Neal Stephenson - The Mongoliad - Book One

“Chagatai said I should insist that you only drink one cup of wine a day, and here I find you drinking how many? Twenty? Thirty?” He raised his empty hand, holding the thumb and forefinger close together. “ Tiny cups. Cups for children and monkeys! Just this size. Who brings such cups before the Khagan and does not perish of shame?”

He raised the cup—the wide-mouthed, enormous cup he had accidently bought at market the other day—extending it toward Ögedei, and then he slammed it down on the table with a resounding clank. “My duty is to my lord—Chagatai Khan—and the empire. He says one cup a day. I say that the Khagan should do as he pleases. You, yourself, told me this when I first came before you: the Khagan asks permission of no man. The Khagan is beholden only to himself. Drink, if you so desire; it is not for me or your brother or any of these people assembled here to say otherwise. But if you are going to drink, the great Khagan must drink from a great cup—a vessel worthy of your vastness, your magnitude, your all-conquering might.”

Ögedei’s mouth moved like he was chewing a piece of gristly meat. He looked around the table, blearily surveying the faces that turned away from his, and then he spat. And belched.

The utter silence was suddenly broken by the rasping steel hiss of blades being drawn—the guards anticipating violence, eager to carry out the Khagan ’s fatal bidding.

But a slow rise of Ögedei’s arm and a waggle of his thick-fingered hand stayed their punishment. The Khagan slowly turned, leaning this way and that, his gaze moving slowly from face to face of the assembled host, all equally enthralled but desperately wishing to move aside, move away, to flee now so as to avoid the wrath they all suspected was about to erupt.

The servant with the tray of tiny cups squirmed, edging away from the Khagan . Like an animal that senses weakness in its prey, Ögedei lashed out with a wordless yell. The tray flew out of the little man’s hands, spattering the crowd with thick red wine like drops of blood.

The Khagan then whirled with surprising and sudden poise on Gansukh, his hands clawing at the warrior’s new robe. Gansukh was hauled forward until his face was a mere aid from the Khagan ’s.

Ögedei’s face turned as dark as the wine, anger bringing a dangerous flush to his already ruddy cheeks. Suddenly, like a dog, he leaned forward, and his teeth snapped at Gansukh’s cheek. “I… will …do…as…I…please!” he ground out, spraying spittle on Gansukh, then drew back like a snake, lips curled in an awful, writhing snarl.

Gansukh kept silent, clamping his jaw tightly shut. He had said all that he had come to say. The Khagan would either listen or not. In the periphery of his vision, he could see the wide eyes of a few of the faces surrounding them. Flush with fear and excitement, there was no doubt in their minds that the Khagan , as soon as he could speak through his overwhelming rage, would order Gansukh to be broken—first the knees and then his ribs—before he would be placed beneath the boards so that horses could be ridden across his fractured body…a slow, suffocating, bone-cracking death for this inexplicable impudence and insult.

He did not look away from the Khagan , wordlessly challenging Ögedei to give the order. It is not a suitable death for a warrior , he thought. But that does not make me less of one.

The corner of Ögedei’s left eye began to twitch, and he forcefully shoved Gansukh away, pushing him against the table. “Give me the cup,” he snarled. “I will be the judge of whether it is worthy.”

Gansukh dropped to his knees, lowering his gaze to look down at the Khagan ’s feet. “Yes, my Khan,” he murmured. His vision blurred, and he swayed, gasping for air. He heard the sound of hooves rattling against wood, and after a moment he realized it was only the echo of his own pounding heart.

Someone pressed the cup into his hands—too fearful, clearly, to give it to the Khagan himself. With shaking legs, Gansukh got to his feet and offered the vessel.

Ögedei snatched it from him. “Wine!” he shouted. “Why is there no wine in this cup?” A dozen bodies sprang forward, offering to fill the Khagan ’s chalice with their own half-filled cups.

With a grunt, Ögedei turned and smashed the cup across Gansukh’s face.

Gansukh’s eyes filled with tears, and the room became a blur as he spun and fell to his hands and knees. There was blood in his mouth, and it felt like a hot coal had been ground into his cheek.

Something heavy fell against his body, and he stiffened, trying to keep from collapsing entirely to the floor. Planks. His hands clenched with panic. But it was only a man, leaning on him, clutching at his shoulders, his hot, stinking breath washing over his bloody cheek. He tried to focus on a glittering object that floated in his field of vision, and blinking through the tears, he realized it was the cup—his gift to Ögedei.

It had fared better than his cheek.

“It is a good cup,” the Khagan hissed in his ear. “Get out of my sight, young pony, before I change my mind.”

When they passed around the foot of the hill, they felt the wind on their faces, and while its touch was both light and refreshing, its breath was filled with an unwholesome stink. At first Cnán thought it was the sort of putrescence that was not uncommon in fetid swampland, but the river flowed too freely to allow decaying matter to build up. Glancing at the others, she saw they too were affected by the smell, but unlike her, they appeared more familiar with it.

“Corpse rot,” Yasper explained. He rooted around in one of his many satchels until he found a small vial. Carefully unstopping it, he poured a small dollop of the thick liquid onto two fingers, and then he pressed the fingers to both nostrils. Keeping his mouth closed, he inhaled deeply, the sides of his nose indenting. “Ah,” he sighed. When he lowered his fingers, he appeared to be no longer in distress from the lingering smell that permeated the air. With a grin, he offered the vial to Cnán.

She stared at him as if he had been taken with a pox fever, and when he waggled the vial at her, she finally took it from his outstretched hand. Somewhat dubiously, she poured a tiny bead onto one of her fingers and sniffed at it cautiously. The smell of mint was overpowering and she jerked her head back in surprise. “What is this?” she asked.

“A tincture of mint oil,” he smiled. “My own recipe.” He waved his hand about his face as if he were directing more of the revolting stench toward his nostrils.

She put a bead on another finger and, somewhat clumsily, aped his method of applying the oil to her nose. Her eyes watered as she inhaled and the mint vapors speared deep into her head, like tiny icicles. But, she had to admit, it was a pleasant sensation in its own way, and much preferable to the stink of decaying flesh.

Rædwulf chuckled at her expression as he reached over with a long arm and plucked the vial from her fingers. Unlike Yasper, he put drops of the oil in the wide webbing between his thumb and index finger and shoved his hand against his face to smother his nostrils completely.

He passed the vial to Feronantus, who partook before offering it to Istvan. The Hungarian glowered and busied himself with stroking his mustache as if the idea of mint in his beard were too distasteful to contemplate. Finn only sniffed at the vial before shrugging and returning it to Yasper. As if he wasn’t quite sure what all the fuss was about or why one would want to mask one’s ability to smell.