The Tiger Queens (29 page)

“My husband has lost his ability to speak with his illness,” I told my father in a low voice, “but not his sharpness of mind.”

Jingue intercepted the paper and his lip twitched as he scanned the message. I raised my voice so it would carry to the crowd. “And what does Ala-Qush, Prince of Beiping, say to Genghis, Khan of Khans?”

Jingue cleared his throat, his hands and the message behind his back. “Ala-Qush of the Onggud bids welcome once again to the Khan of Khans. In addition, he wishes to open his stables to Genghis Khan, for he knows that the great conqueror is also a great admirer of horseflesh.”

My father roared his approval and a white-faced Ala-Qush gave an angry grunt. Jingue pressed the paper into my palm, and I read it before hastily tucking it into my sleeve.

Don’t let the heathens eat my horses.

I smothered a snort of laughter while my father squeezed Sorkhokhtani’s shoulder. “I see my daughter-in-marriage reached you,” he said. “I trust she told you the reason for my visit.”

I glanced at the crowd gathered behind me. There had been much debate in the days since Sorkhokhtani’s arrival as to whether the Onggud—a people terrified of war—would support my father’s campaign. The Jurched were Olon Süme’s longtime allies, and many noble families had taken wives from them and relied upon trade with their eastern cities. Still others argued that my father’s campaign against the Tanghuts had forced more luxuries to pass along our roads, resulting in increased tolls for our coffers. I’d reminded everyone that we had no choice but to ally with my father, yet it had taken messages of support from both Ala-Qush and Jingue before the debate had ended in the Great House. Still, the nobility seethed, and they’d be angrier still when they realized their taxes would soon increase in order to finance my father’s conquest.

“May your campaign against the Jurched see them scattered to the winds,” I said to my father. “Olon Süme shall provide you with the necessary supplies for your attack.”

My father gestured toward the land of the rising sun. “My cavalry will travel east after we’ve rested. Our dried meat and reserve horses served us well in crossing the desert, but we require fresh water and horses.”

“Our wells are sweet and our horses fast,” I said, stifling a smile as Ala-Qush gurgled in protest about the horses. “Take all you need.”

“This shall be a lightning campaign,” my father said. “With my new weapons and the Mongols and the Onggud united as one, the Jurched don’t stand a chance.”

Robust shouts from his soldiers and lukewarm cheers from the Onggud met his proclamation. Yet within my heart, I recognized a familiar jolt, the same I’d felt when Teb Tengeri had touched me at my father’s
khurlatai
.

The brush of death.

*   *   *

The day my father departed was drenched in gold, as if the sun itself fell to earth to bless his campaign, and yellow dust choked the air as the regiments of the Thirteen Nations departed Olon Süme on their way to the Jurched borders. I stood on the walls above the tortoise gate, dressed in a delicate Onggud camlet and my horned
boqta
as I nocked a specially crafted golden arrow against the smooth curve of my bow. It flew to the east in a flash of light, and I relished the reverberation of the horse-gut string through my shoulder long after the arrow had passed from sight. This weapon, tipped with the Golden Light of the Sun, would guide my father and his soldiers to victory.

The army’s commanders scattered mare’s milk into the earth and yellow linden leaves fell to the ground, tangling in horses’ manes before they were trampled under the pounding of thousands of hooves. My father rode at the front of the line, dressed in an amber wolfskin and a black helmet trimmed with fox fur. Although I knew Sorkhokhtani traveled with my father only in her official capacity as his personal messenger, I felt a surge of jealousy as she nodded to me, riding on his right with Shigi on his left. Behind them came the oxcarts carrying supplies and physicians from Olon Süme’s new School of Healing, their wheels creaking ominously. Despite Orbei’s protests, Enebish had begun studying at the school under the guise of learning to better minister to her father, but her desire to put her new skills to use on the battlefield outweighed her revulsion against my family and I’d happily agreed when she’d asked my permission to travel east. I could set her free from Olon Süme, even if I remained trapped
within its walls. She inclined her head to me from her cart, and behind her came the soldiers, saluting me as they passed on their shaggy horses.

The sun drenched the countryside in its final hazy light as the last regiments departed, mounted on horseback and carrying double slings of arrows on their backs—one of feathered whistling arrows that gave the enemy pause to determine the origin of the strange sound, and a second quiver of shorter quarrels that would deliver death to the stationary target. I waited until the final man saluted me before returning to my
ger
, despite the ache in my feet from wearing the thin felt slippers all the Onggud women wore instead of my sensible fur-lined boots. Olon Süme’s streets were mostly empty, but to my surprise, Jingue fell into step beside me as we passed the empty market square. The flagstones of the butchers’ section were permanently stained with blood, and the ground near the grain sellers was covered with pigeons seeking an easy meal. “You look as worried as I feel,” he finally said.

“I just sent my father and sister, along with countless other men, to war.”

“Your father will return victorious,” he said.

I gave a wan smile. “I didn’t know you’d become a seer.”

Jingue smiled in the dark. “Genghis Khan may lose the occasional skirmish, but has he ever lost a war?”

“Never.”

“Then I doubt he’s about to start,” he said.

“My father claims it’s easy to conquer the world on horseback. It’s dismounting and ruling that are difficult.”

“Your father would know,” he said. “However, I suspect the deeds of Genghis Khan will be retold around hearth fires and gilded palace halls for centuries to come.”

“I think you mean the tales of his bloody conquests.”

Jingue chuckled. “I rather believe your father enjoys that version of him, the image of the ruthless savage that has his enemies’ knees quaking before he even reaches their walls.”

I smiled at that, knowing that my father had relished the stories during the Blood War that his body was made from copper and iron forged so strong that no weapon could penetrate it. “Perhaps so.”

“And you never know,” Jingue said, “but perhaps one day songs of his daughter’s deeds will be sung as well.”

The uncommon praise caught me off guard. I’d done nothing to earn being compared to my father, had in fact failed at everything I’d been set to do.

“We’ll soon have our own war to fight,” I said, feeling suddenly awkward. “I fear the first battle shall erupt when we collect the taxes to pay for my father’s supplies.”

Jingue ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. “My uncle has already called me a coward for not arguing against this campaign.”

I shrugged. “Camlet is a luxury item. Orbei’s brother can make common felt if he prefers.”

“He’d sooner cross the Great Dry Sea on his knees.” He looked about to say more but sighed. “It may be a good idea to keep a blade on you, in case one of the nobles thinks you an easy target for revenge.”

So I was to fear death in every shadow yet again. I was moved by Jingue’s thoughtfulness and wished I could touch his arm, but the weight of my headdress stayed my hand. “I’ve slept with my tiger sword every night since I came to Olon Süme. And no one would dare attack me, not after seeing my father and his army in the flesh.”

“I pray that you’re right,” he said as we approached my
ger
. “For all our sakes.”

I watched him go, his words making me realize that my father’s campaign endangered not only the lives of his men, but also those of my Onggud family.

Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do about that now.

*   *   *

It had been a week since my father had left Olon Süme, and despite Jingue’s warning, the herders continued to graze sleepy camels in the hills and merchants still hawked their treasures of silk, tortoise shells, porcelain, and honey. I convinced myself that the Council of Nobles in their ridiculous red hats had realized their mistake and reconciled themselves to the higher taxes that had been announced, all with relatively little dissent. Now I stood on the walls dressed as the
beki
I wished to be, ignoring the
pattering raindrops as I stared at the horizon and willed Sorkhokhtani or another messenger to appear. Darkness fell quickly those days, so I didn’t question the extra torches being lit in the square across from the Great House. By the time I heard the rising voices from the same square, it was already too late.

First came the rumble of angry shouts like a coming earthquake, then the growing light and heat behind me, as if the sun had decided not to set but to rise again from the west. I turned to see the wildfire of torches below me, but it was the flashes of silver amongst the gold, like fragments of the moon upon the sun, that caught my eye.

Swords.

“There she is!” An Onggud noble dressed in black silk pointed his curved scimitar at me. Even without his official red hat, I recognized him as Orbei’s brother, the loudest detractor against my father in the debates of the Council of Nobles.

From the numbers of men surrounding him, I guessed this had been planned for days, perhaps since before my father left. Thankfully, I’d taken Jingue’s advice, and I unsheathed my tiger sword as the man in black charged up the steps two at a time. I didn’t wait for him to reach me, but leapt off the wall and landed in a cart piled with oiled leather sacks of camel hair waiting to be sold to the weavers. I stumbled out, feeling the rain start in earnest and the fast-forming mud soak through my worthless felt slippers.

“Get her!” he screamed, shaking his sword at me. “All those who support the heathen Khan must die this night!”

In the distance, the School of Healing was in flames, as if the mob sought to destroy all I’d touched. I was thankful Enebish wasn’t there, but instead safe with my father and his men. I fled then, quickly realizing I couldn’t outrun my pursuers.
Before me, a group of men herded stumbling people into the square—women screaming, children crying, and men mumbling prayers to whatever gods they worshipped. I knew them all as my supporters in the council debates, and their innocent families.

This was no simple mob, but a revolt.

I kept the tiger sword ready and ran like a shadow through dark alleys,
winding my way through the warren of passages in Olon Süme’s religious section. Angry voices and the flicker of torches threatened to head me off, and the copper tang of blood and screams of the dying chased me as I ducked into the first dark building.

The Nestorian school seemed blessedly empty at first, and I’d likely have missed the scuffed boot poking out from an overturned bench had it not been for the muffled whimper that came from that direction. Only then did I see the yellow puddle of urine, smell the acrid scent of a child’s fear.

“It’s all right,” I whispered. “You can come out.”

There was nothing.

“You can’t stay here,” I said. “They’ll find you.”

I gasped when Boyahoe’s face appeared, cheeks streaked with tears as he launched himself into my arms. Small for his eleven years, he suddenly seemed as young as the day I’d met him and I clutched him to me.

“Where’s Jingue?” I managed to ask. “And your father?”

“I don’t know.” Boyahoe hiccupped, still clinging to me. “Jingue was here when the fighting began. He told me to hide before my uncle came.”

“Your uncle was here?”

“He asked Jingue to come with them.”

My heart stalled. “And did he?”

Boyahoe nodded. “He said he’d be glad to serve his family. My uncle gave him a sword.”

Glad to serve his family.

Jingue had feigned his friendship with me, had waited all this time like an adder in the grass, preparing for the right time to strike.

Boyahoe’s words echoed louder and louder in my mind. Once I was dead Jingue could take his place behind his father’s throne, a place I’d usurped with my father’s forced alliance. The betrayal cut deep, but I didn’t have time to think on that now.

I had only one thought in my mind at that moment: to survive.

I thought to leave Boyahoe in a barricade of benches, but the screams increased and blood spattered the paper windows from outside. Boyahoe cringed and buried his face in my shoulder. My greatest fear had come true; this walled city was caving in and threatening to kill me.

“I need you to run with me,” I said, hauling him up. “Can you do that?” I knew Jingue would never harm his brother, but I couldn’t be sure about the mob outside. At least with me, Boyahoe would have the protection of my sword.

He nodded and drew in a shuddering breath. “What about Jingue?”

I wanted to lie, to say that he’d be fine, but I couldn’t find the words. “Pray for him,” I said. “And for us.”

His small frame melded to my side, we ducked out of the school. I managed only a few steps before I stumbled over something firm and wet.

A body, slick with warm blood.

My stomach heaved, but I yanked Boyahoe away before he could see the gruesome face screaming up at us with glassy eyes. We crouched behind a wagon loaded with metal cauldrons and I prayed that the fire in my soul would protect us from the bonfire of death and flames closing in upon us. Wooden houses popped and hissed before they collapsed in showers of glowing sparks, and bodies lay outside the Great House, more familiar features twisted with death and many coated with masks of blood. Beyond that was my
ger
, now a fiery inferno. Then the door of the Great House opened and a man in a wooden chair wheeled out.

“Father!” Boyahoe yelled, but I clamped a hand over his mouth.

Stooped like a man twice his age, Ala-Qush jolted his chair to a stop, his eyes vacant and unseeing, as if in a dream. He trembled, not with fear but with shock, his bones unable to bear what his eyes were seeing.