The horse was black, and the rider wore black. His long beard trailed behind him.
“Master Chucai.” Gansukh scrambled to his knees, thought about standing, and then realized, in an awkward reversal, that he would be taller than the other man. Instead, he remained on his knees. A ridge of stone pressed against his left knee, and he wobbled slightly as he offered a perfunctory bow.
Chucai nodded in return as he dismounted from his horse. He effortlessly scaled the spur of rock and stood with his feet spread apart. “They can see us quite easily,” he said, taking in the view.
Gansukh brushed a dusting of fine grit from his leggings as he got to his feet. “You are an imposing figure,” he pointed out, “and you don’t blend in well. I would hope that they see us.”
Chucai regarded him with a sidelong glance. “And you? Prior to my arrival, would they not have mistaken you for a Chinese raider?”
“Even if they had, they are too far away.” Gansukh thought of the archery contest with Tarbagatai a few days ago. “There are good archers in the Torguud, but they would have to ride much closer before they could hope to hit me. They are shooting up; I would be shooting down. My range is better. By then, I would hope they could tell the difference between one of their own and a Chinese archer.”
Chucai nodded. “There is a great deal of optimism in your thinking.”
“More strategic than optimistic,” Gansukh corrected.
“Of course,” Chucai acknowledged. “This location also offers us some privacy.”
“Yes, it does,” said Gansukh, wondering why that was important and fearing the reason at the same time.
“I too engage in what might be considered strategic thinking, albeit it with less optimism. In my position, I am called upon to make important decisions regarding the Khagan’s safety and well-being. Normally, I make those decisions without any need for discourse with those who will carry out my decisions. I order; you, and others like you, obey. That is how the empire continues to function.”
“Of course, Master Chucai.” Gansukh inclined his head.
“But these are not normal times, are they?”
Despite his confusion at Chucai’s appearance and a bit of annoyance at the interruption of his reconnaissance, Gansukh allowed a wry smile to cross his lips. The Khan of Khans was going to the sacred homelands of the Mongol people, where he would hunt a mystical animal at the behest of his shamans, all so that he might reassert his control of the empire. Meanwhile, his general, Subutai, was preparing to expand the empire past the distant lands conquered by his father, the greatest leader the Mongol people had ever known. No, these were not normal times.
“In these times, is it possible that members of the empire might be thinking more of themselves?” Chucai asked. “It is possible that they might place their own desires and wants above the desires and wants of the Khagan—and, by extension, the empire?”
Gansukh cleared his throat, weighing whether Chucai actually sought a response to this question or if this was one of those instances in which it might be best to simply wait for a clear directive to which he could respond. His eyes darted toward Chucai, noting that the Khagan’s advisor was staring at him intently, one eyebrow partially raised.
“It... it is possible,” Gansukh said. And then, with more bravery, “But, for some individuals, they always think thusly.”
“Does the empire then overlook their lack of duty—shall we say—because they are useful to the empire? What happens when they are no longer useful?”
Gansukh shrugged, more casual than he felt. “They are discarded,” he said, opting to not shirk from the point he felt Chucai was trying to make.
“Discarded,” Chucai mused, stroking his beard. He seemed, to Gansukh, to be play acting, giving the moment more gravity than necessary, as if to frighten Gansukh. But why? Gansukh thought. Does he want me to confess to something? Have I not done all that he has asked in regards to the Khagan? His heart skipped a beat. Lian!
“Do you know why the Chinese attacked the Khagan’s caravan?” Chucai asked suddenly.
“The Chi—Chinese?” Gansukh stuttered.
“Yes, the Chinese raiders. Do you think they were trying to assassinate the Khagan or was there another goal? Thievery, perhaps?”
Gansukh swallowed heavily. He tried not to let his relief show. Chucai wasn’t asking about his relationship with Lian. “I don’t know, Master Chucai,” Gansukh said, his chest relaxing. “I spent most of the attack as a prisoner.”
“Yes, so I have heard. And during this imprisonment—most embarrassing, if I may say so—you didn’t hear them talk of their plans?”
Gansukh felt his face flush. “They spoke Chinese, Master Chucai.”
“Oh yes, of course. And Lian hasn’t...?”
“Taught me Chinese?” Gansukh shook his head. “You may certainly ask her, Master Chucai, but I believe she will tell you she was having enough trouble teaching me the proper way of speaking Mongolian.”
Chucai laughed. “Well spoken,” he said. “What of their tactics, then? What of the Torguud response?”
Gansukh sensed that Chucai had changed his mind about his line of questioning. He wasn’t sure what he had said—or not said—but Chucai appeared to be mollified on some topic. Or perhaps he is simply setting it aside for now, he thought, admonishing himself to listen carefully to Chucai’s questions. “I am not a member of the Torguud,” Gansukh said carefully. “It would be presumptuous of me to speculate on their martial response.”
“Oh, very tactful,” Chucai said. “Lian’s instruction, I suspect.”
Bristling, Gansukh held his tongue and bowed his head slightly in return.
“The reason I ask,” Chucai continued, “is that there may be a strategic advantage gained by soliciting your opinion in a certain matter rather than simply giving you an order,” Chucai continued.
“I can only hope to be of service, Master Chucai,” Gansukh offered.
Chucai raised an eyebrow in response to Gansukh’s obsequious response. “I am going to ask Munokhoi to relinquish his position as captain of the Khagan’s private guard,” he said.
Gansukh’s heart thudded loudly in his chest, and his cheeks and forehead were suddenly hot in the sun. His knees trembled, and the landscape wavered slightly as he tried to calm his racing thoughts. He had no idea what sort of expression was on his face, though he was certain Chucai could tell the statement had caught him off guard. Was this what he was referring to when he talked about men failing to follow the Khagan? he wondered. Had Chucai’s question had nothing to do with him after all?
In a moment of rare talkativeness, Chucai explained himself. “Munokhoi is unfit to lead the men out on the steppes”—he indicated the land spread out below them with a sweep of his arm—“or here in the mountains. Did he send you here to watch over the caravan? No. That was your decision. You saw the need to look over the terrain before the Khagan crossed it. Munokhoi thinks like a man who has spent his life behind walls.”
Gansukh scratched behind his right ear. “You need someone who has fought beyond the Khagan’s walls,” he said slowly, belaboring Chucai’s point.
Gansukh waited a moment for Chucai to continue, but he wasn’t terribly surprised when the Khagan’s advisor said nothing. This was a not uncommon gambit on Chucai’s part: to start a conversation, and then let it peter into silence. He had infinite patience: as a hunter, he could probably outwait even the most cautious deer; as a veteran of the Khagan’s courts, there was no one more skilled than he at making silence excruciating. The more he learned from Lian, the more Gansukh had understood the merits of Chucai’s techniques. People were more likely to believe something they felt like they had a hand in creating. Order a man, and he will dutifully comply; let him possess an idea as his own, will he not leap to implement it with great enthusiasm?
Gansukh couldn’t help but think of Ögedei’s decision to leave Karakorum for Burqan-qaldun. Had he not, in some small way, manipulated the Khagan
into believing the idea was his?
“Master Chucai...” he began.
“Hmmm?” Chucai seemed to have forgotten he was there.
“This is an unusual circumstance that I find myself in,” Gansukh said. “As you say, typically you would simply inform me of your decision, and I would carry it out. Yet, you come to me now and appear to want my input on a certain matter.”
Chucai nodded absently, his attention still on the landscape below.
“Yet, I doubt that you haven’t thought through every consequence of every possible decision already. Do you expect me to have better insight on this matter than you? Or am I supposed to change your mind?”
“Change my mind?” Chucai raised an eyebrow. “What choice do you think I have made?”
Gansukh regarded the Khagan’s advisor warily, a response to Chucai’s question hanging in his throat. Why else would he have come all the way up here to tell me this? Does he want me to ask for the position? Gansukh rejected that idea almost as soon as it came into his head, but it wouldn’t go away. Me, a Torguud captain. There would be certain benefits, of course. And while there were many in the Khagan’s service who wouldn’t trust him, much like he had earned Tarbagatai’s admiration, he could win them over. All he had to do was demonstrate the depth of his allegiance to the Khagan—and wasn’t this entire hunting expedition the result of his efforts to show his devotion to the Khagan? The men would drift toward him. He had led men before; he could do it again.
But what of Munokhoi? Awkwardly, Gansukh felt a pang of empathy for the man. Cruel and self-serving as he was, he had served the Khagan well for many years, otherwise he never would have been promoted to his current position. It was unnerving to see how easily he could be pushed aside, and for someone who was such an outsider. What would stop Chucai from doing the same to me? Gansukh wondered.
And Lian? What would her reaction be? Would she see it as Gansukh choosing the Khagan over her? It is what I would be doing, he admitted to himself. Would she attempt to escape again, and would he be forced to go after her? Would he be ordered to put her to death for disobedience?
Gansukh took a deep breath to calm his addled nerves. His mind was twisting itself into knots, trying to examine all the possible outcomes. He felt like he was playing that Chinese game that Lian had told him about—black and white pebbles on a wooden board; rules she explained in less than two minutes; followed by an hour-long conversation about strategy that had numbed his mind. Chucai was clearly a master at weiqi, and Gansukh felt as if he was playing his first game, already on the defensive.
Don’t think of it like a game you don’t understand, he realized. Think of it in terms of something you are good at. What are the options for a warrior who feels he is cornered and on the defensive? Think more strategically. What is the best defense?
Shifting roles. Becoming the attacker. Fighting back.
“What is your goal, Master Chucai?” Gansukh asked.
For a moment Chucai’s expression remained blank, and Gansukh flushed, his guts tightening with dread that he had spoken too bluntly. But then Chucai’s eyebrows crept up, and the corners of a bemused smile peeked through his beard. Though he didn’t understand Chucai’s reaction, it was better than the one he had anticipated.
“That is a very direct and astute question, Gansukh,” Chucai said. “Mistress Lian has told me—on numerous occasions, in fact—that you are prone to speaking your mind. Even with all of her efforts to obscure that tendency beneath layers of courtly civility.”
Gansukh felt his face redden even more, but he didn’t break the other man’s gaze. Do not lessen your assault.
“Sun and rain and good seed will not produce a crop from fallow ground.” Chucai’s smile broadened. “I know you are a warrior and a hunter, but surely you understand that basic tenet of farming, yes?”
“Yes, Master Chucai.” Gansukh kept his annoyance out of his voice.
“Does a farmer give up if his land is bad, or does he find new land?”
“He finds new land.”
“And while he is searching for new land, what of his family, of his horses and cows?”
“He must still provide for them.”
“So, it follows that fertile ground must be found—quickly—and the farmer must continue to plant his seeds, cultivate his tender plants, and reap his harvest as he always does, with as little disruption as possible.”
“With all due respect, Master Chucai, there is no way to remove Munokhoi from his position without some disruption.”
“Of course not,” Chucai snorted impatiently.
“Replacing him with me would be... very disruptive,” Gansukh pointed out. Even if he were a good choice to replace Munokhoi, such a decision would only further enrage the already hotheaded Torguud captain.
Chucai lifted a finger and touched it to his lips. “Would it? Don’t you think the empire would benefit more from advancing you than it would lose by discarding Munokhoi?”
Gansukh didn’t like the way Chucai was twisting his words; and behind his calm facade, there lurked another series of barbed questions, waiting to entrap Gansukh. And then, within the span of a heartbeat, Gansukh realized a way out of this predicament. “There is another who would be more suitable,” he offered. “Brother Namkhai.”
Chucai shrugged slightly, his finger remaining against his lips. Realizing Chucai had already considered Namkhai, Gansukh rushed to explain his thinking. “I’m not suggesting Namkhai because I am trying to shirk my duties to you or the Khagan, Master Chucai. It is not that I feel I am unworthy of the position—I am worthy of it—it is just that...”
Chucai’s expression suggested he was listening intently to Gansukh’s words, but that they weren’t quite enough to convince him.
Gansukh thought rapidly, trying to verbalize key reasons that would support his claim. “Namkhai is a steppes rider too, plus he has been with the men longer. He knows them as well as they know him. I do not know many of the men.”
Chucai gave him a tiny nod. Keep talking.
“I have seen Namkhai stand up to Munokhoi when Munokhoi has been caught up in rage, irrational and unable to command. The men respond to Namkhai’s leadership. They will respect him more quickly.”
“Respect is an important quality to have in a leader,” Chucai offered as encouragement for Gansukh to keep talking.
“And Munokhoi does not resent Namkhai like he resents me. The perceived insult would be less grave and the reaction less severe.”
“Would it be?” Chucai considered Gansukh’s words. “There is some wisdom behind your suggestion, Gansukh. Even as hastily offered as it is.” He smiled fleetingly, and then his expression deadened. “But you speak of Munokhoi’s reaction being less severe...”
“Yes,” Gansukh agreed.
“There will still be a reaction,” Chucai said. “His resentment of you will not be lessened. It will simply be unburdened, no longer shackled by the strictures of his rank.”
Gansukh sucked in a quick breath. Munokhoi would be free to come after Lian. Ever since the gladiator match between the two Westerners, Munokhoi’s furtive glances made Gansukh think of a wary predator—biding his time.
Chucai had to be aware that this would be a likely outcome of stripping Munokhoi of his rank. He found his hands clenching into fists as his temper flared, a reaction that Lian would have chided him for. He could almost hear her voice: this is the reaction he expects you to have. Though he was tempted to accuse of Chucai of playing a deadly game, Gansukh calmed his breathing and stared at his hands until he could force them to relax.
“Namkhai is a good choice, Gansukh,” Chucai said, ignoring Gansukh’s mental distress. “A better choice, in many ways.”
Gansukh felt a strange mixture of elation and disappointment at Chucai’s words. The emotional rush was confounding. On the battlefield, such confusion—this temerity and second-guessing about one’s decisions—was deadly. He needed to keep focused.
“However, tha
t is all he will ever be,” Chucai explained. “He does not have the same broad-mindedness that Chagatai Khan saw in you when he selected you as his emissary. Namkhai has not been to the far edges of the empire; he has not been exposed to different martial cultures.” Chucai fixed Gansukh with his fierce gaze. “He has not watched his brothers die in the streets of foreign cities. He has not truly faced death, and as such, cannot tell his men how to be strong at such a time.”
Gansukh dropped his gaze, the crazy welter of emotions racing around his brain falling silent in the face of Chucai’s praise. “You honor me too much, Master Chucai,” he muttered.
Chucai was silent for a moment. “Perhaps,” he offered. “Still, recent revelations have made it clear that if the empire is to maintain its strength, it needs less blind devotion and more...”
“More what, Master Chucai?”
“Are you asking as a Torguud captain or a free warrior of the steppes—one who thinks more of his needs than the needs of the empire?”
Gansukh hesitated, sensing a trap. “My apologies, Master Chucai. I was merely asking as a concerned warrior of the empire, who only seeks to assist the Khagan in any way that the Khagan wishes.”
Chucai laughed. “You are much less a fool than anyone takes you for, Gansukh.”
Gansukh chuckled. “Please do not tell anyone otherwise.”
“Oh, I won’t.” Chucai sighed as he played with the trailing end of his beard for a moment. “It would have been much easier to address your problem with the weight of the Torguud guard behind you.”
Gansukh tensed as Chucai’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “That problem is my own, Master Chucai. It is best I dealt with it directly.”
“Yes, Gansukh,” Chucai said. “That would be for the best. Much less disruptive that way. Much less.”
Gansukh did not watch Chucai mount his horse and ride away. He stared down at the snaking caravan, his eyes following the tiny dots of the Torguud riders as they patrolled.