The Mongoliad Book Three

“I suspect they were after the Spirit Banner,” Chucai confessed. “Though I do not know why.”

 

 

?gedei’s eyes twitched toward the wall of the tent, and as carelessly as possible, Chucai glanced over to see what ?gedei had been looking at. There was nothing on the wall, nothing but a vague shadow—a misshapen circle with tiny strands descending from it. A shadow of a head with long hair, he interpreted.

 

“Do they think I am that weak?” ?gedei asked. “If they stole my father’s banner, would the empire fall apart instantly? Would I wake in the morning to find that every clan had deserted me?” He snorted, answering his own questions.

 

“I doubt it, my Khan,” Chucai said. He wet his lips, suddenly disturbed by the shadow on the wall. Glancing around the room, he could not figure out how it was being projected on the wall. And when he looked at the wall again, the shadow had changed into an amorphous streak, as if the previous shape had started to run, like ink staining a page.

 

“What did your father tell you of the banner?” he asked curtly. The shadow was unsettling. The more he tried to ignore it, the more it crept into the periphery of his vision. “Where did he get it?”

 

?gedei shrugged. He peered into his cup, seeming to have lost interest in Chucai’s questions. “It’s just a stick,” he muttered. “Father made it.”

 

He didn’t, Chucai realized with an absolute certainty. He wanted to look at the wall once more, but the shadow was gone. All that remained was a blur in his mind, a shape that flowed and wavered. Like a horse’s tail. Or the tassels of the Spirit Banner.

 

Why had the Chinese sought the banner? He recalled the rough spot on the wood, and wondered if he was asking the wrong question.

 

 

 

 

 

Chucai had meant to retire to his own ger to reflect more on the puzzle of the Spirit Banner, but he had been accosted almost immediately by Jachin, ?gedei’s second wife, who had decided to place the blame of the Chinese attack on him. While he had been trying to extricate himself from the tiresome woman’s ranting, they had been interrupted by Munokhoi. The Torguud captain had swept back into the camp, demanding an audience with the Khagan. Chucai, welcoming the opportunity to escape Jachin’s tirade, had directed Munokhoi to his ger, knowing that ?gedei was in no shape to listen to the headstrong warrior. A decision which, in retrospect, might not have been the wisest. Out of sight of his underlings, Munokhoi unleashed a raging torrent of invective that appeared to have no end in sight. It was as if the man has kept a tally of every perceived slight against him since Gansukh arrived at court, he thought, and now they are all being counted.

 

“Enough,” he snapped, waving his hands to get Munokhoi to stop.

 

Munokhoi came up short, caught in midsentence and midstep. He glared at the Khagan’s advisor, his eyes glittering with a copious amount of still untapped rage.

 

“Captain Munokhoi,” Chucai said after a moment, “I appreciate your concern about young Gansukh and Mistress Lian. I will...” He was torn between several responses, and with a sign, decided to address the underlying matter directly by responding in a way that would further enrage the Torguud captain. “I will take it under consideration.”

 

Munokhoi quivered. “Under consideration?” he hissed. “You will imprison—”

 

“You will do well to remember who is in charge of the Khagan’s court,” Chucai snapped. The Torguud captain hadn’t been able to contain himself, as Chucai had anticipated. His own frustration had an outlet now. “And wherever the Khagan is, wherever he takes an audience, that is his court. We are not at war, Captain. This is not the battlefield. Your concerns are noted.”

 

Munokhoi did not say anything, but he refused to budge, staring daggers at Chucai. The fingers of his right hand twitched. He was not wearing his sword—Chucai had smartly requested that he leave his blade with one of the servants standing outside the ger—but the Torguud captain still had his knife.

 

For a long moment, Chucai held his stare, examining Munokhoi’s eyes for some sign that the man was foolish enough to draw the blade. Are you such a fool? he projected. What do you think will happen to you if you draw that knife? If you kill me, what will the Khagan think of you?

 

Munokhoi seemed to be having similar thoughts. His hand relaxed and he looked away. He exhaled, and it was as if a storm cloud fled his body with his released breath.

 

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