Neal Stephenson - The Mongoliad - Book One

Stripped to the waist, Gansukh warily watched Namkhai as the champion took a moment to play to the gathered crowd before entering the marked-off area of the wrestling field. Namkhai approached Gansukh, a tiny sliver of a smile quirking the edge of his lips. Namkhai was both taller and heavier, but his gait was stiff—his hips and thighs moved as one massive column of bone and muscle. Gansukh was faster, more nimble, and when Namkhai tensed his body and threw out his hands, Gansukh only had to flinch to one side to avoid the champion’s large grip. He closed, trying to get a headlock.

The champion resisted, and as he pulled back, Gansukh let go and used both hands to push explosively on Namkhai’s chest. Namkhai stumbled backward, arms swinging wildly to keep his balance. It would have been so easy to reach down, grab Namkhai by his thighs, and flip him to the ground, but Gansukh held back. This was Ögedei’s court; he had to win by the Torguud ’s rules.

Namkhai’s grin faltered, and his hands flexed dangerously as he regained his balance. The champion regarded Gansukh carefully, appraising him more closely. With a tiny nod, Namkhai acknowledged Gansukh’s first attack; even if Gansukh lost the fight, they both knew that—if the rules had been different—Gansukh would have won.

Namkhai advanced again, and Gansukh hunched his back slightly, pulling his shoulders in to give the impression that he wasn’t going to attack. A submissive pose. I am on the defensive. Let Namkhai make the first move. Given the weight difference between them, it was unlikely Gansukh could outmuscle the champion. But he could use Namkhai’s assault against him. If the bigger man lunged and grabbed him, Gansukh could twist and manage their fall so Namkhai’s shoulders hit the ground first. He turned his hips slightly, letting his left foot slide back a few inches.

Namkhai leaped forward.

A yell rose from the crowd, a wall of sound that rose over and collapsed on Gansukh as Namkhai barreled across the packed dirt. He had seen Namkhai charge other opponents; he had seen the force of Namkhai’s assault as it crumpled the defenses of those who, foolishly, thought they could withstand such an impact. But Gansukh didn’t try to stop Namkhai.

Instead he met Namkhai’s rush with a bear hug, gasping as the full force of the champion’s charge slammed into his chest. He was going to fall, and forcefully twisting his upper body, he pushed off the ground with his right foot. Suddenly they were both airborne, nearly perpendicular to the ground. Namkhai’s grin vanished as he stared wide-eyed at the sky, amazed at the sudden change of view.

The champion reacted, more by instinct than conscious thought. In mid-fall, he knifed his body against Gansukh and got his feet underneath him. He landed in a deep crouch, with the whole of Gansukh’s weight bearing down on his chest. He bellowed as his back arched painfully; growling in frustration, Gansukh squeezed his arms and tried to find enough leverage to push Namkhai even farther. He was stunned Namkhai had found his footing—the man was inhuman ! They strained against one another, neither one able to shift the other. All Gansukh could hear was the grinding sound of his teeth and the hiss of air escaping from Namkhai’s pursed lips.

The crowd had fallen silent.

Their eyes met, and Gansukh realized Namkhai was aware of the silence too.

Gansukh glanced around, and as he became aware of the circle of spectators, he spotted a gap in the crowd. Namkhai saw it too, and without hesitation, they both released their holds on the other and stepped apart.

A space opened in the circle of Torguud spectators and quickly filled with a retinue of servants and courtiers, which at the very last parted to form two protective walls. Now appeared the Khagan himself, with his most intimate servants and chamberlains. To the Khagan ’s right, an exceptionally short man hovered, bearing aloft a tray of tiny silver cups.

Ögedei Khan held one cup in his hand and was wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Don’t stop on my account,” he said loudly. “Gansukh, you nearly had our champion bested.”

Gansukh and Namkhai, having bowed at the sudden appearance of the Khagan , now stood awkwardly at the center of the field. Gansukh could barely summon the strength to lift his arms, and his teeth ached from how much he had been grinding them. Namkhai’s face gleamed with sweat, and his hair lay matted against his head. His chest heaved, and he looked to be in no rush to start the fight again. Gansukh swiped at his forehead, clearing the sweat that was starting to sting his eyes, then brought his hands together and bowed again to the Khagan . He remained bent over, trying to catch Namkhai’s attention with a subtle tilt of his head.

Namkhai slapped his hands together and bowed as well.

“No?” Ögedei Khan was jovial with wine and readily dismissed their refusal. “We’ll save the rematch for another time. Here”—he motioned to two men on opposite sides of the field—“you two. Fight for me.”

Gansukh and Namkhai retired from the field as the two chosen guards bent their knees and began flapping their arms in an imitation of the hawk, the traditional way to start a match. They reached the center, bent at the waist, and brought their arms down into a fighting stance. They then awaited the Khagan ’s word.

“Go!” Ögedei Khan bellowed.

At the sidelines, jostled by men who slapped his back and shoulders in congratulations at a match well fought, Gansukh fought to catch his breath. While the rest of the men watched the two new combatants, he kept his eye on the Khagan .

The short servant adeptly kept the tray in motion, dancing about and rotating it effortlessly with the Khagan ’s every move, to keep a steady supply of full cups near his reach. Ögedei downed each in one motion, slamming the empty cup upside down on the tray. The servant flinched with each one but kept the tray upright and moving. Gansukh wondered what happened when all the cups were overturned. Would the Khagan stop drinking? Judging by his unconscious swaying motion and the strident volume of his humor, that probably wasn’t the case. In fact, this was probably not the first tray of cups.

As the Khagan snapped his head back again, Gansukh scanned the crowd to see if anyone else was paying attention to the Khagan ’s drinking, and he was relieved to see everyone’s attention was on the wrestling match.

Everyone except Namkhai.

The wrestling champion felt Gansukh’s gaze and glanced over his shoulder. His eyes met Gansukh’s for a second, and then he turned and rudely shoved his way through the crowd. But it was too late. Gansukh had seen his expression.

The big man had lost his grin, and his face was a mask of disgust and dismay.

The Khagan did not seek, or even need, permission from his subjects, but he did need something—respect. Hard earned and easily lost.

A yell rose from the crowd as one of the wrestlers bested the other, sending him sprawling to the ground on his hands and knees. His opponent helped him to his feet as the Khagan roared his approval.

“Let us eat and drink tonight!” he shouted. “A feast for our fighters.” He staggered as he glanced around the sea of faces, and Gansukh ducked behind a cluster of off-duty guards. His face burned with shame for hiding, but even more for not wanting to be seen beside the Khagan .

He was beginning to understand Master Chucai’s riddle. It wasn’t enough to stop Ögedei’s drinking. The whole empire was in danger of being poisoned with loss of respect.

The Khagan slammed another tiny cup down on the tray. How many of those would he consume in one day? Gansukh wondered, and then an idea struck him.