The Mongoliad Book Three

She was confident of that.

 

She blew the candle out, pulled back the cover of the bed, and snuck under it. It was much nicer than the bedding she and Léna had been given. This would actually be quite nice, she decided, sleeping in a Pope’s bed, and allowed herself to smile. From the Emperor’s camp to the Pope’s bedroom in a single day! Sleep began to tug at her mind, and she welcomed it.

 

Until she heard voices outside the room. Male voices, and one of them a little bit familiar—Cardinal Fieschi. She looked around. There was no place in here to hide, and no way to escape before he entered.

 

An empty room is an easy mystery. Something unexpected is altogether more confusing.

 

She flung aside the covers, scrambled out of the bed, pulled the covers back in place, and knelt beside the bed in a position of prayer.

 

The door opened.

 

Fieschi entered, carrying a torch, already incensed. “A thief? In the palace? Are you a fool?” Handing the torch off to the guard behind him, he flicked the latch. “It’s not even—”

 

He had spotted her, and the change that came over him was frightening in its ferocity. He lunged at her, teeth bared, hands like claws, murder in his eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

 

 

 

The Archery Competition

 

 

 

Gansukh felt well rested, all things considered. He had not expected to sleep that night, and it was only by a stroke of luck that he had stumbled upon the fact that Chucai had left the camp. Chucai’s ger had seemed like a perfect place to hide from Munokhoi.

 

The ex–Torguud captain had nearly assaulted Gansukh at the fights, barely managing to contain his volcanic temper. Gansukh was certain Munokhoi was waiting for him somewhere in the camp, and if the positions were reversed, he would have certainly lain in wait near his ger. He had been of half a mind to sleep in Munokhoi’s ger, figuring that the ex–Torguud captain’s rage would keep him alert and fixed in place outside of Gansukh’s ger, but in the end that had felt too risky of a proposition.

 

What he needed was another opportunity like that of the night before to publicly mock the ex–Torguud captain without being seen as challenging him. It wasn’t a very clever plan, but it would get the job done as long as there were witnesses—people who would attest that Munokhoi attacked first, without provocation—then any response on his part, including a fatal one, would be seen as self-defense. No one would be fooled, but propriety would be maintained.

 

He had learned that much from court—the maintenance of propriety. The phrase even sounded like something from one of Lian’s endless scrolls. The understanding—the unspoken rule of acceptable behavior—was that it didn’t matter who knew what you had done, as long as you gave the court an excuse to pretend otherwise. And if you took care of a persistent thorn, you were given latitude.

 

Of course, this was all predicated on Munokhoi playing along—at least with the part where he was supposed to lose his temper publicly—but this plan didn’t leave as bad a taste in his mouth as the option of assassinating Munokhoi.

 

He was running out of time, however. The Khagan was supposed to leave for his hunt today.

 

“Ho, Gansukh!” It was Tarbagatai, eager as ever. The mountain archer jogged up to Gansukh, his round face nearly bursting with some irrepressible news. His face fell slightly when he realized Gansukh’s hand was on the hilt of his knife. “Did you not sleep well, friend?” Tarbagatai asked. “You seem jumpy.”

 

Gansukh relaxed. “I slept quite well, in fact. It’s just...”

 

“Oh,” Tarbagatai said, nodding. “It’s—yes, the fights... I... I think I understand.” His brow furled, betraying the fact that he probably did not have as much clarity as he claimed.

 

Gansukh realized the mountain clan archer wasn’t that much younger than himself—only a few years. What a difference those years made, he thought. I would be just like him if I hadn’t gone to Kozelsk, if Chagatai Khan hadn’t picked me as his envoy.

 

“I’m sorry,” Tarbagatai said, dropping his gaze. “I have said something to offend you.”

 

“No, no,” Gansukh assured him, brushing aside his melancholic thoughts. “Forgive me. I am... distracted this morning. It is the excitement of this...” he struggled to focus his attention, “of the Khagan’s hunt.”

 

“Yes,” Tarbagatai agreed. “But not today.”

 

“What?”

 

“You haven’t heard? The Khagan”—Tarbagatai mimed drinking from a cup—“We will go tomorrow.” He brightened. “I have never participated in a hunt with the Khagan before.”

 

Neal Stephenson & Erik Bear & Greg Bear & Joseph Brassey & Nicole Galland & Cooper Moo & Mark Teppo's books