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The Khagan. Shortly after his audience with Ogedei, Chucai had been accosted by Jachin, who accused him of making Ogedei despondent and distracted. The Khagan was ignoring her, mumbling on about hunting a great bear at Burqan-qaldun, about recovering his warrior spirit. This was Chucai’s fault: he had fostered this idea in the Khagan’s head; he had organized the caravan; he had allowed that whelp of Chagatai’s to whisper in the Khagan’s ear. It was his doing, and she would have no more of it.

As much as Munokhoi’s arrival had spared him further recriminations from Jachin, he had to admit there was some credence to her accusations. Ogedei was suffering from a lack of self-confidence, a lack of faith in his own ability to lead the empire.

For the most part, Chucai knew Ogedei’s concerns were unfounded. Genghis had chosen Ogedei as his successor for good reasons, and for many years, he had been pleased to watch Ogedei grow into a role most thought him incapable of filling. He had watched Ogedei deftly manage the lesser khans and their inane territorial squabbles; he had seen the Khan handle delicate diplomatic situations with both the Chinese and the Koreans with aplomb. He had witnessed Ogedei’s prowess in battle, a much different-yet equally critical-aspect of leadership.

In the end, it was something as simple and ludicrous as wine that threatened to destroy the empire.

Gansukh. What he had said to Munokhoi was entirely true: an empire could not be managed by one man. But it was true that some men wielded more influence than others. For some, their influence was obvious. Him, for example. Others, like Gansukh, might never be recognized by history, but their part in the overall success of the empire was paramount. Chagatai had chosen wisely.

It could have been ten; it could have been a thousand men sent by Chagatai to watch over the Khagan and keep him from drinking himself to death. But Chagatai had sent one man, and Chucai dared to allow himself the thought that Gansukh might actually succeed in saving the Khagan.

Which made this issue of Munokhoi’s report that Lian had been trying to escape all the more infuriating. He could insist that she remain in his ger, and Gansukh would take his lessons under his watchful eye, but he sensed that a great deal of the success of their lessons lay in Lian’s unfettered access to him. Doing so had its drawbacks though, and it was becoming more and more evident that he would, eventually, have to address Lian’s influence over the young warrior.

There was also the issue of the Spirit Banner and why the Chinese had tried to steal it. For what purpose? he wondered. And the cut in the wood, the scab where something had been trimmed off the banner? The scab was too much like a living tree’s effort to cover a wound, or like flesh healing after a cut from a knife. How could that be possible on a piece of wood that had been harvested and shaped many years ago?

His mind traced a complicated path through recent events. If the cut had not been made on the banner tonight, then when? And by whom? His mind returned to the female assassin who had fled the palace. When she had been spotted on the roof of the Khagan’s palace, he had-like everyone else-assumed she had not yet entered the building. But what if that was the wrong conclusion? What if she had been spotted as she was leaving? What if, much like the Chinese raid, her target hadn’t been the Khagan, but the Spirit Banner? If so, then this raid was a desperate-and much less subtle-attempt to accomplish what had failed earlier.

Chucai picked up his tea and sipped it carefully. They didn’t know, he mused. The Chinese had attacked because they thought their agent had failed. But what if she hadn’t? What if she had been successful in her theft and-had it not been for Gansukh and Munokhoi-escaped completely?

After the fruitless interrogation, the thief’s clothing had been searched, and nothing had been found.

Which meant either Gansukh or Munokhoi had taken something from her before she had been delivered to the Khan’s throne room. The fact that neither had admitted to having such a prize in their possession was-

“Master Chucai.”

Chucai looked up, still lost in thought, and he dimly recognized the attendant standing inside the ger. The one he had sent to check on Gansukh.

“Master Gansukh is in his tent,” the attendant reported.

Chucai grunted, and then as the attendant remained, he pulled himself out of his thoughts and cocked his head. “Yes?”

“Master Gansukh is not alone.”

“Mistress Lian.” It was a statement, not a question, and the attendant nodded in affirmation.

“Thank you,” Chucai dismissed the attendant with a nod and leaned back in his seat, cradling the tea cup in his hands, an idea starting to form in his mind.

Gansukh and Lian, together. Confirmation of what he had suspected for some time. Their affection for each other was obvious even if they both denied it. In Karakorum, it had been difficult to distinguish between teacher and student and lovers, and Lian had always been very good at guarding her thoughts and feelings. Evidently, now, they were no longer concerned about hiding.

What should he do about it? According to Munokhoi’s somewhat fragmented story, they had been discovered together on the steppes during the attack. Gansukh had been a prisoner of the Chinese and Lian had claimed to have killed one of their commanders in order to rescue Gansukh.

If true, this would help deny the charge that Gansukh had abandoned his duties during the attack to help Lian, but it would not dispel Munokhoi’s accusations entirely.

Munokhoi saw both Lian and Gansukh as threats, and he had tried to convince Chucai the pair was a threat to the Khagan and not to his own personal advancement. The Torguud captain clearly hated the Chinese teacher and it did not take much imagination to see why he hated Gansukh. A hatred that would only increase as it became obvious to others that Gansukh’s knowledge of steppe fighting might be more useful than Munokhoi’s own experience. Regardless of what Chucai commanded of him, Munokhoi would continue to look for opportunities to do both of them harm.

Knowing that, it was foolish for Lian to sleep alone. In fact, Chucai concluded, it might be safer for both of them to stick together.

And that was not entirely a bad situation. In fact, if Gansukh knew something about the Spirit Banner-if he had whatever had been cut from the wood-then Lian might be the only one who could get it from him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Rough Beasts

Lakshaman lived because other men bled. His world, the gilded prison of Onghwe Khan’s menagerie, had been reduced to this axiomatic definition. He could no longer recall a life before the Khan’s arena-not that such a life mattered to him any more, anyway. He had seen the light go out of a man’s eyes more than a hundred times, and each time, the cessation of the other’s breath and heartbeat simply validated the primal truth of Lakshaman’s existence.

Did he secretly yearn for something else? Some life that was not filled with the torpid stickiness of blood or the putrefying stench of fear? Did he look at his hands and wonder if they were meant to hold something other than his cruel knives? When he was led into the dark tunnel that led to the arena, did he gaze into the darkness and wonder if, perhaps, there was no end to this tunnel? Maybe it went on forever, and eventually, he would stop and look back and not be able to see where he came from. There would be no point in continuing, and so he would sit down in the darkness. Maybe he would even lie down and rest. If the fundamental truth of his existence was no longer valid, would he close his eyes and simply stop breathing?