“Hans,” the Frank said the boy’s name one last time, as if to seal the understanding that had passed between them. The boy would carry their messages. The two of them stared at one another for a moment that stretched longer and longer, until Kim abruptly realized that the guards hadn’t yet come to retrieve him.
The crowd had grown silent, and he saw that the man’s eyes were now fixed on something behind him with a sudden, alert intensity. Kim glanced over his shoulder, and his guts tightened at what he saw: the crowd was vanishing, slipping away like the tide gone suddenly in reverse, rushing away from the shore. They were fleeing before the arrival of heavily armored Mongol warriors, men with plumed helmets and long pole-arms with wickedly curved blades.
The Mongols scattered the crowd, flowing around the ring until the dusty brown of the audience had been replaced with the black armor of the Khan’s personal guard. Within seconds, the two fighters were surrounded by a tight cordon of armed men, their deadly pole-axes lowered ominously toward the ring.
After a few seconds, the ring parted to allow a burly Mongol with a beard twisted into an ornate braid to approach the ring. He wore polished lamellar armor that shone in the sun, and his helm was topped with a horsetail plume that danced in the wind. It was Tegusgal, wearing his ceremonial armor—the armor he only wore when he was attending to the Khan. “Your weapon,” he demanded of Kim, pointing at the staff.
Kim glared at Tegusgal, his cultivated calm dangerously close to breaking. He should have known Tegusgal would have learned of his trickery to come out to First Field, and he should have equally prepared for the man’s personal involvement in retrieving him. But the elation of the victory over the Frank and the subsequent success at making contact had driven all those thoughts from him, and to be so unexpectedly confronted with the vicious and shrewd captain of the prison guards was to be caught off guard. Fighting to keep his face impassive, Kim relinquished his staff, pushing it toward the Khan’s man. Tegusgal picked it up and strode forward, swinging it heavily down on the back of Kim’s leg. “On your knees, dog.”
Kim collapsed forward, his hands clawing at the dry ground of First Field. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Frank looking at him, an expression of something not quite sympathy, not quite anger on his face. Kim turned his head slightly and held the Frank’s gaze, drawing strength and serenity from the Rose Knight’s expression. But then another commotion drew his attention back to the scaffolding again.
The Mongol guards parted, falling away from the edge of the ring, and their retreat pushed the crowd even farther back so that, in a few seconds, the area around the ring was deserted but for Kim, the Frank, and Tegusgal. Kim swallowed heavily, his mouth suddenly dry, as he spotted the reason why.
Ten broad-backed slaves, bearing a red-curtained palanquin, slowly came to a halt next to Tegusgal, who dropped to his knees as well, holding Kim’s staff in front of him like an offering to a god.
Beside him, the Frank pushed himself up to a sitting position with his good arm.
The bearers knelt as one in perfect synchronization, laying their burden upon the ground. The palanquin was enormous, draped with dark silk, edged in gold ornamentation. A pair of snarling wolf heads, made from gold wire and sporting ivory teeth and flashing rubies for eyes, adorned each of the forward corners. A curtain parted on one side, and Tegusgal jerked as he heard the voice issuing from within. The words were too softly spoken for Kim to hear, but he could guess as to their import from Tegusgal’s reaction.
The captain of the guard stepped forward and delicately raised one of the curtains on the front of the palanquin, keeping his face downturned the entire time. He stared at his boots as a thick-bodied figure ducked under the edge of the palanquin’s roof and stood upon the dry earth of the proving ground.
Kim felt the Frank stiffen next to him, and he did not fault the man’s reaction. Here was Onghwe Khan, the man responsible for all their misery. He was dressed in fine silks inlaid with cloth of gold. His beard was thick and oiled, and but for the ostentatious garments, he was a surprisingly unassuming man. But for his eyes, Kim thought, wondering if the Frank saw the man’s eyes as he did. The eyes are like hungry tigers.
The master of the Circus had come.
“What is this?” the Khan demanded.
Tegusgal snapped to attention and, in a quiet voice, began to explain what had transpired, even though he had witnessed none of it. As the Khan’s attention passed from them—they were two dirty and bloody men, sitting in the dirt, not worth his attention—Kim turned his head slowly until he could once more meet the eyes of the Rose Knight. A message, he thought. He must understand.
He raised one hand surreptitiously from the ground, no more than the height of one finger’s width, and with his index finger, he pointed at the Khan. The Frank saw the motion of his hand, and though his brow creased with confusion for a brief second, he gave the tiniest of nods.
Kim raised his hand farther off the ground, making no effort to hide the motion now, and he tentatively touched at his bloody face, as if suddenly aware of how much his broken nose pained him. He slid his hand down to his throat, letting the bulk of his hand hide the motion of his middle finger. He drew it across his neck in a small, but unmistakable, cutting motion.
The Frank stared at him for a long moment, and Kim was afraid Tegusgal would finish his explanation before the Frank understood. He didn’t dare risk making the motion a second time. Please understand, he silently implored the other man.
Something flickered in the Frank’s eyes, a deep-seated and mischievous gleam. Then, with a tiny curl starting at the edge of his mouth, he tipped his head fractionally.
I understand and agree.
They were of one mind: they had to find a way to kill Onghwe Khan.
23
Servus Servorum Dei