No message yet, but they had come into the sprawling city. For the time being, patience was all that was required of him.
Tentatively, the woman tapped him on the shoulder, indicating that she wanted him to roll over. As he did, she held up a small clay jar and indicated she wanted to put its contents on his face. The bruising on his torso had gone away, but there were still ugly blotches on his cheeks and around his eyes. Again, no permanent damage had been done, but the face always healed more slowly than the body. He nodded and settled more comfortably on the platform, folding his hands across his midsection.
She had just started smearing the cold unguent on his right cheek-the stuff stank of camphor and mint, and it was chilly on his hot skin-when he heard a gust of noise, so like an ocean wave breaking upon the shore that, for a second, he was transported back to the beaches near Byeokrando. He held his breath, listening for the sound to repeat itself, and when it did, he realized it was human voices he heard. Cheering.
He gently pushed her hand away from his face and slid from the platform. He stretched as he stood up, feeling with some satisfaction that the persistent knot of frozen muscles in his shoulder had been undone, restoring his full range of motion.
He pushed aside the loose flap of the tent and stepped out in the sun. There were no crowds inside the compound, and the sound could not be coming from the arena, as there were still no matches scheduled. The sound came from somewhere else, somewhere close by. The crowd roared again, and he turned his head toward the sound, listening intently to the noise. It wasn’t the roar that was magnified by the walls of the arena, though it had that same sort of swell to it. It was the voice of a smaller crowd, one that gathered in a much more open space.
First Field, he realized. Someone was fighting at the proving grounds.
Since Zug’s defeat in the Circus, First Field had fallen fallow, empty but for the occasional group of fighters battering one another all but senseless. Without any true tournament fights, all the Khan’s fighters had to sustain themselves was a dismal trickle of rumors. Onghwe Khan was bored, some whispered; this land had been conquered too easily, and the fighters who answered the Khan’s call were not good enough for him to even bother throwing them upon the mercy of his Eastern warriors. Other rumors spoke of the main Mongol force at Mohi and how Batu and the other Khans were seizing great storehouses of treasure-jewels and coins and other riches that would never be shared with the dissolute Khan and his men. Others swore that the Khan was more patient than Heaven itself, and he was simply waiting until the Western fighters were in a frenzy to compete, and only then would he start the challenges again. There were other stories, variations of these and even wilder tales; Kim had heard them all, several times over. They were nothing he hadn’t heard before when Onghwe had set up his Circus in other cities.
He started to walk toward the main gate of the Mongol encampment but was brought up short by the masseuse. “Thank you,” he said, “but that will be enough for today.” His pulse beat heavily beneath the hot skin of his cheek. He should let her finish, but the sound of cheering had infused his blood with too much excitement to lie still.
She shook her head, chattering at him in Chinese. She held out a cloth and mimed wiping her face. She hadn’t had a chance to wipe the salve off his cheek, and he gave her a short nod as he accepted the cloth. “My apologies,” he said as he rubbed his face clean. “I will speak well of your efforts when I request you again.” She bowed deeply as he returned the cloth, murmuring something in Chinese that he took to be a blessing on his magnificence and kindness.
Kim took his leave of her company, his feelings somewhat mixed. She was as much a prisoner as he. Previously, he would not have given much thought to the woman’s feelings about his satisfaction with her ministrations-she was, after all, simply doing her job-but here in the camp, they were both trophies belonging to Onghwe Khan. Their shared desire to survive made them compatriots, reliant on one another for basic reminders of their humanity. It was as Zug kept reminding him: how long could they hold out hope of ever being free again, and how much would they have to sacrifice to be so once more?
The guards at the gate were clustered around a runner, a man who had come from outside the Mongol compound. As Kim strolled closer, the runner was waved through the cordon of armed Mongols. One of the guards pointed in his general direction-not at him, but at the sprawl of tents behind him where the men charged with watching Onghwe’s fighters resided-and Kim came to a stop.
The runner came across the compound, and Kim trailed after him like a scavenger following a predator about to make a kill. The man had news of what was going on at First Field, he sensed.
Tegusgal was not available, and so the runner breathlessly gave his report to Tegusgal’s second, a large man whose name was Ashiq-temur. It meant “iron helmet,” and while he had probably been given the name as some sort of ancestral reference, he had truly grown into the name. His girth was mainly due to a bulbous paunch that covered a once-muscular frame; he had no hair, and the skin at the base of his skull was rolled and lumpy with fat. Tegusgal was quick-witted and shrewd; Ashiq-temur was short-tempered and eager to dispense discipline with his hands or with a stout stick.
“A Frank has come to the First Field,” the messenger reported. “He raised his standard and issued an open challenge to any man who would dare face him. He’s knocked down five men already, and he’s started shouting that the Khan has no worthy champions.”
Ashiq-temur, seated on a broad divan, was unmoved by the news. “Let him shout,” he grunted. He idly scratched his broad belly “The Khan will not answer to the demands of a barbarian fighter.” He waved the runner away.
A Frank! Kim stepped forward, thrilled by the possibility that this fighter was a Rose Knight. “Forgive my impertinent interruption, Master,” he said, bowing low to his fat jailor, “but I could not help overhear this conversation, and while I see that you speak with the utmost reverence of our most illustrious Khan, might I offer my services?” Tegusgal was the shrewd one, this argument would never work with him, but Ashiq-temur was more easily swayed. His head was thick, after all; there couldn’t be much room for a brain.
“What do you want, Kim?” Ashiq-temur asked. He spoke familiarly, as if Kim were nothing more than a servant or a house pet. It was a tone Kim had grown inured to, and he no longer bristled at the man’s insulting tone. If anything, the man’s disdain only increased Kim’s desire to convince his jailor of his plan.
“This Frank is a loud-mouthed upstart, and I have no doubt that his prowess is unworthy of the Khan’s attention. Perhaps I could go to the field and engage him.” Kim indicated his face, thankful now that the masseuse had not had a chance to fully work the salve into his bruises. “Look at me. I am ugly and malformed. I cannot possibly be a shining champion of the Khan’s magnificent collection of fighting men. Am I not the appropriate response to this man’s brazen challenge?”
“What if he beats you?”
Kim smiled. “Would I give you the satisfaction of seeing that?”
Ashiq-temur brayed with laughter. “Your arrogance always amuses me, Kim. I will raise a cup in sorrow on the day when it is whipped out of you.” He waved over a pair of nearby guards. “Escort this foolish dog to First Field. We apparently didn’t beat him enough. Let the Frank do it for us for a while, and then bring him back.”