Behind the guard, the pikes rattled as they were withdrawn. The guard heard the noise and blinked heavily.
Gansukh shoved past the nervous guard and hauled open one of the heavy doors. He stalked through the narrow opening, hiding the sudden sweat on his palms and forehead beneath a battlefield swagger. But he was bolstered by the affirmation of what he had realized on the plain: his word did have weight. Munokhoi certainly did outrank him within the palace hierarchy, but he was under direct orders that came from the Khagan’s brother, orders that even the Khagan himself couldn’t completely ignore.
He swept into the throne room, his pace and bearing made strong by this realization, and pulled up short.
The long chamber was nearly empty. There were no ceremonial guards, no throng of obsequious courtiers and provincial administrators. A number of servants labored on the floor, scrubbing the tile clean with wet cloth and pumice stones. The only other individual in the room was Master Chucai, who stood near the Khagan’s enormous throne, lost in thought.
“What…?” Gansukh started, and then he realized what the servants were attempting to scour away. His throat closed spastically, and his bluster deflated. There was no mistaking that smell—still so fresh in his head after having smelled it on the plain—even under the masking aroma of the scented water and the incense that had been burned earlier. “What happened?” he asked, even though the answer was obvious.
“An interrogation,” Master Chucai said. He approached Gansukh, his face drawn tight by exhaustion—both physical and mental. He hadn’t slept either. “The jaghun commander, Munokhoi, has a certain facility to old techniques, ones the empire wished it could forget.” He shrugged. “But sometimes, it is best—”
“She was my prisoner, Master Chucai,” Gansukh said, interrupting the Khagan’s advisor. “I could have made her talk with less”—he stabbed a stiff finger at the scrubbing servants—“with less cruelty.”
“Cruelty is sometimes necessary to running an empire,” Chucai explained. He showed no reaction to the younger man’s interruption. He spoke in calm, measured tones. “Regrettable as it may be, an application of intense force can be used to reveal threats to the Khagan and to the stability of his rule.”
“Was she a threat?” Gansukh demanded.
Chucai’s gaze focused on Gansukh, his eyes narrowing. “An enemy is an enemy,” he said, his voice even more flat than before.
“That isn’t what I asked you,” Gansukh replied. “On the steppe, my clan always treated our enemies with respect, even those who came at us with swords and bows. She was unarmed. This…this was butchery.”
“She had no weapon,” Chucai agreed. “But you are being naive to think that she could not wield one.”
“Was that what she was doing here?” Gansukh asked. “Did she tell you she sought to assassinate the Khagan?”
Chucai looked at him quizzically. “Is that what she told you?”
“She didn’t tell me anything,” Gansukh replied quickly.
“You are a bad liar, Gansukh,” Chucai said, his gaze intensifying. “Has Lian taught you so little?”
“This isn’t about…” Gansukh started, a flush rising in his cheeks.
“What were your instructions from Chagatai Khan?” Chucai asked. “Were you supposed to go chasing after thieves? To interrogate foreign spies? Or were you just supposed to keep an eye on the Khagan’s drinking habits?”
Gansukh kept his mouth shut, biting back the torrent of words in his throat. He knew Chucai wasn’t interested in hearing them.
“What this woman wanted—what she sought to accomplish—is none of your concern,” Chucai said, dismissing Gansukh with a wave of his hand. “I have placed Lian at your disposal so that you may learn the ways of court—simply so that you may more readily accomplish your mission. Chasing after an intruder like you did last night is the hotheaded behavior of an uncivilized nomad from the steppes.”
“Uncivilized?” Gansukh snorted. “I wouldn’t have tortured her.” And he spun away from Master Chucai, leaving the Khagan’s throne room and its blood-tainted floor behind.
He didn’t like running away, but he had learned something from Lian: to know when he had lost the advantage. Master Chucai had twisted their conversation around to focus more on Gansukh than on what the woman had wanted. He didn’t dare push back. Chucai would see that he did know more than he was letting on.
Though did he know more?
He slipped a hand inside his deel and touched the lacquered box.
CHAPTER 18:
THE PARTING OF THE VEIL
Later, after he had killed this giant steel cockroach, Zug would worry about the humiliation of being down on the ground. Of having been sent there with his own weapon! But he had not fought hundreds of combats in this and other such arenas without having acquired certain skills. One of which being that he could draw power from the energy of the crowd when it suited him, but ignore them altogether when they were only honking like excited geese.
Chevalier—as the crowd appeared to name this big Frank—had some experience with pole-arms, and while he wasn’t exceptionally proficient with the naginata, he was good enough. Zug knew he had been lucky—twice!—and such fortune was more than a dead man could hope to receive. He would not be afforded any more such chances.
Lying on the ground, he could not use his legs or his body to put force behind his blocks. He had to get in close, like the Frank had done.
Though unlike the Frank, he was flat on his back.
Zug curled like a prawn, contracting his chest and knees toward each other. As he arched his back to move across the ground, he flicked the blade of the Frank’s sword toward the closest target—the Frank’s right ankle.
Unlike the rest of his body, the Frank’s ankle wasn’t armored. The strike would either take his foot clean off or break bones and cripple him.
The Frank lifted his foot adroitly, just high enough to let the blade hurtle through underneath. But he was off balance and would have to plant the foot again before he could formulate his own attack. He had lost the initiative.
Zug kept the enormous sword moving. He whirled it all the way around as he shrimped across the ground again and brought it back for a second pass—the same strike, but with even greater power.
The point of the naginata drove into the ground in front of him and brought the sword’s movement to an abrupt stop. It was almost an exact mirror of how Zug had stopped the Frank’s second naginata strike a moment ago.
Levering himself up on his right elbow, Zug reached up with his left and grabbed the naginata’s wooden shaft, his hand only about a foot away from the Frank’s. The weapon was neutralized, and Zug had something to lean on.
The Frank’s left knee was exposed, at about the altitude of Zug’s head, in a perfect position to be kicked. Zug pulled his knees up almost to his chin and then lashed out at his opponent’s knee. The Frank, seeing an opportunity of his own to kick Zug in the head, had started to pivot on his left leg, but Zug was faster and drove the other’s knee sideways at the precise moment when all of his weight—and that of his massive coating of armor—was firmly supported by that leg.