“Twenty-five cows are nothing,” Munokhoi sneered, ignoring Gansukh’s question.
“I am glad you think so because it was more than I had last time,” Gansukh said. “Though, I am happy to have them now. I am going to send them to my father; he’ll be very pleased. That many head will provide nicely for my family all winter,” Gansukh said. “Though if I had double that number, I could marry that girl from the Sakhait clan whom my father always wanted me to.”
“And your Chinese whore?” Munokhoi spat.
Gansukh stroked his chin. “She has expensive tastes, doesn’t she? Maybe I will need more than fifty cows,” he said, a touch of alarm in his voice.
Tarbagatai and several of the Torguud guffawed. One of the moneylenders waved his hands at Gansukh. “Are you placing a wager or not?” he cried.
“Fifty cows,” Munokhoi snapped.
Gansukh spread his hands. “I only have the twenty-five,” he apologized.
Munokhoi’s teeth flashed in the firelight as he grinned. “Pray your man doesn’t lose.”
This was how differences were settled at court—by wagers and proxies. It was not the way of the steppe, and as he watched the pale Northerner square off against the lean Kitayan, Gansukh reflected on what he had learned about being civilized since he had come to the Khagan’s court. Had he become a better man based on what he had learned?
He hadn’t slipped up behind Munokhoi and slit the other man’s throat. Yet. Though he wasn’t entirely sure Munokhoi wasn’t still planning on doing the same to him. Would he be remembered as the better man if he didn’t stoop to such a debased level of violence? He wouldn’t care; he’d be dead. Was there any consolation to be found there?
He’d rather be the one who survived. No amount of courtly learning was going to smooth out that rough edge. He would do what it took to survive. Kozelsk had taught him that. It seemed like a much better lesson to live by than anything he had learned from Lian.
The crowd surrounding the fighting ring gave a collective gasp, and Gansukh blinked away his idle thoughts, focusing on the pair of fighters. What had he missed?
The Kitayan had a knife.
“Hai!” Namkhai shouted from his position next to the Khagan’s platform, and there was a rippling surge through the crowd as newly anointed captain of the Torguud pressed forward, presenting their spears.
The two fighters paused, though neither lowered their guard nor looked away from each other.
“My Khan,” Namkhai called out, seeking direction. “The Kitayan man has a knife.”
The crowd held their breath, and the only sound was the crackling rumble of the bonfires and the low creaking noise of the platform as the Khagan levered himself up from his low seat. “That’s a tiny blade,” he slurred, peering at the fighters. “Is it good for much more than gutting carp?”
Someone laughed in the audience, and Gansukh knew without looking that it was Munokhoi. Had he given the Kitayan man the knife? The idea was troubling.
“Gansukh,” ?gedei was standing near the edge of the platform, searching the faces arrayed below him. “Didn’t you win a bet on the pale-haired one last time?”
Gansukh raised his arm so the Khagan could find him in the crowd. “I did, my Khan.”
“What did you say about him? Something about tactics making up for a lack of strength?”
“I may have, my Khan.”
?gedei grunted, and swung his head around to peer at the fighters again. “Namkhai,” he called out.
“Yes, my Khan,” the new Torguud captain exclaimed.
“I seem to recall you giving me a very poor answer when I asked you about this fighter,” ?gedei said.
“I said...” Namkhai hesitated. Gansukh caught the big wrestler glancing in his direction. “I said I would be wary of the scrawny ones.”
The Khagan waggled his finger at Namkhai. “That is what you said when I gave you a second chance,” he corrected. He glared down at Namkhai for a moment, swaying slightly, and then his gaze traveled slowly across the multitude of faces. “A second chance,” he roared suddenly. His face was scarlet, the veins in his neck standing out against his skin. He swiveled his head ponderously on his quivering neck, staring ferociously at the audience as if he dared anyone to challenge his statement.
“Namkhai, does this man pose a threat to me?” His voice was ragged and strained, his throat still constricted.
“My Khan?”
“Does this dog of a Kitayan have the slightest chance of getting within an arm’s length of me with that knife?” The Khagan found his voice again, unleashing his question in a thunderous shout.
“No, my Khan!” Namkhai replied, trying to match the Khagan in volume.
“Are you certain? Do I have to ask you a second time?”
“No, my Khan!”
?gedei staggered back to his seat and collapsed on it, gesturing for a servant to bring his wine cup. “Then let him keep his fish gutter,” he said. “Let us see a little blood tonight.”