“The thief who came to your palace, the one I chased onto the steppes. The one...” Gansukh swallowed heavily and dropped his head toward ?gedei. “She stole this twig from you or”—his brow furrowed—“maybe she was trying to bring it to you. I don’t know which, and I regret not having brought it to you before now, but I did not know whom to trust.” He held out his hand, offering the sprig to the Khagan. “I should not have hidden it from you.”
?gedei stared at the sprig but made no move to touch it. “Perhaps you were right to hang on to it, pony.” He shook his head slowly. He did not know what it was—he certainly had never seen it before this moment—but he felt as if he should know. As if the tiny sprig should be the most important thing in his life, but he could not fathom why. “If it was mine, Gansukh, I lost it,” he said. “I am a drunk, while you are a Mongol warrior. Maybe it is exactly where it should be—in your hands.”
He glanced at the shaman, who was slumped over as if asleep. “Perhaps it is just a twig,” he mused. Perhaps I am only a man. “But for now, it should stay in your care.”
*
Transformation swept across the plain outside Karakorum. Under the watchful eyes of the Torguud, an army of craftsmen worked at assembling axles and wheels, laying long platforms upon which they erected massive tents. Long lines of carts were being loaded with provisions, and countless heads of oxen milled about in makeshift corrals that threatened to burst. Surrounding this frenzy of construction was a bustling population of like-minded merchants and tribesmen, assembling their own caravans and ordu.
Master Yelu Chucai strode through the confusion, overseeing the proceedings. As he passed, men averted their eyes and bent to their tasks with extra enthusiasm, not wanting to draw his attention. Everyone knew of the chief advisor’s mood.
During the first night of the festival, the Khagan had lost control—dancing drunkenly out in the main courtyard—and before the Khevtuul had been able to assist him back to his chambers, he had been spirited away. He knew Gansukh had taken ?gedei, and he put off the increasingly aggravated captains of both the Khevtuul and the Torguud, saying that the Khagan was indisposed and not to be disturbed. The ruse had worked until someone—and he suspected Toregene’s hand in the rumor—let slip that the Khagan was not in his chambers. As the Khevtuul were on the verge of marching on the palace, the Khagan had reappeared, striding through the palace gate as if just returning from a pleasant walk, acting as if he always left the palace without a retinue of guards. He had refused to speak of what had happened or where he had gone, ordering only that the remainder of the festival be canceled. He instructed Chucai to make immediate preparations for his departure from Karakorum, without the slightest flicker of awareness of the headache his disappearance had caused.
Their destination—he blithely informed Chucai—was not to be the winter palace. They were going to Burqan-qaldun.
My Khan, he had argued, you cannot seriously expect your entire retinue to follow you across the steppes.
I don’t, ?gedei had responded. But I am not just your Khan. I am the Khagan. What else can they do?
Chucai had pressed the Khagan, possibly more than he should have—the man had, after all, been drinking heavily the last few days—but the Khagan had cut him off. I have made so many concessions to civilized ways, ?gedei said with an unexpected fervor. Now it is time for civilization to make a concession to the Mongol ways.
“Master Chucai—”
A small man stood in Chucai’s path, fearful that the tall advisor would not notice him and stride right over him. “What is it?” Chucai snapped, rocking on his heels.
The man pointed. “A caravan has arrived from Subutai, and the Khagan’s son. Gifts from the campaign in the West.”
Chucai stared at the plain, trying to pick out the one caravan among the dozens being assembled. He spotted the likely one and noticed what looked like cages on several of the wagons. He began walking toward the wagons, causing the small man to leap out of his way and then run to keep up with him. “Prisoners?” Chucai asked.
“Warriors,” the small man panted. “From Onghwe Khan’s...” He didn’t finish, not knowing if ?gedei’s displeasure about his son’s predilections extended to gladiatorial fights.
Chucai looked over the cages on the weathered oxcarts. They were filled with a ragtag assortment of men, spoils of war from the distant corners of the world—places he would never visit. One man, exotically dark-skinned, squatted in a corner of his cage, gnawing on his knuckles; another, a Southerner from the looks of him, glared murderously at Chucai, his expression so marred by malnutrition—toothless gums, crusted lips, chancres on his face and hands—that the glare was more entertaining than terrifying. A third was so enormous he barely fit in his cage.
“What should we do with them, Master?”
Chucai understood the man’s confusion. The festival celebrating Tolui had been scheduled to last a week, and while the caravan of Onghwe’s gifts was late, it should have arrived in time for the final ceremonies. The Khagan, however, had unexpectedly changed his mind about his departure date from Karakorum.
“Take them with us,” Chucai sighed and waved off the small man. “We will need entertainment on this journey.”
The small man nodded and ran off to shout orders at the weary caravan master.
Chucai paused. One of the prisoners revealed little concern about the bustle around his cage. In fact, he seemed fascinated by the strange world in which he now found himself.
The prisoner sensed Chucai looking at him and openly met the tall man’s gaze, showing neither fear nor aggression.
He was lean and muscular, with hair so pale it was almost white and light-blue eyes.
9
Enter the Bear