Norjin shook off Zaya’s and the old woman’s concern and returned to his guest tent.
Part of him wanted to cool his head, but more than that, staying by Zaya’s side any longer would have forced her into a choice—him or Taghrai. That was not an option.
There was a problem, but it was a trivial one. The attendant brought a bed from Zaya’s tent, set it up, and saw to everything. Norjin sat down, took a breath with the tea they poured for him—and then the problem appeared.
“Norjin. Are you there?”
Norjin closed his eyes despite himself. Why. Why had she not learned?
“So you and Zaya are done, then.”
“We were never together in the first place. I’ve recovered enough not to trouble her anymore. That’s all.”
“Then this time… let me take care of you.”
Her voice lifted at the end, too eager, as if she could not afford to be refused.
Ilha propped her elbows on the bed and looked up at him.
“Were you listening? I said I don’t need anyone to look after me.”
“Then what about him?”
She pointed at the attendant. The man panicked and slipped out of the tent at once.
“Consider him nonexistent.”
“But he’s right there.”
A headache began to throb behind Norjin’s eyes.
“Can you tend horses? Can you handle my affairs? If I call, will you appear at once and arrange things so I can move without difficulty?”
Ilha stared into space, thinking. Then she spoke.
“So… a wife?”
“Absolutely not!”
The pain in his head worsened. Worse than the wound in his abdomen.
“I need to lie down. Go.”
“Do you feel sick?”
Ilha stood up.
“Because of you.”
“I’ll come back.”
“Don’t.”
“I will. I’ll be back. I mean it.”
Ilha pulled a face and slipped out.
A trivial problem, he had said. Norjin was no longer so sure.
At last, the moment arrived.
Reason told him he did not want this to happen, yet somewhere deep inside, he had known it would.
“The king will receive you.”
“I will come at once.”
After dismissing the messenger, Taghrai stared at the papers piled thick across his desk. They had spread beyond it, collapsing onto the floor around him.
He stood—then stopped.
There was not a single document ready to present.
Not one page. Not one line.
With trembling hands, Taghrai rummaged through the stacks, searching for something—anything—of meaning. What met his eyes were only scattered diagrams and illegible notes.
What have I been doing?
He had returned from the west with time enough. And yet—
Stolen story; please report.
After standing there blankly, he steeled himself.
“I will go to Batu.”
As he left, a long breath escaped from several corners of the tent. They had known for some time that something was wrong. Taghrai had been a good superior—at least, a tolerable one.
If he was gone, there was no knowing who would replace him, or what kind of man might come next.
No one spoke.
They were worried for Taghrai. But they were also worried for themselves.
The tent filled with a quiet, uneasy silence.
“Lord Taghrai has arrived.”
Batu pushed aside the papers he had been reviewing.
“I have been waiting,” he said—and then froze.
Was this truly Taghrai?
Sunken eyes, bloodshot. Ashen skin. He looked thinner. The dimples Batu had once teased him about were gone. His hands trembled faintly.
Like a prisoner awaiting execution.
This is bad.
“Sit.”
Taghrai bowed and obeyed.
Batu searched for words and found none. It seemed best to listen first.
“Are you unwell? What has happened to you—”
“The western cities,” Taghrai cut in.
Hurry. Hurry.
“O—oh. Yes. You have considered them?”
Taghrai opened his mouth. No words came.
He tried again. Still nothing. His breath caught, then vanished altogether.
Batu ordered tea at once.
“Calm yourself. There is no need to rush.”
Taghrai lifted the bowl. His hands shook violently; the tea nearly spilled. He set it down and clamped his right fist with his left, trying to still the tremor.
Batu realized then that matters were worse than he had thought. Perhaps he should send him away. Or ask for a written report later. Still—he needed something now. At least the direction.
“Taghrai, you look worn. Let us set the Rus aside for the moment.”
Hope flared—and with it, the strength drained from Taghrai’s body.
There was still time. Perhaps even a reason to delay the western campaign.
“Subutai tells me the Volga Bulgars are stirring. He knows the region well—he and his son fought there.”
Taghrai stiffened.
He had heard nothing.
His charge—and he had known nothing.
“It has not yet risen to the surface,” Batu continued. “I understand why you did not bring it to me. A sound judgment.”
His body loosened again. Perhaps this could still be saved.
“Tell me, then. What weighs on you?”
Batu expected Zaya’s name.
Instead—
“I have been troubled by what comes after the conquest. How the lands should be governed. How taxes should be levied so the Jochid ulus may grow. I wished to choose the cities with that in mind.”
As the words left him, Taghrai felt strangely empty.
He had said it at last.
Surely Batu would understand how heavy this was. Not because it could be settled in a few days—Taghrai knew it could not. But if he asked for too much time, Batu would refuse.
So he told himself: two days. Three, at most.
“Ah. So that’s it.” Batu laughed.
He had feared hearing Zaya’s name. Instead, this had nothing to do with her.
“That’s… all?”
The words echoed in Taghrai’s head. Again. Again.
Batu’s figure blurred.
“If it is taxation, then speak with Norjin. He worked under Yelü Chucai, who oversees the empire’s system. The scale is different, but you may learn something.”
“Norjin…?” Taghrai forced out.
Batu paused. Something in Taghrai’s voice made him look up. He noticed the change too late.
A knife glinted in Taghrai’s hand—small, ordinary, the sort used at table.
Then Taghrai lunged.
“Taghrai!”
Batu grunted, rose with a surge of strength, and threw Taghrai off him. Taghrai crashed into the chair behind him; it toppled.
An attendant peered in, then recoiled. Taghrai struck him aside and ran.
“Stop!”
Batu’s voice did not reach him.
Guards rushed past him in the opposite direction as Taghrai moved toward the exit.
No one stopped him. No one even looked at him.
He did not know what had happened. One moment he had been seated; the next, he was on the floor. A knife was in his hand, wet with blood. He let it fall.
Outside the great tent, his body kept moving. He searched for his horse without knowing why. He only knew he could not stay here.
I had done it. It was over. Already.
He had crossed a line that could not be forgiven. Before judgment ever came, it was already over.
He mounted and rode. No destination took shape. Staying was no longer an option.
The heart of the Jochid ulus slipped behind him.
