“I...” He cleared his throat. Tell them what you want, he thought. Do not spin a story. “I need to see the Khagan.”
Neither guard replied. The one on the left rested his hand on the hilt of his scimitar, while the other blinked several times and licked his lips. Being ignored is better than being assaulted.
Their behavior was odd, though; he would have expected them to take joy in telling him that the Khagan had expressly commanded them to treat him like this, like a worm not worthy of notice. After a month at court, he knew well the delight the Imperial Guard took in reminding visitors of their lower station.
“I have an important—”
He was cut off by a loud wail from inside the room. At first, he thought he had imagined the sound because the guards did not react, but then he caught the nervous twitch of their eyes—toward the door, at him, and then back to the empty hallway.
“Sounds like someone in pain,” Gansukh said. “Shouldn’t we investigate?”
The lip-licker’s tongue darted several times, and he glanced at Gansukh, then intercepted a hard stare from his companion. “The Khagan is not to be disturbed,” he said gruffly, as if none of them had heard the scream from within the room.
He’s afraid.
The shriek again rent the quiet hallway. Gansukh looked between the guards, whose decorum was fraying rapidly. This time, they refused to meet his eyes.
“I think that’s the Khagan,” Gansukh said.
“No it isn’t,” the man on the left said. The other guard nodded fervent agreement. He wanted to appear stern and threatening, but the slackness of his jaw only made his face quiver, defeating his attempt to appear menacing. “We have strict orders,” the left-hand guard continued. “We are not to enter, nor are we to allow anyone else to do so.”
“Is that wise?” Gansukh stepped closer to the door, and while both guards tensed, neither took action to stop him. “Is that what you are going to tell Master Chucai when he finds out that the Khagan has...impaled himself on a dagger or slipped and broken bones...or something worse...?” Gansukh leaned in toward the door and cupped his hand to his ear, almost enjoying himself, pretending to listen intently for any noise from the suite. “He could be dead...”
“He’s not dead,” the second guard said doubtfully, his face pale and damp.
“No, no. Of course not. I was just suggesting that it was possible such a calamity had occurred,” Gansukh replied. Moving his hands slowly so as to not alarm them, he innocently indicated the door. “But we don’t really know, do we? Are you going to take responsibility for the Khagan’s death, if indeed that is what has happened and he bleeds out while you stand here? Is that the sort of Mongol you are? The kind who follows orders blindly without ever thinking for himself? Maybe you should be thinking that this situation has changed...”
With a muttered oath, the left-hand guard stepped aside. “You check,” he snapped at Gansukh. “It is your head she will take. Not mine.”
She. Gansukh pretended to not have heard the guard’s slip, and he inclined his head as his hand found the latch of the door. “I accept the responsibility,” he said. “May the Blue Wolf take pity on me.” Before the guards could change their minds—or locate their courage—he opened the door a crack and slipped through.
Inside, he pressed his back against the door panel and shut it as gently as he could—trying not to draw anyone’s attention while he surveyed the chamber and figured out what was going on.
A white haze of incense smoke curled about the ceiling, making the room seem larger than it was. On the far side of the chamber, ?gedei lay prone on a couch, his body wracked with heaving sobs. The Khagan, conqueror of the world, reduced to a frightened child. One of his wives—Toregene, Gansukh recalled—knelt on the floor beside the couch, leaning against his shaking bulk. She was stroking his back, speaking to him in a low voice, her words plaintive and comforting. “...such a strong speech. They loved you. Did you not hear how they cheered for you...?”
She caught sight of Gansukh, and her face became wild—vicious, like a cornered wolf intent on killing as many as it can before it dies. “Get out!” she shrieked. “How dare you disturb the Khagan!”
Gansukh stood his ground. “How drunk is he? During his speech, the Khagan could barely stand. Have you let him drink since then?”
“The Khagan does as he pleases,” she snapped.
“And what does the Khagan—the Great Khan of Khans—have to say, then?” Gansukh approached the couch. If he stayed back near the door, he feared his courage would fail. Do not let them see your fear. Be stronger than your enemy.
Hearing Gansukh’s voice, ?gedei raised his head. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, his face bloated and red. When he spotted Gansukh, he scowled and briefly looked more like the Khagan—the leader of the Mongol Empire—than a tired old man. “Get out of my sight, whelp,” he barked. “Run back to my brother and tell him I will drink as I please.”
Toregene smiled, and the sight of her cold diplomacy chilled Gansukh. “The Khagan is pained by the death of his younger brother. He simply wishes a reprieve from the weight of those memories.”
What she felt for ?gedei was not love, Gansukh realized. She was devoted, but not to the man. She was devoted to her position. She had given the guards their instructions. She wanted ?gedei weak and malleable, susceptible to her whims and desires. The wine gave her that power. Lian had warned him, hadn’t she? So long ago, that day in the garden. Who is closest to the Khagan at court? Not his generals. Not his warriors. His wives.
“I...I only...” Gansukh’s head reeled as he struggled to see a solution to this new puzzle. If there was any hope of sobering up the Khagan, it had to be away from Toregene’s influence. Away from the court and its revelries and dinners, away from everything. “I only wished to bring the Khagan a message,” he blurted out in desperation.