lost. It seemed she’d changed her mind. Or something in him had changed it for her.

He wanted to believe that, especially now as three Uulgar with the braids of chieftains strode toward him between the ranks of gathered nobles. Each carried his chains as if they were the most precious ornaments and each ignored the guardsmen in their blue coats who pricked at them with the points of their spears to hurry them toward the khan.

Locks of hair with bits of skin attached swung from the vests of the two grizzled oldest. Brown- and reddish-hued and black as pitch; a braid, a handful still gathered up into a silver clasp as a woman of the Golden City had worn it, dangled from their bits of flesh to adorn the chests of the chieftains. Raiders, then, and no honorable soldiers. He saw no remorse in their eyes, only arrogance and threat. The one with the broadest chest let his eyes rest on the thin switch of gray hair that flowed from Bortu’s headdress, as if he measured its worth for his own decoration.

The youngest of the three had been in a training saddle when the raiders had invaded the Golden City. He wore the face of the eldest, though thinner and less well formed, and his soldier’s garb bore no tokens ripped from the skulls of his victims. Close up, Mergen saw that much of his arrogance was feigned; the boy’s hands shook with fine tremors, making a sound like the tinkling of wind chimes with his chains. He would have released him, but he knew that wasn’t possible. By some manner of choosing among the Uulgar themselves, the young man stood side by side with the old. Not for his own crimes, Mergen guessed, but to represent the crimes of all his people for the khan’s judgment.

When the prisoners had been brought before the dais, Yesugei left the nobles and advisers to take his place at the head of the royal guardsmen. He stood with his legs a little apart and his arms clasped over his broad chest and waited; he would perform Mergen’s justice, whatever he asked. After a moment Qutula followed him, leaving the dais to stand beside the general.

Mergen knew what he had to do. Chimbai would have done it already. But there was a form to justice and this khan was a cautious leader. He turned to the eldest among the Uulgar chieftains, who stood a pace in front of his companions as their spokesman.

“What say you, before the khan decides your fate?” To show that he gave this prisoner no respect, Mergen kept his seat, his tone and glance mild, as though the question of the man’s life or death held no great interest for him.

If he had claimed compulsion from afar by the mad magician for his deeds, or demonstrated remorse and pledged to live in peace with his neighbors, Mergen-Khan might have sentenced him to hard labor as a slave. After a proper time he could have freed the chieftain to make amends for his actions as he might.

Instead, the chieftain laughed. “The Uulgar have done no harm to the Qubal people! What does it matter to a Harnishman if the prayer-mad traders of the Golden City die?”

He used the Tashek word for the people of the grasslands, Harnish, meaning the movement of the wind in the grass. “If you want a share in the loot, you will have to wait until the fools rebuild the Golden City, but something can be arranged, I’m sure.”

As the chieftain’s breast rose and fell with his words, the blood-crusted hair of a long-dead woman swayed on the silver clasp pinned to his vest. Mergen found himself fascinated by that rich red hair. He wanted to reach out and touch the clasp. Was it warm to the hand, or cold as the grave of the woman who had worn it? He couldn’t find out without losing his dignity, but its presence told him enough about the man who bargained for the lives of his people with carefully veiled threats. He had wondered who among the clans who roamed the grasslands could build a wall around a city. Now he knew.

“No harm to the Qubal?” He said it so softly that the Uulgar chieftain seemed to think for a moment that Mergen spoke to him alone, and in secret agreement. Gradually, however, his voice rose so that all the gathered court might hear each word as it vibrated with indignation.

“Otchigin, my anda, fell in the battle against the stone monsters raised by your master. Our shaman Bolghai lost a son, and many others died in the battle to free the people of the Golden City. And you come before this court with the ignoble badges of your treachery emblazoned on your chest!

“To conquer one’s enemy in battle brings a soldier honor. To fall upon an unsuspecting people and murder the weeping innocent with no declaration of war is the work of a craven. It brings shame upon his people.”

As the khan of all the Qubal ulus spoke, the youngest of the prisoners hung his head in shame. The second of the elder chieftains cuffed him sharply for his remorse. Their spokesman clamped his lips tight against a hasty retort, but the color rose from his throat. He held Mergen’s gaze with threat carved into every tensed muscle of his body until Yesugei stepped forward to chastise him.

Mergen stopped him with a hand sign. “Shame, and no honorable death. For the injustice the raiders of the Uulgar clans meted on our allies of the Cloud Country, I sentence you to death. For allying with the evil magician who raised up the stone monsters to murder the khan’s own anda, Otchigin, I sentence you to death. For the destruction your actions would have brought down upon all the living and dead and the gods in their heaven if our war had not put a stop to them, I sentence you to death.”

Moving like lightning he rose from his place on the dais and seized the prisoner. Then he dropped to one knee and bent the man backward with a sharp twist. The snap of the chieftain’s spine rang sickeningly through the tent. Surprise came first into the dying eyes, then slowly the light went out of them.

Silence followed, as if winter had blown through the ger-tent palace, freezing the moment in time. Of Chimbai the Qubal had expected such swift justice. At Mergen’s hand it sent a message to more than the defeated Uulgar; his own chieftains with a mind to seek the khanate for their sons shifted in their places.

General Yesugei recovered first, or perhaps had guessed even before Mergen what his khan intended. “Take him,” the general instructed a handful of his troops, breaking the moment with his voice. “See that no drop of blood taints this place.”

Mergen heard breathing again, the rustle of warm bodies. With a nod he acknowledged the service. He wanted no part of the raider’s spirit to touch the palace of his ancestors.

When they had taken up the body by its hands and feet, the second of the two old raiders barked a protest, “You can have the loot, all of it! Take the cub if you want him. Only spare my life and I will give you the Uulgar people!”

The young chieftain quaked where he stood, very pale as he watched the guardsman carry out his relative. He showed no surprise to hear himself offered up as a sacrifice to Qubal vengeance, nor did he speak either to confirm his guilt or to separate himself from the raider who blustered at his side. He could be no older than his own son Qutula, Mergen realized, a fact which must not influence his judgment. He set the thought aside, unwilling to consider the boy’s fate sooner than he must and focused on the more pertinent of the chieftain’s bribes.

“As you can see, I already hold the Uulgar in my palm. The question remains only, do I clasp it lightly?” He extended his hand to show the fingers curved gently, as if they held something both fragile and precious. “Or crush it, as the Uulgar would have done to the Qubal, squeezing the life out of the clans to fill your coffers by the blood of our dead? As he spoke, he tightened his fist until the knuckles whitened.

Sweat bloomed on the old chieftain’s lip as desperation replaced arrogance in his eyes. He would have fallen to his knees, but Mergen’s guardsmen held him up by his arms.

“I can make you rich beyond your dreams!”

“Perhaps,” Mergen agreed. “But I can send you to a place beyond wealth or dreams.”

It took only a glance at the guardsmen who stood behind the prisoner, but he hadn’t expected his own blanket-son to step forward.

Qutula seized the hair of the Uulgar chieftain “How, my lord khan?” he asked, readying himself to strike. It troubled Mergen that his son chose to honor him with this grim service, but he would not shame him by hesitating.

“Quickly,” he answered. At need, to extract information or to serve as a lesson, he could draw out the death of a prisoner for days of screaming torment. But he took no pleasure in such punishments and hoped Qutula understood.

Like a serpent striking, Qutula’s arm curled around the man’s throat. The man struggled, but the khan’s guardsmen grasped him firmly. Muscles stood out in carved relief as his son’s arm crushed the wind out of his prisoner with iron strength. Mergen held his eye, refusing to flinch away from the act as the dying man’s thrashing slowed, then stopped. Someone had to do it, certainly. Death was the work of a soldier and he appreciated how promptly his son obeyed him. Some hesitance in the matter of cold-blooded killing would have pleased him more, though he wasn’t certain why he felt that way.

“How do your stolen riches serve you now?” Mergen asked the dead man as Qutula released his hold and stepped back, letting the body fall into the arms of the waiting guardsmen.

Unruffled, Yesugei watched him over the body between them. Mergen saw well into the soul of his friend, however; saw the furtive, troubled glance he cast at the youngest warrior brought before them as a chieftain. The sacrificial goat, he figured, meant to be the one to pay for all their crimes, while his elders haggled with the khan over the spoils of the recent war. The general would take it on himself to execute the boy if it were demanded of him, but he questioned the justice of such an act. As he turned his attention to the young man, a son perhaps, or a nephew of the old chieftain, so did Mergen.

Guardsmen in blue had laid hold of the younger prisoner, but he made no move to defend his relative or to take vengeance for his death. Rather, he raised his head with the pride of one who has seen too much and looks only to finish the job as bravely as he began it.

“We have lost our khan to an evil sorcerer,” he said, “the sorcerer to battle, and yet a third khan to your vengeance, my lord.” The young warrior’s voice drifted off, his eyes lost to a private grief that went far to explain his place among the chieftains. Mergen winced, imagining his own sons, his nephew and heir, standing in the youth’s place in front of an unfriendly khan.

“I have seen the futility of trying to strike a bargain with the Qubal-Khan,” he went on with less bitterness than despair. “But I beg mercy—” He dropped to his knees then, almost ending his life at the hands of battle-nerved guardsmen. But he stayed where he was, arms out in supplication,“—for my people only, the ten thousand you hold prisoner here and the tens of ten thousand, peaceful herders and their wives and flocks who await their return. What will become of them?”

Not “us,” Mergen noted. He expected to die as his elders had, but still he pleaded for his people. “You wear no badges on your chest,” he persisted, wanting an answer to this riddle before he handed down judgment. He had a nephew watching him, learning how to lead, and sons who understood from his actions the value of following a just khan.

“Not all the Uulgar take such trophies. We have come to know, at great cost, the price of honor.”

“Master Markko was good at teaching such lessons, I understand.” Mergen goaded him. The magician had left a path of death and destruction across thousands of li. Accepting the hospitality of the raider clans within sight of his goal, Markko had poisoned the Uulgar-Khan and seized his tents and armies as a weapon he used to lay siege to heaven. He’d lost that final battle, but the Uulgar had a head start on conquest and tyranny well before the magician had shown up to give them a touch of their own lash.

“He certainly taught us the cost of losing,” the boy agreed. “I don’t need another such lesson. The Uulgar are yours. If you plan to kill me, I wish you would do so now and save me the humiliation of abasing myself any further for nothing. If you would ransom me, I must in conscience tell you that the only person who would have paid for me now lies dead at the khan’s own hand.”

Well spoken. With better teachers than a mad magician and a raider for a parent, the boy might have made a worthy khan, perhaps even a husband for Eluneke to seal a treaty of friendship between their people. Mergen gave no sign by any softening of eye or quirk of lip where his judgment might lead, but he wanted to test the young man further. “And what would you do with one such as yourself, were you on the dais and I at your feet?” he asked.

The young man who would have been khan of the Uulgar people sat back on his heels, considering the question. He answered with one of his own. “If I said that in your place I would return your flocks and herds and send you intact to reclaim your lands and tents, would you take my advice and free me to lead my Uulgar clansmen home?”

“No,” Mergen conceded. The court murmured with laughter. A chuckle escaped even the Lady Bortu, though she might have drawn blood with the sharpness of her gaze on the prisoner. Next to him, Mergen felt the presence of his heir, tense and waiting, absorbing every word. That’s right, he thought. Pay attention. If things had gone differently, you would be kneeling in this young khan’s place, begging for the lives of the Qubal clans.

“That isn’t really an option.”

“I didn’t think it was.” The young man gave a bitter laugh. “I won’t bandy words with you. I’m not a diplomat and I’d rather not make a fool of myself before I die. But if you would grant me one boon, I ask only to accompany your army as a hostage. With my words and actions I would persuade your emissary that a whole people should not be judged by the actions of a few.” He gave a little shrug, a rueful half smile. “Even if those few are their leaders. By my example as our dead khan’s heir, the Uulgar will learn to love the Qubal-Khan as their own.”

The boy had offered him a gift in the loyalty of the Uulgar, but too much mercy would make the Qubal look weak. A price had to be paid. But, “Not a hostage,” Mergen-Khan judged, “since by your own word there is none to pay your ransom. But a slave, bound to serve for a full cycle of the seasons, or more if your master should deem your freedom to be a danger to the Qubal ulus. As for what is to be done with such a slave, that is a decision best made by he who will hold your bond. My emissary, indeed. General Yesugei, what would you do with this young warrior who will not, it seems, be a khan today?”

Yesugei’s gaze searched the khan’s face as if he might find some other meaning there, but Mergen didn’t soften in his resolve. “In the morning, good Yesugei, allow the women who lost husbands in the war to choose from among the most presentable of the prisoners. Then I would have you ride out with an army of our best warriors and the ten thousand of prisoners to lay claim to the Uulgar lands and rule there in my name.”

“If my own wishes carry any weight in the decision, I would not leave your side.” The general bowed low to his khan while his eyes accused a friend of many complex things. Banishment for one. Standing in the way of his suit for Sechule’s attentions for another. His words, however, offered perfect solicitude. “Who knows better the enemies closest to your tents than one who has fought at your side and at your command to the very gates of a foreign heaven?”

The Lady Chaiujin, he meant, who had murdered Mergen’s brother and his brother’s wife. They had seen or heard no sign of the lady-serpent since their return from war, however. Given the politics of a living court and his knowledge of both ladies, Mergen believed Sechule the more dangerous of the two. The false Lady Chaiujin had no claim on him.

To make certain the general understood the full import of the honor bestowed on him, Mergen countered the question with one of his own, spoken loud enough for all to hear. “Who would I send to be khan in my place but my best right hand?”

A murmur passed through the great ger-tent palace like a wave through grass. The general would be a khan in his own right. Not over the Qubal ulus and still answering to Mergen as his gur-khan—-khan of khans—but a khan with a ger-tent palace and five hundred retainers and an army of his own. Perhaps that would be enough for Sechule. If not, Yesugei might choose from among the noble ladies of the Uulgar as many wives as he wanted to warm his tents.

A light had ignited in General Yesugei’s eye as he came to understand the full import of his new position. “As the gur-khan wishes,” he agreed, the first to address Mergen by the new title he had claimed, and held himself a little taller, as befitted a khan.

“Now about this noble slave—” Mergen’s conscience would let him sleep peacefully enough over the death of the old raider who had worn the trophies of his murders on his chest. He counted on his general’s humanity to spare an innocent boy, however.

“I will need captains to ride at my side,” Yesugei said. “And a figure known to the prisoners to treat with his master on their behalf.” He turned to the young man, who balanced on the knife point of his words, knowing that his life or death depended on the outcome. Mergen watched with admiration as he drew himself up, waiting for reprieve or the blow that would end his life.

“Do you pledge fealty to the gur-khan Mergen of the Qubal ulus?” Yesugei asked him. “Do you declare that all the lands and clans of the Uulgar-who-were now belong to the Qubal-who-are?”

The mouthful was hard to swallow. The boy had pledged the loyalty of the Uulgar, but had not surrendered their name. Tears he had not shed at the death of his father now gathered in the corners of the young man’s eyes. But he bowed to the dais, so low that his head knocked on the carpets. Still bent over his knees, he touched his forehead to Yesugei’s booted foot.

“All that the Uulgar were has been destroyed,” he said. “Only the Qubal remain, stronger now by ten thousand of army and many tens of thousands of herders who call the South their home. This I pledge with my life.”

“You do that a lot, boy,” Mergen commented wryly as the boy climbed to his feet. “Are you so anxious to throw away your existence on this plane?” The question was a test of sorts. In less than a season he’d lost a war, his father, and now his home. Perhaps he offered his life so glibly in the hope that someone would take it and spare him any further losses. If that were so, better to give him what he wanted now than after he’d committed some costly mischief to earn it.

“I’m more anxious to keep my skin intact than you could know, Mergen-Gur-Khan. But I’ve seen what happens when a soldier trades his honor for gain. I would not ride down that road.”

“Spoken like a true Qubal warrior.”

“Thank you, gur-khan.”

Mergen saw him flinch at the reminder of his losses, but the boy bowed deeply to accept the compliment. Taking a breath to gird himself against the shame, he turned next to Yesugei. “What would you have me do, master?”

“If I have your parole, you are free to go. Find your people and prepare them for the morning.” Yesugei-Khan gave no sign of softness that might have humbled the boy further, but waved a dismissal.

With a bow, the young slave backed away from the dais but Mergen stopped him with one last question. “Do you have a name, boy?”

“I did.” He turned and bowed again, offering Mergen a level gaze filled with meaning. “That name, like the people who gave it to me, no longer exists.”

Mergen nodded, understanding. Shame demanded one more loss. In this, at least, he could reward the sacrifice. “Then I will give you the name of my anda, Otchigin, who died in the wars brought on us all by the magician-usurper.”

Again the nobles and chieftains put their heads together; the buzz of their whispered conversation reaching even to the dais. All the court knew of the love he had borne for his blood brother. But Otchigin the elder would not be coming back from the dead. It was time to move on. The young warrior read more in Mergen’s silence than he felt comfortable sharing, but he accepted the gift as the challenge it was.

“If my fame should rise in the service of my khan, I share it gladly with my namesake.” With that, the new Otchigin turned and walked down the aisle, his back tensed as if he expected a spear between his shoulders with each step.

Mergen waited until the boy had passed the firebox, then he yawned and stretched. “Great Sun rises early after feasting,” he said, giving his general and all the court permission to find their own beds.

“We march at break of day, but now I must find sleep,” Yesugei agreed. He gave his bow and followed the new Otchigin from the ger-tent palace, trailed by the chieftains and many of the nobles. They would whisper of this day’s work in their own tents, and make their own judgments about their new khan.

Bolghai, who had waited until Mergen-Gur-Khan had made this latest pronouncement to speed the spirits of the Uulgar dead on their way to the underworld, settled a stoatlike gaze on him. Slowly the lashes lowered over the shaman’s glittering eyes and slowly they lifted again. What thoughts he hid behind them as he began to beat his drum, Mergen chose not to ask.

Mergen likewise refused to wonder what bed Yesugei would find that night. Casting about for something to occupy his mind before the feel of a man dying in his hands robbed him of all sleep, he remembered Jumal’s strange behavior during Bekter’s hero-tale about Prince Tayy and the bear. What had Jumal meant by it? So far, the boy had held Prince Tayy’s friendship, second only to Mergen’s blanket-son. Did he chafe to take Qutula’s place on the dais? To offer gifts of blood brotherhood? That would be impossible. Qutula rose above his rank on the unspoken promise of his father’s favor. Jumal had no such claims to lift him to a higher saddle.

One drunken night did not conspiracy make. Jumal seemed more likely to throw his life away in some extravagantly heroic act to win favor than to harm the prince in some rage at his own lot in life. He didn’t want to cause dissension in the ranks of his nephew’s guardsmen with suspicions if the young warrior’s intentions were pure, and he wouldn’t trust an inexperienced watch to know if they were not. With Yesugei gone in the morning, who would he trust with such a duty?

None. But Yesugei might still serve in this if not in matters closer to home. He would send Jumal as one of the young captains in the new khan’s personal guard. The fortunes of Jumal’s clans would rise in the South and Mergen would remove the risk that some rash act might drive the Qubal clans into grief and disaster again, so soon after Chimbai’s death.

Satisfied that he had resolved the most pressing problems of his court, Mergen rolled over in the furs of his bed and tried to sleep. It was a lonely bed, however, and he allowed himself to dream of the day that he might step down from the khanate and take a wife. Until then, he resolved to sleep alone; Sechule had taught him well enough the dangers of a casual bed.

Qutula sat astride his horse at Prince Tayyichiut’s right hand, and watched General Yesugei—now Yesugei-Khan—lead the army of ten thousand prisoners south to lay claim to the Uulgar lands in the name of Mergen-Gur-Khan. On either side of the broad central avenue crowds had gathered to cheer the army on its way. Prayers followed like the dogs who ran beside them, baying with their own mournful greeting. All but the prince’s hounds, of course. They flanked his mare, alert to every movement in the crowd but never leaving his side. Occasionally the red bitch snapped at the heels of Qutula’s mount, but she made no other protest at his presence this morning. Court manners, even in his dogs.

He didn’t let the bitch’s dislike bother him but held his head up proudly as befit one who stood among the highest members of his father’s court. All might see who looked upon them that he ranked second only to the prince and the Lady Bortu themselves in closeness to the khan.

Pride wasn’t enough to keep his mind on the rank of scruffy prisoners filing by. Memories of the night before, however, had offered sufficient entertainment to hold him quietly to his seat this morning. His lady of mystery hadn’t come to him in their place by the river. He finally wandered home to his mother’s tent to find the general there, hidden under his mother’s blankets as if no one would notice who lay there. Qutula had politely muttered a singular greeting on his way to his own bed, pretending to ignore the pair who quickly resumed their argument in hushed tones under Sechule’s blankets.

“I am a khan!” Yesugei had whispered himself hoarse in his impossible quest. Sechule had been adamant: she would not follow him south.

“I don’t stay for myself, but for my sons,” she insisted.

True enough as far as it went, Qutula thought. She planned to ride her son’s coattails into Mergen’s tents.

“You see how close my son sits to the khan, who now calls himself gur-khan, ruler over khans as well as clans.”

That would appeal to her more than traveling as a camp follower and second wife to a minor khan who still set his hand beneath Mergen’s foot, however great his title. But Yesugei refused to take “no” for an answer, and Sechule somehow managed to reject him without ever quite saying “no” in the first place. It had all grown so boring and useless that at one point Qutula had risen up in his bed and muttered, “Who’s there?” as if he’d just awakened to their noise.

The poor general had fallen silent, as if he hadn’t meant to be caught in a mother’s bed, arguing for her to leave her sons behind for an uncertain future among people who had, until this night, been the enemy. Finally he had departed with his trousers in his hands instead of promises and they’d all gotten some sleep. He’d still be annoyed about the whole thing except that there in the front, next to Yesugei and looking about as happy to be going as the general, rode Jumal. The spirits were smiling on Qutula today, and about time, too. He didn’t let his elation show, but sat firm and proud in his saddle, imagining Prince Tayyichiut dead and his own horse one step closer to the heart of the khan.

Mergen’s voice, full-throated to reach the crowd, brought him out of his reverie. “Salute your victors!” he cried, meaning the soldiers of his army who filled the grand avenue. Half would go with General Yesugei to subdue the Uulgar while the remainder would stay behind to serve the khan at home. And then he gave the word to break camp. “We move before Little Sun reaches the horizon!” he declared. Enough time to fold the tents and pack them on the carts, not longer. Great Sun would still be on the rise. Some would head out in their own directions, but the army and those who supplied it would follow the khan to the court’s next camp, farther up the river. And with Jumal gone, Prince Tayy would need his company all the more.

With a smile that might have been joy that the camp was moving again, Qutula asked permission to help his mother fold her tent. When it was given, he bowed his thanks and turned his horse down the avenue where a conquered army had just passed. The crowd had not yet dispersed and would have seen him speaking familiarly with the gur-khan. He rode with his head high, therefore, and with a stern and courtly expression on his face, so that all who saw him would wonder at his heroic profile and remember him when he had passed.