Out on the steppe, he needed no permission from anyone. He was in charge of his own life. Even when he traveled with other clansmen, they each knew how to provide for themselves and those who relied upon them for safety and sustenance. They didn’t need to be reminded or commanded. In an arban, each man answered to the others in the squad, and their arban commander answered to the jaghun commander. The jaghun commanders answered to the noyon of their minghan, and so on, up to the Khagan himself. It was a simple chain of command—one that had proven itself effective for many a military campaign.
But if he wasn’t supposed to follow that chain of command, then who was he supposed to answer to?
It wasn’t an impossible riddle. Gansukh couldn’t believe that Master Chucai would waste his time playing such games. He wanted Gansukh to discover some insight—one of Lian’s constant reminders was that a lesson self-learned was much more likely to be remembered than a lesson taught—and he was sure Chucai had inflicted that same aphorism on her during her own education. These sorts of intellectual jabs were always passed on from master to student, generation to generation.
Who had taught Master Chucai? he wondered. Chucai had been an advisor to Genghis Khan; he had been there when ?gedei Khan’s father built the empire. Who had taught him? Gansukh wondered, and then another question posed itself: Whom had Genghis sought permission from?
He hadn’t. But that wasn’t the whole answer. He had bound the clans to him. Had he asked their permission? No, they had come to him. Why?
As he mulled over that question, he noticed he had wandered close to the quarters of the Day Guard, unconsciously summoned by grunts of exertion and the sound of flesh on flesh and of bodies striking packed earth. The morning wrestling practice. Gansukh had watched them on a few previous occasions; early in his education, Lian had suggested befriending some of the Imperial Guard as a way of helping his standing at court. He hadn’t acted upon her idea previously, citing the excuse that having drawn the ire of Munokhoi on several occasions, there was the distinct possibility that seeking out the Torguud might be more foolish than wise, but now, with the question of the source of Genghis Khan’s leadership in his mind, he reconsidered his standing with the Torguud.
Munokhoi might be able to command a certain amount of authority among the Day Guard by virtue of his rank, but given the reaction he’d gotten from the Khevtuul (the Night Guard) after the incident in the garden, Gansukh suspected Munokhoi wasn’t well liked. Munokhoi’s jaghun was only a portion of the whole Torguud, and it was likely the remainder of the Day Guard might have a similar lack of respect for the cruel commander.
Respect among warriors was hard earned and easily lost. There were only a handful of ways in which a man could win and keep the respect of his peers.
Wrestling was one of them.
The reigning wrestling champion of the Imperial Guard was Namkhai, a tall, heavy-set grappler who—as Gansukh had seen—invariably broke into a chortle and grinned like a demon as his opponent showed any sign of nerves. Some capitulated as soon as he started to smile, knowing they had already shown too much weakness. Others held out longer, until Namkhai caught them in a bear hug and began to cackle in their ears. Gansukh wasn’t sure how he would react to Namkhai’s gambit, but he wanted to find out. He wanted to find out what it took to change the expression on the wrestler’s face.
He wanted to find out what it took to earn the man’s respect.
Gansukh was no stranger to wrestling. Chagatai Khan’s own personal guard held regular wrestling matches, and he had won a number of bouts. There was a difference in the rules, though, between those observed by Chagatai’s guards and by the Torguud. On the wrestling field of Karakorum, a fighter could not grab the legs of his opponent. The wrestlers could only grip their opponent’s arms or upper body in their efforts to throw the other off balance. A match was lost when a wrestler’s upper body, elbow, or knee touched the ground.
Stripped to the waist, Gansukh warily watched Namkhai as the champion took a moment to play to the gathered crowd before entering the marked-off area of the wrestling field. Namkhai approached Gansukh, a tiny sliver of a smile quirking the edge of his lips. Namkhai was both taller and heavier, but his gait was stiff—his hips and thighs moved as one massive column of bone and muscle. Gansukh was faster, more nimble, and when Namkhai tensed his body and threw out his hands, Gansukh only had to flinch to one side to avoid the champion’s large grip. He closed, trying to get a headlock.
The champion resisted, and as he pulled back, Gansukh let go and used both hands to push explosively on Namkhai’s chest. Namkhai stumbled backward, arms swinging wildly to keep his balance. It would have been so easy to reach down, grab Namkhai by his thighs, and flip him to the ground, but Gansukh held back. This was ?gedei’s court; he had to win by the Torguud’s rules.