The street fell quiet as he passed, the laborers and their masters bowing their heads as they saw the man who held the power of life and death and gold over all of them. Ogedai took a deep breath of the dusty air, enjoying the taste of it on his tongue and the thought that he was literally breathing in his creation. Ahead, he could see the towers of his palace, crowned in a dome of gold beaten thinner than the paper of his scribes. It raised his spirits to see it, like sunlight trapped and held in his city.
The street widened as it grew before him, its stone gutters polished. That section had been finished months before and the bustling crowds of laborers fell behind. As Ogedai trotted on, he could not help glancing at the boundary walls that had so confused his Chin architects and laborers. Even from the low vantage point of a saddle, there were moments when he could see over them to the green plains beyond. The walls of Yenking had not saved that city from fire or siege, he knew. His walls were the warriors of the khan, the tribes who had brought a Chin emperor to his knees and razed a shah’s cities.
Already, Ogedai loved his creation, from the vast expanse of the central training ground, to the red-tiled roofs, the paved gutters, the temples and churches and mosques and markets and homes by the thousand, most still empty and waiting for life. Scraps of blue cloth fluttered in the plains wind on every corner, a tribute to the sky father above them all. In the south, green foothills and mountains stretched far away and the air was warm with dust as Ogedai rejoiced in Karakorum.
The twilight was deepening into a soft gloom as Ogedai handed his reins to a servant and strode up the steps to his palace. Before he entered, he looked back once more at the city straining to be born. He could smell fresh-turned earth and, over it, the fried food of the workmen on the evening air. He had not planned the herds of livestock in corrals beyond the walls, or the squawking chickens sold on every corner. He thought of the wool market that had sprung up by the western gate. He should not have expected trade to halt simply because the city was unfinished. He had chosen a spot on an ancient traders’ road to give it life—and life had begun pouring in while whole streets, whole districts, were still piles of lumber, tile, and stone.
As he looked into the setting sun, he smiled at the cooking fires on the plains surrounding the city. His people waited there, for him. His armies would be fed on rich mutton, dripping fat from the summer grass. It reminded him of his own hunger, and he moistened his lips as he passed through a stone gate the equal of anything in a Chin city.
In the echoing hall beyond, he paused for a moment at his most extravagant gesture. A tree of solid silver stretched gracefully up to the arched ceiling, where the center point was open to the sky like the ger of any herdsman. It had taken the silversmiths of Samarkand almost a year to cast and polish, but it served his purpose. Whoever entered his palace would see it and be staggered at the wealth it represented. Some would see an emblem for the silver people, the Mongol tribes who had become a nation. Those with more wisdom would see that the Mongols cared so little for silver that they used it as a casting metal.
Ogedai let his hand slide down the bole of the tree, feeling the metal chill his fingers. The spreading branches reached out in a parody of life, gleaming like a white birch in moonlight. Ogedai nodded to himself. He stretched his back as lamps were lit by slaves and servants all around him, throwing black shadows and making the evening seem suddenly darker outside.
He heard hurrying footsteps and saw his manservant, Baras’aghur, approaching. Ogedai winced at the man’s keen expression and the bundle of papers under his arm.
“After I have eaten, Baras. It has been a long day.”
“Very well, my lord, but you have a visitor: your uncle. Shall I tell him to wait on your pleasure?”
Ogedai paused in the act of unbuckling his sword belt. All three of his uncles had come to the plains around Karakorum at his order, gathering their tumans in great camps. He had forbidden them all from entering the city, and he wondered who would have disobeyed him. He suspected it would be Khasar, who regarded orders and laws as tools for other men rather than himself.
“Who is it, Baras?” Ogedai asked quietly.
“Lord Temuge, master. I have sent servants to tend him, but he has been waiting now for a long time.”
Baras’aghur made a gesture to indicate a sweep of the sun in the sky, and Ogedai pursed his lips in irritation. His father’s brother would be well aware of the nuances of hospitality. Simply by arriving when Ogedai was not there to greet him, he had created an obligation. Ogedai assumed it was deliberate. A man like Temuge was too subtle not to grasp the slightest advantage. Yet the order had gone out for the generals and princes to remain on the plains.
Ogedai sighed. For two years, he had readied Karakorum to be the jewel in an empire. His had been a splendid isolation and he had maneuvered to keep it so, his enemies and friends always off balance. He had known it could not last forever. He steeled himself as he walked after Baras’aghur to the first and most sumptuous of his audience rooms.
“Have wine brought to me immediately, Baras. And food—something simple, such as the warriors are eating on the plain.”
“Your will, my lord,” his servant said without listening, his thoughts on the meeting to come.
The footsteps of the two men were loud in the silent halls, clicking and echoing back to them. Ogedai did not glance at the painted scenes that usually gave him so much pleasure. He and Baras’aghur walked under the best work of Islamic artists, and it was only toward the end that Ogedai looked up at a blaze of color, smiling to himself at the image of Genghis leading a charge at the Badger’s Mouth pass. The artist had asked a fortune for a year’s work, but Ogedai had doubled his price when he saw it. His father still lived on those walls, as well as in his memory. There was no art of painting in the tribes he knew, and such things could still make him gasp and stand in awe. With Temuge waiting, however, Ogedai barely nodded to his father’s image before sweeping into the room.
The years had not been kind to his father’s brother. Temuge had once been as fat as a feasting calf, but then lost the weight rapidly, so that his throat sagged into flaps of skin and he looked far older than his years. Ogedai looked at his uncle coldly as he rose from a silk-covered chair to greet him. It was an effort to be courteous to a man who represented the end of his time apart. He had no illusions. The nation waited impatiently for him and Temuge was just the first to breach his defenses.
“You are looking well, Ogedai,” Temuge said.
He came forward as if he might embrace his nephew, and Ogedai struggled with a spasm of irritation. He turned away to Baras, letting his uncle drop his arms unseen.
“Wine and food, Baras. Will you stand there, staring like a sheep?”
“My lord,” Baras’aghur replied, bowing immediately. “I will have a scribe sent to you to record the meeting.”
He left at a run and both men could hear the slave’s sandals clattering into the distance.
Temuge frowned delicately. “This is not a formal visit, Ogedai, for scribes and records.”
“You are here as my uncle then? Not because the tribes have selected you to approach me? Not because my scholar uncle is the one man whom all the factions trust enough to speak to me?”
Temuge flushed at the tone and the accuracy of the remarks. He had to assume Ogedai had as many spies in the great camps as he had himself. That was one thing the nation had learned from the Chin. He tried to judge his nephew’s mood, but it was no easy task. Ogedai had not even offered him salt tea. Temuge swallowed drily as he tried to interpret the level of censure and irritation in the younger man.
“You know the armies talk of nothing else, Ogedai.” Temuge took a deep breath to steady his nerves. Under Ogedai’s pale yellow eyes, he could not shake the idea that he was reporting to some echo of Genghis. His nephew was softer in body than the great khan, but there was a coldness in him that unnerved Temuge. Sweat broke out on his forehead.
“For two years, you
have ignored your father’s empire—” Temuge began.
“Do you think that is what I have done?” Ogedai interrupted.
Temuge stared at him. “What else am I to think? You left the families and tumans in the field, then built a city while they herded sheep. For two years, Ogedai!” He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “There are some who say your mind has broken with grief for your father.”
Ogedai smiled bitterly to himself. Even the mention of his father was like tearing the scab off a wound. He knew every one of the rumors. He had started some of them himself, to keep his enemies jumping at shadows. Yet he was the chosen heir of Genghis, the first khan of the nation. The warriors had almost deified his father, and Ogedai was certain he had nothing to fear from mere gossip in the camps. His relatives were a different matter.
The door swung open to reveal Baras’aghur and a dozen Chin servants. In moments, they had surrounded the two men, placing bronze cups and food on a crisp white cloth before them. Ogedai gestured for his uncle to sit cross-legged on the tiled floor, watching with interest as the older man’s knees creaked and made him wince. Baras’aghur sent the servants away and then served tea to Temuge, who accepted the bowl in relief with his right hand, sipping as formally as he would have in any ger of the plains. Ogedai watched eagerly as red wine gurgled into his own cup. He emptied it quickly and held it out before Baras’aghur could move away.
Ogedai saw his uncle’s gaze flicker over the scribe Baras’aghur had summoned, standing in a respectful attitude against the wall. He knew Temuge understood the power of the written word as well as anyone. It had been he who had collected the stories of Genghis and the founding of a nation. Ogedai owned one of the first volumes, copied carefully and bound in hard-wearing goatskin. It was among his most prized possessions. Yet there were times when a man preferred not to be recorded.
“Give us privacy, Baras,” Ogedai said. “Leave the jug, but take your scribe with you.”
His manservant was too well trained to hesitate, and it was but moments until the two men were alone once again. Ogedai drained his cup and belched.
“Why have you come to me tonight, Uncle? In a month, you can enter Karakorum freely with thousands of our people, for a feast and a festival they will talk of for years.”
Temuge studied the younger man before him. The unlined face looked weary and stern. Ogedai had chosen a strange burden for himself, with this city. Temuge knew there were only a handful of men in the camps who cared more than a bronze coin for Karakorum. To the Mongol generals who had known Genghis, it was a colossal conceit of white marble and Chin design. Temuge wished he could tell the young man how much he loved the creation without its seeming like greasy flattery. Yet he did love it. It was the city he had once dreamed of building, a place of wide streets and courtyards and even a library, with thousands of clean oak shelves lying empty for the treasures they would one day hold.
“You are not a fool, Ogedai,” Temuge said. “It was not by chance that your father chose you over your older brothers.” Ogedai looked up sharply and Temuge nodded to him. “At times I wonder if you are a strategist like General Tsubodai. For two years, the nation has been without a leader, without a path, yet there has been no civil war, no struggle between princes.”
“Perhaps they saw my personal tuman riding among them, my scribes and spies,” Ogedai replied softly. “There were always men in red and black watching them for treachery.”
Temuge snorted. “It was not fear but confusion that held them. They could not see your plan, so they did nothing. You are your father’s heir, but you did not call them to take the oath. No one understands it, so they wait and watch. They still wait to see what you will do next.”
Temuge saw Ogedai’s mouth twitch as if he wanted to smile. He longed to know his nephew’s mind, but with this new generation, who knew how they thought?
“You have built your city on the plains, Ogedai. The armies have gathered at your call, but now they are here and many of them have seen this glorious place for the first time. Do you expect them simply to bend the knee and give their oath? Because you are your father’s son? He has other surviving sons, Ogedai. Have you considered them at all?”
Ogedai smiled at his uncle, amused at the way the man seemed to be trying to pierce his secrets with his gaze. There was one he would not find, no matter how closely he peered. He felt the wine spread its glow inside him, easing his pain like a caress.
“If that was my intention, Uncle—to win two years of peace for myself and build a city—well, I have done it, have I not? Perhaps that is all I wanted.”
Temuge spread his hands. “You do not trust me,” he said, genuine hurt in his voice.
Ogedai chuckled. “As much as I trust anyone, I promise you.”
“A clever answer,” Temuge said coldly.
“Well, you are a clever man. It’s what you deserve,” Ogedai snapped. All the lightness had gone from his manner as he leaned forward. Imperceptibly, his uncle eased himself back.
“At the new moon,” Ogedai went on, “I will take the khan’s oath of every officer and prince of the blood in the nation. I do not have to explain myself, Uncle. They will bend the knee to me. Not because I am my father’s son, but because I am my father’s chosen heir and the leader of the nation.”
He caught himself, as if he was about to say too much, and Temuge watched a shutter drop over his emotions. Here was one son who had learned the cold face early.
“You did not tell me why you came to me tonight, Uncle,” Ogedai went on.
Temuge let out a sigh, knowing the moment had slipped away. “I came to make sure you understood the danger, Ogedai.”
“You are frightening me,” Ogedai said with a smile.
Temuge flushed. “I am not threatening you.”
“Where can this terrible danger spring from then, in my city of cities?”
“You mock me, though I traveled here to help you and to see this thing you have built.”
“It is beautiful, is it not?” Ogedai said.
“It is wonderful,” Temuge said, with such transparent honesty that Ogedai looked more thoughtfully at his uncle.
“In truth,” Ogedai said, “I have been considering the need for a man to oversee my library here, to collect scrolls from all corners of the world until men of learning everywhere know the name of Karakorum. It is a foolish dream, perhaps.”
Temuge hesitated. The idea was thrilling to him, but he was suspicious.
“Are you still mocking me?” he said softly.
Ogedai shrugged. “Only when you blow like an old sheep with your warnings. Will you tell me to watch my food for poison, I wonder?” He saw Temuge’s face grow mottled as his peevishness resurfaced, and he smiled.
“It is a real offer. Any other man in the tribes can herd sheep and goats. Only you could herd scholars, I think. You will make Karakorum famous. I want it to be known from sea to sea.”
“If you set such a value on my wits then, Ogedai,” Temuge said, “you will listen to me, this once.”
Ogedai sighed. “Speak then, Uncle, if you feel you must,” he said.
“For two years, the world has waited for you. No one has dared to move a soldier for fear they would be the first example you made. Even the Chin and the Sung have been quiet. They have been like deer who smell a tiger somewhere close. That has come to an end. You have summoned the armies of the nation, and a month from now, if you live, you will be khan.”
“If I live?” Ogedai said.
“Where are your Guards now, Ogedai? You have called them back and no one feels their suspicious eyes riding through the camps. Did you think it would be easy? If you fell from a roof tonight and broke your head on all this stone, who would be khan at the new moon?”
“My brother Chagatai has the best claim,” Ogedai said lightly. “Unless my son, Guyuk, is allowed to live. Tolui too is in the line of my father. He has sons grown strong: Mongke and Kublai, Arik-Boke and Hulegu. In time, they could al
l be khans.” He smiled, amused at something Temuge could not see. “The seed of Genghis is strong, it seems. We all have sons, but we still look to Tsubodai. Whoever has my father’s unbeatable general will carry the army, don’t you think? Without him, it would be civil war. Is that all those with power? I have not mentioned my grandmother. Her teeth and eyes are gone now, but she can still be fearsome when roused.”
Temuge stared at him. “I hope your actions are not as careless as your words. Double your personal guard at least, Ogedai.”
Ogedai nodded. He didn’t bother to mention that the ornate walls concealed watching men. Two different crossbows were centered on Temuge’s chest at that very moment. It would take only a particular gesture of Ogedai’s hand for his uncle to be ripped from life.
“I have heard you. I will consider what you have said. Perhaps you should not take on the role in my library and university until the new moon has come and gone. If I do not survive it, my successor may not have such an interest in Karakorum.” He saw the words sink in and knew that at least one of the men of power would be working to keep him alive. All men had a price, but it was almost never gold.
“I must sleep now, Uncle,” Ogedai said. “Every day is full of plans and work.” He paused in the moment of rising and went on. “I will tell you this much. I have not been deaf or blind these last years. My father’s nation has ceased to conquer for a time, but what of that? The nation has been fed on milk and blood, ready to be sent out into the world with fresh strength. And I have built my city. Do not fear for me, Uncle. I know everything I need to know of the generals and their loyalties.”
He came to his feet with the suppleness of youth, while his uncle had to accept his outstretched hand and winced as his knees cracked aloud.
“I think your father would be proud of you, Ogedai,” Temuge said.
To his surprise, Ogedai chuckled.
“I doubt it. I have taken Jochi’s bastard son and made him a prince and a minghaan officer. I will raise Batu further still, to honor my brother’s memory. Genghis would never forgive me for that.” He smiled at the thought. “And he would not have loved my Karakorum, of that I am certain.”