The Mongoliad: Book One

Behind the guard, the pikes rattled as they were withdrawn. The guard heard the noise and blinked heavily.

 

Gansukh shoved past the nervous guard and hauled open one of the heavy doors. He stalked through the narrow opening, hiding the sudden sweat on his palms and forehead beneath a battlefield swagger. But he was bolstered by the affirmation of what he had realized on the plain: his word did have weight. Munokhoi certainly did outrank him within the palace hierarchy, but he was under direct orders that came from the Khagan’s brother, orders that even the Khagan himself couldn’t completely ignore.

 

He swept into the throne room, his pace and bearing made strong by this realization, and pulled up short.

 

The long chamber was nearly empty. There were no ceremonial guards, no throng of obsequious courtiers and provincial administrators. A number of servants labored on the floor, scrubbing the tile clean with wet cloth and pumice stones. The only other individual in the room was Master Chucai, who stood near the Khagan’s enormous throne, lost in thought.

 

“What…?” Gansukh started, and then he realized what the servants were attempting to scour away. His throat closed spastically, and his bluster deflated. There was no mistaking that smell—still so fresh in his head after having smelled it on the plain—even under the masking aroma of the scented water and the incense that had been burned earlier. “What happened?” he asked, even though the answer was obvious.

 

“An interrogation,” Master Chucai said. He approached Gansukh, his face drawn tight by exhaustion—both physical and mental. He hadn’t slept either. “The jaghun commander, Munokhoi, has a certain facility to old techniques, ones the empire wished it could forget.” He shrugged. “But sometimes, it is best—”

 

“She was my prisoner, Master Chucai,” Gansukh said, interrupting the Khagan’s advisor. “I could have made her talk with less”—he stabbed a stiff finger at the scrubbing servants—“with less cruelty.”

 

“Cruelty is sometimes necessary to running an empire,” Chucai explained. He showed no reaction to the younger man’s interruption. He spoke in calm, measured tones. “Regrettable as it may be, an application of intense force can be used to reveal threats to the Khagan and to the stability of his rule.”

 

“Was she a threat?” Gansukh demanded.

 

Chucai’s gaze focused on Gansukh, his eyes narrowing. “An enemy is an enemy,” he said, his voice even more flat than before.

 

“That isn’t what I asked you,” Gansukh replied. “On the steppe, my clan always treated our enemies with respect, even those who came at us with swords and bows. She was unarmed. This…this was butchery.”

 

“She had no weapon,” Chucai agreed. “But you are being naive to think that she could not wield one.”

 

“Was that what she was doing here?” Gansukh asked. “Did she tell you she sought to assassinate the Khagan?”

 

Chucai looked at him quizzically. “Is that what she told you?”

 

“She didn’t tell me anything,” Gansukh replied quickly.

 

“You are a bad liar, Gansukh,” Chucai said, his gaze intensifying. “Has Lian taught you so little?”

 

“This isn’t about…” Gansukh started, a flush rising in his cheeks.

 

“What were your instructions from Chagatai Khan?” Chucai asked. “Were you supposed to go chasing after thieves? To interrogate foreign spies? Or were you just supposed to keep an eye on the Khagan’s drinking habits?”

 

Gansukh kept his mouth shut, biting back the torrent of words in his throat. He knew Chucai wasn’t interested in hearing them.

 

“What this woman wanted—what she sought to accomplish—is none of your concern,” Chucai said, dismissing Gansukh with a wave of his hand. “I have placed Lian at your disposal so that you may learn the ways of court—simply so that you may more readily accomplish your mission. Chasing after an intruder like you did last night is the hotheaded behavior of an uncivilized nomad from the steppes.”

 

“Uncivilized?” Gansukh snorted. “I wouldn’t have tortured her.” And he spun away from Master Chucai, leaving the Khagan’s throne room and its blood-tainted floor behind.

 

He didn’t like running away, but he had learned something from Lian: to know when he had lost the advantage. Master Chucai had twisted their conversation around to focus more on Gansukh than on what the woman had wanted. He didn’t dare push back. Chucai would see that he did know more than he was letting on.

 

Though did he know more?

 

He slipped a hand inside his deel and touched the lacquered box.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 18:

 

 

 

 

 

THE PARTING OF THE VEIL

 

 

Neal Stephenson & Erik Bear & Greg Bear & Joseph Brassey & E. D. Debirmingham & Cooper Moo & Mark Teppo's books