The very reason you were unhorsed and beaten by a lone man with a stick, Dietrich had explained very precisely, was because you failed to properly equip yourself.
Tomas had not been at Schaulen. Had he been, Dietrich was fairly certain he would have been killed in the enemy’s first sortie. Probably while looking for his shield.
And the priest-Father Pius-appeared to have grown a backbone in the interim. In contrast to his obsequiousness prior to the skirmish, he had become taciturn and closemouthed-as if the Livonian Grandmaster’s foul mood no longer frightened him. Pius remembered more of the incident than he let on, but the priest was only too quick to lay hands on his cross when faced with Dietrich’s ire. Qui custodit mandatum custodit animam suam, the priest had said, pointing to the same symbol on Dietrich’s surcoat. A man’s soul was only secure as long as he observed the commandments of the Lord.
Testis falsus non erit impunitus. There had been some satisfaction in watching the priest’s reaction when he had quoted the other half of that biblical proverb-he that speaks falsely imperils his soul-but the implied threat hadn’t loosened the man’s tongue.
Dietrich knew he should have taken the first note from the priest, and some of the fury directed at his defeated knights stemmed from his own failure. Still, the more he thought about the situation, a process assisted by several flagons of beer, the more he started to see how both notes falling into the hands of the Shield-Brethren might be less of a catastrophe than it seemed. The conflicting notes, should God deem it so, might even be an opportunity.
Discord and confusion among one’s enemies was always a primary goal of any successful strategy, and if the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae had managed to get their hands on both letters, it was very likely they suffered more confusion than insight from these missives. The Korean’s letter was innocent enough-nothing more than a request for a meeting-but the false letter claimed that the Mongols had killed their missing champion.
Dietrich knew the Shield-Brethren weren’t fools-unlike some of his men. They would see the second letter as the inflammatory lie that it was, but it would cast doubt on the first one, simply because it offered so little. Even if they wanted to ignore both, they could not afford to. After the First Crusade, they had retreated to their remote fortress-like a mortally wounded animal that crawls off to die. Cutting themselves off from the civilized world, they became more and more insular, fading into dusty obscurity. Even here, they set themselves apart from the rest of Christendom, hiding out in the ruined monastery north of Legnica. Like lepers.
The confusion of the letters would only serve to remind them of their self-imposed exile. They didn’t know what was going on in the camp around Hunern. They had no tactical advantage; their actions were going to be reactions, and while their martial art may be wound around ideals of humility and patience, they had fought in enough battles to know the army that was always on the defensive was rarely the victor.
Once, the slightest mention of the Shield-Brethren had been enough to cause a commander to reconsider his plan of attack. The sight of an armored troop of knights had sent more than one army fleeing. A single warrior would have been more than a match for a barbarous stick wielder; attacking two would have been a fool’s errand.
Dietrich chuckled as he regarded the few sips left in his tankard. That’s what they’ve become-diseased lepers, hiding out in the shadows, afraid to show their faces.
Mollified, he finished his beer and banged his tankard on the table. One more, he decided, and the woman too.
4
As he approached the Khagan’s private quarters, Gansukh considered how he was going to talk his way past the guards. He doubted Ogedei would see him if he simply walked up and asked to be presented to the Khagan. It was quite possible that Ogedei’s reaction might be less restrained than it had been at the dinner celebration, though the lingering bruises on the young man’s face spoke otherwise. It had been several days since he had presented the cup to Ogedei, and he had bided his time before attempting to seek the Khagan’s audience once more. He felt he was making progress in his efforts to curb Ogedei’s drinking, but he was still cautious. The Khagan was not unlike a wounded mountain lion.
The two guards outside the Khagan’s chambers looked even more nervous than he did. They stared past him, refusing to acknowledge his presence, and Gansukh paused, his conviction wavering.
“I…” He cleared his throat. Tell them what you want, he thought. Do not spin a story. “I need to see the Khagan.”
Neither guard replied. The one on the left rested his hand on the hilt of his scimitar, while the other blinked several times and licked his lips. Being ignored is better than being assaulted.
Their behavior was odd, though; he would have expected them to take joy in telling him that the Khagan had expressly commanded them to treat him like this, like a worm not worthy of notice. After a month at court, he knew well the delight the Imperial Guard took in reminding visitors of their lower station.
“I have an important-”
He was cut off by a loud wail from inside the room. At first, he thought he had imagined the sound because the guards did not react, but then he caught the nervous twitch of their eyes-toward the door, at him, and then back to the empty hallway.
“Sounds like someone in pain,” Gansukh said. “Shouldn’t we investigate?”
The lip-licker’s tongue darted several times, and he glanced at Gansukh, then intercepted a hard stare from his companion. “The Khagan is not to be disturbed,” he said gruffly, as if none of them had heard the scream from within the room.
He’s afraid.
The shriek again rent the quiet hallway. Gansukh looked between the guards, whose decorum was fraying rapidly. This time, they refused to meet his eyes.
“I think that’s the Khagan,” Gansukh said.
“No it isn’t,” the man on the left said. The other guard nodded fervent agreement. He wanted to appear stern and threatening, but the slackness of his jaw only made his face quiver, defeating his attempt to appear menacing. “We have strict orders,” the left-hand guard continued. “We are not to enter, nor are we to allow anyone else to do so.”
“Is that wise?” Gansukh stepped closer to the door, and while both guards tensed, neither took action to stop him. “Is that what you are going to tell Master Chucai when he finds out that the Khagan has…impaled himself on a dagger or slipped and broken bones…or something worse…?” Gansukh leaned in toward the door and cupped his hand to his ear, almost enjoying himself, pretending to listen intently for any noise from the suite. “He could be dead…”
“He’s not dead,” the second guard said doubtfully, his face pale and damp.
“No, no. Of course not. I was just suggesting that it was possible such a calamity had occurred,” Gansukh replied. Moving his hands slowly so as to not alarm them, he innocently indicated the door. “But we don’t really know, do we? Are you going to take responsibility for the Khagan’s death, if indeed that is what has happened and he bleeds out while you stand here? Is that the sort of Mongol you are? The kind who follows orders blindly without ever thinking for himself? Maybe you should be thinking that this situation has changed…”