The Mongoliad: Book Three Read online

  Monferrato started spluttering again, his eyes bulging even more, and Léna forestalled any further discussion by putting a finger to her lip and shaking her head.

  Ocyrhoe grabbed Ferenc’s hand and hurried after the ostiarius. She didn’t need to be part of their argument; she only wanted to see Father Rodrigo.

  Their guide took them to a hall with multiple doors, and he chose a small one on the left—it seemed terribly unassuming to Ocyrhoe to be the door that led to the Pope. But she said nothing as the ostiarius opened the door and indicated they were to enter. Still holding Ferenc’s hand, she stepped through the door into the narrow chamber beyond.

  Ocyrhoe was struck by the difference in Father Rodrigo, meeting him this time. First, of course, he was physically much healthier—which made him look younger. But more than that, he radiated beatitude—an emotional stability that she could not associate with the man she’d first met.

  She enjoyed watching the affectionate blandishments Ferenc and Bendrito showered on each other. She could not follow the language they spoke, but she could read their faces and body language, and sense the emotional pitching and tossing that Ferenc was going through as he listened to Father Rodrigo speak.

  Finally, after perhaps a quarter hour, Father Rodrigo turned to her and began to speak in the language of Rome. “Sister, Ferenc tells me you have been good to him and he is fond of you,” the new Pope began.

  “That is mutual, Father. Your Holiness,” she corrected herself without hurry.

  “He tells me that you are a native of the city and that you can help us to escape.”

  “They are holding you captive here, then?”

  “Ferenc tells me you saw me speaking in the marketplace. Did it look like I left there by my own free will?” He gestured around the room. “I have just been made Summus Pontifex Ecclesiae Universalis, yet, I reside in a small, windowless room with no pot to defecate in, eating cold food. Do you think I am here by my own choice?”

  Ocyrhoe squirmed a bit under the intensity of Father Rodrigo’s gaze, hoping that he wasn’t suggesting what she feared he was. Based on Ferenc’s gleeful expression, though, she suspected that escape was exactly what Father Rodrigo had in mind.

  By the time the new Pontiff had finished his private audience with the strange hunter-boy from the north, a temporary suspension of the endless canonical discussions among the Cardinals had been called; everyone agreed to turn in for the night, and to resume conversations, arguments, investitures, or whatever else the future might hold, starting the next morning.

  Ocyrhoe and Léna were put together in a room on the first floor; at the new Pope’s insistence, Ferenc slept in his room. Helmuth and Cardinal Monferrato were also put together in another guest quarter, closer to the rest of the Cardinals.

  Father Rodrigo’s room, not surprisingly, had a guard placed in front of it. That did not worry Ocyrhoe. In the dark hours of the morning, with a small kitchen knife and a kneading blade she had purloined from the castle kitchen, she let herself out of the room. Léna had not stirred as she had slipped out of bed and made her way to the door. Ocyrhoe did not feel that what she was about to do was at all contrary to her identity as a Binder, but still, she sensed Léna would discourage her from following her instincts.

  Her plan was simple enough—the sort of misdirection that came naturally to her as a child of the streets. Like a mouse, she laid out a trail for the guard to follow. She planted a number of obvious clues—a piece of torn fabric, some bits of wax from a candle, a wedge of plaster, and powder from that plaster—down the hall, around another corner, and aimed directly at the door of Cardinal Fieschi’s room.

  When she finished her false trail, she crept back to the corner near Father Rodrigo’s room. The guard was leaning against the wall, his lack of vigilance suggesting he had no idea who he was guarding. She tossed a pebble in his direction, making sure it bounced and rattled against the base of the wall. As soon as the guard roused himself, she scampered noisily away from the corner. There was a dark niche not far from the next corner, deep enough for her to hide in, and she pressed herself into the slot shortly before the guard stumbled around the corner.

  She was counting on the guard’s boredom, that he would be more interested in following a trail of evidence that would result in the capture of a sneaky thief than the endless monotony of guard duty.

  The guard paused as he came around the corner, looking around cautiously. Ocyrhoe held her breath, waiting for him to spot the piece of torn cloth. He did, and bowing over like a hound, he began to creep along the hall, his eyes clearly scanning for more clues. He passed by her hiding place without even looking in her direction. In another few heartbeats, he reached the corner and disappeared from view.

  Ocyrhoe darted out of her hiding place and silently—like a mouse—ran back to Father Rodrigo’s chamber. She quietly picked the lock on the door with the kitchen knife, pushed up the simple latch with the dough blade, then slipped into Father Rodrigo’s small room and shut the door behind her. Ferenc and Rodrigo were already awake and dressed. A candle stub burned by the bed, throwing their shadows up against the high stone and plaster of the ceiling.

  Father Rodrigo smiled benevolently. Did nothing disturb the man now? Perhaps a Pope was beyond fear.

  Ferenc looked nervous and happy to see her.

  Already she was loosening her satchel to pull out the map she had drawn. The moon was low but the compound in general never really slept; once she got them safely outside, away from people who would recognize their faces, they could walk off openly without causing suspicion. All the same, the map showed the most indirect, untraceable, forgotten pathways leading out of the city. Beyond the city walls, she could no longer help them.

  She smiled in the candlelight and reached out for Ferenc’s hand. Good-bye, my friend, she signed, and then threw her arms around him in an embrace.

  Ferenc went first, the idea being that the sight of the young Magyar might not raise as much alarm immediately as the sight of Father Rodrigo wandering around the halls. Father Rodrigo paused at the door to the room. “Will you stay here?” he asked, his eyes bright in the candlelight.

  “Here?” Ocyrhoe whispered.

  Father Rodrigo nodded. “An empty room is an easy mystery to solve, but a room that contains something other than what is expected will be confusing.” A small laugh slipped out of him. “Is that not what we find in our hearts?” he asked, though Ocyrhoe thought he wasn’t speaking to her. “We fear we are empty vessels, but we aren’t, are we?”

  “No, Father,” she whispered. An oddly familiar and yet foreign shiver ran through her body, not unlike the sensation she had felt when she had first laid eyes on the priest in the marketplace.

  “God bless you, child,” Father Rodrigo said, resting his hand on her forehead. His flesh was warm and dry. And then he was gone.

  Ocyrhoe waited in the empty room, feeling a little bit empty herself. What a bizarre and unexpected few days this had been! What unimaginable outcomes had developed from it!

  She looked around the room in the flickering light of the candle stub. I’ll sleep here then, she decided. Tomorrow morning, when they come for him, they will find me instead. They will be furious, but Léna will not allow them to hurt me.

  She was confident of that.

  She blew the candle out, pulled back the cover of the bed, and snuck under it. It was much nicer than the bedding she and Léna had been given. This would actually be quite nice, she decided, sleeping in a Pope’s bed, and allowed herself to smile. From the Emperor’s camp to the Pope’s bedroom in a single day! Sleep began to tug at her mind, and she welcomed it.

  Until she heard voices outside the room. Male voices, and one of them a little bit familiar—Cardinal Fieschi. She looked around. There was no place in here to hide, and no way to escape before he entered.

  An empty room is an easy mystery. Something unexpected is altogether more confusing.

  She flung aside the covers, scrambled
out of the bed, pulled the covers back in place, and knelt beside the bed in a position of prayer.

  The door opened.

  Fieschi entered, carrying a torch, already incensed. “A thief? In the palace? Are you a fool?” Handing the torch off to the guard behind him, he flicked the latch. “It’s not even—”

  He had spotted her, and the change that came over him was frightening in its ferocity. He lunged at her, teeth bared, hands like claws, murder in his eyes.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The Archery Competition

  Gansukh felt well rested, all things considered. He had not expected to sleep that night, and it was only by a stroke of luck that he had stumbled upon the fact that Chucai had left the camp. Chucai’s ger had seemed like a perfect place to hide from Munokhoi.

  The ex–Torguud captain had nearly assaulted Gansukh at the fights, barely managing to contain his volcanic temper. Gansukh was certain Munokhoi was waiting for him somewhere in the camp, and if the positions were reversed, he would have certainly lain in wait near his ger. He had been of half a mind to sleep in Munokhoi’s ger, figuring that the ex–Torguud captain’s rage would keep him alert and fixed in place outside of Gansukh’s ger, but in the end that had felt too risky of a proposition.

  What he needed was another opportunity like that of the night before to publicly mock the ex–Torguud captain without being seen as challenging him. It wasn’t a very clever plan, but it would get the job done as long as there were witnesses—people who would attest that Munokhoi attacked first, without provocation—then any response on his part, including a fatal one, would be seen as self-defense. No one would be fooled, but propriety would be maintained.

  He had learned that much from court—the maintenance of propriety. The phrase even sounded like something from one of Lian’s endless scrolls. The understanding—the unspoken rule of acceptable behavior—was that it didn’t matter who knew what you had done, as long as you gave the court an excuse to pretend otherwise. And if you took care of a persistent thorn, you were given latitude.

  Of course, this was all predicated on Munokhoi playing along—at least with the part where he was supposed to lose his temper publicly—but this plan didn’t leave as bad a taste in his mouth as the option of assassinating Munokhoi.

  He was running out of time, however. The Khagan was supposed to leave for his hunt today.

  “Ho, Gansukh!” It was Tarbagatai, eager as ever. The mountain archer jogged up to Gansukh, his round face nearly bursting with some irrepressible news. His face fell slightly when he realized Gansukh’s hand was on the hilt of his knife. “Did you not sleep well, friend?” Tarbagatai asked. “You seem jumpy.”

  Gansukh relaxed. “I slept quite well, in fact. It’s just...”

  “Oh,” Tarbagatai said, nodding. “It’s—yes, the fights... I... I think I understand.” His brow furled, betraying the fact that he probably did not have as much clarity as he claimed.

  Gansukh realized the mountain clan archer wasn’t that much younger than himself—only a few years. What a difference those years made, he thought. I would be just like him if I hadn’t gone to Kozelsk, if Chagatai Khan hadn’t picked me as his envoy.

  “I’m sorry,” Tarbagatai said, dropping his gaze. “I have said something to offend you.”

  “No, no,” Gansukh assured him, brushing aside his melancholic thoughts. “Forgive me. I am... distracted this morning. It is the excitement of this...” he struggled to focus his attention, “of the Khagan’s hunt.”

  “Yes,” Tarbagatai agreed. “But not today.”

  “What?”

  “You haven’t heard? The Khagan”—Tarbagatai mimed drinking from a cup—“We will go tomorrow.” He brightened. “I have never participated in a hunt with the Khagan before.”

  Gansukh reflected on the hunting technique typically used by the Khagan. “I fear it will...” He paused, all too aware of the other man’s enthusiasm. “It will be fantastic,” he amended, clapping Tarbagatai on the arm. Privately he was relieved to have another day in the camp. Another chance to draw Munokhoi out...

  Tarbagatai smiled, losing the consternation that had been clinging to his face. “We could... practice,” he said, trying to appear nonchalant. “To be sure that we are ready for tomorrow.”

  “Practice?” Gansukh asked.

  Tarbagatai gestured at the bow slung over Gansukh’s shoulder. “Our archery. You have your bow with you. You wouldn’t have to borrow one this time.”

  Gansukh touched the horn-and-sinew shape of his father’s bow. “Oh, yes, I suppose,” he feigned a look of sudden realization, “but I am supposed to pick flowers with some of Second Wife’s attendants this morning. They wanted someone along to ensure no wild animal disturbed them.”

  “Of course,” Tarbagatai said, clearly crestfallen. “Very well, then, Gansukh. Perhaps some other time.”

  Gansukh kept a straight face until the mountain archer had turned his back and started to walk away, and then he relented, releasing the laugh that was clamoring to get out of his mouth. “I am joking,” Gansukh said in response to the hurt look on Tarbagatai’s face. “I would enjoy a rematch. I think that is an excellent idea.”

  Tarbagatai guffawed. “When I saw you with your bow, I hoped you would,” he said, grinning and ducking his head like a tongue-tied boy talking to his first courtesan.

  “Yes, we do think alike, don’t we?” Gansukh said, “A free afternoon. Good weather. It is a perfect opportunity to match our skills once more.” He offered Tarbagatai a guileless smile, and he let it stretch wider in response to the other man’s grin. He felt a twinge of shame for lying to Tarbagatai, but he couldn’t admit to the mountain archer the real reason he was carrying his bow and sword with him around camp.

  One more day.

  He hoped it would be enough.

  Jachin was uncharacteristically quiet when she returned from the Khagan’s ger. Lian shooed the other attendants out of Second Wife’s sumptuous ger and attended to the distracted woman herself. She helped Jachin out of her silk gown and into her favorite robe. It was plain and unadorned—not the proper costume for the Khagan’s second wife—but she knew it was warm and soft. Its simplicity also allowed Jachin to put aside her role as wife of the Khagan, and Lian suspected Jachin wanted some respite from the burden of her office.

  Let us just be girls, she thought as she quietly combed out the snarls in Jachin’s long hair.

  “Do you love him?” Jachin asked suddenly. She had said nothing since Lian had sequestered the two of them in the ger, quietly accepting Lian’s ministrations. Lost in thought.

  “Who, my Lady?” Lian asked quietly. Her hands had hesitated for only a fraction of a second with the comb.

  “The Khagan calls him young pony. That one. What is his name?”

  “Gansukh, my Lady.”

  Jachin turned her body and looked at Lian. “Do you love him?” she repeated.

  “I am but a humble attendant to the Khagan’s court,” Lain demurred, dropping her head into a more submissive pose. “I would not assume to love a proud Mongol warrior.”

  Jachin grabbed her chin and raised her head. She peered intently at Lian’s eyes, and Lian was surprised at Jachin’s expression. She had thought Second Wife would have been angry or annoyed at her refusal to answer, but what she was in Jachin’s own gaze was a frank honesty, a plain desire for companionship, for understanding.

  “Yes, my Lady,” Lian said quietly, gently removing herself from Second Wife’s grip. “I do.”

  Jachin dropped her hands to her lap, fussed with them for a moment as if she didn’t quite know what to do with them. “Does he love you in return?”

  “I... I think so,” Lian replied.

  Jachin nodded. She gestured for Lian to give her the comb. “Turn around,” she said. “I want to brush your hair.” Jachin’s face was composed, her lips firm. Lian complied, and she sat quietly as Second Wife took out the ornamental sticks in her hair and began to brush it. “Tell me
about him,” Jachin said.

  Lian did—haltingly at first, but the words came more easily after a while. Jachin even laughed lightly when she told the story about the dancer in the market and the bells.

  “Ögedei loved me,” Jachin said quietly when Lian finished. “Once.” She gave a tiny laugh, choking back some other emotion.

  “I know, my Lady,” Lian said. She glanced down and noticed two dots of moisture darkening her robe. She carefully wiped her cheek so no more tears would fall.

  On the other side of the river, a long meadow sloped down to a sparse wood of alder and cedar. The Torguud had set up a series of targets—small shields lashed to spears that were rammed into the ground—ranging across the field to the edge of the wood, and as Gansukh peered at the tree line, he noted more targets within with shelter of the trees. Each of the targets had a slash of red paint across it, signifying the heart of the imaginary enemy.

  A handful of Torguud were already practicing, and Gansukh and Tarbagatai milled about somewhat aimlessly while they waited. Gansukh kept scanning the forest below them as well as the line of scattered ger on the other side of the river, keeping an eye out for Munokhoi.

  “That is a very nice bow,” Tarbagatai said, breaking their silence.

  Gansukh unslung the weapon in question and offered it to Tarbagatai, who ran his hands along the smooth shape of the bow. “Is this goat horn?” the younger man asked after his examination.

  Gansukh nodded. “My grandfather killed it so that my father could have its horns. This is the first bow he ever made, and when I...” he paused, recalling the story he had told Lian about his first kill. “When I came of age, it became mine.”

  “I made this one,” Tarbagatai said, offering Gansukh his bow. “It took much longer than it should have.”

  Gansukh admired the shape of Tarbagatai’s bow. It was darker than his, made from some wood other than birch, though the siyah were light, like the tips of antelope ears. The string was looser than he preferred, and he wondered if Tarbagatai had switched his string yet. The air, while warm in the sun, was generally colder than it had been in Karakorum. He would need to use a tighter string. Or maybe he just likes a little more play. Gansukh toyed with the tension in the bowstring a little longer, and then handed the weapon back to its owner. “The product of your own hard work. It is an excellent bow. I hope that it serves you well.”