The Mongoliad: Book Two (The Foreworld Saga) (23 page)

The
Khagan
’s trip to Burqan-qaldun would take several weeks. The immense caravan of the
Khagan
’s entourage would distract the
Imperial Guard; it would be her best chance to escape.
This time, I cannot falter. I must do whatever it takes.

Her resolve restored, she returned her attention to the tedious task before her—packing. Chucai had provided her with a large travel bag, and once it was fully packed, it would be far too large for her to carry by herself, one of Chucai’s little reminders: she enjoyed a great deal of freedom, but that freedom was also a burden. She could, if she so desired, divest herself of a number of her robes as well as many of the lotions, oils, and powders she relied upon, but to do so would be to give up the tools she needed to be something other than a simple chamber slave. Her value to Master Chucai could be readily accounted in the profusion of silks that overflowed the travel bag.

If I left everything
, I
could fit in this bag
, she thought, idly stuffing a poorly folded green silk robe into the gaping mouth of the bag. She had a vision of Gansukh riding away from the
Khagan
’s caravan, the leather bag thrown across his saddle, her bare feet protruding from the gathered mouth of the bag.
I would be free.

Absently toying with the partially packed robe, she let her gaze roam about the room. What was more important? All the trappings of her prison, or freedom? She could earn money—somehow—and buy new robes. They wouldn’t be as fine as these, but what did that matter? The oils and lotions she would miss, but she had lived without them before. When the Mongols had conquered Qingyuan, she had lost everything. She had been just another frightened prisoner, a foreign woman to be shared among the rapacious Mongol warriors until she was nothing more than a dry and broken husk. She had caught Master Chucai’s attention, and it hadn’t been because of fine clothes or her painted face or the way she smelled. It had been her bearing and her tongue that had saved her, two things that could not be taken from her.

If she left everything, she would still be
Lian
, and that had been enough to save her once before.

Her roaming gaze fell on the small satchel she used to carry her teaching materials. It had a shoulder strap, a critical necessity, as it would leave her hands free. Could she climb or ride a horse or fight if she was carrying a bag? Shaking her head, she started to sift through the detritus of her belongings. She could leave it all, but that was what a terrified slave girl would do. She was not that girl.
Sturdy shoes, a waterskin, food.
She started to assemble a few critical things.
Jewelry can be traded.

* * *

Dawn began to recolor the peaks of the palace roof, and Master Chucai watched the light drip down the glazed tiles. It would be another hour before the light warmed the glade in the
Khagan
’s gardens where he stood. He was not chilled, however; he had begun his
qi
exercises when the roosters in the camps outside the palace walls had started crowing, and he would be done long before sunlight reached the balconies on the upper floor of the palace.

He had slept very little in the past few weeks. The
Khagan
’s decision to go to Burqan-qaldun presented a number of logistical problems, and all of his time was devoted to organizing the expedition so that it could leave as soon as possible. Three weeks had passed already, and the
Khagan
’s patience was starting to become very brittle.

The
Khagan
’s drinking had lessened, and Master Chucai had congratulated Gansukh on his small victory, but neither man wished to lose the ground he had gained.

Chucai folded his long frame in half, bending impossibly far forward while keeping his legs stiff. His outstretched arms slowly scooped out and up as if he were gathering a large tiger in his arms. His fingers stiff, hands pointing toward the dawn-painted palace, he slowly lifted one foot and stepped under the imaginary tiger in
his hands as if he were shifting it to his shoulders. His
qi
extended deep into the ground, balancing him as he shouldered the imaginary weight of the full-grown tiger. He rotated his hips, lifting his other foot and stretching it toward the southern wall of the garden. He held the pose until the muscles in his lower back quivered, mentally reciting several sets of the questions and answers that the Yellow Emperor put forth in his
Inner Canon
—questions that were meant to facilitate a cleansing of his mind and body in conjunction with the
qi
exercises.

After thorough consideration of the Yellow Emperor’s insights, he turned his shoulders and raised his arms. The tiger became an enormous stork, and he stretched to his full height in a stiffened parody of the bird’s own motion as it leaped into flight. He inhaled until his lungs were swollen with air; as he exhaled, he relaxed his arms and let his leg come back to the ground.

Only then did he acknowledge the fidgeting slave who had been standing nearby since before dawn had breached the eastern horizon. “Yes?”

“Master,” the slave bowed, “Mistress Lian has given me her travel trunk, and I have loaded it with the rest of your household.”

Chucai undid the ties on the sleeves of his robe, letting them down. “Did you examine it?”

“Yes, Master. Nothing but clothes and all the other things a woman carries with her.”

Chucai nodded absently.
No food or money. No sign that she was harboring a plan to flee.
He waved the slave away. Nevertheless, he would keep an eye on the Chinese woman. She had been in his household a long time, and he knew all her moods. She was hiding something from him, and while he suspected it was nothing more than a foolish infatuation with Gansukh, he was not entirely confident there wasn’t something else on her mind.

She was an intelligent woman, and she had a certain animal cunning that he knew better than to dismiss. If he were in her place, he would consider escaping during the trip to Burqan-qaldun. It would be the best time.

Chucai left the pastoral embrace of the garden, his mental energies restored by the rigors of his
qi
meditation. The garden was a placid calm within the swollen chaos of the palace grounds. Walking toward the main courtyard, he reentered the bedlam of the court’s preparations.

The activity that filled the courtyard was not unlike a city marshaling for war.

Hundreds of people swarmed the courtyard, jostling and yelling at one another. What had once been an orderly attempt at a long column of carts had collapsed into a confused mass. Supplies were being thrown, hauled, shoved, and haphazardly stacked in a frenzied effort to get everything packed on top of something with wheels. Crates of dried fruit and meat; barrels of
airag
,
arkhi
, and wine; bags of clothing and furnishings; medical supplies; the heavy bundles of dismantled
ger
; weapons—all manner of goods needed to sustain the hundreds of travelers who would be going with the
Khagan
.

Six hundred and four. Chucai knew the exact number, just as he knew how many barrels of
arkhi
and crates of dried meat were being loaded as well.

Six hundred and nine, actually, if one were to count the prisoners from Onghwe, but the
Khagan
, in a moment of lucidity a few days ago, had reminded him that these men would not be traveling any farther than Burqan-qaldun.

At the center of this activity was the
Khagan
’s wheeled
ger
. The hides stretched tightly over its wooden frame had been painted white, and the morning light made them glow. A team of eight oxen shifted impatiently, and behind the
ger
, six supply carts were being frantically readied.

Late the day before, Chucai had given the order that all preparations be completed by sunrise. Though he doubted Ögedei would emerge from his quarters until late morning, he wanted the caravan ready to depart the instant the
Khagan
climbed onto the platform of his movable tent. The caravan masters knew they would be left behind were they not ready, and none of them wanted to face the shame of having to chase the
Khagan
across the steppes.

In a rough line to the north of Ögedei’s
ger
and supply carts were three smaller wheeled
ger
: two for Ögedei’s wives, followed by one to be utilized by Chucai and a few other important advisors.

Ögedei had casually mentioned that he expected Gansukh to be given space in this tent, and Chucai had simply nodded. He had no intention of allowing Gansukh and Lian to sleep in the same
ger
. For a while, he had been incensed at the idea, more so when he realized his reaction was that of a protective father more than the
Khagan
’s senior advisor. Fortunately, Ögedei had mentioned the same expectation to Gansukh, and the young man had come to him to ask the best way to decline the
Khagan
’s suggestion.
I need some...space
, Gansukh had said.
I would prefer my own
ger
.

Staring at the mob of Imperial Guard lined up behind the three
ger
, Chucai understood the need. Three
jaghun
of mounted soldiers, Munokhoi’s elite troop, and two companies of a hundred men each. Their supply train stretched out of the palace gates—cooks, doctors, livestock drivers, wagon masters. A small group of acrobatic entertainers caught Chucai’s eye as they performed up and down the supply line. Mukha had shrieked for half a day when she had been told they couldn’t come along; Chucai had relented finally, only to get her to shut up, and he secretly hoped a Chinese raiding party would confuse them for an unguarded supply caravan.

There was no sign of Gansukh or Lian. He was not concerned yet, but he kept an eye out for them.

G
REGORY IS DEAD.

The three words staggered Rodrigo. From this simple statement spun a maelstrom of confusion.
The Pope—dead
. To whom would he deliver his message? Why had God sent him here when there was no way for him to be relieved of his burden? The Church would be consumed with discord as the factions vied for dominance, and he couldn’t wait until a new Pope was elected. Christendom was under attack. A vast threat was coming out of the East, and he had been sent to warn the Church.

Robert of Somercotes tried to continue their conversation—speaking of cardinals, their duty to the Church, and of the
sede vacante
—but Rodrigo could grasp nothing of what the other man was trying to tell him. The news of the Pope’s death was too overwhelming. Not even food and water could completely lift the burden of his exhaustion—the burden of his duty. The weight crushed him, and he lay back on the pallet. Sobbing gently, he collapsed into a dreamless stupor—not sleep but a complete senselessness of both mind and spirit. His body demanded rest. His journey was not done yet, and if he was going to survive, he needed strength, both in body and spirit.

When he woke, the three words still churned in his head—
Gregory is dead
—but somewhere in his senseless slumber, he had
located a hidden reserve of strength. God would not abandon him, not as long as he continued to believe his burden was just. Not as long as he had faith.

By the warm tint of the light in the tiny, high-ceilinged room, he knew it was day—by the relative cool, still morning. Rodrigo felt his stomach rumble and almost chuckled at it, as if it were some sickly child that had finally grown healthy enough to complain.

Gingerly, sore all over and still feverish, the priest staggered to his feet and took a few uncertain steps toward the open door. He could walk, perhaps even for some distance.
Praise God.
He shuffled carefully down a stone hallway. Doors at irregular intervals opened on either side into other rooms like his, although several, at a glance, had more furnishings, or at least boasted places to hang clothing—cloaks and robes, the vestments of religious men.

As he approached the end of the corridor, he realized it was a ruinous mass of stone and masonry, the result of the upper floor having collapsed. Leaning against the wall, he cast his eyes back on the series of doors he had passed. One of the rooms must have another exit, a door that would let him out of this corridor. There must be another way.

Unless his recent visitor was a figment of his feverish imagination, much like the young man he knew to be part of his dream. Had he imagined the visit from the older version, along with the meager meal he had been given? Such thought troubled him, for it meant he was still in the grips of his nightmare. Even the sensation of food in his belly was part of his fever dream.

A dark corner of the collapsed hallway—which he had assumed to be nothing more than a niche of shadows—turned out to be a narrow opening. Keeping one hand on the wall, he lurched toward the gap, frantic for the possibility of finding a way out—a way of verifying that he was awake, that he no longer dreamed. He had to turn sideways to fit, putting both hands on the wall now, and he sidled past the fallen rock. He pressed close to the heavy stones, and he
focused on his hands: on moving his right to touch his left; on moving his left away, drawing his recalcitrant body forward.

The walls on the other side of the collapse were a different color, the stone more pink than gray, and the general condition of the ceiling was much better—no gaps through which sunlight could peer. Nor were there any doors in this hall; it ran for several dozen paces and then terminated at a large hole in the floor. A wooden ladder—protruding up from the hole by several feet—was lashed to the wall by a combination of thick rope and iron spikes.

Puzzled, Rodrigo climbed down, descending past one other floor and then into the earth itself. At the bottom, a large chamber had been carved into the bedrock, with a single tunnel running—as near as he could tell—in the same direction as he had been traveling.