Mostly, he had wanted to clear his head after the confusing experience of the vision.
Where had it come from? He was exhausted, his mind dulled by the endless preparation for the Khagan’s trip, and he was more susceptible to the mental confusion produced by a powerful oratory. But the Khagan’s speech had not been very elaborate, nor terribly arousing in its content. Not the sort of rhetoric that should have been able to move him, even in his sleep-deprived state.
He had heard the Khagan make similar speeches in the past, in fact, and while he had seen how they impacted the warriors, he had never been impressed in the same way as he had been earlier. He had been able to watch the Khagan stir up his troops with a bemused detachment, much like the way he had observed Lian manipulating Gansukh. It was a simple skill every leader-and most women, for that matter-learned instinctively, and as an educated man he was somewhat inured to such manipulation.
And yet, he had been caught up in the fervor, like some fresh recruit eager to spill blood for the empire. An addled fool, hanging on each word.
He paused at the foot of the wooden stairs that led up to the immense platform of the Khagan’s mobile ger. Had it been the Spirit Banner? The thought had been nagging at him during his examination of the camp. He had tried to shake it loose, but it remained, a barbed porcupine quill caught in the spongy depth of his brain.
The Chinese had launched a foolhardy raid on the caravan in an effort to steal the banner. Given the Khan’s dramatic appearance before his men, he couldn’t dismiss the power that such a symbol as the banner had had on the warriors, but if all the Chinese had wanted to accomplish was a symbolic assault then why hadn’t they simply destroyed the banner? It would have been easy enough to throw it in any one of a number of fires that their archers had started. Why steal it?
Because it had power.
Chucai snorted, rejecting that answer. He waved at the guards outside the ger, indicating that he wanted to see the Khagan, and when they acknowledged his presence, he mounted the steps. “My Khan,” he called through the opening at the top of the tent flaps. “May I have a word?”
He listened for a response, and hearing little more than a single grunt of an answer, he glanced at the nearest guard and raised an eyebrow. The guard shrugged, and pulled back the flaps of the ger. Chucai ducked and entered.
The Khan was sitting in a cypress yokeback chair, a recent gift from a provincial sub-administrator from Ningxia, facing away from the ger flaps. He stared at the wall, lost in the roseate light provided by a nearby brazier of orange and red coals. His large cup-the one provided by Gansukh and later dented by the young man’s skull-dangled perilously in his slack hands.
There were white feathers scattered all over the floor. Chucai frowned, wondering about the source of the down, and his gaze roamed across the chamber. He hoped the Khagan hadn’t slaughtered a live bird in here…
The roof of the ger was low enough that Chucai had to duck slightly to avoid hitting his head on the support poles. He walked around (still keeping an eye out for any sign of a mangled bird), until the Khagan could see him. “My Khan,” he said, sweeping into a deep bow. “I wish to report on the Chinese raid.”
The Khagan stiffened slightly, drawing in breath, though he still appeared lost in thought. Chucai hesitated, watching the Khagan intently. Was Ogedei in some sort of trance, a passing vegetative state in the wake of channeling the vision? Traveling to the spirit realms exacted a harsh toll on shamans, and he had heard stories of seekers who had been so moved by their experiences that they never fully returned to their bodies. Their spirits, loosened in their flesh, eventually drifted away. One day, the body would just stop breathing.
Chucai cleared his throat noisily. Such foolishness, he thought sourly. I am behaving like a superstitious herdsman.
Ogedei stirred, blinking heavily. His hands closed more firmly around his cup, and he came back to himself. “Master Chucai,” he mumbled. “What news have you for me?”
“The Chinese rebels have been defeated, my Khan. Their efforts to destroy your magnificent caravan were futile, and-”
“Any prisoners?”
“No, my Khan.” Chucai ground his teeth. He had given strict orders, but he had been too late.
“What did they want?” Ogedei asked. “They did not fire on my ger.” He raised the cup to his lips. “I have had much time to reflect on their strategies,” he continued after drinking. “They were not idiots, I presume. Fools, but not idiots.”
Chucai nodded. “No, My Khan. They were not idiots.”
“How many were there?”
“Forty, perhaps. I have sent out a number of arban to ensure there are no more of them hiding nearby.”
“How many of my Imperial Guard did we lose?”
“About the same number. Plus a number of-” Chucai waved a hand to indicate the inconsequence of having lost some of the nonessential members of the Khagan’s retinue.
“What was their mission?”
“I suspect they were after the Spirit Banner,” Chucai confessed. “Though I do not know why.”
Ogedei’s eyes twitched toward the wall of the tent, and as carelessly as possible, Chucai glanced over to see what Ogedei had been looking at. There was nothing on the wall, nothing but a vague shadow-a misshapen circle with tiny strands descending from it. A shadow of a head with long hair, he interpreted.
“Do they think I am that weak?” Ogedei asked. “If they stole my father’s banner, would the empire fall apart instantly? Would I wake in the morning to find that every clan had deserted me?” He snorted, answering his own questions.
“I doubt it, my Khan,” Chucai said. He wet his lips, suddenly disturbed by the shadow on the wall. Glancing around the room, he could not figure out how it was being projected on the wall. And when he looked at the wall again, the shadow had changed into an amorphous streak, as if the previous shape had started to run, like ink staining a page.
“What did your father tell you of the banner?” he asked curtly. The shadow was unsettling. The more he tried to ignore it, the more it crept into the periphery of his vision. “Where did he get it?”
Ogedei shrugged. He peered into his cup, seeming to have lost interest in Chucai’s questions. “It’s just a stick,” he muttered. “Father made it.”
He didn’t, Chucai realized with an absolute certainty. He wanted to look at the wall once more, but the shadow was gone. All that remained was a blur in his mind, a shape that flowed and wavered. Like a horse’s tail. Or the tassels of the Spirit Banner.
Why had the Chinese sought the banner? He recalled the rough spot on the wood, and wondered if he was asking the wrong question.
Chucai had meant to retire to his own ger to reflect more on the puzzle of the Spirit Banner, but he had been accosted almost immediately by Jachin, Ogedei’s second wife, who had decided to place the blame of the Chinese attack on him. While he had been trying to extricate himself from the tiresome woman’s ranting, they had been interrupted by Munokhoi. The Torguud captain had swept back into the camp, demanding an audience with the Khagan. Chucai, welcoming the opportunity to escape Jachin’s tirade, had directed Munokhoi to his ger, knowing that Ogedei was in no shape to listen to the headstrong warrior. A decision which, in retrospect, might not have been the wisest. Out of sight of his underlings, Munokhoi unleashed a raging torrent of invective that appeared to have no end in sight. It was as if the man has kept a tally of every perceived slight against him since Gansukh arrived at court, he thought, and now they are all being counted.