Neal Stephenson - The Mongoliad - Book One

What would happen to him if she escaped? Would he be blamed? Munokhoi would use the opportunity to discredit him before the Khagan . Would her flight ruin his chance at saving the Khagan ?

Lian shook her head clear of such thoughts. Gansukh was Mongolian. His people had slaughtered and dominated hers. What did she care of the empire? She was not here by choice; she was here as a prisoner. And if this empire—the world of Ögedei Khan’s—fell apart, what would become of her?

She knew the answer to that question; she knew what happened to prisoners when new conquerors claimed their spoils.

Nearby, the Khagan laughed uproariously and then lurched around his retinue, inviting everyone to join him at the feast that evening. His leering face was dark with drink and his robes soaked through with the sweat induced by the slow poison of the alcohol. The concubines cared little for his appearance—sweat and stink were ever their lot. They squealed with excitement.

During the festival , Lian thought, they will all be so busy watching the Khagan drown himself in wine no one will be paying attention to me.

If she dared to dream of escape, wouldn’t this be the best time?

Gansukh smoothed the front of his new blue robe as he stepped into the large dining hall. It fit him exceptionally well, though he couldn’t stop fidgeting with the fine material. He couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that she had given it to him.

Four large tables dominated most of the room. At the northern end was a low platform on which a round table had been placed. Gansukh glanced at the waiting crowd of nobles and warriors surrounded by servants and concubines, quickly scanning faces for a general idea of who was sitting where. The table to his right was surrounded by Torguud , marked by the white fur trimming on their clothing. Several spotted Gansukh by the door and raised cups in greeting. He nodded in return. Respect earned. Even though his wrestling match with Namkhai had been a draw, he had performed better than many of them. He pulled at the stiff, wide belt he had wrapped around the robe and nearly dropped the package he held under his left arm. He was already too warm, and he’d be sweating before long.

Suddenly his idea seemed even more preposterous, bordering on ridiculous.

Near the round table, he saw Master Chucai, and though there was a mass of people between them, the tall advisor had little trouble clearing a path to Gansukh.

“Master Gansukh, I have heard stories of your exploits.”

Gansukh shrugged. “The match was a draw,” he demurred.

Someone shouted at Gansukh from the back of the room, and Chucai’s eyes flicked in that direction before returning to Gansukh’s face. “Nevertheless, I am heartened by these stories. May I surmise that our conversation earlier today was… insightful?”

“Somewhat,” Gansukh admitted. He thought he saw Lian, sitting next to… Who is that? He tried to look past Chucai without being rude about it. Namkhai .

“You’ve brought a gift,” Master Chucai motioned to the bundle under Gansukh’s arm. “Would you like me to present it to the Khagan ?”

Through the throng, Gansukh couldn’t see the pair clearly, and he hesitated, torn between wanting to get a better look and responding to Master Chucai. He sighed, giving up for a moment. Chucai stared at him expectantly. “Yes, of course,” he said. “It would be my honor to present it to the Khagan personally.”

“Of course,” Chucai said smoothly, as if that had been the plan all along. Was that a smile creasing the lips of the Khagan ’s advisor?

“Perhaps you might suggest where it might be best for me to sit at the Khagan ’s table,” Gansukh said. He tapped the package suggestively.

Chucai waved a hand at the table on the platform. “Certainly,” he said. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice. “A simple arrangement. Those who can be oblivious to his drunkenness sit close, those who cannot, but still wish to curry favor, sit beside them, and those who feel ashamed, but dare not overtly show it, keep as far away as possible.” He smiled grimly. “It is a round table, however, and the Khagan likes to circulate and mingle—which makes it very difficult to stay far enough away, I fear.”

“I will not overthink my position then,” Gansukh said, inclining his head. “I will sit in the first empty chair I find.” And leave the rest up to the whim of the Blue Wolf , he finished silently.

“A most prudent and wise choice,” Chucai said, nodding in return.

Gansukh took his leave, making his way to the head table, where he placed his package on the table in front of a chair to the right of the lavish seat intended for the Khagan . He sat down, bending uncomfortably around the belt, before he realized who was sitting directly across from him.

Munokhoi.

He only had a moment to return the jaghun commander’s glare before a swift drop in the noise level in the long hall signaled the arrival of Ögedei Khan. It took some time for the Khagan to make his way through the press of people—during which time Munokhoi continued to stare at him—and as Ögedei approached, Gansukh noted with some relief that his hands were empty. For the moment, he wasn’t drinking.

From this vantage point, Gansukh had a better angle on the table where Namkhai sat and tried to see who was sitting next to him. It was Lian, and he watched her lean forward in appreciation of what Namkhai was saying. She laughed at his apparent cleverness, and Gansukh frowned. Had she witnessed the wrestling match? He did not dare try to catch her eye—not with Munokhoi watching.

“Gansukh.” Ögedei clasped him on the arm, as much to steady himself, Gansukh realized, than as a friendly gesture. His breath stank of wine. “A mighty effort this morning.”

“I am humbled, Khagan ,” Gansukh said, dragging his attention away from Lian. What do I care, anyway? She isn’t any part of what I am here to accomplish.

“A toast,” Ögedei called, gesturing for his short servant with the tray of tiny cups. “A toast to our wrestlers!”

“Please, if I may, a moment, Khagan .” Gansukh held up a hand to stop the servant’s approach. He gulped as all the conversation around them suddenly died, and for a second his courage threatened to depart. Respect , he thought, locking his knees. Demand it. Earn it.

He picked up the package from the table. “Earlier today,” he said, “I saw the Khagan drinking from those tiny cups, and I wondered why you bothered. They hold so little wine. They are not worthy of your greatness, your magnitude under the all-covering sky.”

Ögedei’s eyes seemed even more unfocused than they had been the night Gansukh had visited him in his chambers. His pupils were black holes that might swallow everything—the light, the sound, the very air in the room. His mouth was starting to twist as if he were about to lunge forward and bite at Gansukh’s neck.

“I was sent here by your brother,” Gansukh continued. “Chagatai wants you to stop drinking—”

He was interrupted by a bray of laughter from across the table. “It’s the little nursemaid,” Munokhoi sneered. “Come to tell us how wine is bad for our health!”

The same suspicion was apparent in Ögedei’s face, and Gansukh knew he was perilously close to losing the Khagan ’s attention, much as he had failed so badly the first day he had arrived in Karakorum. He turned his back, his spine tingling, then tore the paper off his package. With a spin around again that made the chamberlains gasp and the guards shove a step forward, he lifted the object…and revealed his gift to the Khagan .