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 (240 page)

He dropped another clear ball into the bowl and it rattled around, holding the gaze of every man in the meeting place. Jin Feng bowed briefly to Sung Win. He neither liked nor trusted the older man and as their eyes met, Jin Feng could not help the suspicions that flared in him. Yet for once, Lord Sung Win was on the side of right. Jin Feng handed the black ball to a servant and returned to his place as two more lords stepped up. Both of them placed clear marbles in the bowl and passed back the others.

Sung Win began to relax as three more men came and added clear balls. He saw Lord Hong rise from his seat. The man moved easily, with grace and strength. Lord Hong was one of the few in the hall who did not neglect his training with sword and bow each day.

Lord Hong held both marbles above the bowl.

“I see no emperor’s chancellor here,” he said, his voice deep. “I have heard no gong summoning us to this council, this conclave.”

Lord Sung Win began to sweat again at the words. Though a distant cousin of the old emperor, Lord Hong was still a member of the imperial family. He could yet sway the gathering if he chose to exert his influence.

Lord Hong flashed a gaze around the chamber.

“My heart rebels at the idea of paying tribute to this enemy, but it will buy us time for Emperor Huaizong to bring order. I would wish to lead an army if the vote goes for war, but without imperial approval, I cannot add the fate of my house to that decision. Therefore, I choose tribute.”

He dropped a black ball into the bowl and Sung Win struggled not to scowl at the man. Lord Hong had revealed only weakness with his speech, as if he could keep himself safe from imperial anger, yet still expect to lead if the vote went against him. It was infuriating, but typical of the politics in that chamber. Lord Hong had reminded them of the prospect of the emperor’s disapproval and the ripples had begun to spread. Sung Win showed no reaction as four more lords added black marbles to the bowl. Internally, he seethed.

The lamps burned down to dark yellow flickers with no imperial servants to replenish the oil. Lord Sung Win stood straight and tall as the lords of the Sung empire came up one by one. Few of them spoke, though the first to abstain explained his decision in words that demonstrated only cowardice in Sung Win’s assessment. Even so, seven others abstained from the vote, handing back both marbles to the servants.

The damage had been done by Lord Hong, just enough to frighten the weak men and make the strong cautious. Sung Win could feel the mood in the chamber shift as they chose the safer path of tribute over war. He clenched his jaw, feeling his teeth grate as the black balls were dropped in, one after the other. When the vote stood against him at eleven to seven, he thought of speaking again, but it would have meant another breach of tradition. His chance had come and gone. He allowed himself a glare at those who abstained, but kept his silence as the glass bowl filled. Two more black marbles went in and
then two more clear ones. A distant hope formed in Lord Sung Win’s icy thoughts. Another vote for tribute and two abstentions followed, men who would not even meet his eyes as they shuffled back to their seats.

When the thirty-three great houses had all voted or abstained, the glass bowl was almost full. Sung Win had kept count in his mind, but he showed no emotion as the results were tallied, watched by all.

“Ten have abstained. There are fourteen votes for tribute, nine for war,” he announced in a voice as clear and loud as any imperial herald. He breathed in relief. “The vote is carried for war.”

Sung Win smiled, feeling dizzy from the strain. Fourteen was the unluckiest number possible, a number that sounded like the words “Want to die” in both Cantonese and Mandarin. Nine was a number of strength, associated with the emperor himself. The result could not have been clearer and many of the men in the room relaxed visibly at the sign of heavenly favor. To go forward under nine was a blessing. No one would dare to move under fourteen, for fear of utter disaster.

A low note boomed across the room, interrupting the excited conversations that had sprung up over the meeting hall at the announcement. Lord Sung Win jerked his head around, his mouth dropping slightly open. The imperial chancellor stood by the gong, holding the rod he had used to strike. The man was red-faced, as if he had run a long way. He wore a tunic and trousers of white silk, and in his right hand he held his staff of office. A yellow-dyed yak tail spilled over his fist as he stood and glared in fury at the assembled lords.

“Rise for Emperor Huaizong, Lord Perpetual Nation, ruler of the Middle Kingdom. Make obeisance for the Son of Heaven!”

A ripple of shock snapped across the hall. Every man there stumbled to his feet as if yanked up. The emperor did
not
attend the conclave of lords. Though they met at his order, the imperial will had always been carried out by his representatives in that chamber. Of the hundred lords present, barely three or four would have found themselves in the imperial presence before and a sense of awe overwhelmed them as the gong rang out again.

There was no order in the way they knelt. The lords’ delicate appreciation of status and hierarchy vanished as their faces and minds blanked in terror. Lord Sung Win knelt as if his legs had given way, his kneecaps striking sharply on the floor. Around the chamber, the other lords followed suit, some of them struggling to get down in the press of their servants. Sung Win had a glimpse of a boy in a white tunic decorated with gold dragons before he dropped his head and brought his damp brow down to the ancient wood three times. All his plans and stratagems tore to rags in his mind as he rose briefly and then dipped again, knocking his head on the floor three more times. Before he had completed the third kowtow of the ritual, Emperor Huaizong was among them with his guards, walking confidently toward the center of the floor.

Lord Sung Win struggled to his feet, though he kept his head bowed with the rest. He struggled against confusion, trying to understand what it might mean to have the new emperor enter the chamber. Huaizong was a small figure, fragile against the hulking swordsmen who surrounded him. It was not necessary to clear the floor. The imperial presence had every lord pushing back to give him space, Sung Win among them.

Silence fell again and Sung Win had to repress the mad urge to smile. A memory came to him of his father’s anger when he had discovered a young Sung Win stealing dried apples. It was ridiculous to feel the same way in the presence of a young boy, but Sung Win could see many other faces flushed in hot embarrassment, their dignity forgotten.

Emperor Huaizong stood straight and unafraid before them all, perhaps aware that he could have ordered any of them killed with a single word. They would not resist the order. Obedience was too ingrained in them. Lord Sung Win thought furiously as he waited for the boy to speak. The emperor looked almost like an animated doll, his shaven head gleaming in the lamplight. Sung Win realized the imperial servants were replenishing the oil as the light grew around the hall, bathing them all in gold. He could see the nine yellow dragons that twined on Huaizong’s tunic, symbols of his authority and
bloodline. He repressed a sigh. If Huaizong denied the vote they had taken, Sung Win knew his life was forfeit. He felt himself tremble to have his house waiting on the words of one he did not know.

When Huaizong spoke, his voice was high and clear, unbroken.

“Who summoned this meeting?”

Sung Win’s stomach clenched as fear rose in him. He did not need to look to know every eye in the chamber had turned to him. With his head bowed, he felt his mouth twitch in spasm. The silence stretched and he nodded to himself, gathering his dignity. The boy had broken traditions by entering the chamber. It was the one act he could not have foreseen and Sung Win clenched his fists behind his back as he raised his head. He knew better than to look into the boy’s eyes and kept his own gaze on the floor.

“Son of Heaven, we gathered to answer the enemies who threaten us.”

“Who are you?” the boy asked.

“This humble servant is Sung Win, Son of Heaven, House of—”

“You speak for these others, Sung Win? You take responsibility for them?”

Rather than condemn himself by answering, Sung Win dropped again to the kneeling position and tapped his head on the warm wood.

“Get up, Sung Win. You were asked a question.”

Sung Win risked a glance around the chamber, certain he could feel the stares of the lords. Not a head was raised. To a man, they were standing in abject terror at the presence of the emperor. For all Huaizong was a young boy, he represented heaven itself, the divine in that room of mere men. Sung Win sighed softly. He had wanted to see the new foals born on his estate, the result of carefully chosen bloodlines. He had put as much time and effort into that as anything else in his life. He felt a pang at the thought of his wives and sons. If the emperor chose to make an example of his house, their deaths would come in orders tied with yellow silk ribbons. His daughters would be executed, his family estate burned.

“I speak for them, Son of Heaven. I called the vote today.” He shut
his mouth hard as his treacherous fear threatened to begin babbling excuses.

“And so you did your duty, Lord Sung Win. Did my lords vote to raise the banners?”

Sung Win blinked and gulped visibly as he tried to understand.

“Y-yes, Son of Heaven.”

“Then feel pride, Lord Sung Win. You have acted with the emperor today.”

Sung Win stammered a response, overcome as the boy faced the assembled lords.

“Before his death, my uncle told me that you were a nest of vipers,” the boy said to them. “He told me that you would rather see Hangzhou in flames than risk your dignity and honor. I see that he was mistaken.”

Sung Win had the intense pleasure of watching those who had voted for tribute shift uncomfortably, Lord Hong among them. The emperor went on, his voice confident.

“I will not begin my reign under threat, my lords. You will go from this place and summon your regiments. Your personal guards will march with them. I lay my peace on the houses, with the promise that they will not be left vulnerable in your absence. I will act to destroy the line of any noble house who seeks advantage.”

He turned to Sung Win once more.

“You have done well, my lord. In peace, perhaps I would have found fault with your judgment. However, we are not at peace. I will make some appointment honoring your house when we return.”

“When we return, Son of Heaven?” Sung Win said, his eyes widening.

“Of course. I am not an old man, Lord Sung Win. I wish to see war.”

For an instant, Sung Win saw a gleam in the boy’s eyes. He shuddered, hiding it with a deep bow.

“Lord Hong, you will lead the host,” Emperor Huaizong said. The big man knelt and touched his head to the floor. “How much time do you need before I may leave Hangzhou?”

Lord Hong sat back on his heels, his face a sickly color. Sung Win
smiled to see him so uncomfortable. Moving a million men needed supplies, arms, weapons, a city of equipment.

“A month, Son of Heaven. If I have the authority, I can be ready by the new moon.”

“You have whatever authority you need,” Huaizong replied, his voice hardening. “Let those who can hear understand that he speaks with my voice in this. Move quickly, my lords.”

Turning on the spot, the boy strode out. As the others averted their gaze, perhaps only Sung Win saw how the slight figure trembled as he went.

HEAVY RAIN HISSED ONTO THE ROOF OF THE HOUSE KUBLAI
had borrowed. The man who owned it waited out in the fields with a crowd of villagers and his family. Kublai had passed them as he rode in. They had looked like half-drowned puppies as he trotted past. At least they would be left alive. Kublai only needed the stockade village for a night.

A huge fire crackled in the grate and he stood close to it, letting the heat dry his clothes so that steam came off him in wisps. At intervals, he would pace back and forth across the fireplace, talking and gesturing as he discussed the future.

“How can I stop now?” he demanded.

His wife, Chabi, stretched out on an ancient couch, much patched and restuffed. The baby girl was asleep in her arms, but still fussing and likely to wake at any moment. Chabi looked wearily at her husband, seeing how the years in Sung lands had worn him almost down to bone. He would not have recognized his old scholar self at that moment. It was more than a physical change, though he had earned the muscle and sinew that gave grace to his movements. The true change had come in the battles he had won as well as the tactics he had used to win them. Chabi loved him desperately, but she feared
for him as well. Whatever had been his intention, Mongke had hardened her husband, changed him. Though the old khan was dead, she could still hate him for that, at least. She could not remember the last time Kublai had opened a book. His collection sat on carts under greased linen, too valuable to be abandoned, but growing green with mildew in the spring rains.

“Is she asleep?” Kublai said, his voice still rough with anger.