He got down from his horse and led the animal through the crowds, halfheartedly looking for Lian. Mostly he wandered, trying to lose himself in the bazaar—trying to let his mind go blank. Soon enough he was surrounded by dark, grinning faces, with long hooked noses and black desert eyes, offering up jewelry, meats, flagons of wine or beer or arkhi.
His stomach had finally decided it could stand a bit of meat, and as Gansukh paused to get his bearings, surrounded by a thick cloud of savory meat smells and spices that now made his mouth water, a vendor caught his eye and waved him over. This one was a more sedentary man, sticking close to his cooking station, also dark-skinned but broad of nose and bushy of beard, and he jabbered at Gansukh, punctuating his words with rapid gestures. The fact that Gansukh had no idea what the man was saying made no difference. Beside him, on a squat stand, was a stone basin filled with fiery coals. Suspended above on a makeshift wire grate were a dozen or so wooden skewers laden with meat, and the entire time he was gabbling—haggling, Gansukh realized—he flipped and rotated the sticks without glancing at them.
The vendor threw up his hand in disgust and waved him off when he tried to purchase only one skewer. His stomach rumbled in disappointment, so Gansukh settled for two. Perhaps he could make himself sick in some sort of penance. Chicken, he thought as he plucked off one of the chunks of meat with his fingers, popped it into his mouth, and chewed. A bit gamey, he decided. But the spices soon took his thoughts away from the age and toughness of the old bird.
The tingling started on the tip of his tongue, and before he could finish swallowing the first piece, the back of his throat was on fire. When he raised his fingers to his face to wipe his streaming eyes, he realized they had plucked the meat from the stick to begin with—too late. He had spread spice to his lids and cheek, and now he could barely see.
The vendor laughed at him, a wide-mouthed braying that went on and on. Gansukh bared his teeth, wiped his eyes with his sleeve, and boldly tossed another chunk of meat into his mouth. His throat constricted at the sudden shock of more long pepper, but he tightened the muscles in his jaw, chewing and swallowing with the frantic determination of a madman. He was not about to spit it out.
As he led his mount away from the meat vendor, one hand clutching reins, the other the skewer, he turned down a narrow alley and discovered a small square filled with stalls selling all manner of housewares—rugs, cooking utensils, dishes. The materials ranged from reeds used for weaving intricate baskets to brightly polished brass fashioned into all manner of cups and bowls.
His mouth still burning, Gansukh wrapped the reins around his forearm, then bent over to pick up a ridiculously large cup with exotic stones set in the sides. “Water,” he gasped, and the slender merchant smiled at the stick of meat held in his left hand and produced a leather skin from beneath his table.
When Gansukh had diluted the fire in his mouth, he tried to return the cup, but the merchant waved him off. Speaking in heavily inflected Mongol, the merchant informed him that the cup belonged to him now. He had drunk from it, had he not? Who would want to buy a used cup? When Gansukh tried to ignore this and again place the cup on the spread cloth, the merchant’s tone grew angry, and his gestures became more animated. Did Gansukh think that just because the Mongols had conquered the known world, they could take what they wanted, whenever they wanted—and not pay? Why didn’t Gansukh just kill him now and save him the humiliation of being robbed of his life’s work? And again, louder still.
Gansukh sighed and dug out a few coins from his pouch. He was out of his depth amongst these shameless hawkers. All at once he was reminded of the vast gulf between life at court and in the towns and life on the steppes, and how he would never truly fit in with the former. Still, this merchant is no worse than our horse traders…
Depressed, convinced he should have known better—and now burdened with an enormous metal cup, as well as a stick and a half of spiced meat for which, literally, he might have no further stomach—he tugged with his arm on his horse’s reins and headed for the gate to Karakorum.