Lords of the Bow (35 page)

Genghis nodded, his weariness preventing him from sharing Kachiun’s light spirits. “I see no supplies here,” he said.

“They have left them all behind, including as fine a herd of oxen as you will ever see.”

Genghis perked up at that. “I have not eaten beef in a long time. We will roast them before Yenking and waft the smell of the meat over the walls. You have done well, brother. Shall we finish them?” Both men looked over the grim column of soldiers, now no more than half the original size.

Kachiun shrugged. “They are too many mouths to feed, unless you will give them the supplies they brought to this place. Let me try to disarm them first, or they could still fight.”

“You think they will surrender?” Genghis asked. His eyes sparkled at his brother’s suggestion, touched by Kachiun’s evident pride. Of all things, the tribes revered a general who could win with wits rather than force.

Kachiun shrugged. “Let us see.”

He summoned a dozen men who could speak the Chin language and sent them out to ride along the column as close as Genghis had himself, offering peace terms if they gave up their weapons. No doubt it helped that the men were near exhaustion after a day of being chased by an enemy who struck with shocking power while remaining untouched. Their morale had been left on the march, and Genghis smiled as he heard the crash of weapons being thrown down.

It was almost dark before the pikes, crossbows, and swords had been removed from the silent ranks. Genghis had sent fresh quivers by the thousand back to Kachiun, and the Mongols waited in calm anticipation as the sun made the plains gold.

Before the last light faded, a horn rang across the plain and twenty thousand bows bent. The Chin soldiers screeched in horror at the betrayal, the sound choked off as the volleys struck and struck and struck until it was too dark to see.

As the moon rose, hundreds of oxen were killed and roasted on the plain, and on the walls of the city, Zhi Zhong tasted his own bitter saliva, filled with a grinding despair. In Yenking, they were eating the dead.

When the feast was at its height, the spy saw the shaman rise and stagger drunkenly through the gers. He rose like a shadow to follow him, leaving Temuge to sleep off the haunch of bloody beef he had devoured. The warriors were chanting and dancing around the fires, and the drummer boys pounded out a fierce rhythm that hid the small noise of his steps. The spy kept the older man in sight as Kokchu paused to urinate on the path, fumbling blearily at himself and cursing in the darkness as he splashed his feet. The spy lost sight of his quarry as the man slipped into deep darkness between two carts. He did not hurry, guessing the man was going back to the Chin girl he kept as a slave in his home. As he walked he thought what he might say to the shaman. On his last trip to the walls, he heard the lord regent had begun a death lottery in the city, where a member of each peasant family was forced to reach into a clay pot as deep as his arm. Those who pulled out a white tile were butchered to feed the rest. Every day brought scenes of unimaginable pain and grief.

Lost in thought, he saw a shadow twitch as he came round the edge of a ger and let out a cry of shock and pain as he was knocked back into the side of it. The wicker braces creaked against his back and he could feel a cold blade at his throat, stopping his breath.

When Kokchu spoke, his voice was low and firm, with no sign of the extravagant drunkenness the spy had witnessed before.

“You have been watching me all night, slave. And now you follow me home. Hsst!” Kokchu made the sound as the spy raised his hands automatically in fear.

“If you move, I will cut your throat,” Kokchu whispered into his ear. “Be like a statue, slave, while I search you.” The spy did as he was told, enduring the bony hands as they ran over his body. The shaman could not reach right down to his ankles and still hold the blade to his neck. He did find a small knife and threw it away into the darkness without looking. The one in the boot went undetected and the spy let out a slow breath of relief.

They stood in complete darkness between the gers, hidden from the moon and the feasting warriors.

“Why would a slave follow me, I wonder? You come to me for your master’s paste and your little darting eyes are everywhere, your questions so innocent. Are you a spy for Temuge, or another assassin? If you are, you are a poor choice.”

The spy did not reply, though he set his jaw at the sting to his pride. He knew he had barely glanced at the shaman all evening, and he could only wonder what sort of mind produced such constant suspicion. He felt the knife press more firmly into his neck and blurted out the first words that came to his lips.

“If you kill me, you will learn nothing,” he said.

Kokchu remained silent for an age, digesting this. The spy swiveled his eyes in his head to see the man’s expression and found curiosity mingling with spite.

“What could there be to learn, slave?” Kokchu asked.

“Nothing you would want overheard,” the spy replied. He ignored his usual caution, knowing his life hung in the moment. Kokchu was quite capable of killing him just to deprive Temuge of a supporter. “Let me speak and you will not regret it.”

He felt a shove and stumbled forward. Even in the dark, he sensed Kokchu behind him. The spy considered ways of disarming the man without killing him, but forced himself to relax. He put his hands on his head and let Kokchu walk him forward to his ger.

It took courage to duck low at the doorway with the shaman holding a blade at his back, but the spy had gone too far to pass off his words as a bad joke even then. He knew the offer he had to make. The lord regent himself had met him on the wall on his last report. He took a deep breath and pushed the small door open.

A girl of great beauty knelt on the floor by the open door. A lamp lit her features as she looked up at him, and the spy felt his chest tighten that such a delicate girl should be made to wait on the shaman like a dog. He hid his anger as Kokchu motioned for her to leave them alone. She exchanged one final glance with her countryman as she turned in the door, and Kokchu chuckled.

“I think she likes you, slave. I am growing tired of her. Perhaps I will give her to your Chin officers. You could have a turn when they are finished teaching her humility.” The spy ignored the words, taking a seat on a low bed so that his hands dropped naturally near his ankles. If the meeting went sour, he could still kill the shaman and be back at the walls before anyone else found out. That thought gave him a confidence that Kokchu sensed, frowning.

“We are alone, slave. I do not need you, or anything you have to say to me. Speak quickly, or I will give you to the dogs tomorrow morning.”

The spy took a long, slow breath, preparing words that could mean death by torture before the sun rose. He had not chosen the moment. The bodies in Yenking had done that. Now he was either right about the shaman, or dead.

He straightened his back and rested one hand on his knee, looking sternly up at Kokchu with a faint expression of disapproval. The shaman glowered at the change in the man, going from frightened slave to a dignified warrior in just a moment.

“I am a man of Yenking,” the spy said softly. “A man of the emperor.”

Kokchu’s eyes widened.

The spy nodded to him. “Now my life is truly in your hands.” A sudden instinct made him take the dagger from his boot and place it on the floor at his feet. Kokchu nodded at the act of faith, but did not lower his own blade.

“The emperor must be desperate, or mad with hunger,” Kokchu said softly.

“The emperor is a seven-year-old boy. The general your khan defeated now runs the city.”

“He sent you here? Why?” Kokchu asked him, genuinely curious. Before the man could speak, Kokchu answered his own question. “Because the assassin failed. Because he wants the tribes to leave before the people starve to death, or burn the city down in riots.”

“It is as you say,” the spy confirmed. “Even if the general wanted to pay tribute for the city, the black tent is up before the walls. What choice does he have but to hold out for another two years, or even longer?” No trace of the desperate lie showed on the spy’s face. Yenking would fall in another month, three at the most.

At last Kokchu put away his knife. The spy did not know how to read the action. The lord regent had thrown him to the wolves to make the offer. All he had was an instinct that Kokchu was in the tribes but not of them, a man apart. Such men were ripe for picking, but he knew his life could still be measured in heartbeats. A single spasm of loyalty from the shaman, a single shout, could end it all. Genghis would know he had broken Yenking and the jewel of the empire would be lost forever. The spy felt sweat break out on his skin despite the frozen air. He went on before Kokchu could reply.

“If they have the white tent raised once more, my emperor will pay a tribute to make a hundred kings weep. Silk enough to line the roads back to your homeland, gems, slaves, written works of great magic, science and medicine, ivory, iron, timber . . .” He had seen Kokchu’s eyes flicker at the mention of magic, but did not falter in his list. “. . . paper, jade, thousands upon thousands of carts laden with wealth. Enough to found an empire if the khan desires it. Enough to build cities of his own.”

“All of which he would have anyway when the city falls,” Kokchu murmured.

The spy shook his head firmly. “At the last, when defeat is inevitable, the city will be fired from within. Know that I speak truth when I say your khan will have only ashes and two more years of waiting on this plain.” He paused, trying and failing to see how his words were being received. Kokchu stood like a statue, barely breathing as he listened.

“Why have you not made this offer to the khan himself?” Kokchu asked.

Ma Tsin shook his head, suddenly weary. “We are not children, shaman, you and I. Let me speak plainly. Genghis has raised his black tent and all his men know that it means death. It would cost him pride to accept the emperor’s tribute, and from what I have seen, he would let Yenking burn first. But if another man, one he trusted, could take the news to him in private? He could suggest a show of mercy, perhaps, for those innocents in the city who suffer.”

To his astonishment, Kokchu barked laughter at the idea. “Mercy? Genghis would see it as weakness. You will never meet a man who understands fear in war as well as the khan I follow. You could not tempt him with such a thing.”

Despite himself, the spy felt anger surface at the shaman’s mocking tone. “Then tell me how he can be turned from Yenking, or kill me here for your dogs. I have told you all I know.”

“I
could
turn him,” Kokchu said softly. “I have shown him what I can do.”

“You are feared in the camp,” the spy replied quickly, grabbing his bony arm. “Are you the one I need?”

“I am,” Kokchu replied. His face twisted at the other man’s relief. “All that remains is for you to name the price for my help in this small thing. I wonder, how much is your city worth to your emperor? What price should I put on his life?”

“Anything you want will be part of the tribute paid to the khan,” the spy replied. He dared not believe the man was toying with him. What choice did he have but to follow where the shaman led?

Kokchu was silent for a time then, weighing the man who sat so stiffly erect on the bed.

“There is real magic in the world, slave. I have felt it and used it. If your people know anything of the art, your boy emperor will have it in his precious city,” he said at last. “A man cannot learn enough in a hundred lifetimes. I want to know every secret your people have found.”

“There are many secrets, shaman: from making paper and silk to the powder that burns, the compass, oil that will not go out. What do you wish to know?”

Kokchu snorted. “Do not bargain with me. I want them all. Do you have men who work these arts in the cities?”

The spy nodded. “Priests and doctors of many orders.”

“Have them bind their secrets for me, as a gift between colleagues. Tell them to leave nothing out or I will tell my khan a bloody vision and he will come back to burn your lands all the way to the sea. Do you understand?”

The spy freed his tongue and answered, weak with relief. He could hear raised voices somewhere nearby and he rushed along, desperate to finish. “I will make it so,” he whispered. “When the white tent is raised, the emperor will surrender.” He thought for a moment, then spoke again. The voices outside were louder.

“If there is betrayal, shaman, everything you want to know will go up in flames. There is enough of the powder that burns in the city to tear the stones to dust.”

“A brave threat,” Kokchu replied, sneering. “I wonder if your people would truly have the will to do such a thing. I have heard you, slave. You have done your work. Now go back to your city and wait for the white tent with your emperor. It will come in time.”

The spy wanted to urge the shaman on, to make him understand that he should move quickly. Caution stopped his mouth with the thought that it would only weaken his position. The shaman simply did not care that the people of the city were dying every day.

“What
is
happening out there?” Kokchu snapped, disturbed by the shouts and calls outside the ger. He gestured for the spy to leave and followed him out into the moonlight. Everyone around them was staring at the city, and both men turned to gaze at the walls.

The young women walked slowly up the stone steps, wearing white, the color of death. They were skeletally thin and barefoot, but they did not shiver. The cold did not seem to touch them at all. The soldiers on the walls fell back in superstitious dread and no one barred their path. By the thousand, they gathered above the city. By the ten thousand. Even the wind fell to a whisper across Yenking, and the silence was perfect.

The walkway around the city was frozen white and hard, fifty feet below where they stood. Almost as one, the young women of Yenking stepped to the very edge. Some held hands, others stood alone, gazing out into the darkness. For all the miles of wall, they stood there, looking down into the moonlight.