The Khan Series 5-Book Bundle: Genghis: Birth of an Empire, Genghis: Bones of the Hills, Genghis: Lords of the Bow, Khan: Empire of Silver, Conqueror (209 page)

Kublai drained his cup and shuddered, feeling gooseflesh rise
along his arms. He had to voice his first suspicion, or have it nag at him ever after.

“Are you expecting me to be killed, brother, by sending me against such an enemy? Is that your plan?”

“Still looking for games and plots?” Mongke replied with a laugh. “I think Yao Shu had you too long in his care, brother. Sometimes things are simple, as they should be. I would lose valuable cannons and my best general with you. Would I send Uriang-Khadai to his death? Put your mind at ease, brother. In a few months, I will become khan. Have you any idea what that means to me? I remember
Genghis
. To stand in his place is … worth more than I can explain. I don’t need to play games or construct complicated schemes. The Sung have already raided into Chin territory, on more than one front. Unless I answer them soon with force, they will slowly take back what Genghis conquered. That is my only plan, brother. My only aim.”

Kublai saw simple truth in Mongke’s stare and he nodded. In a revelation, he realized his brother was trying to fit the role he had won for himself. A khan needed a breadth of vision, to be able to rise above the petty squabbles of family and nation. Mongke was struggling to do just that. It was impressive, and with an effort Kublai shrugged off his doubts.

“What oath would you have?” he said at last. Mongke was watching him closely, his own emotions well hidden.

“Swear to me that you will put aside your Chin ways, that on campaign you will dress and act and look like a Mongol warrior, that you will train with sword and bow every morning until you are exhausted. Swear that you will not read a scholar’s book for the whole time you are on campaign, not
one
, and I will give you an army today. I will give you Uriang-Khadai, but the command will be your own.” For a moment, a sneer touched his lips. “If that is all too much, then you may return to the libraries here and wait out the years to come, always wondering what you could have been, what you could have done with your life.”

Kublai’s thoughts whirled. Mongke was trying to be a khan. It seemed he thought a similar change could be wrought in his brother. It was almost endearing to see the big brute so earnest. Kublai thought
of Yao Shu and the peaceful years he had spent in Karakorum. He had loved the silences of study, the glories of insight. Yet part of him had always dreamed of leading men in war. His grandfather’s blood ran in him as much as it did in Mongke.

“You promised Hulegu a khanate, if he could take Baghdad,” Kublai said after what felt like an age.

Mongke laughed aloud, the sound echoing. He had begun to worry that his scholar brother would refuse him. He felt almost drunk on his own foresight as he reached for the pile of maps and documents.

His finger rested on the vast lands of northern China and he stabbed it down.

“There are two areas here, brother. Nan-ching and Ching-chao. They are mine to give. Choose either one, with my blessing. You will have your stake in Chin lands, your own estates. If you agree to this, you will be able to visit them. Before I promise you more, let me see that you can win battles for me.” His smile remained as he saw Kublai examine the maps minutely, fascinated. “Are we agreed then?”

“Give me Yao Shu as my adviser and we are,” Kublai said, letting the words spill out before he could think his choices to death. There were times when a decision had to be made quickly and part of him was filled with the same excitement he had seen in his younger brothers.

“You have him,” Mongke said immediately. “By the sky father, you can have all the Chin scholars left in Karakorum if you say yes to this! I will see my family rise, Kublai. The world will know our names, I swear it.”

Kublai had been looking closely at the maps. Nan-ching ran close to the Yellow River and he recalled that the plain was prone to flooding. The area was populous and Mongke would surely expect him to choose it. Ching-chao was further to the north of Yenking, on the boundary of the Mongol homeland. It had hardly any towns marked. He wished Yao Shu were there to give his opinion.

“With your permission, I will take Ching-chao,” he said at last.

“The small one? It is not enough. I will give you …” Mongke traced a line on the map as he peered at it, “Huai-meng as well. Estates
so vast they are almost a khanate, brother. More will come if you are successful. You cannot say I have not been generous.”

“You have given me more than I expected,” Kublai said honestly. “Very well, brother. You have my oath. I will try to be the man you want.” He held out his hand and Mongke gripped it in pride and satisfaction. Both of them were surprised at the strength of the other.

IN THE SPRING, THE NATION GATHERED ON THE PLAIN OF
Avraga, deep in the ancestral homeland. The oldest men and women could still remember when Genghis had bound the tribes there, replacing their individual banners with just one staff of horsetails, bleached white. The plain was vast and almost flat, so that it was possible to see for miles in any direction. A single stream ran through one part of it and Mongke made a point of drinking the water, where Genghis would have stood so many years before.

Batu had left his Russian estates to come with his honor guards, the image of his father, Jochi. He had been visibly distressed to find Sorhatani so wasted and thin, racked with a coughing illness that grew worse each day. Fevers came and went in her and there were times when Kublai believed she only hung on to life to see Mongke made khan.

From the west came Baidur, the son of Chagatai. His wealth was obvious in the gold he wore and the fine horses of a thousand guards. As khan of the homeland, Arik-Boke had arranged it all, so that they arrived over two months. One by one, the princes and generals rode in and made camp, until even that open plain was black with people and animals. Christian monks came from as far as Rome and France, and the princes of Koryo had traveled many thousands of miles to attend the man who would rule them. Until the last were in, the gathering traded and exchanged goods and horses, brokering deals that would make some rich and others poor for a generation. Airag and wine flowed freely and animals were slaughtered by the tens of thousands to feast them all.

When it was time, Mongke rode out among the host and they knelt to him and gave their oath. No one challenged him. He was the
grandson of Genghis Khan and he had proven his bloodline, his right to lead. The bitter years under Guyuk were put firmly behind them. Kublai knelt with the others, thinking of the army he must take into Sung lands. He wondered if Mongke truly understood the challenge he had set. Kublai had spent most of his life in the city. He had honed his mind with the greatest philosophies of Lao Tzu, Confucius, and the Buddha, but all that was behind. As Mongke became khan on a roar of acclamation, Kublai shivered, telling himself it was anticipation and not fear.

SULEIMAN WAS OLD, BUT MOUNTAINS AND DESERTS HAD
hardened his flesh, so that sinews and narrow muscles could be seen shifting against each other under his skin. In his sixtieth year, his will remained strong, simmered down to diamond hardness by the life he had led. When he spoke, his voice was gently reproving.

“That is not what I asked, Hasan, now is it? I asked if you
knew
who had stolen food from the kitchens, not if you had done it yourself.”

Visibly trembling, Hasan mumbled an unintelligible answer. He knelt on the stone floor before Suleiman’s great chair. His master was dressed in heavy robes against the predawn chill, while Hasan wore only a grubby linen shift. In the shadow of Mount Haudegan, the room saw the sun only in the afternoons. Until then, it could have been used to keep meat from spoiling.

“Come closer, Hasan,” Suleiman said, chuckling.

He waited until the man shuffled on his knees to the foot of the chair and then Suleiman snapped out his arm, backhanding him across the face. Hasan tumbled, pulling in his legs and hiding his head in his hands. Blood dripped from his nose and he looked in terrified silence at the shining drops. As Suleiman watched, the young man reached out with a finger and smeared a red line on the stones. His eyes filled with tears and Suleiman laughed aloud.

“A few stolen cakes, Hasan. Were they worth it?”

Hasan froze, unsure whether the question held a trap for him or not. He nodded slowly and Suleiman tutted to himself.

“I wish all men lied as badly as you do, Hasan. The world would be less interesting, but so many problems would simply vanish. Is there anything in that head of yours that understands you are not to steal from me? That I always find out and punish you? Yet still you do it. Fetch me my stick, Hasan.”

The young man looked at his master in abject misery. He shook his head, but he had learned it would only be worse if he refused. With Suleiman watching in amusement, he stumbled to his feet to cross the frozen room, feeling his bruised body protest. There were few days when he was not beaten. He did not understand why his master hurt him. He wished he had resisted the honeycakes, but the smell had driven him almost to madness. Over the years, Suleiman had broken too many of his teeth for him to eat without pain and the honeycakes were soft, dissolving on his tongue with something like ecstasy.

Suleiman patted the young man’s hand as Hasan gave him the stick. It was a walking cane with a weighted tip and a dagger blade hidden in the handle, suitable in all ways for the one who led the clan of Ismaili Assassins in Alamut. He saw Hasan was weeping and he put a thin arm around his shoulder as he stood.

“Hush, lad. Is it the stick you fear?” His tone was gentle.

Hasan nodded miserably.

“I understand. You don’t want to be hit. But if I don’t, you will steal again, won’t you?”

Hasan didn’t understand and he looked blankly at the old man with his cruel, black eyes and scrawny face. Hasan was both younger and wider than Suleiman, his shoulders made powerful by endless labor in the gardens. He might even have stood taller if he straightened his back. Even so, he flinched when the old man kissed his cheek.

“Better that you accept your punishment like a good boy. Can you do that for me? Can you be brave?”

Hasan dipped his head, tears spilling from his eyes.

“That’s it. Dogs, boys, and women, Hasan. They must all be beaten, or they are spoiled.” Suleiman brought the stick round with a sudden snap, cracking it against Hasan’s skull. The young man yelped and fell back as Suleiman stepped closer, raining blows on him. In desperation, Hasan covered his face and Suleiman immediately hit him in the chest with his bony fist, at the point just above the stomach and below the breastbone. Hasan folded to the floor with a low groan, straining to suck in a breath.

Suleiman watched him affectionately, surprised to find he was panting slightly. Old age was a curse. He might have continued chastising the simpleton if his son had not chosen that moment to clatter up the stairs to the room. Rukn-al-Din barely glanced at Hasan as he strode in.

“They have sent a response, father.”

Suleiman’s mood went sour at the words and he stood in thought, rubbing a spot of blood from the stick with his thumb.

“And what do they say, my son? Will you keep me waiting?”

Rukn flushed. “They sent our man back unharmed, but the message is to abandon our fortresses.”

Suleiman gestured for Hasan to rise and handed the stick to him to be put away. It was odd, but he preferred the simpleton’s company to his own son at times, like a favorite hound. Perhaps it was that Hasan could never be a disappointment, as Suleiman expected so little from him.

“Nothing else?” Suleiman said. “No negotiation, no counteroffer? Has this khan’s brother, this Hulegu, given me
nothing
for the pains I have taken?”

“No, father, I am sorry.”

Suleiman did not curse or show any reaction. He regarded such displays as ultimately futile, or worse, an advantage to his enemies. Even when he grew warm from beating Hasan, he was still able to talk calmly and kindly. As he thought, he detected the distant clinking of porcelain cups coming up the winding stair to his tower. He smiled in anticipation.