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Chapter Text

No Name Girl awoke under the eternal blue sky, bright sunlight stabbing through the gaps between her eyelashes.

Too bright. And it was too windy. And there was a distinct lack of pillows and carpets between her bare back and the scrubby grass. As a matter of fact, the only thing unchanged from when she’d gone to sleep was a certain absence of clothing.

She’d gone to sleep indoors --- yes, that was the right word; it had been a beautiful big solid ger with multiple layers of wall and real doors. What did the Turkmen in warmer Anatolia call the insides of their lightweight tents? she wondered hazily. “Inflaps ?”

No, no, come back, No Name Girl, she commanded herself. Something important happened. You need to focus and figure out what it is.

There had been a game. A vast, noisy one that went on forever. And a party of more or less the same sort.

A wedding?

Possibly her wedding?

Her head began to pound as loud as thunder. She couldn’t look too closely at that one. Not yet.

And she’d fallen asleep at some point inhaling the scents of incense and perfume. In a pile of warm, beautiful pillows and rugs. Silk and fine wool… and wolf skins…

The Yasa laws of Greater Mongol reserve wolf skins for the use of the Altan Urag, the Golden Family...

She let her head turn very slowly to the side. The light became less blinding. She opened her eyes just the merest crack.

The steppe was empty of any human soul, living or dead. But all around her lay the picked-over scraps of a great feast... and also the kind of random detritus people drop in the course of a hasty departure. Maybe someone had dropped something she could wear? But that would have to wait: There were still wolf skins nearby, but the original owners weren’t done with them yet.

She could see ten big gray wolves just in this random direction, nosing expertly through the food scraps. Formidable hunters, to be sure, but not too proud for a free meal when nobody who mattered was looking.

Had they noticed her? If so, it wasn’t obvious. Maybe they’d fill up on the acres of leftovers and go away.

Yeah.

Maybe.

She probably shouldn’t move for a while. They couldn’t see the heat she gave off, thank Tengri, but she couldn’t do much about her scent…

From behind her, an exhalation of nearby breath moistened her cheek. She stopped breathing. Some sniffing, some drooling… then jaws closing on her outer ear.

Chapter Text

The Black Bitey, Baiju Noyan’s Stygian Arab show-off stallion, was getting fractious. He wasn’t a horse that enjoyed being part of a formation or being restricted to a supply-wagon pace. With the merest flex of an ankle, Baiju signaled him to break off and head back to the idle herd. The Sweet Georgian Brown, Baiju’s practical mount and the herd’s lead mare, smelled them coming and ambled over. Tangut, Baiju’s second, also appeared, ready to help with the transition.

Baiju surveyed the herd critically. “Any sign of The Fork-Tongued Son of a Bitch?” The uncanny white Azerdeli was, in economic terms, the prize of the herd. Only Sultans could afford them; in fact, Baiju had acquired his from a Sultan he defeated. They were beautiful, intelligent, and blindingly fast. They were also excruciatingly uncomfortable to ride --- assuming one got that far. It was well known, albeit only to a few, that every Azerdeli ever born hated humans in general and self-important men most of all. The Fork-Tongued Son of a Bitch didn’t miss its old master a bit, but on the other hand, it held a special grudge against the Noyan for being temporarily possessed by a djinn powerful enough to bully it mercilessly.  As a result, Baiju began to wonder that his paranoid-peripheral vision hadn’t picked up the image of a skulking or lurking Azerdeli for a while.

Tangut shook his head. “Last I saw, he took off to follow the Agent’s wagon to the Kayis obasi.” He hated reminding the Noyan of an event that seemed to bother him, but those were the facts.

Instead of lashing out with a sword or dagger, though, Baiju only let out an inflectionless “Hm.”

Orang, the Dargas’ gofer who was helping escort the horses, piped up, “That horse sure did like her.”

Tangut pinched the bridge of his nose in chagrin. “I doubt the Kayis could even get near it,” he hurriedly took over the conversation. “It might catch up with us soon.”

“Made sure she knew about it, too,” said Orang almost under his breath, “before it was too late.”

Baiju froze.

Tangut froze.

The Sweet Georgian Brown let out a whicker that roughly translated as (Oh, for Tengri’s sake!) and, without waiting for instruction, bore the Noyan swiftly away.

Chapter Text

The Fork-Tongued Son of a Bitch had a true name: Summer Cloud Sultan. He knew it. His mother knew it. And he’d told it to his Burden, the human he’d decided to carry voluntarily.

His Burden’s name was Khenbish’s Nerguitani. It translated as “Nobody’s daughter, No Name Girl.” So technically she didn’t have a name. She’d explained to Summer Cloud Sultan that she and her parents were shamans, who were often given “nameless names” to hide them from evil spirits. He’d asked her if that didn’t cause problems for good spirits who came looking for them. She had a good laugh about that. Apparently, blessings didn’t go to the trouble to seek shamans out very often, which was only one of the reasons such people had to be forcibly drafted by the spirits. No one in their right mind would volunteer.

Still, it must have its rewards. For instance, he’d seen the young Mongolian woman change the weather a couple of times. He wished she would do that now. So far, the entire day had been given over to a soggy drizzle intent on making as much mud as possible out of the Yam road back to the Home Steppes. The desultory dripping didn’t quite drown out Nergui’s intermittent sniffles and stifled sobs. Was the weather matching her mood somehow?

(I don’t know everything about your kind,) he finally ventured, (but I would think you’d be happy now). Though Summer Cloud Sultan couldn’t speak human words aloud like his storied ancestor Eid Efendi, he could project them telepathically. (We’re not Baiju Noyan’s toys anymore. You exorcized that Djinn out of him so he’s marginally less monstrous. You died for your country --- without, I must add, taking any horses with you --- so they shouldn’t make you do it again. You were brought back to the same life, which doesn’t happen to everyone. And now you’re going home. On a truly remarkable horse. Yet here you are, leaking tears and snot into my mane.)

“I don’t know why I’m this way,” she admitted aloud, wiping her face with the back of a sleeve. “This isn’t me. At least, not the ‘me’ I know.”

That was welcome news to Summer Cloud Sultan; the Burden he’d undertaken to carry had been cheerful, friendly, and resilient, much more given to singing than sniveling. She still had the marvelously round, firm, cushiony seat that felt so nice on his back, though. Her riding was steadily improving too, although that wasn’t saying much; she’d never been on a horse before a moon or two ago.

“I’ll try some more energy exercises,” she resolved, “but I’ll wait till we stop.” For a wonder, she actually cared that some of the invisible things she did made him feel like his spine had turned into a giant centipede if he was too close to her. “Maybe I’m having some complications from the death-and-resurrection thing. I hope I don’t have to start eating human brains or anything.”

(Probably takes a lot of those to make a meal. Most of them are very small and some are missing entirely.)

When they pulled up at the way-station, the stablemaster paused his shoveling and let out a whistle. “Dang me!” he grinned appreciatively. “Where’d you get that beauty?”

(Anatolia,) the horse answered. (But there aren’t many left.)

The look on the latent Horse Listener’s face was priceless.

Chapter Text

“Nokhoi khor! ” Nergui called out politely at the door of the waystation reception ger. This was still a largely Muslim part of the Silk Road, so dogs might not be allowed inside, But the Yam network waystations were a Greater Mongol civil service operation, so then again they might.

Receiving no answer, she stepped over (not on) the threshold and found there was a dog inside, just no one to hold it. The Bankhar was of the short-haired variety found in warmer climates, all black, and medium-sized (meaning you couldn't quite ride it in a pinch if your horse got tired). It didn't seem too concerned about her, ambling over unhurriedly with a slow, relaxed tail-wag. She held out her paiza, the Imperial identification badge that entitled her to use government facilities, so the dog could sniff that instead of part of her body. Having recently found out about Dogmen the hard way, she’d resolved to start holding all unknown purported canines to a higher standard of etiquette.

The stableman had invited her to help herself to suutei tsai if no one was in, so she walked clockwise around the ger until she found the teapot, pausing only to poke the hanging milk-sack a few times with the provided stick. Mongolians always walked clockwise around gers . It made one mindful of Tengri. According to some acquaintances from points east, it kept the feng shui combed free of tangles. And, as a special bonus, it allowed an astounding number of people to share a surprisingly small space without bumping into each other.

She plunged the utility ladle (not to be confused with the ceremonial ladle) into the bottom of the pot to see what the surprise was. Surprises, as some children’s parents called them, could transform suutei tsai from a hot, creamy, salty restorative beverage into a meal in itself. Most often it would be millet or some other grain, toasted and cooked until tender with the tea leaves as a seasoning herb. But this time: jackpot! Dumplings.

Maybe it was time for the waystation staff to eat. She’d just take a couple…In her emotionally brittle state, the unexpected extra kindness hit her like ice water on a hot clay pot. She felt her eyes puddle up again.

“I guess Yesu isn’t back yet,” commented the stableman as he walked in a little later. “I’m Boldo, by the way.”

“Nergui,” she responded cordially. Only moments ago she’d been scrubbing the tear-tracks from her cheeks with the cuff of her official jacket in a desperate bid for presentability. Her mom had always drummed into her that she was an appallingly ugly crier. Now the world seemed like a better place altogether. Amazing what a dumpling and a dry seat in front of a warm fire could do.

“Oh!” Boldo realized. “Nergui. Agent Khenbish’s Nerguitani. You’ve got a couple messages! Gimme a sec.”

“Wow, I must be popular,” she quipped as Boldo rummaged in the writing chest.

“Yes, there was a pidge,” he said, holding out a tiny scroll suitable for attaching to a pigeon’s leg, “and this , ” trying in vain to seem less interested than he was as he handed over a messenger’s full-size scroll case covered in immaculate beige deer hide as soft as a baby’s behind. She decided she’d tell him what it said as long as she didn’t have to kill him afterward, and silently thanked Tengri that someone else had dealt with the pigeon. Birds . Still not part of her skill set.

The pidge was from Chagaanirvys Darga, her boss in the capital. “Received your request for medical leave. Sorry you’re not well, but WPP asks about you so don’t minge about. Get back here ASAP. We’ll take care of you.”

WPP? Oh. World Peace Palace. That’s right, I bet Tori wants Borte‘s pendant back. I wonder if the Khagan knew it was gone?

Nergui had only been in Kara Koram for a couple days, getting processed into the agency, when she met a dazzlingly dressed lady who introduced herself as “Tori” and needed help with some broken feathers on her ridiculously tall hat. Nergui, a former traveling country healer who always had a song in her heart and a sharp sewing needle hidden in her hair, had been glad to oblige. “Tori“ head turned out to be Empress Toregene, the Great Khan’s primary wife. What’s more, when Tori had learned about Nergui’s mission to Anatolia, she lent Nergui her late mother-in-law‘s favorite everyday pendant. The hope had been that such a visible reminder of Palace favor would discourage Baiju Noyan from killing the rookie Agent in one of his random fits of violent pique.

It worked… until it didn’t.

To be absolutely fair, it was within the realm of possibility that the Noyan hadn’t intended her death. He’d simply gotten carried away with trying to stop her from trying to save his life by marrying one of his least-respected enemies. When slandering her as a slut backfired (her teenage suitor had no experience himself but by damn he wanted some) Baiju reasoned that the Turkmen would never marry one of their favorite sons to a spy and weapons smuggler. He’d been right about that. He found out the hard way, and Nergui found out the even harder way, that they executed such undesirables on sight.

Then again, she’d been sent to stop Baiju from getting carried away so much. Before she arrived, it appeared that his boots only rarely touched the ground.

Great. So either he lost his cool, meaning I botched my mission, or I succeeded in cooling off his head and he had me killed on purpose.

She shook her head, trying to clear it.  These didn’t sound anything like her normal thoughts. As a rule, when life gave her horseshit, she dried it out and set it on fire. Perhaps she needed a distraction --- but look, there was one in her hand, in the form of that fancy-looking scroll.

Wow. The niceness of the scroll case was continued in the heavy ivory paper and meticulous, but not overly curlicued, calligraphy.

“To Khenbish’s Nerguitani,” she read aloud, “You will be honored to attend the Kashgar vs. Kabul buzkashi match as a guest of Chagatai Khan ---”

Boldo gasped. “Oh. My. Tengri. Are you kidding me?”

The Great Khan’s older brother Chagatai ruled the land she was traveling through. His Khanate had come with some ready-built cities, each of which could have offered him a palace full of seasoned back-stabbing courtiers, but he preferred the nomadic life. A populace made aware that the Khan could set up camp in any of its backyards the day after tomorrow was a populace that stayed on its toes. Chagatai had also overseen the building of the roads and way stations of the Yam rapid-communication network, thus becoming a living patron saint to all its employees.

That much Nergui knew. But -

“What’s buzkashi? ” she asked.

Boldo looked at her as if she must be as thick as two short planks over a long-drop latrine. “ Buzkashi! You know!   Kök Börü! Kupkari! Ulak tartysh! ”

The small crease between her brows persisted. Her flatly quizzical gaze was not washed by a wave of comprehension.

“Dead Goat Polo,” Boldo tried finally.

“OHhh. Right.” Some of her dad’s friends could go on and on about Dead Goat Polo matches they’d seen. Small wonder, when the matches themselves could go on for days. It was said that of all the physical pleasures he pursued --- and he pursued all of them --- Chagatai Khan loved sports the most, and Dead Goat Polo most of all.  “So this Kashgar vs. Kabul match ---”

“Is only the best one of the year! They’re bitter rivals. There’s enough money wagered to extend the Great Wall all the way to Bukhara. And guaranteed fatalities!”

“Report to the Girl Guards HQ, Almaliq, the day after the waxing half-moon ---”

“That’ll be the day after tomorrow. Easy, peasy, salwar kameezy. It’s not that far.”

Well, shoot, Nergui thought, it sounds like something to write home about, but I can’t actually go, can I? The Darga’s pidge said to get back to KK soonest. I’d planned to be all the way to Behbalik, maybe past there, the day after tomorrow. If I “minge about,” as she puts it, in Almaliq for even one extra day… and from what I’ve heard, one might not be enough…

“It says it’s from ‘Kafur al-Khadim, Court Eunuch, Journeyman Secretary,’” she said tentatively.

“Oh yeah, those guys do all the Khan’s official writing.”

“But there’s no Khan’s stamp at the bottom. So, at least following KK’s system, this wouldn’t have the force of an order.”

“You --- you're not thinking of refusing? ”

“Oh, no, not refusing, ” she reassured Boldo. Reputedly, of all the words in any of the languages of Greater Mongol, “no” was Chagatai’s least favorite. “Just… postponing, perhaps.”

Great. A perfectly well-meaning, out-of-the-blue invitation to a popular event gets me stuck between the musk-ox and the mire. So… how to wiggle out gracefully?

Nergui searched her memory for what she knew about eunuchs. They weren’t really a ‘thing’ in the Home Steppes. Human castration was either a regrettable accident or an act of summary revenge, not a career choice. Yet it seemed as if many of the royal courts to the east, south, and west had run on Eunuchs’ operating systems for centuries. Etiquette, she remembered. They’re very big on propriety.

She penned a respectful thank-you, settling on ‘Dear Secretary’ after discarding both ‘Sir’ and ‘Madam.’ Wishing sincerely but not too floridly that she could visit at another time. It all sounded wonderful but she was under orders, blah blah, couldn’t be helped. After some thought, she rummaged in her luggage and produced her only mementos of Anatolia that hadn’t been destroyed with her wagon, a set of beautifully carved wooden spoons she’d picked up on her hurried way out. As a regret-gift, they were the best she could do, but they were very nice and not necessarily easy to find around here.

That should do it. She hoped. After all, Chagatai had probably just instructed some small army of secretaries to invite any civil servants they discovered passing through. Maybe tens of people. Maybe hundreds. After all, who was she, a rookie spy from the greener parts of the Altai, one who was feeling particularly scruffy at the moment, to individually snag a Khan’s attention? Her parents and brothers had a certain measure of fame, but she was just Nobody’s daughter, No Name Girl.

Chapter Text

Contents of pigeon-borne messages between Great Khan Ogedei and his older but subordinate brother Chagatai Khan over the past week:

Hey Oggy,

You know that shamanic spy chick with the magical healing hoo-hah that you snuck past me into Anatolia a month or two ago? The one who was supposed to bang the sanity back into B-man. If she’s still alive can I borrow her?

Your loyal good sport of a brother,

Tai

 Dear Tai,

Really wish I could say yes. Unfortunately, the Agent in question was drowned by Turkmen shortly after completing her mission.

Sorry to disappoint,

Oggy

Dear Oggy,

Heard a rumor that the shamanic spy lady got a resurrection. On her way back can she give me one too? Every normal woman I bang just makes me crazier lately.

Tai

Dear Tai,

Perhaps you can visit her here in a few months if she agrees. She’s been through a lot and needs to be seen by experts here in KK before being assigned anywhere else. We don’t want to lose someone at her level to shaman’s madness too early by exposing her to extended unnecessary roughness. I intend to see to her recovery personally.

I’m sure you remember: When we lived with Dad, everything you borrowed from me came back stretched all out of shape. It was bad enough when it was just my sweaters.

Oggy

 Dear Oggy,

That’s not fair. I’ll be really careful.

Tai

 Tai!

NO.

(No signature, just the Khagan’s seal)

Chapter Text

Woodsmoke. Old leather and battle sweat with a trace of newer blood. Broad shoulders and rangy, hard-muscled frame decorated with scars. A curtain of blue-black hair falling straight and smooth as water. Long-fingered, sword-callused hands roaming over her as if exploring a new country…

Nergui awoke, focusing on the ceiling of the way-station guest ger while she let her heartbeat and breathing return to normal of their own accord.

Vai, vai, vai, as the Turkmen might say. Ain’t this some shit?

Was that why she was so off-balance? Had she gotten attached to her target despite herself? Was she lonely now that they’d parted, probably forever?

Don't tell me I actually miss that sick puppy....?

It has to be fallout from the resurrection. At least the biggest part does. Most people get more of a break between leaving this world and coming back to it. Plus they come back in a new body and, if they’re lucky, no memories. I didn’t have those luxuries. Stands to reason I feel ragged and my sleeping brain wanders everywhere.

After all, it had been vital to her mission that she concentrate on his --- well, “virtues” wouldn’t really be the word, would it? Because the threshold question was: are there enough redeeming qualities to be worth redeeming?

His quick and nimble mind. His hyper-awareness of everything around him. The rough, gratuitously messy manners he sometimes affected when he wanted to be underestimated; even that first night, when he led her to his tent by part of her hair wrapped around his fist, he’d held it with a casual looseness that seemed to say “Play along; let’s give ‘em what they expect to see.” His air of absolute confidence and command, even when sharpening a knife or studying a map.

On the battlefield he was incandescent. He seemed surrounded by a halo of flashing steel tinged by occasional showers of blood droplets.

And if he often seemed to go out of his way to embarrass her publicly or challenge her privately, it had been her assignment to investigate, analyze, and manipulate him. That’d bother most people, never mind a conscious apex predator like him.

So if --- and she insisted on “if” ---  she did miss him, it wasn’t completely unreasonable. It was all sand in the wind now. The crystally kind that glitters in the air but scratches four colors of hell out of any exposed skin. Let it fade with time. Better still, cover it up with some new memories.

That Dead Goat Polo game sounded diverting, she thought as she wrapped herself up and padded quietly out of the ger. Wish I could go.

Even in the solitude of her mind, a prudent shaman should always be careful what she wishes for.

Chapter Text

Her business attended to, Nergui continued walking clockwise around the waystation ger to get back to the entrance and so back to bed. She kept walking. And walking. Then she stopped and looked around suspiciously.

Granted, I’m tired as a camel’s toe after a five hour hump, but this ‘ckin’ ger Had A Door. Otherwise how did I get out?

She looked up. The sky didn’t look quite right. Like it had been cut into pieces and stitched back together a different way. What made it most noticeable was that whoever did it hadn’t been picky enough about matching the edges of the Milky Way at the seams.

Sure, I’ve got time for a game of silly buggers. What else have I got to do?

She hunkered down, watched the sky twitch intermittently, and waited.

“Assalamu alaikum, No Name Girl.”

There was a campfire, On a log across it sat a man all in white: turban, coat, robe, hair, whiskers, eyebrows, and a big smile full of sparkling straight teeth that practically glowed in the dark. He was Sheikh ibn-i Arabi of Andalucia, one of the greatest scholars and holiest men in an Islamic world that was having a particularly good century for scholars and holy men.

“Oh,” Nergui answered so coldly the Northern Lights briefly appeared in the unreal sky. “It’s you.”

The Sheikh hesitated, measuring her mien with his shining black eyes. The Khenbish’s Nerguitani he’d met only weeks ago had been cheerful, brave, generous, easygoing and very self-possessed, at least when anyone was looking. This one looked pale, travel-sore, sleep-deprived, and listless. On top of that, unless he missed his guess, she was moderately pissed of at him in particular for some specific reason.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her. “I thought we were friends.”

“So did I,” she answered (the green aurora rippled overhead again). “Right up until you told Hayme Hanim to drown me.” Hayme Hanim, the widow of Suleyman Shah, was acting Bey of the Kayi tribe in Anatolia. Between her and Baiju Noyan, whose life Nergui was trying to improvise some way to save at the time, they’d transformed Hayme’s youngest son Dundar (age seventeen, going on twelve in some respects) from being Nergui’s suitor to acting as her executioner.

“I convinced them not to behead you. Remember?” When she only stared at him with a distinctly underwhelmed expression, he continued: “Drowning is the easiest kind of death to reverse. Which I see someone was kind enough, knowledgeable enough, and quick enough to do for you. On the other hand, I’ve never seen anybody brought back after a beheading. Don’t think I’d want to, either. Ugh.”

“You could have told them to let me go and just never darken their door again. Or maybe put up a ransom for my freedom; everybody knows we Mongols supposedly carry our hearts in our purses. They’d have done anything you advised. You probably could have told them to make me a birthday cake and they would have done it.”

The dervish was already shaking his head: “I didn’t think I could get them to spare you. The tribe was roused up to a pitch only a death could satisfy. If I ran afoul of that their faith might have faltered… But look at it this way: Now that everyone saw you die, you could make a new start. Live a completely different life.”

“My bosses arranged for my resurrection. They know I’m alive. Anyway, I didn’t mind my life. And yes, I’m back now, but I feel like it really messed me up.”

“Messed you up how?” asked the Sheikh. “Just for the… furtherance of medical science, of course. There isn’t much literature about the complications of resurrection, other than Thomas of Judaea’s monograph on the persistence of stigmata.”

“Well,” Nergui relented, “It’s hard to describe precisely from the inside, but I’ll try.” Her investigative bent won out --- as the oh-so-clever Dervish had surely known it would , she grimaced inwardly --- and she swept her sulking grudge under the carpet for the time being. If her information could help other sufferers ( or, now here was an idea, if it reminded the Sheikh of a case that had a cure ), it was worth it. She’d never assume he was on her side again, but he was brilliant and good at putting people at their ease; there was no reason they couldn’t still have good talks.

“Ever since I came back,” she began, “I’ve been uneasy inside my skin. Like they put my soul back in the wrong body, or maybe put it in crooked. And everything’s just perceptibly.... off. Sometimes things look like rippled reflections of themselves. Sounds have echoes like in a cave, but sometimes the echoes come back as much as an hour later. Smells are too strong and don’t match their sources. Intense emotions keep splashing over me like buckets of cold water, with no warning, but they don’t feel like my emotions.”

The Sheikh leaned forward, furrowing his brow. “Why do you say the emotions don’t feel like they’re yours?”

“Well, for one thing, they’re emotions I didn’t used to have very often. I’m crying so much it even bothers the horse. It’s as though almost every day is the day I found out my dad died. For another thing, I can’t point at anything external and say ‘ This is why I feel this way.’ The worst thing that happened all day would be on the order of ‘I was singing while I rode and a bug flew into my mouth.’ Little ordinary things… You know,I’ve seen people get stuck halfway in or halfway out of a spirit possession; it always looks really unpleasant. I wonder if it’s anything like this.”

Ibn-i Arabi thoughtfully twirled a strand of beard. “Do you have the feeling that you’re not alone in your body?”

“Not specifically, no,” she realized. “Actually, I feel more alone in the world than I’ve ever been.” A sob and a sniffle suddenly flew out of her. “See? There it goes again,” she said disconsolately, embarrassed to cry in front of someone she respected but really didn’t trust.

Ibn-i Arabi had traveled widely in his life, all the way from his native Andalucia. He had seen girls and women who wore their tears like jewels, who wept with a quiet dignity that brought out the rescuer in everyone around them. Nergui didn’t appear to be one of those. Instead, her crying face reminded him of a naked mole-rat he’d found asleep in his water-cup one morning near Djibouti.

“Tell me more,” he said, taking care to mask his reaction.

“It’s as though I’m one of those big black crumbly rocks you get near volcanoes, and someone keeps hitting it and pieces keep falling off. Ever since I left my mom’s camp I’ve been alone more than not, and it never bothered me the way I know it does some people. It beat heck out of having someone around who constantly expressed her disappointment in me. I could always find something to learn more about. And anyway, when a shaman craves a conversation there are always plenty of invisible folk around. When I come into a new place and the local spirits find out I can hear them, they’re like surprised chickens having a fluster-cluck: ‘Get me this’ and ‘Tell living person X that.’ I’ll do them a few good turns if I have time but then I have to shut them out before I go berserk and ether-slap them all. Now they’re staying away, as if something about me is putting them off. I feel lonely. It’s new. And it sucks.”

“Tell me, Nergui: Have you given any more thought to converting to Islam? A near-death experience ----”

“A death experience,” she corrected him. She still wasn’t letting him off that easily.

“All right, dying --- or even the immediate prospect of dying --- causes many people to rethink their belief systems. And an organized support community ---”

And there it is, like a big fish flopped in the middle of the table. “Nope; thanks be to Tengri, I’m still pagan through and through,” she said though a breezy smile that didn’t come easily.

Then a sudden thought struck her. She leaned forward, fixing him with her familiar space-flattening neutral amber stare. “Tell me , Sheikh: Am I still the only non-Muslim you ever met that didn’t immediately convert? Does that bother you? I mean, come on, you must have converted hundreds of people ----”

“Thousands.”

“Thousands, oh. Well then. So what’s one stubborn heathen? Not even a fly-size sip out of a whole pitcher of sharbat. And on top of that, I’m female, which --- “

“Affects your value in the eyes of Allah not one bit. I can show you all the places in the Quran where the Prophet intended men and women to respect one another equally.”

“Really? Wow.” Nergui nodded a few times, surprised and impressed. Then: “So-o-o… how come nobody does it then?”

Ibn-i Arabi shrugged. “Leftover regional customs from pre-Islamic days. If you think women in these countries should be treated better than they are now, you should have seen it before.”

“When we take over, that crap ends. You’ll see.”

“You think so?”

“Why not? In Mongolia, women are full-fledged people. In public and all.”

“Among the Sufis, the dervishes like myself, women are accepted. Some have even risen very high and taught famous men. ”

“Too bad there’s not a whole country full of you guys then,” she sighed regretfully. “There isn’t, is there?” He shook his head. “Even if so, I still don’t get the point of separating humans from all the rest of nature, then separating the ‘lower’ aspects of the human from the ‘higher.’ All the Book people do that. We acknowledge that part of us yearns for spirituality, part is caught up in the material, and part wants to destroy everything and start over. And by ‘us’ we mean humans, animals, plants, rocks and invisible things. Because everything under the Eternal Blue Sky has a soul, so we have to be thoughtful about how we treat it.”

The envisioned sky was turning pale. A raucous clamor flapped overhead.

“Looks like the geese are migrating,” the Sheikh observed.

“I take comfort in watching things that know what they’re doing and where they’re going,” Nergui sighed, “especially at times when I don’t.

“Listen: they’re honking. Know why?

“Because they love Tengri.”

Chapter Text

It was daylight when Nergui strode, saddlebag over her shoulder, out to the waystation stable. Summer Cloud Sultan was bored and cranky. Nergui surmised he hadn’t slept well. An apple saved from her breakfast mollified him. She pretended it had been for him all along.

The sun was up. The geese were gone,but the high cirrus clouds made the sky look strewn with white feathers. She noticed she was feeling less shitty. Almost, dare one venture… not shitty.

Ibn-i Arabi’s parting words had been benevolent… she thought. There were cures for what ailed her, but she would not be allowed to use them and shouldn’t try. After a while she was due for a blessing; he only worried that she’d be “too clever to recognize it.” Wise man, or wise guy?

After sidling past a couple of slow caravans, she let the horse have his head on the joyfully empty road. The snowdrop-colored Azerdeli, not built for the simple 2/4 or 4/4 gait rhythms of most normal horses, was happy to shift through 5/8 and 7/8 rhythms of the Azeri, Turkish, and Armenian traditions all the way up to a thundering 9/8 karshilama that would have rattled the teeth right out of Nergui’s head if she hadn’t made a quick study of learning songs in those rhythms and moving accordingly.

Eventually, with the sun descending, they slowed down to take a breather. Nergui patted her horse’s neck affectionately and sang one of the strange songs she seemed to pick up in her sleep.

“...Out on the Silk Road midafternoon

I see sweet Altan in the daytime moon

Altan; Almaty Altan.”

(Bring it home), Summer Cloud Sultan urged. Nergui obligingly belted out to the sky:

“Well I been from Konya to Kara Korum

“Kirin Oula to Kathmandu

“I've ridden ev’ry kind of beast that's ever been born

“Snuck down the goat-tracks when places got war-torn

“And if you give me:

“Beads,

“Hides, and

“Gold,

“Tell me what you need sold

“I’ll be willin’

“To be movin’...”

But then she straightened in her seat and craned her neck forward. “Oh no no no no no…” she protested, “What the Erlik’s going on up there?”

(Don’t ask me), the horse declined. (You’re the predator with both eyes on the front of your head).

“There’s some kind of kerfuffle up by the next waystation. People with weapons milling around in the road.”

A few minutes later. “Well, it’s at least partly official. It’s some of those famous Girl Guards of Chagatai Khan’s. Twigdolls. Like, who with anything better to do would consent to run around this kind of back-of-beyond terrain in a few hand-span scraps of fur-trimmed chainmail?” She snorted derisively. The horse did the same.

Another few minutes of silent pondering, Then: “My Imp paiza shows I’m a national civil servant. Eventually it should convince them to let me get on home where my boss says I have to be. That is, unless it’s one of those kinds of misery that really loves company…” she trailed off.

Two hundred more heartbeats, and then she seemed to reach a decision. “You know what?” she challenged.

(“Camel… butt?”) the horse hazarded.

“Not this time, but good guess. You’ll be fluent in my bizarre patois in no time.” She scratched between his ears with pride. “But how would you feel about a little cross-country run? I don’t know if you’re comfortable in terrain like this.”

(I’ll give it a try. If I don’t like it, though, we’ll have to go through it extra fast.)

“All right then eeny, meeny, miney… to the right!” Nergui clung to the saddle and reins with pure chi energy, so that she could loosen her muscles without falling off. At first they kept to a moderate 7/8 run so as not to look as if they were fleeing, just… going somewhere important off the main road.

(The people at the waystation are mounting up.)

“Eh. It might have just been time for them to go. If they clear out we’ll circle back to the road.”

(And... they’re coming after us. Those mostly-naked women ride a lot better than you do)

Nergui sighed. “ Everybody rides better than I do. I had a strict taboo that only just got lifted. Other than posing for that picture on Noyan’s Black Bitey, you’re the first horse I ever rode. I will work on improving, I promise.” She knew she should probably go back and see what they wanted, like the responsible civil servant she was. Twigdolls or not, the Girl Guards were Chagatai’s royal militia. Chances were she’d have a mission that took her through here again. Making friends, or at least not making enemies, would be prudent.

But something about this land, this air… made her feel reckless.

“Given everything, can you still outrun them?”

Summer Cloud Sultan let out a disdainful snort. (Does Sultan Ale-ad-din rub his magic lamp?) A brief spate of karshilama gallop and… suddenly Nergui found herself believing a horse could fly.

“Oh… my… Tengri!” she shouted, her words snatched away by the wind. “Bless your sire and dam! Are your feet even touching the ground?” It felt like sledding through fresh snow on an undulating velvet cushion. Exhilarating. Even a little… provocative.

(Does a one-legged duck swim in circles? You’re finally experiencing the speed we Azerdeli were intended to run; that’s the difference.)

“Wow! I could get used to this. What about the pursuit?”

(Long gone. Shall I slow back down so you can look for a campsite?)

She patted the side of his neck. “Eventually, I guess.”

Chapter Text

Nergui awoke at sunup after sleeping rough. After making sure no snakes or other irritable creatures had cuddled up to share her warmth in the night, she sat up, took a sip of water, then a sip of airag to banish any noxious miasmas absorbed by the water. As she scrubbed her teeth, she looked around with interest.

Nothing but trackless steppe surrounded her. She recognized no landmarks. She was well off the edge of all her internal maps. She might as well be somewhere outside Fort Bhumfuq in Egypt, except she’d heard that was a lot sandier. She only had an inkling of where she was, where the road was, and where KK was because she’d kept her eyes open long enough to check the stars the night before.

Nor was there any sign of life, other than a family of hares that started from a thicket when Summer Cloud Sultan leaned down to browse on the leaves. She reached for her bow, then decided she hadn’t been quick enough.

“If we go that direction, we should come across the road again right before it crosses into Ogedei’s land,” she explained to the horse after brushing him off, checking his hooves, and situating the saddle and bridle. “Up for another run, my friend?”

(Does the bird who picks flies off your back in the morning shit them back out on you in the afternoon?)

“Uhhh… do I take that as a yes?”

Nergui’s only regret was that at the Azerdeli’s optimal speed --- which was very, very fast --- her eyes watered so much that it was hard to really take in the scenery. She got a blurry impression of a few small camps dotting the middle distance here and there, but no signs of roads or towns. Once they shot right through the middle of a loose herd of cattle, but were far past them before even the widest-awake could utter a moo of protest. Their dust cloud didn’t even begin rising for about fifty yards behind them.

(I smell apples.) Summer Cloud Sultan’s thought-voice was laden with portent. Well, of course it was. Anything remotely horse-shaped was fond of apples.

“Let’s go find them.”

They were more bushes than trees, and the apples were tiny and yellow, but juicy and refreshing. Nergui ate a cautious few and put some in her bag for later as the beautiful horse had his fill.

Wow, this is my second day in a row of no crying. Maybe I’m getting back to normal.

An hour or two after resuming their journey, an odd little rectangular structure hove into view. A person’s head was visible through a hole in the middle. Nergui had heard about these but never seen one: a portable prison called a “jail-in-the-box.” Originally a Chinese invention, it was a convenient way to imprison criminals where towns were few and far between. A prisoner would be locked into a box with a head-sized hole. For the duration of the sentence, it was the responsibility of the prisoner’s family, friends, and other well-wishers to supply food and water. Its location was at the discretion of the judge; boxes for those who “really just needed to learn a lesson” were situated within sight of their clans’ camps or beside a major road, while those who really got on the judge’s wrong side were deposited in the back of beyond and their location was not publicized.

Nergui slowed her mount and looked around. The scenery was pleasant and the box got the shade of a tree for part of the day, but she couldn’t see any human structures nearby.

Pretty place to die, the thought came unbidden, making her slightly nauseous.

“Let’s go see,” she said brusquely.

(Are you sure?)

“Yes,” though really she wasn’t.

As they approached within shouting distance, the prisoner called out. “Oh my Tengri! Nergui! Is that you?”

Nergui was aghast. The voice was familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

“It’s me, Tsolmaa? From Medicine Needles class? In Xingqing?”

“Tsolmaa?” A picture crossed Nergui’s mind of a perky, cheerful fourteen-year-old from the shores of Lake Uvs who wanted to become a midwife. As two of only a handful of Mongol students passive-aggressively resented by the Western Xia locals, they’d been bound to bond.

Nergui remembered Tsolmaa as a sweet, earnest, but seldom-focused goofball who might have done better if she’d come a year or two later, or found a stretch-to-fit apprenticeship instead of a keep-up-or-drop-dead formal classroom. But a criminal ? Surely not? Whose bad side could she have well-meaningly blundered onto?

“Tsolmaa, what in all of Erlik’s hells?” Nergui started in before Summer Cloud Sultan had even come to a full stop. Two teenage classmates, and now one was riding around on an Azerdeli and the other was locked in a jail-in-the-box! Well, so much for the prospect of a whole day without crying.

“Long story,” Tsolmaa sighed. Then she started giggling in spite of herself. “Nergui, don’t start crying! You look like one of the lake monsters from Grandma’s scary stories.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” Nergui jibed, sniffling. This was weird, but as a shaman Nergui was used to weird. Weird things happened to her every day. Weird was her normal. But just happening to meet an old friend while taking a shortcut through such unfamiliar territory?

Suppressing suspicions that refused to take any coherent shape, Nergui rummaged in her bag. “Have some water and airag… and here are some fresh apples… and saddle jerky… and some firestriker cheese, but I wouldn’t advise trying to burn your way out of there.” Firestriker cheese, a Greater Mongol military staple, might just have been the most durable dairy product in the world. There were said to be curds a hundred years old that were still just as edible as the day they were made… which, taking each of the words at its face value and reading nothing more into it, was probably true. Its properties had been discovered by someone who tried slicing one apart with a steel saw after wrecking the edge of his dagger on it. Sparks had flown everywhere and burnt down his tent, but soon Mongols everywhere knew they would never have to buy a piece of flint again.

Nergui though she heard hoofbeats, but too far off in the distance to worry much about. But Tsolmaa suddenly grimaced in consternation. “Sorry, Nergui,” she blurted out, blushing and dropping her eyes.

Nergui barked an incredulous laugh. “For what?” Honestly, if this is about one of my hair ornaments she borrowed back then -

“Yoink! ” said a powerful male voice. Nergui tried to gasp as she was hauled into the air by the back of her jacket collar, but the enormous fist had gathered so much of the material that she couldn’t breathe until she was effortlessly plopped down on a horse’s saddle, a thick forearm wrapped around her ribcage with another giant hand landing negligently (but not accidentally, she suspected) on her opposite breast with the horse’s reins looped around the pinky finger, and the collar was finally released to slacken.

“Thank you, Tsolmaa, here’s the key,” he said with an audible grin, tossing the object with unerring accuracy. “And a little extra just for you,” he continued, flinging a small, jingling deer-hide purse after it as they continued to gallop away.

“Now: Greetings, Khenbish’s Nerguitani,” the voice went on with good-natured irony. “I’m Chagatai Khan. And you, by ancient right of capture, are the newest Mrs. Chagatai Khan.”

Chapter Text

“No Name Girl. I can’t have you wandering around without a name,” Chagatai Khan declared. “I’ll call you… let’s see…” Absent-mindedly he switched the reins to his other hand and put the first one back. Exactly where it had been. “Little Rabbit!” he exclaimed at last. “Because you were so hard to catch, but now you’re so-o-o soft to hold.”

When Nergui remained silent, Chagatai continued: “I rename a lot of my wives. Makes their names easier to remember. Sometimes easier to pronounce, too.”

“So how many other Mrs. Chagatais are there?” Nergui asked.

“Oh, four, let’s see… five hundred... Who can keep track? But as long as I remember all the faces, names, and birthdays, I don’t feel like it’s too many.”

Way to make me feel special on my wedding day, she thought. But on the other hand, if I don’t like him, my turn with him should only come up every year or two.

She sighed and leaned her head against what felt like the lower end of his sternum. He was warm and smelled good. Mostly rich black earth and air-after-lightning, with an elusive hint of wild fruit trees. Ogedei smelled nice too, in a different way. Maybe it’s one more of Tengri’s special gifts to the Borjigins.

“Hey.” His finger and thumb unerringly found her nipple through three layers of clothing and gave it a surprisingly gentle squeeze. “Still with me? Did you faint? Some of them do.”

“Nope. Still here.”

"Aren’t you going to squirm and scream and try to escape?"

"Meh. Probably not. Why? Do you need me to? I’m not familiar with bridenapping protocol." Because, for one thing, it isn’t supposed to happen anymore...

“You’re not being sneaky, are you? I’ve never been much for sneaking. First you turned down my invitation. Instead you sent me spoons! I should spank you with those spoons.” He didn’t sound angry, just bemused. “Then my Girl Guards were supposed to bring you in all friendly-like, and you ran them all over half the Khanate on that horse of yours.”

“I’m sorry. I just misread things. I wanted to accept the invitation, but I had orders from my Darga to get back to KK immediately, something about the Palace. Then when the Girl Guards chased me, I thought they were stopping everybody on the road for something that had nothing to do with me, but would still slow me down and ruffle all kinds of Agency feathers. I never imagined that you would take this kind of interest in me personally.”

His thumb on her nipple made thoughtful little circles. “ You personally , Little Rabbit, brought my old friend B-Man back from the bottomless ichor-pits of a Hell spawned inside his head. Everyone expected one or both of you to end up dead, but somehow you both walked away. Why wouldn’t I be interested? And if I’d known you came with that horse, I’d have picked you up back in Anatolia, even if I had to miss a playoff game. Don’t worry about the horse, by the way. I sent a crew to catch it.”

“Oh, may Tengri help them with that…. Forgive me, Khan, but The Fork-Tongued Son of a Bitch” --- here she used the Mongol-style description rather than the secret true name --- “really isn’t a normal horse. I’m sure your crew has excellent skills, but in the unlikely event they can’t catch him, he might follow me by himself anyway.” Maybe. Or not. She really had no idea. “But would you tell me about your horse, Khan?” She assumed the behemoth beneath them was a horse because a musk-ox would have had horns. “How did it sound so far away when it came so close to me? Some kind of spell?”

Chagatai laughed like a man who could always make as much noise as he wanted to. “Not everything is woo-woo, young shaman,” he said. “You must have seen horses with shoes in the West? The Giant Shaggy Roan has learned to run in special slippers that muffle the sound. Horses don’t like losing the feel of the ground, so they have to be trained to get used to it. This one is part of my effort to bring back the old Aranjagaan breed. The originals were said to be half-divine. Ours do seem to get smarter and braver with every generation.”

“I bet a whole troop of those surprise the shit out of the enemy.”

"That they do, Little Rabbit, that they do.... I just can’t get over it: You still don’t seem as upset as you might be. Does your shamanic training make you especially serene?"

"No, but my civil-service experience tells me when I’m in way over my pay-grade. As an Imp --- an Imperial agent --- I can risk a minor beef with local law enforcement like yesterday. That kind of copper-ante stuff happens all the time. But arguing with Khans? Forget about it. If my bosses get mad now, they can take it up with whomever.”

“I asked little Oggy first, of course. Pidged the Palace a few days ago.”

So Great Khan Ogedei had just tossed her to his rough-and-tumble brother like a doggie treat, and this was how she found out? He’d acted so considerate toward her before. Perhaps she’d lost all value now that she was Unsealed? That utterly-deserted-by-everyone feeling closed in on Nergui again. “Ah. Well, then,” was all her suddenly-dry mouth would say.

Chagatai forced his heartbeat and breathing to remain steady while he waited for her next question. When none was forthcoming, he relaxed. Bughra’s blue bollocks, he concluded, she really is young… “And you won’t even lecture me about bridenapping being illegal under the Yasa?” He changed the subject, not giving her time to start wondering about anything.

“You mean, as mandated by your father, Genghis the Great and Wise, may he ride forever in the sky? Because of what happened to your mother the year before your brother Jochi was born? Why would I, when you already know?”

“Well… for me, the Yasa is more a set of guidelines, really.”

Guidelines with a lot of death penalties for the rest of us, she thought but didn’t say.

“I’ve heard there isn’t a true sentence in any language that begins ‘Chagatai the Inevitable would never.’”

Growing up as a Sealed One, she’d been discouraged from thinking about the male of the species any more than was necessary to avoid bumping into them. As a result, she’d never envisioned her wedding day. However this one turned out, she wouldn’t be plagued by pesky comparisons. And the second most powerful man on the continent probably was a pretty good catch for a country doctor and rookie intelligence agent.

Maybe the Khagan meant him to be my doggie treat. Accurate or not, thinking of it that way makes me feel a lot better. I can also stop dreading the thought of my mom will picking out a husband for me, she reflected.

So many adventure stories ended with weddings.

Looked at another way, when you got to the wedding, it meant the adventure was over.

She’d be surprised, though, if life with Chagatai and his multitude of co-wives turned out to be dull.

“Pardon me, Khan,” she humbly inquired, “Would you like me to hold onto that scroll-case for you?”

“Scroll-case?”

“The one in your belt. It keeps poking me under the shoulder-blade.” Ow. I could swear it’s gotten bigger and lumpier since the ride started.

Chagatai leaned down until his whiskers brushed Nergui’s ear and she could hear the rakish grin in his voice. “That’s no scroll case, little one, but you’re welcome to hold onto it anyway.”  

Chapter Text

“Cha-ga-tai! Cha-ga-tai!” people started shouting as the enormous horse walked out of a narrow canyon into a vast basin of what might have been grass before the arrival of all the horses, yaks, sheep, goats, camels, dogs, wagons, tents, stalls, and more people than Nergui had ever seen (or hoped to see) in one place.

Nergui, who had been almost dozing off in the quiet canyon, felt muscles move against her back as her giant captor waved to the adoring crowd. People surged toward them, holding forth in a dozen different languages.

“Cha-ga-tai! Cha-ga-tai! ” More and more people heard and joined the chant. The people around them pressed in, trying to touch or kiss the hemline of the Khan’s robe. Nergui, recoiling from an unknown tongue sliming across her calf above her boot, drew her knees up against her chest. Besides putting her feet out of reach of (judging by the smell that several conflicting incense fugs couldn’t quite overpower) the Great Unwashed, it might also hide the Khan’s other hand which had been clamped, not painfully but quite firmly, over her breast for the entire ride.

“You all right, Little Rabbit?” he asked, noticing her sudden full-body clench.

“Could I possibly ask you to move your hand?” she wheedled without much hope.

“Of course! How should I move it: up and down or back and forth?” She let her head fall limply back against him as he guffawed heartily. Maybe he marries new wives when it’s less trouble than learning new jokes.

Suddenly the press of the crowd around them subsided. They were preceded, followed, and surrounded by spear-wielding Girl Guards holding the over-eager admirers back. Although they were dressed in the iconic sparse scraps of chainmail and fur, the mostly-male throng was giving way for them. Storytellers always described the Girl Guards as nubile, doe-eyed specimens, but these were apparent exceptions. The leaders were graying, scarred, and clearly not in the mood for any nonsense. Some of the bigger troops looked capable of sucker-punching a water buffalo. The minority of coltish striplings were scattered among their scarier sisters, practicing their glares and scowls.

A skinny boy of about twelve hopped and waved just outside the circle of spear-points, appearing to focus on Nergui rather than Chagatai. “Goose Girl! Hey, look, it’s Goose Girl!” he shrilled. Her brows came together for a moment, searching for anything that resembled meaning. Finding none, she treated her apparently mistaken young admirer to an elaborate shrug as they went past.

“CHA-GA-TAI! CHA-GA-TAI!”

There didn’t seem to be anyone in the basin that wasn’t chanting as Chagatai steered the horse toward a shallow upward-sloping pitch leading to one end of a natural rock terrace jutting out from a sheer cliff. An enormous, luxurious ger stood there on a head-high wheeled platform. Thirty horses were tied up to one hitch-line, twenty yaks to another. People in court clothing, military armor, well-kept work clothes, and Girl Guard outfits bustled everywhere. Smoke was already rising from cook-fires indoors and out.

“I’ve seen World Peace Palace. It’s very nice,” the Khan said into Nergui’s ear, pitching his voice to be heard over the mind-numbing din. “But this is more… me. If the weather’s bad, I just move the capital to where it’s better.”

Reaching the front of the huge ger, Chagatai dismounted and held his hands out for the crowd, whose chant dissolved into a wordless roar from tens of thousands of throats. He plucked Nergui out of the saddle, his hands nearly encircling her waist, and held her up to his eye level. "Here we are, Little Rabbit. Give your Big Man some jaggery," he prompted affably.

Nergui had been contemplating how to medically describe the intoxication-like effects of prolonged immersion in very loud noise. "Some… what?" she surrendered, baffled.

He looked more closely into her eyes and decided: "Ah - you’re gone, aren’t you? We’ll soon have you back with us so you can try some jaggery. It’s something sweet, my girl of the lonesome Home Steppes, something very sweet." Still holding her off the ground, he gave her a deep soul kiss that felt like it thoroughly rinsed out the inside of her skull.

When he lowered her back to the ground she kept a grip on his wrists in case her legs wouldn’t hold her and got her first good look at him. Shaggy and craggy, but in a good way, she decided .  On him, the striking red-gold-black hair of the Borjigins was thick, wavy, and lightly frosted with silver; it blazed in the slanting late-afternoon light. The large bones of his face looked like they could take a battering, and that they had on several occasions. A blade scar ran diagonally through one of the heavy eyebrows. His hair was collar-length and his beard about three inches long and neither looked recently trimmed, but on him it worked to have the ends curl this way and that. His thundercloud-gray eyes were presently good-humored and indulgent, but something about the lines around them hinted at a flat-and-merciless option that was always within reach.

“Where’s Red Panda?” he called over his shoulder, looking around.

“Here, Tai-denka, ” said a voice at his side.

Chagatai shook his head. “How do you always do that? This is Little Rabbit, the new wife. I bridenapped her several hours ago. Now she looks like she’s been ridden hard and put away wet, and I’m not even planning to do that until after the game. Set her up with a dress and a ring and all that; you know the drill. Thanks, dear; that’s my Mrs. Congeniality!”

Nergui wasn’t tall even for a Mongolian, but Red Panda was a full head shorter and quite streamlined. Red Panda bowed, so Nergui bowed back and close to the same way as she could manage. Nergui suppressed the scandalized urge to demand “How the hell old are you?” and instead offered, “I also go by ‘Nergui.’”

“This one is pleased to meet you, Nergui-san. This one also goes by ‘Retsuko’. Welcome to the Wives of Chagatai. Please come in. Would you like tea?” Her voice was like delicate silver chimes rung by a playful breeze.

Actually, what I’d really like is half a bottle of vodka, but ---. “I’d love some, thank you very much.” The inside of the enormous tent was sumptuous with embroidered hanging partitions and carved, lacquered fittings. Red Panda filled and proffered what seemed to Nergui a laughably small cup; certainly too small to need holding in both hands. Nergui was so thirsty she plucked it away with a grateful smile and knocked it back before fully noticing how much steam was coming out. The liquid wasn’t just drinking-hot; it was scalding! Blistering! Was this some kind of cruel new-wife hazing? In acute pain but determined to do Mongolia proud, she compressed her scream into a growl and wrestled the growl, two falls out of three, into a prolonged throat-clearing.

“Whoops! Too late! I see she got you,” said another voice from the doorway. Not only the accent, but the depth of apathy behind the concerned-sounding words identified the speaker as a Khongi --- one of the legendary consorts from Khongirad, trained from birth to please royalty or, if unusually imperfect, at least nobility. “‘Little Rabbit.’ Hm. Not what I pictured. But I suppose having a magical healing hoo-ha makes up for a lot.”

Oh, go bite a pinecone , Nergui felt like saying, but was still panting to soothe her scorched palate. She’d met a retired Khongi back at Dower House Five. They didn’t get more sympathetic with age.

“There you are!” burst in a bald, beardless man in an dizzyingly patterned brocade robe. “Is that the bride? Why is she still covered with road dust? You can give her the Nihon Tea Torture later. Right now she needs hot water on the outside of her body. I can’t say this enough: first you bathe them, then you bring them. The tub’s all ready out back. Scoot! Scoot!”

“Yes, Kafur- sama , right away.” Red Panda snapped to attention. “Blue Heron- san, would it be all right if I asked you to measure her first? Then I can send for the ring and the dress while she soaks.”

The hairless man was shouting again. “Chang-er? Chang-er! Is the ink on that paperwork dry yet?”

“Paperwork. Pfui,” the Khongi sneered under her breath.

“I heard that, Blue Heron,” Kafur snapped. “One day you stubborn Mongols will learn: if it wasn’t written down, it didn’t happen! If, in a few scant centuries, people know nothing about your Empire except what they imagine or what your enemies wrote down, it’ll be no fault of mine.” And he bustled away.

“Oh, who listens to someone who cut his junk off on purpose?” Blue Heron produced a ball of string and motioned to Nergui, “All right, off with it. Everything off.” A chilly draft presented itself as Blue Heron measured Nergui’s every bodily dimension, including her ring finger. Then Red Panda presented her with a towel and led her away.

The air out behind the ger was cooling with the approaching sunset. The bathwater was still a bit too hot, but Nergui drew the heat through her body, drawing on the affinity with copper she’d developed while earning her set of copper shaman’s mirrors. As long as a temperature difference wasn’t as extreme and surprising as the tea had been, she could manage. The water had fragrant oils and bubbly soap. “I’ll wash your hair so we can get done faster,” Red Panda offered.

“You really are nice,” Nergui’s voice broke a little. Any little kindness after a long difficult time always got to her.

“It’s because I come from Nihon, where the sun rises, out past the Eastern Sea,” she explained. “It’s the most well-mannered nation on earth.”

“Mmm, sounds fantastic.”

“Everyone there is nice all the time.”

“Wow.” Nergui relaxed under the bubbles and lost herself in the view. Between the cliff wall and the ger wall, a narrow but breathtaking vista of meadows and hills and snowy peaks in the distance.

“Because if they’re not,” Red Panda continued in the same soft, sweet voice, “we cut their who-o-ole family’s heads off.”

“Mmm… wait… what?”

Chapter Text

“Who’s that?” Nergui asked, gesturing at a nervous-looking young woman sitting across the vanity table from her. Through the hole in the partition, she could see that the vaguely familiar stranger sat in a connecting room very much like the one they were in.

Red Panda smiled and leaned in. Someone who looked exactly like Red Panda did the same thing in the other room.  Just as Nergui caught on, she and her counterpart both nodding and smiling gratefully, Blue Heron broke in:

“It’s you, Taiga bunny. That’s a mirror.”

I’d already clued New Girl in. In a way that let her save face, you condescending pig-snout, Red Panda thought as her smile never wavered.

“Wow,” Nergui marveled, ignoring the slight. “I’ve never seen a reflection this bright and flat. Gods, do I really look like such a Bankhar’s breakfast?” Was her skin really so weathered? Her hair so unruly? Her eyebrows so caterpillar-like?

“That’s because it’s HD,” Blue Heron curled her lip. “It takes some getting used to.”

“‘HD’?”

“Han Dynasty. It’s made of polished glass backed with speculum alloy. Lets you see everything, which includes every little flaw.”

“I’ll say. I’m used to looking in water, or the side of a blade, or a smooth piece of stone.” Not her shamanic mirrors; you never knew what would look back at you from one of those things.

“All we Khongirad consorts train with HD mirrors,” Blue Heron said loftily, “but this is one of the only nomad camps in Greater Mongol that has one. They don’t travel well at all. They’re very breakable, and if you do break one it brings seven years of bad luck.”

“Gazar Eej! Sounds like way more trouble than it’s worth.” She wondered if she could put a spell on a more durable reflector to crank up its performance. Then again, she’d never worried much about her appearance before and wasn’t overly keen to start now.

“Welcome to harem life, feral child. In the name of beauty, everything is worth the trouble.”

“Let’s get you ready for the wedding, shall we?” Red Panda twinkled, seeing the first penumbra of serious doubt pass across Nergui’s amber eyes.

“We’ll see what, if anything, we can do with that face and hair,” Blue Heron said in a voice of no hope whatsoever. “Show her... the instruments .”

Red Panda whisked the cover off a tray, exposing a variety of scary-looking metal tools of indeterminate purpose as well as pigments in powder, stick, and liquid form. She could sense that Nergui seriously wanted to run for it and Blue Heron seriously wanted to see Nergui dragged back in, struggling and humiliated, by the Girl Guards.

Not on my watch, bitches, she thought.

“This is all new for you, Little Rabbit, but this part is actually sort of fun,” was what she said out loud. “I’ll send for some drinks so we can all relax.”

“Not more tea,” Blue Heron chimed in. “Nihonji might be nice people, but their ideas about tea are just weird. No milk, no salt, no millet or dumplings or anything. Just something to make it slightly light green or slightly light brown. Then to hide the fact that it has no flavor they heat it up to the temperature of a branding iron.”

“Ah-hee-hee-hee,” Red Panda giggled cutely, but with just a barely-perceptible harmonic of strain. That monologue gets more amusing every time I hear it… YOU think. “No, I was thinking we should sample the soma. Make sure it’s all right for the banquet. That would be more… relaxing.”

“Well, aren’t you the hostess with the mostest?” Blue Heron commented with enough irony to attract magnets.

“And aren’t you just as sweet as moles’ asses?” Red Panda gushed.

“It’s pronounced ‘molasses,’ silly.”

I know what I said. Skank.

“Soma? What is that?” Nergui interrupted, seeming not to notice the crossfire. “Will it compromise my focus and perception of reality in any way?”

“That is… kind of what it’s for,” Red Panda explained gently.

“Perfect. Bring it,” Nergui instructed, finally smiling again.

Twenty minutes later all three women were smiling and no one had said anything for a while.

Then Kafur bustled in, with Chang-er swept along in his slipstream. “Isn’t she even dressed yet? What have you been doing?”

“Our very best,” Red Panda beamed while thinking FIne until you got here, you red-assed onsen monkey.

“And who told you to use beeswax candle stubs around the mirror?”

“It’s our usual lighting for wedding make-up.”

“Beeswax is for daylight special occasions, This is a torchlight wedding! Tallow replicates the dark red smokey glow. Chang-er, go get tallow stubs and change them out.”

As the young eunuch left, two Girl Guards came in. One was Tsolmaa, who’d been the bait in the Khan’s trap.

“Hi, Nergui,” Tsolmaa greeted her nervously. “I hope you’re not mad at me. Are you? Mad at me?”

“Oh, no,” Nergui assured her somewhat dreamily, taking another sip from a cup made out of some kind of pottery that glittered. “I’m at peace with the whole universe.”

The other Girl Guard gave a hard shove to Nergui’s shoulder, causing the kohl Red Panda was applying to Nergui’s eyelid to streak across her face. “I owe you an ass-kicking,” the newcomer announced accusingly.

Not less of one than I owe you, fitness wench, Red Panda thought.

Nergui blinked slowly, like a manul taking a break between naps. Convinced that she’d never met this person before in her life, she settled on “Tell me more.”

“I got demoted because I couldn’t catch you yesterday! I’m the best rider in my arban , but you were riding that --- was that thing even a horse ?”

“Yes,” Nergui said, “and no.” Then, after further attempts at thought, “And maybe.” She settled back and motioned to Red Panda to go ahead and repair the kohl streak. “Three things. One: I apologize. I did not think I would make that much trouble for you. I was just under orders to hurry home. Two…” she looked carefully to make sure she was holding up the right number of fingers, “It wasn’t your fault. My horse even complimented your riding. He’s not exactly normal. By now the Khan’s crew will have also failed to catch him. I can use that to plead your case. Three: If you still want a fight, I’m game. We can schedule something after the honeymoon.”

“Can you fight?”

“Not like a professional. I’ve just had a little on-the-job training. Shouldn’t give you any trouble.”

“Well, I just want you to know I like to fight dirty. Anything goes.”

Only Red Panda was sufficiently socially aware to detect, much less interpret, the series of muted expressions that ran across Nergui’s face like fawns from a forest fire. “ Anything…? All right, then... I can do… ‘anything.’”

The two Girl Guards left and Kafur burst back in. “Oh, did you hear about Baiju Noyan?”

Nergui, who had settled back down to blissful stillness, jumped involuntarily. This time it was the lip-rouge that ended up streaked across her face. “Tell me he’s not here?!”

“Oh, no. He loves a good bloody buzkashi match --- in fact, he and the Khan used to play each other a lot --- but he’s far too busy. We just got pidged that he took over Nicaea today. Walked into the capital with less than a hundred dead. Once he wipes up Trebizond, he’ll get a province for sure. Provincial governors get more fanny than a six-armed punkah-wallah.”

“Oh. That’s nice for him,” Nergui murmured without inflection as Red Panda gritted her teeth and wet another cleansing cloth.

“Nice for him? Nice for you. You’re the one who got him back on-form. Some even say better than before, He should put up a statue of you.”

Nergui murmured something under her breath that sounded to Red Panda like “He’d just kill it” before taking another deep drink of soma.

Red Panda quietly left the room. Blue Heron, who’d sipped her soma in silence until then, said a little sloppily “Who left the salt out of her tea?”

Chang-Er came in clutching a parchment to his chest. “Will you sign your picture?” he asked shyly.

“My picture? What?”

“This is you, right? You’re Goose Girl.”

“Goose Girl?” That cryptic epithet again. “Let me see that.”

It appeared to be an ink drawing of a woman with an acutely surprised expression. Next to it was written, in Uighur script, “Goose Girl Has an Arban.”

Nergui held it up next to her face and looked in the mirror. She couldn’t conclusively say it wasn’t her… but where had it come from? And why did this kid have it? It certainly wasn’t a bridal portrait.

“Where did you get this?”

“My sister works in Bird Services in the Almalik Yam station. She says all the B.S. interns in KK were putting up copies of it, so she wanted to do it here too.”

Kafur was fussing at her to get into the dress, so she scribbled her signature on the parchment and turned away. She told herself to look into it when she got back to KK. Then it occurred to her to wonder when she was going back to KK. Getting married might make “never” a distinct possibility.

Her lifelong philosophy of “I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it” didn’t seem to have a contingency plan for “what if it’s already on fire?”

At some unknown distance, Nergui only barely heard the singing. It was like none she’d ever heard before; the closest was a pair of very angry leopards fighting.

RA-A-A-A-ARH!!

Inran'na onanī

Inran'na onanī

Anata wa itsutsu no gengo o yomimasuga,

heya o yomu koto wa dekimasen

RA-A-A-A-ARH!!

Kajōna otto

Kajōna otto

Anata wa watashi o tantō matawa kekkonshiki ni iremasu,

Soshite,

Anata wa kekkon suru no o kesshite yamemasen

Itsumo ikutsu ka no kuso atarashī on'nanoko

Kuso atarashī on'nanoko wa tegakari ga nai

RA-A-A-A-ARH!!

Chapter Text

In the castle courtyard of Nicaea, a crowd of terrified women wept, wrung their hands, and debated suicide. Five rows of black-armored Mongol soldiers surrounded them, and there were more in the palace and the rest of their city. Many had no idea whether their husbands, fathers, or brothers had survived the battle, but they knew the city had fallen and no help would come from that direction.

They’d all heard stories of the degenerate pagan Mongols and their insanely sadistic general, Baiju Noyan. They knew they were doomed to a fate worse than death (though they’d never actually met anyone with a first-hand basis for comparison. The one person who’d been through both experiences and was still capable of talking about it was at that moment, not quite coincidentally, being dressed for her wedding in the far-off Chagatai Khanate).

A quartet of palace trumpeters, all looking as though they were either about to wet their pants or had already done so, emerged onto the balcony and blew a somewhat scattered fanfare. The Noyan and a lesser officer stepped to the railing and removed their helmets. The officer had an elaborate braided coiffure set off by shaved patches. The Noyan’s long straight hair, whiskers, eyebrows and eyes were the almost iridescent blue-black of liquid pitch, his skin browned by the sun. From so far below it was difficult to estimate his height, but he loomed as only a tall man normally could. He looked out at the huddled, tearful assembly and scowled. It was a frightful scowl, a promise of pain to come.

“You all right, Noyan?” Tangut, the shorter officer, asked without moving his lips.

“Caught a good whack to the helmet from one of the knights’ damned broadswords a couple of hours ago,” his commander replied in the same fashion. “I think it set off a migraine and as far as I know we’re out of bhang tea. Let’s get this over with.”

“For what it’s worth, the Khagan’s going to be really proud of you,” Tangut reassured him. “You hardly killed anybody today.”

“Maybe this stinking headache wouldn’t be so bad if I had.” He had his shaman’s drum, but the thought of beating it in his present condition held no appeal. “Captive women of Nicaea!” he made himself shout.

“Your country is now part of the Greater Mongol State. All free persons have full citizenship provided they behave responsibly. All religions are permitted under Tengri’s blue sky. You may now travel and trade tariff-free from here to Cathay. As well as commerce, our State welcomes women in the army and civil service. Your taxes will improve roads and markets and house those made homeless in the conflict.

“Now: Are there prostitutes, escorts, masseuses, strippers, exotic performers, brothel-keepers, touts, or other sex workers among you? Please come forward.” About a third of the women didn’t so much come forward as get pushed towards the front by everyone else trying to get behind them.

“Troops!” the Noyan declaimed. "Take a good look. These, and only these, will be your party dates for tonight. I know you’re all excited, but remember that if you break them you won’t be able to play with them any more. You’ll pay them their regular rate ---”

There was a suppressed but audible grumbling among the ranks. Less than three months ago the Noyan would have ordered the Dargas to slice the grumblers a new smile. Instead Tangut, barked out "You-just-plundered-their-town-you-unwashed-taints-you-can-afford-it! Be sure to tip if the service is good; you might be stationed here again someday.”

“And, hatuns,” The Noyan went on, “some of our troops may be looking for wives. Their pay is decent, the bonuses can’t be matched anywhere, and we are becoming" --- here he couldn’t suppress a sigh --- “a family-friendly army.” His voice stayed neutral, but his eyebrows independently expressed some skepticism.

"Excuse me?" shouted one of the women who’d tunneled all the way to the back row. "Is it too late to change careers?” At this the ranks broke into good-natured chuckling.

"One last thing!" the Noyan bellowed with what was left of his tolerance. "Any and all nymphomaniacs in the crowd?” He beckoned imperiously. “With me."

Chapter Text

“What-up-a-yak’s-ass is going on out there?” Nergui demanded, so surprised and bewildered that she cast her manners to the four winds.

That’s it! I’ve decided, Red Panda thought. Next life, I’m coming back Mongolian.

The doors of Chagatai’s enormous wheeled ger had been thrown open wide. Drums had thundered for attention. Nergui wondered whether the apparently secular drummers had any clue whether, on shamans’ drums, that same beat would summon Hu Flung-Pu, the fire deities’ immortal Collector of Dried-Dung Fuel.

Clean, fragrant, and only a little drunk, festooned with red-and-gold bridal finery under a sheer and shimmering red silk veil that reached the floor, Nergui’s posture was perfect as she airily descended the stairs from the doorway to the deck. This was partly because if being Chagatai’s bride was to be her lot, she was determined to be a good one, but also partly because her gown was made of a shiny silk so slippery it kept threatening to fall off.

Since it had gotten dark while she’d been getting ready, such gracefulness would not have been possible without the murmured guidance of her train-bearers (except for those of Blue Heron, which Nergui assumed were meant to pitch her headlong down the stairs or land her foot in something repulsive, and therefore ignored).

Chagatai Khan sat on a him-sized divan draped with exotic skins, wearing his dress armor under a royalty-only wolfskin cloak. Six other men in fancy chairs flanked him. His expression was ecstatic. However, he was not watching his bride’s entrance, but looking up at the sky. Between his thighs knelt a dark-skinned young woman with the taut back muscles a dancer, wrapped in colorful cotton that left one shoulder and arm bare, nodding her head repeatedly. Whatever the question had been, her answer was yes. Three other young women stood in a neat line behind her, ready to concur at the first opportunity,

“It’s not what you think,” Kafur whispered hurriedly.

“Really? Because I think my bridegroom is receiving fellatio from another woman right when our wedding is supposed to start.” This is supposed to be my day, something whined in Nergui’s head. Where had that baseless and supremely unhelpful notion come from ? she thought.  Just like every other day, this was everyone’s day. Her day. The Khan’s day too, but he’s been married so many hundreds of times it’s probably no more special to him than laundry day. Her dressers’ day. Her horse’s day, wherever he might be. The buzkashi riders had a claim to the day, too. Since this was a championship match, their claim might be stronger than hers. And it’s those chicken-heads’ day too, whoever they are. Unbidden, her face crumpled behind the veil. Tears stung her eyes while her sinuses prepared to pour forth a river of snot that would dwarf the flooding of the Syr Darya.

Red Panda’s social hypersensitivity picked up on the impending disaster instantly. “No no no no, Little Rabbit! Breathe! Be strong! Don’t wreck my makeup artwork!” she said, making outward gestures of placation while inwardly she roared “KHAAAAAN!”

“It’s the Shiva worshippers,” Kafur whispered urgently. “Shiva the Destroyer is the primary god of masculinity in parts of this Khanate. His temples have a lingam stone, representing Shiva’s generative organ, as the central focus. Many of the Khan’s subjects consider him an avatar or incarnation of Shiva. They were the same about Genghis, may he ride forever in the sky, You sometimes hear people say their bodies are temples? Well, the Khan’s literally is one. They’re praying to Shiva, through Chagatai. It’s nothing personal at all.”

“And our holy Tengri welcomes all religions under his Eternal Blue Sky,” Blue Heron put in, “so our magnanimous Tai Khan wouldn’t feel right turning them away, even if their timing is a little... tacky.”

Nergui gritted her teeth and took a long, shaky breath. This just… is whatever it is, she told herself. The people who know him better say this has nothing to do with me. Suppose they’re right .  Getting her all bathed and painted gift-wrapped had taken quite a while, she reasoned. He’s Khan, for Tengri’s sake. Why shouldn’t he get a little “lip service” from a devoted subject while he waits? Or maybe he needs soothing because he isn’t immune to wedding jitters even after all the dam practice he’s had. She’d heard it was the one time in the marriage when the man’s feet were colder than the woman’s.

Her eyes stung with her first reaction: humiliation. She screwed them shut to hold in the tears. Yes, it would feel good at the moment to yell or throw something at him. But then what would he do? He’d been jovial and indulgent all day, but he hadn’t gotten to rule this huge land --- a harsh land, full of legendary warriors --- just by throwing the best parties. It stood to reason that he must have other possible moods, other sides to his personality. Insulting him in front of this crowd would probably bring down a wrath she wasn’t up to handling.

Ogedei Khagan, why did you bless this mess? If I wasn’t sworn to obey you until death, We Would Have Words about this. Although, come to think of it, I was killed in Anatolia so technically...

Maybe she could get it to rain; if everybody was soaked, it wouldn’t show if she cried. She didn’t have much control over that skill set in the solid world, though.

She supposed she could try leaving, but after he’d gone to the trouble to bridenap her she doubted she’d get very far, unless…

Summer Cloud Sultan? Are you out there?

Nothing. How long did their link stretch? No telling.

The crowd down there was packed nuts-to-butts for what looked like acres and acres. The Azerdeli wouldn’t have any compunction about “putting the hoof in” on anything animate or inanimate that got in his way. In fact, putting the hoof in was right up there with apples, rubdowns, galloping at top speed, and (probably) mounting mares on the list of his favorite pastimes.

There’d be a lot of maimed bystanders. In a part of the world that’s very, very big on revenge. And then what? Go back to KK and explain this to everybody? All the way up to Great Khan Ogedei? That would just be trading embarrassment now for even more embarrassment later.

No, fight and flight were both shitty ideas. She would lose either way.

Mongols don’t lose. Time to Mongol up.

And do what, exactly?

Well, they’ve made this time to pray to Shiva. Among other things, I’m a visiting cleric. Let’s get out the hymnbooks and see if we can bring the lightning.

Chapter Text

Shiva Hara Hara

OM NAMAH SHIVAYA…

So determined was Nergui to rise above her initial irritation that she discovered, as the last few lines in a resonated Three Voice died away, that she’d sung herself right out of her body and literally risen above the entire scene. Chagatai Khan, his face flushed and his posture half-melted, had his face upward toward her but wouldn’t have seen her even if his eyes had been open, which they weren’t. Her own body still stood on the platform steps, perfectly still, as much a nucleus of the situation as if her shimmering red veil had been the only object of color in a scene of browns and grays. The other very bright and highly structured aura, belonging to a senior Shiva priestess standing in the wings, displayed mixed emotions much like Nergui’s own: inclined to be annoyed at the upstaging of her protegee, but since Nergui’s performance had in essence been cheering the young acolyte on, she didn’t feel fully entitled to complain.

The crowd had gone silent, at least by buzkashi-match standards. Now they erupted in shouts of “Om Namah! Shiva Shankara!” This was notable because a goodly portion of them were from other religions and wouldn’t have recognized Lord Shiva if he’d set up a sharbat stand outside their encampments.

Abruptly the Khan gathered himself and stood, causing the girl still kneeling in front of him to tumble onto her back like a beetle. The senior priestess seemed inclined to stay where she was, or at least hesitated to act immediately. Nergui’s medical instincts activated instantly; before she knew how she got there, she was back in her body, down the steps, and across the terrace leaving a wake of floundering functionaries. “Kid! Hey! Kiddo. You all right?” At a glance of her second sight, Nergui saw the young acolyte had tried to absorb too much yang too quickly. Erlik, she thought, was that because my singing amped him up? Tried to direct it all into the cranial pump, too, no wonder. Better open up another gate. She turned the patient belly-down, although the small body stayed rolled up in a ball, and pump-slapped her first at the ta chui and then at the chi chung . The girl coughed a couple of times, then drew in a rasping breath. “That’s good,” Nergui told her. “Inhale, exhale, repeat. Do a hundred Microcosmic Orbits and see me tomorrow afternoon.”

“I can take it from here,” said a dry voice. The stricken girl’s teacher had apparently bestirred herself and come over. “Don’t you have a wedding right now?”

Nergui straightened up and looked around. The two eunuchs were trying to keep her veil from going askew and either exposing her prematurely or tripping her up. The Khan towered nearby, one eyebrow quirked dubiously.

OOhhh, she thought acerbically. Far be it from me to leave my betrothed standing around like a stone turtle waiting for our wedding to start! But she darted up to him, bowed contritely, and said: “Please forgive me, Khan.”

Chagatai the Inevitable gave her a long, unreadable look. Then he looked over at the acolyte, now upright and walking as her teacher hustled her away. Then his forehead smoothed out and he nodded and took his bride’s hand.

“Friends!” he thundered, and the crowd fell so silent that the horses’ fussing and the fires’ crackling were the loudest audible sounds. “This match is taking place on a most auspicious day! I mark it by marrying a new wife!” He scooped Nergui up and sat her on his shoulder as if she weighed no more than a cat. “This is Keshdim Khenbish’s Nerguitani. She will be known as Little Rabbit. With this ring, I her wed.” He took her hand and slid a ring onto her finger.

It fit perfectly, Nergui noticed, then surmised that he probably kept a whole range of sizes around for whenever the felt like getting married.

“...so all the rest of you, paws off unless I say differently…”

Wait, what?

"And what about you, my dear? Would you like to say a few inspirational words to these brave riders, tell them what brings us here today?"

Huh? Nergui, torn between deciphering that “unless I say differently” and trying to hold her skirt down against the wind, hadn’t seen that one coming. She froze like a mammoth in a glacier.

But then her clerical training kicked in. As her father had taught her, she stalled while pretending not to, giving inspiration a chance to burst forth... if it was going to. She cleared her throat. She took a deep breath. She started speaking very slowly: "Because... we..."

And there it was. The sheep’s-ankle bones thrown by her fate landed in the Sign of Salvation. She suddenly recalled something good that she'd said to Gundogdu Bey one long, rainy night when they’d shared a discreet pot of bhang tea from opposite sides of a caravanserai wall. "Because... we want to be free!" she projected with sudden confidence.

Thunderous applause.

"We want to be free to do what we want!" she shouted after the tumult crested and began to die down.

The pandemonium shot back up to an even higher pitch.

"We want to be free to ride our animals without being hassled by The Man!" An even bigger frenzy of noise, into which she suddenly thought, Oops... Uh-oh. Well, if I wrap it up quick...

"Tengri bless Chagatai's Khanate! And Tengri bless Greater Mongol!" As she'd expected, that was a winner. repeated and echoed throughout the crowd until they were all chanting, "Tengri bless Chagatai's Khanate! Tengri bless Greater Mongol!"

Set back on her feet on the terrace again, she looked up at Chagatai with a worried expression. "Sorry, Khan," she began, turning to him shamefacedly. "That didn't come out quite right. I didn’t think it all the way through ---"

"You call me Tai now, Mrs. Khan," he replied, tracing her jawline with a surprisingly light touch, "and it was perfect."

"But... haven’t you become The Man here?"

“That’s my gift from Tengri, Little Rabbit,” he said, sliding a hand down to her waist and pulling her to him. “I’m not lofty like Josh, may he ride forever in the sky, or smooth like Oggy. But all my rough edges suit this place perfectly. I’m their Khan and they obey me; they’ll bleed and kill and die for me. The settled cities’ leaders are The Man. I mostly leave them to whatever it is they do, as long as they don’t embezzle too much. Me, with my ger and my herds and my games and my big battered hands always ready to get dirty or bloody? I’m still not The Man and I never will be. I dream that the bold and the bellicose of these lands will still miss me a thousand years from now.” He led her to his ornate divan and sat her on his knee. “But before I get all wrapped up in this match, lift up your veil for me.”

She turned toward him and did so. She had always considered herself okay-looking as long as she didn’t cry. She privately admitted she could look striking on a good day. But she didn’t know, as a scant handful of others did, that in the right sort of light from exactly the right angle she was skull-bashingly beautiful.

She lifted up her veil. And was illuminated by the right sort of light from exactly the right angle.

The Khan looked bewildered at first, as if she hadn’t been the person he expected, Then a slow, approving smile began to grow as he moved his eyes from her hairline to her chin and downward… but then caught on something that sparkled like a fallen star. A blazing red stone inlaid in rock crystal.

“That pendant,” he said, “Where did you...?”

“Tori --- I mean, Empress Toregene --- arranged for me to borrow it to wear on my mission to Anatolia.Her note said it belonged to Empress Bortë, may she ride forever in the sky,. That Baiju would recognize it, and maybe the memories would make him behave himself a little better.”

“It must have worked. He’s racking up the conquests again. You’re still here.”

“Only by the grace of the Expedient Resurrection Team. I --- I really don’t want to take this pendant off until I can give it back, because I’m scared stiff of losing it. It won’t be weird, will it? Reminding you of your mom when...”

The Khan laughed and threw the edge of his cloak around her shoulders. “Imagine you worrying about that! Of all the Borjigin brothers, I’m the one with no imagination at all. I don’t mind much; it helps with the fearlessness. I have a whole retinue to worry about what this implies or that suggests. You only need to keep making me smile.” He tapped a fingertip lightly on her nose, lifted her off his lap and sat her down beside him, shrugged out of his cloak, and stood up. “Now, where’s that goat?”

Chapter Text

Buoyed up by deafening cheers, Chagatai Khan swung the buzkashi goat in circles over his head. The goat, deprived of its own head, dressed-out, and soaked in very cold water overnight, was long past objecting.

“Riderrrs,” he bellowed as he flung it over the playing field, “Get! Your! Goat!!!” The massive crowd’s cheering got even louder. Sand trickled from small crevices in the massif that rose behind the natural terrace where the Khan’s ger stood and all the important people were seated. A few fist-size rocks fell from the edge of the terrace, fifteen feet down to the level of the buzkashi riders’ melée.

From the Khan’s massive hide-covered divan, three of the Khan’s wives watched with interest.  There was Blue Heron, the Khongirad consort, because everyone who was anyone had at least one Khongi, and Great Khan Ogedei’s big brother was certainly someone. There was Red Panda, the young noblewoman from Nihon across the ocean where everyone was always nice --- or else. And there was Little Rabbit, inexplicably called Goose Girl by certain young people, bridenapped that very morning and solemnized with veil and ring only minutes ago. Chagatai had slid her off his lap and left her wrapped in his luxuriant wolf-skin cloak. Which was fortunate, because otherwise, she could have caught a nasty chill in the scrap of slippery silk they’d given her as a dress.

At first, the knot of riders that converged on the goat seemed to get locked together so tightly that none of them could move. Clouds of dust rose around the perimeter as the horses fought for traction. Riders roared and howled and shrieked, drowning out any crackings of knees and elbows and ribs, excitement and anger and pain indistinguishable from each other.

Then another competing uproar approached from one side. Spectators were being shoved and kicked and trampled, which was normal, but by something other than the buzkashi riders and their mounts, which was unusual. The center of this disturbance seemed much smaller than the approved imbroglio, but seemed determined to be more vigorous.

Just as the Khan, intent on the riders’ scrum, turned to see what dared to distract him and his subjects, a blazing white streak broke through the front rows of spectators, rushed downfield, and collided with the deadlocked riders and their horses, scattering them like… well, imagine if there was a game where you aimed something white at a bunch of similar things that were all different colors, and they scattered all over the place, Little Rabbit thought. The white streak resolved into a magnificent riderless horse that burst out of the donnybrook with the scruff of the goat’s neck clenched in its teeth. It ran another fifty yards, then dropped the goat and shook its head,

Inside her brain, Little Rabbit distinctly heard a familiar voice say:

(Pfui! Ew. Why is everybody after this disgusting thing? I don’t get this at all.)

And the horse became a white streak again and burrowed through the spectators toward the exit canyon.

“Blistering bloody boils on a bear’s bollocks!” Chagatai raged like an ignited barrel of firemix, his face almost purple with choler. He wheeled to face Little Rabbit with a foot-stomp that shook loose more sand from the cliff face. “Woman!” he demanded in a voice that gave no quarter. “Was that your gods-damned horse?”

She’d been laughing irrepressibly at the sight, but seeing the look on the Khan’s face moved her to repress is as quickly as she could. “Um… maybe?” she hedged. After all, it was debatable (1) whether there might be more than one Azerdeli stallion running loose in the area that, as a descendant of the celebrated talking horse Eid Efendi, formed thoughts as human words, (2) whether his pledge that she would be his “Burden” meant that he, in turn, belonged to her in some sense, and (3) whether Azerdelis, descendants of a wish granted by a Djinn, even qualified, in the strictest, sense, as horses.

“And you think this is funny? Do you?”

The Khan had had to trick her into dismounting to catch her. So far, no one had been able to catch Summer Cloud Sultan, aka The Fork-Tongued Son of a Bitch. By all reports, some of the best racers in the Khanate had been going all round Jelme’s hitching-line after the stubborn stallion, and now here he came and crashed the match! She thought it was chicken-plucking hilarious … but seeing Chagatai’s prodigious knuckles whiten on the handle of his dagger, she quailed. So far this wouldn't have been anything like the wedding of her dreams, if she'd ever had any wedding dreams. Being beaten or stabbed in front of more people than she'd thought the world could hold would just put the urkh right on the toono.

“...A little bit?” she ventured.

The Khan scowled, Ir was a pretty good scowl for someone who was only a part-time scowler. His thundercloud-gray eyes glared down, and her unnerving amber eyes gazed guilelessly up, for a heartbeat. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Beneath Chagatai’s shaggy red-gold-black mustache, a corner of his mouth quirked up as he snorted like a bull. “All right,” he conceded graciously, “it was a little bit funny.”

Red Panda abruptly appeared at the Khan’s side without appearing to cross the intervening distance. “Game-runner- sama, ” she addressed him. “Will you have that goat brought back? Use one of the backup goats? Or shall they play it where it lies?”

Chagatai the Inevitable's smile widened. He enjoyed any opportunity to make up his own rules. They seemed to crop up all the time these days, and it never got stale.

“Play it where it lies, Riders!” he shouted out. “Play it where it lies! After it, you misbegotten marmots!  After it!”

Chapter Text

“Our husband,” said Red Panda as she poured Nergui some more soma, “is the best buzkashi game-runner in all these lands. Some even say the best in history.”

“Oh.” Nergui nodded. “That’s… great.” She continued watching the field below. Horses kicked and bit each other while their riders flailed about in all directions with short whips. And kicked and bit. Each other and the horses. The only thing out there not trying to draw blood from anything around it was the goat, and that might only have been because it wasn’t merely dead, but really most sincerely dead.

“You really don’t get this whole thing, do you?”

Nergui shrugged eloquently, a multisyllabic gesture that kept unfolding. “It’s not really a thing in my part of Greater Mongol. Seems tough on horses. And riders. And the kind of behavior it encourages...” She trailed off, shaking her head, careful of the ornaments holding her hair in unaccustomed loops and swirls. “But please tell me more. I’d like to learn.”

“Well,” Red Panda began, “this is probably the worst-behaved kind of buzkashi, a one-on-everyone free-for-all. There are two teams, but each player competes with their teammates as well as with the opposing players. Very few rules, no goals, no boundaries on the playing field or on player conduct. Top prize goes to whoever can grab the goat and ride all the way into the canyon with it.”

Nergui looked around the small valley. “Is there a way out I can’t see? The spectators look like they’re packed all around the field like hot stones and meat in a bodog. How do they not get under-hoof?”

“That’s just it; the winner has to cut through the crowd. And if the spectators don’t look sharp, they get trampled.”

“That’s insane!”

“Yes, it is. And it’s just the way they like it. You’d be amazed at what they pay for a spot in front.”

To Nergui’s shocked silence, Red Panda elaborated, “Any of the fans can cheer, but the ones in the path of the action can pitch in. Sure they’re in harm’s way, but they can also try clearing the path for their team or blocking their opponents. People still talk about the Turfan-Tashkent match of 1182, where a gang of spectators pulled the goat away from the leading rider and ran it to the end zone on foot. Tai’s a purist, though. He’d never allow that.”

“How can he stop it if there aren’t any rules?”

“Oh, well, I guess there might be one rule: The game-runner runs the game. A game-runner has to make all the arrangements for the match. Secure a location, pay all the support staff, furnish all the prizes to attract the best riders. He or, I like to think ‘she,’ has to have serious wealth. Next, the game-runner has to deal with the sovereigns of the riders and the owners of any land used. So, social prestige; the game-runner has to be respected by big-hats outside the game. Finally, his-or-dare-I-say- her word has to be law on the field. There’s a thin line between an exciting match and an ordinary brawl. The game-runner needs enough force of personality to keep everybody on the right side of the line even when tempers catch fire. Respect is good, but fear is even better.”

As they watched, Chagatai Khan paced the edge of the terrace like a frustrated tiger, keeping a predator’s eye on the action and occasionally bellowing encouragements and admonitions.

“I think I’m starting to see,” Nergui ventured. “Tai has all those qualities. He sits on a mountain-sized pile of war spoils and taxes. He holds the power of life and death over everyone in the Khanate. He’s got a personal presence impossible to ignore and the physical strength to back it up.”

“I’ve always thought Enma himself might not match Tai- sama .”

“Who’s Enma?”

“The King of my people’s 272 Hells.”

“Munkh Gok H. Tengri, that’s a lot of hells.” She sighed and looked distracted by something far away that no one else could see. “I once met a king of a hell,” she half-murmured.

“I’m sorry?” Red Panda inquired politely.

“Hm? ...Don’t be,” Nergui answered absently.

The two royal wives sat companionably on a huge divan that could have fit five more of them: Red Panda in several layers of big-sleeved wraparound robes held together by a wide belt in a fancy knot, Nergui almost swallowed by the Khan’s voluminous pelt-trimmed cloak over the skimpy, slippery wedding dress.

“A lot of the wives don’t come to things like this. They stay in their towns or with their nomad camps and take care of Khanate business there until Tai- sama visits or calls for them. I’ll tell you a secret that isn’t that much of a secret: I love this game. My dream is to become a game-runner myself someday. So I go to all the matches. Blue Heron’s a regular too; that’s why I assumed buzkashi was just as popular up north.”

“Princess Birdbeak is a Khongi - a consort from Mongolia’s consort capital, Khongirad. Khongis like whatever they’re told to like. Their intensive training starts when they’re still in their mommy’s tummy and continues for forty days after they die.”

“Training for what?”

“Meeting the companionship needs of some very important player to be named later, whether he likes to eat, ride, canoodle, and show off --- those are enough for a lot of them --- but Khongis are also ready with expertise if their lord suddenly decides he has to start a war, build a boat, or preserve stuffed jerboas and dress them in little costumes.”

“Oh,” Red Panda snorted, then looked quickly around to make sure no one had noticed the indelicacy. “Back In Nihon I went through something similar. Do you know how many different shapes I had to learn to fold paper into? Two hundred. Can you guess how often I even come across a sheet of paper out here?”

Compared to that, Nergui guessed she’d had a pretty low-stress childhood, at least once she’d learned to tune out the constant background whine-and-grind of her mother's disappointment. She and her brothers learned plenty of things as soon as they could; mostly how to do every task in the ger camp from fuel-gathering to storm response to negotiating of livestock sales. When their individual talents emerged --- shamanigans for Nergui and wrestling for Batbolor and Baterdene --- there’d been specialized training. But there had still been plenty of time to scamper around the landscape and play "Pet the Baby Bear and Run" or "Guess What You Just Stepped In." The winters did get so snot-freezing cold that every mammal giving off any body heat became a best friend and the odds of waking up alive were often less than even… but that happened to everybody, and much too often to be remarkable.

Kafur and Chang-Er approached the divan, looking as though something was on their minds. When Nergui invited them to sit down, though, the two eunuchs paled and shook their heads fearfully. Less than an hour ago they had chivvied her this way and that, getting her ready for the wedding, but now that she wore the ring and the cloak things had obviously changed. The Home Steppes always had been, and still were, a comparatively flat, informal society. You had to obey authorities, but everyone was due a threshold level of respect from everyone else. You didn’t step on anybody’s threshold, for instance. Or touch anybody’s hat unless they said to. Things like eye contact, casual conversation, and road hospitality, though, were as free as the howling wind whether one’s modesty was guarded by vivid brocaded silk or unevenly tanned, questionably dead rodent pelts. That was the Mongolian way. The new territories, though, had been imposing more layers on society than a good Turkish caravanserai cook did on baklava.

“Consort Little Rabbit,” Kafur addressed her while looking at his toes, “we have prepared your marital ointment.” He bowed and proffered, with both hands, an attractive little earthenware jar.

She lifted the lid and sniffed suspiciously. She trusted Kafur not to prank the new girl only marginally more than she did Blue Heron. All the scents she could identify passed muster, but there were a few that she couldn’t. “Does this go… where I think it goes?”

“Yes,” Kafur replied, sounding relieved to be spared. “You can just put some on after every time you tinkle. It’s our secret weapon.”

“What does it do?”

“It promotes liquidity and elasticity, and it helps the skin tolerate tension and friction with much less damage.” He cut his eyes at Chagatai’s back. “I don’t know if you noticed our Khan’s… great blessing…” he hinted delicately.

“The Doloon Burkhan could notice that from their places in the night sky,” she replied drily, “and the North Pole is jealous, I’m sure. I’m glad of a defense, but… could you demonstrate it?”

“Easily. Come here, Chang-Er.” The younger eunuch let out a long-suffering groan but obeyed.

Kafur took out one of his large loop earrings with a flourish. “Here is my earring, Consort; note its considerable weight. Now I apply the ointment to my lazy apprentice’s earlobe… and put the earring in… now wait and watch.” For a minute or so, nothing happened, Then the earring slowly descended as Chang-er’s earlobe stretched more than an inch over the next minute. “Now look,” Kafur announced. “He’s half a Buddha, just like that.”

“Watching this never gets old,” Red Panda declared with a giggle. Nergui took hold of the earring and wiggled it, then tugged it cautiously, but sensed no flash of pain from Chang-er’s meridians. “Wow,” she admitted, “Impressive.” She wasn’t sure any of her existing recipes could do that.

“And that’s not all,” Kafur continued. “When I relieve the tension --- ” He took back his earring. Over the following minute, Chang-er’s ear shrank back to its original size. Well, that’s all kinds of loads off my mind, Nergui thought with a wordless smile of relief.

“Okay, I’m going to… go tinkle now,” Nergui saluted everyone, shed the cloak, and scurried off past the right side of the tent.

“The Royal Bride goes to tinkle! ” Kafur and Chang-Er proclaimed very loudly, making everyone look.

Erlik’s pendulous uvula! Nergui thought, putting her head down and accelerating. I hope they’re not going to do that all the time! Suddenly she found herself face-down on the ground.

“Oops,” said Danava the Girl Guard, none too penitently, as she withdrew her foot from Nergui’s path.

Nergui wiped a smear of blood off her bottom lip, which she’d bitten when she fell. “Are you freaking kidding me?” she demanded, getting up and brushing the dust off her dress. “Lurking outside the latrine to trip people up! What are you, eleven? Anyway, I said I’d talk to Tai when we’ve got a minute uninterrupted. Since it’s our wedding night, I’m pretty sure he’s motivated to make that happen.”

“Oh, so it’s ‘Tai’ now?

“Yes,” Nergui answered, standing her ground but sending no aggressive signals. “It is. He said so. It comes with the ring.” She held up the back of her hand and waggled the relevant finger. “Now what is your true disharmony, troop? I felt bad about what happened to you. I apologized, I said I’d try to fix it, but you’re not even giving me a chance. Is this just pent-up frustration at having to wear a uniform that no one could possibly fight in?”

Now it was Danava’s turn to fall on her face, revealing that her partner Tsolmaa had come up behind her and administered a quick chop to the trapezius. “We learn to fight pretty well in these outfits, truth be told,” she said conversationally. “Ever hear of the Iron Shirt technique? Get good at it and it’s like wearing weightless, breathable full-body armor that doesn’t make your butt look flat. Plus nobody who hasn’t already fought us takes us seriously; that’s an advantage all its own?”

“Yeah,” Nergui nodded, impressed. “The Agency had me learn some Iron Shirt for my last mission. I imagine you really get good if you have to do it all the time.”

“You didn’t hear this from me,” Tsolmaa winked at Nergui, “but any Girl Guard who lasts three years fighting in these skimpy suits can write her own ticket with any militia on the continent. Now go tinkle. I’ll keep this walking case of Last Quarter-Moon Fever out of your hair.”

“There she is,” the Khan grinned in the flickering torchlight when Nergui hurried back, her arms wrapped around her midsection to secure her flighty, treacherous dress. “Come here before you catch a chill,” he said, wrapping his cloak around her again. “And YOU sods,” he turned and roared at the gawking men in the VIP section, “put your chicken-fingering eyeballs back in your heads before I cook them on a skewer and eat them!

“You’ve got to know how to talk to these assholes,” he confided to Nergui in only a marginally softer voice as he walked her casually to the edge of the terrace overlooking the field, where the match appeared to be in a time-out. “The men of these lands --- and the animals, too --- are so full of piss and vinegar they leave stinky puddles everywhere. I don’t know if it’s something in the water, or what. That’s why they invented buzkashi. If they didn’t have that little steam-vent for their havoc, they’d all kill each other. As it is, some of them still die.

“At first Oggy disapproved and tried to make me keep all the matches sub-lethal, since the game-runner can set the limit on the violence. But the more I sidelined the killers and restructured the game and made people wear safety stuff, the more bad-temper murders happened off the field. Oggy and I finally concluded that the local gods would take people one way or another and if we let players die in the game once in a while these riders’ world would keep turning as it should. Dying on the field is an honor, and I set the families up with a generous pension, but most players get away with broken bones and the occasional rupture.”

“What’s the deal with these guys in the fancy seats?” Nergui asked. “Act like they’ve never seen a woman before.”

“Some might not have. We’ve got places around here where women can’t be seen.”

“They’re not allowed out in public at all?”

“No, I mean they’re really invisible. Look down at that crowd. Mostly men, correct?”

“Ye-e-ess...”

“But here and there you can see a random little breathing space between them. Those aren’t empty spaces. They’re invisible women. Naked invisible women, because they can’t transfer the invisibility to clothes. The men never know how many naked women are standing around, staring at them, at any moment. It makes them crazy. Nothing short of buzkashi can drive that thought from their minds.”

“Wow! The Agency could really use a few invisible operatives.”

“They might already have some. How would you know?”

Chapter Text

Time had long since melted like one of those smelly, flaccid cheeses reputedly prized by the pale, watery-eyed peoples of the exotic Occident. Chagatai Khan had tried one once, proffered by one of the European visiting artists at World Peace Palace. After that, he understood why his nephew Batu might be a little circumspect about annexing those verdant but benighted lands.

Tai had kept up with everyone else on the soma-drinking, as usual. He would have let half his supporters down if he hadn’t. He irritated the other half as soon as he took a single sip of anything more intoxicating than sharbat , so fuck ‘em if they couldn’t take a joke. They’d be forced to agree that the Khan ran a better buzkashi game intoxicated than anyone else did sober. So there.

The match had gone on for hours, maybe even days. After a certain point, it was impossible to tell. He’d declared the winners of all the various prizes --- individual holding the goat for the longest time, team holding the goat for the longest combined time, best steal, best save, anybody who died (it seemed crass to compare in-game deaths with each other, since it was the game-loving gods who dictated the terms) and of course the grand-prize winner who had carried the goat out of the riders’ scrum, through the violent crowd of spectators, and into the entrance canyon.

There was a huge banquet and reception --- not for the newlyweds, as Blue Heron had pointedly explained to Nergui, since the wedding had been only a brief impromptu sideshow --- but for the team that took the most prizes in the buzkashi match, which after some tallying and arguing turned out to be Kashgar. Among other honors,(such as being served their food and drinks by the losing Kabul team)  they would be awarded the cooked meat of the Game Goat for dinner, or breakfast, or whatever meal this would be back in the everyday world. On one hand, the Game Goat was reputed to be the best-tenderized meat in the world (although Red Panda’s wealthiest countrymen, who raised calves in special spas where they soaked in hot springs every day, might have argued). On the other hand, finding all the pieces of the Game Goat after the game could be a challenge.

People were packed in at the tables as tightly as they had been around the playing field. Food-servers balanced on catwalks overhead so they could transport their burdens without struggling through the crowd, lowering serving bowls on ropes and chains. At the head of the head table, Chagatai balanced Nergui on his right thigh. His cloak was still wrapped around her, but now it was more to fend off unwanted touches from passersby than for warmth; the heat of so many bodies was cloying. There was nothing for it but to get even more loaded on any substance on offer.

White flower petals were suddenly floating down around Nergui. She looked up and saw the junior eunuch Chang-er waving down to her from the catwalk. He asked her if she needed anything and she requested bhang tea. What he brought after an indeterminate time was actually much better than what she’d bought from a Hindu Kush trader on her way to Anatolia, and that had been memorably good. Chagatai’s household version was very creamy, spiced with turmeric and nutmeg and laced with wild honey. In no time all hints of headache were gone and she found herself ravenously hungry.

She was mildly surprised, lacking the energy for any stronger reaction, at how good her new husband smelled under the cloak of downy-soft, expertly tanned pelts. She leaned her cheek against the only-slightly-coarse curly hair of his chest --- an expanse so vast and warm she could imagine sleeping on it curled up like a cat on a cushion --- while inhaling notes of cooking meat, fresh milk, a thunderstorm on the grassland, and here and there elusive hints of exotic spices that must be native to these new lands she looked forward to knowing better. Perhaps he’d managed to wash up after the match, while a couple of maids had her change out of the elusive, slippery red silk dress and into an even slipperier, less-stable-seeming white one “so you’ll be easier to see in the dark.” Whatever, Nergui thought, still feeling as though none of this were quite real. His nose dipped frequently into her hair, taking her in just as she did him, his whiskers feeling like a gentle brush.

The Khan’s hand, when lightly resting around her waist, easily spanned the space from the bottom of her ribcage to the top of her hipbone. Either one hand or the other was always on her as he conversed casually with his other guests and confirmed his food and drink preferences with the servers. Those hands moved constantly and appreciatively over the slippery, shiny silk of her dress as if possessed of their own independent volition. Gradually they began to spend more and more time in some rather predictable places. Even as her ungovernable body wriggled shamelessly in response, she felt the strangers’ eyes on her, blushed, and shrank back further under the cloak.

“I’ve heard you’re very brave, Little Rabbit,” he murmured under the cover of nibbling on her earlobe. “Your other… target was always pretty private with his proclivities, wasn’t he? Tonight will be different. I need you to roll with it.”

She stiffened, but only slightly. For some reason, her muscles had gone mushy and her reactions seemed to take forever. “Oh?” She clung to him and looked up, conveying her best impression of a kitten afraid of being dropped. The soothing effect of his stroking fingertips made it a challenge.

“I have recently changed my mind about many things,” he went on, bending his head to hers again to exclude everyone else from their exchange. “In particular, I’ve found a deep respect for women; a respect that many of the men here tonight cannot imagine even on their best drugs.”

Nergui couldn’t help wondering if some extraordinary violence on Red Panda’s part had been involved. “But,” she protested scatteredly, “you’re Khan…”

“Yes,” he squeezed her shoulders affectionately, “I’m Khan. I’m the first ever to gather all these recent mortal enemies together for dinner, drinks, and amiable sport. They have to settle into that before I can start making them change anything else. They’re a rough bunch, you may have noticed.”

Nergui nodded. The smell of dried blood, dirty teeth, and hate-sweat seemed to hang in clouds over some groups of diners. The looks she’d gotten, and pretended not to notice, from many of the men had sent chilly, wet newt-feet of revulsion scurrying in panicky loops around her back. It wasn’t as if they were imagining tearing her clothes off and bedding her; that had been so commonplace in Anatolia that it bored her. Here, though, it was as if they were trying to decide which cuts of her flesh would cook up the tastiest over their fires. If she wasn’t so publicly claimed by their Khan, game-master, an undisputed apex predator, she might be down a long-drop toilet with no ladder in sight;

“After dinner, we’ll put on a show for them,” he said. “It’ll keep them together and behind me despite the fact that Dad and I haven’t held spear-points to their throats for a while now. I won’t really be rough with you, but you should help me make them think I am because that’s what they admire. Can you do that?”

Big, multisyllabic shrug. “I’m a spy. Pragmatism and pretense aren’t a problem.”

He pushed her hair back from her face and kissed her soundly. “Good sport. Thank you. And I will make it up to you.”

The evening wore on. Nergui, drugged and overstimulated to exhaustion with unfamiliar things crowding into every sensory receptor, drifted into hypnagogia. For most people that would mean a state between waking and sleeping where the boundaries between reality and the world of dreams seem to blur. For a shaman of Nergui's caliber, those boundaries can be hard to nail down even on a dull day. The various component souls that made up her consciousness began to peel apart like layers of baklava, which she’d heard earlier that Chagatai Khan had invented. Baklava had many layers; some sweet, some sticky, and some mostly nuts.

Nergui’s astral body stood up on the long table and walked its length, singing a selection that had risen to the surface of the Well of Songs just then:

“An echo of a distant time

Comes willowing across the sand

And everything is green and submarine...”

Normally, Nergui’s perambulating astral body was invisible to everyone except other shamans and the like, but tonight it seemed like about a quarter of the guests could see her.  The losing Kabul buzkashi riders waited on the winning team and the head table and seemed to carry out their duties with good grace despite numerous injuries. When Nergui strolled past the grand prize winner, who looked like he'd been rug-rolled and lived to tell about it, he looked up. More precisely, he tried to look up her dress. "You're from somewhere way up north, ain'tcha?" He grinned speculatively, showing off two new-looking gaps between his teeth. "Wanna come down here and keep a champ warm?"

"Shut up, puke-for-brains!" His teammate snarled under his breath, restraining him by a fistful of tunic. "That's the Khan's bride! The new one. Do you want to die a slow, horrible death? Or, worse, get banned from the League?"

“Well, what’s she wandering loose for then? Hasn’t even got her skin on! It’s just indecent.”

“ No one knows the where's or whys

Something stirs and something tries

Starts to climb toward the light... ”

“Well, the Khan’s given name means ‘Baby,’” said one of the younger men sitting near the head of the table was explaining to someone (maybe Nergui, maybe not), “and just look at him. He’s huge. So we all took similar nicknames. I’m short, so they call me Stretch. Farhad here is really tall, so he’s Shorty. Achmed’s constantly knurd from drinking too much coffee, so he’s Sleepy. Deepak does math and reads five languages, so he’s Dim. And Ashok is bald, so he’s… Baldy. The bald guy is always Baldy. I never met anyone who knew why.” Stretch tilted his head up and addressed one of the dragooned Kabul riders. “Hey! Slave-for-a-day! Where’s that horse blood we ordered?”

“That’s right, we’re all Mongols now, let’s drink some damn horse blood.”

Nergui grimaced. Mongols only drank horse blood in emergencies, when it was either that or die. And they only took as much as they absolutely needed. The horses walked away with a couple of stitches at most.

“That guy from Spain that came to KK? Calls us chupacaballos… That’s a good thing, right?”

On the catwalk above the tables, one of the servers nearly lost his footing. Horse blood sloshed over the rim of the pail he carried. The thick stream narrowly missed Nergui’s head and splashed on the table, slightly spattering the hem of her dress.

“Careful with that pail, Yevgeny,” his teammate admonished.

“Strangers passing in the street

By chance, two separate glances meet

And I am you and what I see is me…”

The Khan was generous with the horse blood to his guests who needed to prove something but took none himself. Nergui noticed that many dinner guests were beginning to succumb to the backlash from prolonged excitement, intoxication, and the presence of interesting strangers.

"What is a red panda, anyway?" a sumptuously dressed man in a turban was asking Retsuko. "Some kind of a bear?"

"More like a raccoon," she replied. "only a little bit bigger. Orangey red with white muzzles, eyebrows, and sideburns. They have ear tufts, but at the outer base of their ears, not at the tips like some lynx and foxes. And big fluffy orange-and-white tails."

"They sound attractive."

"Oh, they are. And a group of them can skeletonize an elk calf in a few minutes."

“No one crosses there alive

No one speaks and no one tries

No one flies around the sun…”

Nergui found herself walking a little faster as if she feared to be late for something. What she overheard became more and more disjointed.

“I was just telling him, he couldn't get into number two. He was asking why he wasn't coming up on freely after I was yelling and screaming and telling him why he wasn't coming up..”

“So buzkashi season is over and now what? Wrestling; we need some big events. I’ll miss the horses. Hey, could guys wrestle on horseback? Or they could have to balance whole their horses wrestle?”

“Well I mean, they're gonna kill ya, so like, if you give 'em a quick sh… short, sharp shock, they won't do it again. Dig it?”

“Those Euro-style horseshoes, they’re a bunch of extra work but they make to hooves a lot louder on hard ground. The enemy hears you gallop in like thunder. How loud can they get…?”

"I certainly was in the right! Haha! I was in the right!”

“And we should call ourselves the Children of Chaos! No, the Descendants of Disorder! No, the Lineage of Lawlessness! No...”

“... one of these days I’m going to cut you into little pieces... ”

Nergui turned around in a flash, hackles raised, suddenly primed for a fight.  Even though she felt sure it hadn’t been directed at her, she didn’t like anything about that last thing she’d heard.

She began walking slowly back toward her body, then paused in the middle and held out the translucent shadows of her arms, offering her song to the sky.

“And no one sings me lullabies

And no one makes me close my eyes

And so I throw the windows wide

And call to you across the sky...”

Whom was she addressing? She wondered… Why did she suddenly feel lonely? She was the newest addition to a world-famous family and half the gossipy old hemisphere had to be in attendance.

“I've been mad for foockin’ years, absolutely years,” someone out of sight said. “I've been over the edge for yonks. ”

People at and around the table were getting cozy, grouping up into little clusters of two to ten. See, not even this crowd uses just one big one. There were people in furs… and actual animals? Nergui really didn’t want to know. When she came back to her body, Nergui noticed something very like Retsuko’s description of a red panda jumping off Tai’s other knee, but that probably wasn’t real. Was it?

Settling back into her body, she found it slack yet restless from Tai’s hours of manual ministrations, which she’d eventually given up trying to reciprocate. She opened her eyes and climbed his torso to whisper in his ear.

"Tai." She took his earlobe between her teeth and laved it with her tongue. "Tai. Please. Please ."

Exactly what he’d been waiting to hear. She was ready. Deftly he picked her up and slid her to the middle of his lap.

“...Matter of fact, it’s all dark..” someone said far away.

Chapter Text

Somewhere, inside a bubble, one tiny speck barely bigger than the tip of a medical needle said: “What are those things?”

The other one said: “I feel like I used to know.”

The swarm of even smaller shapes, mindless and ravening, burst out of the liquid darkness, roaring and lashing a billion whiplike tails. They hurled themselves against the bubble wall as if intent on their own destruction.

“What the clot!?” exclaimed the first speck.

“Are they trying to get in and eat us?” wondered the other.

After a while: “It looks like they can’t get in,” said the first speck.

“Maybe that was why we had to make the wall stronger,” said the second speck.

“Hey!” the first speck cried out to the swarm, emboldened. “Go find your own bubble, losers! We were here first!”

“Yah boo! Sucks to be you!” the other one joined in.

“Is this what the Command means, I wonder? ‘Protect the world until it’s time to leave’?”

“Maybe… I wonder what else is out there.”

“I don’t care! I’m ready for a fight!”

“Me too!”

After another while the swarm dissipated, its components dead, fled, or dying.

“That was easy,” said one of the specks.

“And this is boring, ” said the other one.

Chapter Text

Nergui awoke lying on her side, face to face with her larger-than-life new husband. He appeared asleep but was not snoring, which surprised her a little. She hadn’t expected someone who made Chagatai’s level of noise while awake to let unconsciousness quiet him down. Instead, sleep washed his face of all the conceit and stubbornness and short temper, making the crooked straight and the rough places plain. She lightly stroked his unruly red-black-gold Borjigin hair and laid a gentle palm on his well-whiskered cheek. Chagatai Khan, she whispered voicelessly. My husband. It still didn’t seem real to her.

Someone's legs were wrapped around him, the ankles crossed behind his neck. 

After several uncertain, speculative seconds, Nergui finally realized they were her own.

How long ago had she been headed back to Kara Koram, inexplicably out of balance, her future the kind of blank slate that bothered her for some reason now, though it never had before? And now, without warning, the foreseeable future was all sewn up. Marriage to Tai might be many things, but “dull” probably wouldn't be one of them, at least when it was her turn. And, with all those other hundreds of wives, she’d have lots of free time to make her own entertainment.

And look, practically a whole day and night had gone without a single thought of DO NOT FINISH THAT SENTENCE, SELF. I'm warning you  -

A slow smile dimpled the boisterous monarch’s craggy, shaggy cheeks. You’re innocent when you dream, she thought. To her shamanic senses, Chagatai glowed with a red light not visible to normal eyes. into it, looking deeper, she saw row upon row of steel blades turned inward like mantis mandibles at rest. If awoken, they would tear through field or forest and leave nothing standing, and rend every soul in his path to scorched rags.

He's hella dangerous.

But then, these days, every man, woman, and child in Greater Mongol is probably either dangerous or dead.

One story went that Chagatai and his brother Jochi, early in the formation stages of Greater Mongol, had disagreed over whether to simply take over a certain town or “make an example” of it by killing all the inhabitants. Josh thought a massacre would send the right message. Tai didn’t see the point. They’d disagreed, then argued, then fought until the insults turned personal. Their father Genghis grew impatient and called in their little brother Ogedei, who made short (though messy) work of the town and returned to his own battlefront.

Now Oggy was Most Diplomatic, Tai was Most Feared, and Josh was Most Deceased. It just goes to show...

Under Chagatai’s wild eyebrows, gray eyes opened and twinkled at her in the dark.  “Little Rabbit,” he said. “If you’re awake, let’s take a walk.”

“Not sure I can walk right now,” she answered truthfully. “Can’t even feel my legs.”

“Then just hang on,” he said. Without further fuss he stood up, hands cupped under her behind, lifting her as if she weighed no more than a… well, a little rabbit , she guessed.

A series of felt tent-flaps brushed over her head until her skin felt the chill of outside air. Feeling her shiver, the Khan wrapped his cloak around them both. The chill suddenly made her remember the evil intent she’d felt before. "There's something really nasty hanging around," she told her husband. “I picked up on it at the banquet.”

Tai hesitated --- a mere blink, but Nergui caught it --- then grinned. "You'll have to be more specific. Lots of nasty things hang around big buzkashi games. Lots of nasty things hang around me."

"It was a woo-woo sort of thing," she explained. "Maybe a ghost or an afreet, or a spirit-heavy person. Not a happy or healthy entity, I'll say that much."

“Well, then, you’ll have to protect me. Little Rabbit,” he replied unconcernedly.

He carried her easily, wrapped in warmth under the stars. He described wonders of these lands that few outsiders had ever seen. He spoke of his plans to bring his people new opportunities and advantages and to make his Khanate the pride of Greater Mongol. Occasionally the inexorable tides of his blood would force an interruption when he would find a place to set her down or lean her against and satisfy the renewed demands of his flesh. The soma, bhang tea, and possibly other things she didn’t remember were wearing off and Nergui was beginning to feel like a sun-ripened stonefruit that had fallen from a tree on the top of a mountain and bounced off every sharp rock all the way down to a busy road, where it had been run over by multiple ox-drawn wagons going in both directions. Nevertheless, it felt so good at the same time... 

“How do you like your new home?” he asked, though she could tell it didn’t really matter what the answer was.

“I’ve never seen anywhere like it,” she responded honestly. “It’s fascinating.”

"You know, Oggy got the boss seat, and Josh got the most land, even if it's mostly frozen," he said, "but I love this place! The people, the land, the animals, the plants. Sometimes I think Tengri made it just for me. And maybe Dad, may he ride forever in the sky, thought so too. Can you tell, with all your woo-woo," he asked her with sudden soft seriousness, "can you tell if this land loves me back?"

Nergui felt a sudden warmth spill out of her heart and flood her with admiring affection for this remarkable leader, this most unusual man. "Yes, Tai," she said in full honesty, "I can tell that it really does." Then her eyes stung and she pressed her face to the red-gold-black curly hair spread across his massive cliff-face of a chest, knowing the tears would take over regardless.

"Hey. Hey." He curled an index finger under her chin and, once he overcame her desire to hide her weeping face, tilted it up toward him. He couldn't completely hide his look of shock when he saw it, but quickly shifted to a good-natured teasing chuckle. "Oh, no! I stole a woman and then somebody stole her from me! And they left me a... a troll or something!"

Nergui laughed too, despite herself, and buried her face again. “Didn’t your intel warn you that I was an ugly crier? Too bad; you’re married to it now. Your best option is to make sure I have no reason to cry.” She gave a long inward sniffle, recovering. “I’m usually not much of a Seer, but I wish you could see what I just saw.”

“Tell me.”

“Both your life and your memory will endure longer than any of your brothers’,” she began, feeling a personal pang at what that might mean for Ogedei even through her enveloping seers’ trance. “A thousand years from now, your people’s descendants, hundreds of miles from the Home Steppes, will count themselves as Mongols and you as their ancestor. Some will forsake Tengri for other gods, or for a belief in no gods, and still revere your memory. One of their languages will even be named after you.”

“Wow. I’m not even a --- word --- guy.”

“That isn’t even all, Chagatai Khan,” she continued in a voice that both was and was not her own. “All over the world, in places we won’t even hear of in this life, men who never heard your name will still want to be you. Their hearts will thrill to blinding speed and thundering sounds and well-forged steel and undying brotherhood.

“You’d like them,” she finished, her voice returning to normal.

“Makes it sound like I’m the fortunate son after all. My nephew Batu’s got the Golden Horde now, that’s Josh’s biggest territory. Before we got there, the locals did nothing but fight each other. Now they can safely build, travel, and trade, but instead they just whine about the ‘Mongol-Tartar yoke’ all the time.”

“Hey... fuck ‘em if they can’t take a yoke,” Nergui suggested.

The Khan was silent for a long moment. Then he began laughing so hard he had to find a rock to sit down on before he dropped her. “‘Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a yoke!’ I have to remember that one. Upon my soul, Khenbish’s Nerguitani,” he surprised her by using her real name. “I like you. I love all my wives, of course, but I don't really like that many of them.” 

He opened his cloak, letting the cold outdoor air chill her nipples to startled attention, and raised her chest to his lips. “Am I being good to you?”

“Of course, Khan.” To Nergui, it was the only possible answer.

“Good. Then I’m being who I want to be.” 

Here in the shank of the night, the encampment had quieted down considerably but not completely. Lone, shadowy figures could be seen inside tents pissing out and sometimes outside pissing in. Occasionally the Khan was recognized and acknowledged by a salute, a bow, or a dead faint. “I’m going to lead my subjects in learning to understand women,” he resumed after a while, “but I want something in return. I want women to understand...” (he waved his hand expansively) “ our kind of men. Lately I’ve been marrying women who might have a chance at it, unlike the Queen and most of my political marriages. What do you think of Blue Heron and Red Panda? Are they up to the job?”

Nergui wasn’t sure exactly where she’d expected this conversation to go, but it wasn’t here. Suddenly she wasn’t a party boy’s new toy anymore, but a pro being asked for advice by a canny statesman. Too many more reality lurches and she might throw up. “They’ve both been trained since childhood to anticipate and meet the needs of men in charge,” Nergui heard herself begin with unexpected coherence. “But most of the class time, I imagine, is spent on the most common types of men who end up in charge. The cold fish, the horndog. the stuffed shirt. the shouter. the peacock, the miser, the wastrel, the pouter…” She found herself looking down at her hands, where her fingers ticked away as she rapidly rattled off the roster… and her internal lodestar reminded her whom she addressed, “And all the many, many types of strong, smart, big-hearted men too, of course,” she broke off with forced brightness. “But a true wild man like you, ” she returned to what she suspected was his favorite subject, “that’s rare. I would be surprised if the standard consorts’ course in either Khongirad or Nihon went too far into it.

”Blue strikes me as a pretty standard Khongi, but I haven’t known her long and their facades are meant to be unbreachable. She’ll give you the reactions you seem to want, whether she really ‘gets you’ or not. Red’s different. She’s got so much rage and rebellion going on inside that her game-face is held in place with a few strands of braided grass. Let her know that you accept everything about her and you two might turn out to be soulmates.” And Kayra bar the door if they have children, she thought inwardly.

“And what about you?” the Khan asked, shifting her on his lap so she faced him more fully. “You, who stood down Baiju Noyan. Do you think he and I are alike?”

“Hmm… only in that you’re both driven from root chakras that demand constant refueling. Other than that, you scorch where he freezes.”

“‘Refueling,’. You make it sound like work.”

“Isn’t it? When you need that much, doesn’t it all start to seem the same? Does any of it mean anything?”

“That’s,” he said, “what nobody gets. It means everything. ”

“...Tell me more.”

“When a woman shares her body, she gives me a new life . It’s the only time I feel like I’m not dying. I know she’s also got a mind and a soul and so on, but the body’s what does the most for me. The more I try to explain, though, the more insulted and pissed off women get. You seem to get something out of it, at least, but I can tell you’re not like me. Do you think there are women like me?”

“I’ve never met any, but... the theories of balance suggest they’re out there. You know what? The retired Khagatuns at Dower House Five probably know. Next time you’re in KK...”

“Even if they do know, it’s not exactly the kind of thing a guy asks his moms, ” Tai cut her off, his voice tinged with horror.

“Oh… sorry… forgot about that. They are your moms, aren’t they? Yeah, that would be pretty awkward.”

“Come back over here. Help me get that thought out of my head.”

“See? You do have an imagination.” Grinning, she booped his nose as only someone with a history of nose-booping Siberian tigers would have dared.

“Guess what I’m imagining right now, ” he mock-growled, then abruptly fell silent.  A wolf’s howl, distant but carrying over the rocky landscape, cut through the clear night.

Chagatai the Inevitable, wild-man of the millennium, sagged and rested his bearded chin on one massive fist, seeming to gaze out past the borders of his beloved Khanate. When he finally spoke, his “Awww, shit ” was entirely heartfelt.

“They wouldn’t attack this many people,” Nergui reassured him, yet wondered all the same. In her native Taiga, you could scarcely go out to the pit at night without almost stepping on a wolf, but the locals had dedicated generations’ worth of time and energy demonstrating that some other source of meat --- any other source of meat --- would be a softer target. But this was a strange land, full of strange things, and anything that could worry Chagatai…

“Let’s go back to the ger and get some sleep,” Tai decided, scooping her up.

“Some more of that ointment, too,” she agreed with a yawn. 

Chapter Text

No Name Girl awoke under the eternal blue sky, bright sunlight stabbing through the gaps between her eyelashes. 

Too bright. And it was too windy. And there was a distinct lack of pillows and carpets between her bare back and the scrubby grass. As a matter of fact, the only thing unchanged from when she’d gone to sleep was a certain absence of clothing.

She’d gone to sleep indoors --- yes, that was the right word; it had been a beautiful big solid ger with multiple layers of wall and real doors. What did the Turkmen in warmer Anatolia call the insides of their lightweight tents? she wondered hazily. “In flaps ?” 

No, no, come back. Think, she commanded herself. Something important happened. You need to focus and figure out what it is.

There had been a game. A vast, noisy one that went on forever. And a party of more or less the same sort.

A wedding?

Possibly her wedding?

Her head began to pound as loud as an empty barrel bouncing down a rockslide. She couldn’t look too closely at that idea. Not yet.

She remembered falling asleep at some point inhaling the scents of incense and perfume. In a pile of warm, beautiful pillows and rugs. Silk and fine wool… and wolf skins?

The Yasa laws of Greater Mongol reserve wolf skins for the use of the Altan Urag , the Golden Family...

She let her head turn very slowly to the side. The light became less blinding. She opened her eyes just the merest crack. 

The steppe was empty of any human soul, living or dead. But all around her lay the picked-over scraps of a violent game and a great feast, mixed in with the miscellany people tend to drop during a hasty departure. 

Maybe someone had dropped something she could wear? She smelled rain, close by and moving in. But that would have to wait: She could still smell wolf skins nearby, but unlike the royal prerogatives, these wolf skins were still worn by the original owners.

She could see ten big gray wolves just in this random direction, nosing rather fussily through the food scraps. Formidable hunters, to be sure, but not too proud for a free meal when nobody who mattered was looking.

Had they noticed her? If so, it wasn’t obvious. Maybe if she lay still they’d fill up on the acres of easy leftovers and go away.

Yeah.

Maybe.

From behind her, an exhalation of nearby breath moistened her cheek. She stopped breathing. Some sniffing, some drooling… then jaws closing on her outer ear.

(Hey! That’s mine! I was wearing it. Could you not eat that, please?)

The wolf and all its friends looked up in abrupt unison. Nergui’s interlocutor had let go of her ear, but its sticky drool still dripped onto her face. She sensed a picture being relayed from one wolf mind to another from the direction of the interruption. Finally, the wolf standing over her projected:

(Are you… a horse? )

Somehow, Nergui managed to reflect that the wolf’s incredulous tone was not unreasonable. While a lone wolf might take the long way around a large stallion, a pack was unlikely to be impressed.

(Horse-shaped but… not a normal horse).

(You don’t say?... Well, lucky for you I’m not a ‘normal wolf’ either).

Dogman? Nergui tentatively joined the telepathic conversation.

(Shapeshifter), the wolf corrected her. (This is the Great Khan’s volunteer pack. On the longer, more complicated missions it helps to have a few human minds sprinkled in. Some of the Dogmen do good wolf shapes, but so far they can’t get the scent quite right and the regular troops don’t trust ‘em.)

And may I ask…?

(We were tasked with extracting you and doing a little judicious punitive damage. You’re wanted back in KK.)  

Nergui looked around at the devastation, the confusion of hoofprints and wheel-tracks, the scattering of forgotten items over more than a square mile. They couldn’t have just pidged?

(The Khagan said to, er, send a stronger message and make sure it was obeyed. You should have seen all those people bhaag out. Like termites when the nest is kicked. Anyway, now we’ll escort you back and keep you safe. And don’t worry, none of us bother horses. It’s part of the agreement).

She sat up and took stock. A few shreds of slippery silk that used to be a wedding dress failed to provide minimal decency, let alone warmth. She still wore Borte’s rock-crystal pendant, thank Tengri; she’d become fond of it, but the sooner she gave it back, the fewer chances she’d lose or break it. The fourth finger of her left hand sported a ring made from a coin stamped with Chagatai's tamga, his personal insignia. It fit perfectly. Probably keeps a whole range of sizes around, she supposed. Beats being branded.

Also new, and poking coldly into her stomach, was an elaborately worked chain belt that rode low on her hips. Each link was in the form of a goat's skull the size of her palm. Red and blue rose-cut gems glittered from the eye-sockets. The mirror-finish metal was yellow, soft, and as heavy as regret.

When she stood up, its weight pulled the remains of her dress even further out of place. She was also barefoot. I don’t guess anybody found any decent boots lying around? Sandals, even? Her rescuers were silent except for scattered leftover-chomping sounds. Sultan? She sent out further. Could you find your tack and the saddlebags again? The Fork-Tongued Son of a Bitch had crashed the buzkashi field as naked as the day he was foaled. Nothing an opponent could easily grab.

(You can ride barefoot, can’t you?) the shapeshifter suggested.

Nergui took a step and winced. “No,” she demurred. “I don’t think I can. Not the usual way, at least.”

It started to rain.

Chapter Text

BANG! BANG! BANG! went the ponderous gates of the State Armory outside Kara Koram at an improbable hour of the night.

“All right! All right already!” yelled Tegshe the relief guard, who had been relieving himself. “Hold your horses!” A frantic shake and two inevitable drips later, he slid open the viewing slot. Far from being at his battle best, he still wasn’t stupid.

There was a horse out there. It put a big rolling eyeball up to the slot, nickered as if satisfied with what it saw, turned around, and ran away into the night.

Well, thought the guard, no stupider now than he’d been before. This is a new one.

“Hey! Zhou!” he whisper-yelled to the wall-top patrol, throwing a small pebble that unfortunately went clear over the wall instead of making the intended attention-getting noise. “What’s the view up there?”

“That was one pretty horse. Long gone, though.” 

“Anything else? Like, in front of the gate?”

“I don’t know. There’s a darker patch… like maybe a pile of rags or something, right in front of the door. If it starts burning, don’t run out and stomp on it! That was a prank we used to do back on Qinghai, we’d set a paper bag on fire with poop inside ---”

“Welcome to the Home Steppes, bro. We burn poop every day. Once you’re out of the trees, it’s all there is to burn. Who’s up in the tower tonight?”

“Supposed to be Boris.”

“Holler up at him, see what he sees.”

“Only what Zhou said,” reported a new voice. “Nothing else around. Just that pile of rags or whatever. We could just leave it till morning and look at it in the light.”

“Whoa! It moved!” Zhou blurted. “And something’s shiny --”

“All right, I’m taking a look,” Tegshe sighed. “Cover me, you ball-sacks. I don’t want to regret this.”

“Yeah, well, my ball-sack would --- ” Boris chortled as Tegshe leaned out of the sally port. 

“It’s a woman,” Tegshe interrupted. “Looks local...ish. Not in good shape. Pass the word for whatever medics are awake. I’ll bring her in.”

Wolves howled, far away. Not far enough, in Tegshe’s opinion. ‘Leave it till morning’? Tengri’s toes, Boris. By then she’d have been...

“Medics are on their way,” Zhou reported, sliding down the ladder to ground level. 

“She’s warm… more or less... breathing all right and not bleeding, but she’s out like a snuffed oil-lamp. I wonder if she has a paiza,” Tegshe thought aloud. “Or anything to tell us who she is.”

“How many of her clothes do you reckon we should take off to find out?” Boris called down.

"What th' flutterin' feck?” snarled a female voice perfectly tuned for outrage. “Can a colleen not shut ‘er eyes for an hour in this saints-forsaken bothy? My rooms are right upstairs, yer daft shitebirds!” 

A disarranged haystack of orange-red hair. Pinkish, polka-dotted skin. Eyes the blinding green of spring grass. A dressing-gown and slippers of butter-yellow pilled wool. Any random citizen of Greater Mongol who had never met Smithereen Darga, the Agency’s Director of Various Incendiary Weapons, or any of her small army of look-alike brothers making themselves useful in various capacities about the capital, might think they confronted an evil spirit (or one of the phantom creatures one sees after drinking evil spirits). 

She always looked as if she were on fire, partly because her hair was the color of a sunset through a sandstorm and partly because, while she was working, some spot or other on her special leather coverall was usually smoldering. Wherever the Tang Dynasty’s dubiously medicinal black powder was persuaded to form controlled streams of flame or earth-shattering kabooms, Smithereen’s fine hand contributed to its making. The entire population of the Armory wished they could follow her around wide-eyed all day, just to see what she would do next. All that stopped them was her towering temper. Even the boldest Turks and Pathans took the long way around to dodge her excoriations. When Smithereen raised her voice, the best course of action was to slink away as inconspicuously as possible or, better yet, arrange never to have been there at all.

Which was not to say that she never made friends, or that she ever forgot the ones she made. When she saw the face of the unconscious woman lying in a heap on the floor, she froze in surprised recognition… but only for an instant. “This woman don’t need no stinkin’ paiza, yer shower of unwashed bollocks!  This is the war hero who just pulled the Southeast Battle-front's fat out the fire! And a friend of mine. And she's clearly in a bad way. So two of you carry her up to my lodgings, and the rest of you, unless you can make yourself medically useful, piss off!”

A lot of off was still being pissed when a very tall Oguz Turk strode upstream to meet Smithereen and her improvised cohort. “Oh. Hallo, Sun, how’s she cuttin’?” Smithereen almost diffidently greeted Sungurtekin Mergen, the Great Khan’s spymaster for Anatolia. He visited the Armory a few times a week to train and teach the fighting style of the Turkmen Alp warriors, and he and Smithereen had developed the mutual respect of colleagues from different fields who nonetheless Knew Their Shit.

“I... couldn’t help overhearing,” he addressed her dryly. “Is that Khenbish’s Nerguitani?... Ah. Good. Well, not completely good , but...”

“She’s quare knackered for a start. We’re up the stairs to my gaff. Come morning we’ll see what the story is and pidge ‘Q.”

“I think it’s best if you take care of her and let me take care of letting people know. The Palace is taking an interest. I’ll ride to KK right now.”

“Grand,” she yawned, flapping a hand to signify all the niceties she couldn’t quite vocalize at the moment.  “Say howya to that luscious Darga, her what’s always kitted out like a festival doll. This late of an hour, ye might get a butcher’s at what she wears to bed.”

Sun’s stare was carefully blank.

“I know you’re sweet on Gwei-Gwei’s boss. We’re all spies, remember? And I always mark my rivals extra sharp,” Smithereen winked and grinned.

Sun walked away, shaking his head. He’d gotten used to listening to a wide variety of accents; it was a basic survival skill in KK, where everyone came from somewhere else. Smithereen 's homeland, however, was so far away that understanding her was a special challenge. Case in point: Her response to being stared at by anything from a cat to a king was an indignant "'Feck ye gawkin' at, ye eedjit?" One or more bewildered new acquaintances concluded that "Feckyegawkinatchaeedjit" must mean "Hello" in her language.  People were strolling around the Armory and half of greater KK nodding and waving, cheerfully calling out "Feckyegawkinatchaeedjit!" to random passersby, Things might have gone very badly if someone had said it to Smithereen, but luckily a couple of her slower-fused brothers heard it first. Once they recovered from their laughing fit enough to breathe normally, they explained and straightened everyone out.

Still, Sun thought. Had she really said ‘rival’? But she and Chagaanirvys Darga were both women! How would two women even… when neither of them had a…  

Suleyman Shah’s son Sungurtekin might have been blessed with one of the mightiest brains on the continent, but he’d had a bit of a sheltered upbringing.

Meanwhile, up the stairs to Smithereen’s gaff, a medic and her assistant cleaned Nergui up and gave her a once-over, decided there was nothing obvious that needed doing before she woke up, and withdrew. Smithereen covered Nergui first with a wool blanket and then with a soft elk hide, then climbed in beside her. “Fellas kip warmer,” she murmured to herself around another yawn, “but colleens don’t fart the bed.”

The lamp went out. A few minutes later, as if to put the lie to her words, the blankets puffed up, jiggled briefly, then drifted back down around them.

Chapter Text

That squelchy feeling of slogging through mud in drenched boots is one of those sensations that can encourage people to re-evaluate their career choices. Deimos the trade guide was the latest of millions throughout history (and mere thousands of non-warriors) to do so. His Venetian client was paying him handsomely, but it wasn’t enough for this.

Ten more steps off the path and he stopped, made a megaphone of his hands, and shouted is a voice growing hoarse: “Niccolo!”

Several hundred yards away, his old school chum Phobos, sounding equally exasperated, called out in the opposite direction: “Polo!”

When the two of them were finishing their cartography apprenticeships in Athens, it had seemed such a marvelous idea. Instead of copying maps for the rest of their lives, why not use what they knew to help others - others who could afford it, of course - go to all those places? With the Pax Mongolica in full force, the Silk Road was hot, hot, hot (at least during those times of the year it wasn’t cold, cold, cold). There was no shortage of Europeans eager to buy icons in Constantinople, sticky desserts in Bursa, carved wooden spoons in Tarakli, cart-wheels in Tyre, or genuine replica holy hand grenades in Antioch. Were there thieves in Baghdad or griffins in Merv? And were Far Eastern lady-parts arranged at a different angle than their Western counterparts? (Definitely not; Deimos and Phobos had lost no time in checking).

“Niccolo!” shouted Deimos.

“Polo!” shouted Phobos, even farther away now.

Blame it on being shut away in study for too long, but the entrepreneurial pair had reckoned without what actual human beings were like. The interesting, fun, young ones whose money covered only a couple of sticky desserts in Bursa. The ones that had money, but (a) got sick and had to go home early (a common digestive complaint following excessively sticky desserts was now known as “Bursitis”) or (b) assumed that foreign places had no rules at all and had to be hustled out one step ahead of the Silk Road Guard. Then there were the churchmen, both Roman and Orthodox, ambitious to bring the stubborn Nestorians in from the cold; the less the two more-than-moderately attractive young Greeks said about them, the better.

But this guy… this guy was another bowl of avgolemono altogether. Constantly wandering away! Apparently at a rare turn of speed, considering they’d both tried to keep a sharp eye on him after the first few times. He’d see some shiny object in his peripheral vision and off he’d go. And just because the road was safe, that didn’t mean every forest, canyon, mountain, and desert within sight of it was just as safe. Particularly for an excitable foreign man wearing several gold chains, eight layers of velvet, and a hat silly enough to rival anything the Kyrgyz could fashion from felt.

Deimos shouted, “Niccolo!”

Phobos started to shout “Pol -”

“Hey!” a woman’s voice interrupted them. They both spun around, slack-jawed. While they had been disconsolately searching for their missing client, out of the unrelenting misty drizzle had stepped one of the strangest-looking apparitions they’d ever seen --- and they’d been working the Silk Road long enough for that to really mean something. 

The woman --- smallish even for a Mongolian, wet as a mad hen, with yellow-ochre eyes that would give a charging Minotaur second thoughts if not for the reddened lid-rims --- was outfitted in a bizarre mixture of rags and riches. She wore one boot and one slipper, both too big but by different degrees. A wide, elaborately worked golden girdle rode low on her hips and did a not-very-good job of holding an assortment of motley, muddy scraps of fabric together as a makeshift skirt over her bare legs.  A saddlebag slung around her neck covered what some torn scraps of silk probably didn’t, but set off a fine Byzantine rock-crystal pendant at the notch of her collarbone. She led a truly magnificent horse by the bridle, but it had no reins or saddle. Loping gray shapes crossed back and forth behind them, but both woman and horse ignored them. She beckoned Deimos and Phobos with a brusque gesture.

“What’s all the noise?” she asked them when they reached a conversational distance. “I’ve got a headache like a thunderstorm.” One of the pacing shadows came forward to sit beside her, resolving into the shape of a large wolf with eyes the same color as the woman’s. Absently she scratched behind its ear.

“Look at that wolf! It’s Hekate!” Phobos whispered urgently in Deimos’s ear. “Are we dead?” 

Wasn’t the Greek death goddess supposed to be older? flashed through Deimos’s mind. And weren’t her horses supposed to be black? And didn’t she hang around cave entrances? Still, there’s kind of a vibe... And finally a halfway useful thought: “We’re Christians, goofus,” he told his partner. “There’d be angels if we were dead.”

“You’re not dead,” the woman assured them. “I would know. Now, what’s so wrong you have to yell?”

Bit by bit, taking turns, the guides blurted out the story of their errant Venetian merchant. “Venice,” she said. “That’s one of the Italic states, right?”

“Yes,” they affirmed in unison.

“Let me try,” she advised them. Then, barely raising her voice, she said to the surrounding landscape: “Hello! I am a half-naked woman with a champion horse! We’re vulnerable and need help!”

“Bellisima,” said a richly dressed gentleman who suddenly appeared out of nowhere to kiss her hand and simultaneously pat her rear end. “I am Maestro Niccolo Polo, at your command. And who might you be?” 

She managed to turn away from the offending hand without planting an elbow in the bridge of its owner’s nose. “I am Nergui Khatun, wife of Chagatai Khan.” As far as she knew, still having the ring meant she could still make the claim. May as well squeeze all the juice out of that before it spoils, she thought. “If you should have a spare long coat, saddle, rope, and three or four very soft pillows to spare, my husband will be materially grateful,” she lilted with more confidence than she felt.

Half an hour of rummaging, fetching, stacking, winding, wiggling, and flopping later, Nergui flopped forward on the stack of pillows and locked her ankles under the cantle of the saddle. The horse took four or five accelerating strides and disappeared, followed by a gust of wind and a startling boom --- coincidental thunder, right?

“You’re still sure that wasn’t Hekate?” Phobos challenged his friend.

“I’d heard they had a different style of riding out here,” Deimos said distantly, “but I never pictured that.”  

“ Le magnifiche natiche della donna mongola, ” sighed Maestro Niccolo Polo, wiping a tear from his eye. “Someday I will bring my son to see these wonders of the world.”

Chapter Text

“Smithereen Darga just had me called back,” the night medic explained nervously. “We’d agreed to let her rest for the night and check her when she woke up. But she didn’t wake up, and so far… she won’t. All her external wounds are superficial, just scrapes and bruises. We thought she might have come across some bandits and fought them off somehow, or...”

Borjigin Genghis’s Tolui, the former Khagan Regent, picked up Nergui’s pale, inert left hand and examined the heavy silver ring made from a coin bearing Chagatai’s tamga. “Well. here’s your problem,” he said in a voice so dry it made the medic gulp saliva. “Tai never could take care of nice things.”

Tolui’s brother, Ogedei Khagan, stood beside him with a neutral but very solidly set expression. A stranger might take it as contemplation, perhaps of a decision not yet made. Those who knew him well recognized it as a sharp blade held to the hummingly tight restaining rope of a very large siege engine. “That’ll be all, Doctor,” he said in an uninflected indoor voice that went straight to the medic’s spinal cord and lost no time propelling her out of Smithereen’s apartment. 

“Are you getting anything, Lui?” Ogedei asked once they were alone. 

Tolui, still holding Nergui’s wedding-ringed hand, put his other hand on top of it and looked down at her. A green aura flared and died around him. “I’m getting memories of a rough trip home; most of her physical pain is from that, though not all.” He paused. The green aura lit up again, its spikes moving as though the light was being tuned. “Mentally, she’s shielded; probably a trained-in precaution. Emotionally, she’s been in serious distress for --- I don’t know, maybe weeks? That’s probably what’s keeping her knocked out. Spiritually, I can’t seem to get a clear picture. It’s as though she’d been attacked… something like a parasite, some kind of compound or colony entity feeding on her nei chi. ”

“Can you banish it?”

Tolui sucked his teeth and shook his head. “I hesitate to try. It’s thoroughly entangled with her on multiple planes. I might be able to get it out, but it might take a lot of her with it.”

“Is she dangerous to be around? Could others be affected?”

“Nnnn… no. I’m not getting that at all. It’s growing, but very slowly. There are places where it’s run into her surface, but it turns around and goes back in rather than trying to break through.”

“Even if Tai didn’t do most of this damage, his obliviousness probably made it worse. What in Tengri’s name was he thinking?”

“That a magical healing hoo-ha makes a good party favor? If he was thinking anything at all.”

“If we lose her...”

“We won’t. She feels strong, just mostly very unhappy right now.”

“I’ve wronged her, Lui,” the Khagan concluded. “I sent her to Baiju and I didn't protect her from Tai...”

“Oggy, don’t start,” Tolui admonished. “It’s great that you feel all this responsibility and have all this empathy for your subjects, but when it starts bogging you down it’s too much.”

“Dad - may he ride forever in the sky - used to say the trick is to never stand still…” Ogedei’s voice sounded far away.  

“Tai’s in a position to take full advantage of that,” Lui reminded him, “but we all talked about it, remember? Millions of people have to know where to find us. First, we have to get on maps, and then somebody has to stay put in that spot, and in this generation it’s you and I. So you just concentrate on being Mr. Popular and leave the broody moods to me. I’ve got a lot more practice.”

Ogedei reached out a big war-beaten hand and stroked No Name Girl’s hair delicately, almost pleadingly. “Perhaps if she had some… better experiences?” 

After a moment the unconscious woman turned her face toward the caressing hand, inhaled her sovereign's scent, and sighed deeply, relaxing visibly.

“Like a flower turning toward the sun,” Tolui shook his head again, expressing an envy so long ago drained of malice it couldn’t get a minnow-sized Evil Eye open. “Don’t know how you do it.”

“It’s a Borjigin thing.” As if on cue, the sun ditched its stalking clouds and flooded through the window behind the Great Khan. It hit Nergui at just the right angle, transforming her drawn pallor from sickly to… interesting.

“Say, Lui,” he said, suddenly very still. “As part of your Paperwork Introduction initiative: Can your scribes draw up a quick divorce decree?”

“We can do better,” Tolui grinned indulgently. “Already have a separate stack with Tai’s name filled in. Frequent needs must when Erlik drives.”

“The Palace doctors should have a look at her, but I’m thinking this whole blabbermouth town doesn’t necessarily need to know.”

“You divert attention. I’ll leave her hostess a note and take her through the tunnels.”

“You think of everything, brother.”

Chapter Text

“She looks better already,” Tolui commented approvingly.

“I had my maids give her a good warm wash and toweling-down,” Empress Toregene explained. Nergui was still unconscious, lying slack in the arms of one of the larger Palace guards, but her expression was more relaxed than before and a hint of color had come back to her cheeks. Her damp hair had waves that would get lost in the cloud-like thickness once it dried. She was wrapped in a much-too-big tunic that reached past her knees. It was cashmere, dyed a silk-green so deep as to appear bottomless, with simple geometric embroidery.

“What’s that she’s wearing?” Tolui wondered why men’s clothes often looked better when women wore them.

“One of Oggy’s nightshirts he left in my rooms,” Tori replied. “Well, nobody has any clue where her own things are. And my stuff’s all too small. I figured this would be comfortable at least.”

“I found a room that’s out of the regular traffic, just used for storage. Let’s put her in there for now, If she wakes up -”

"When, Lui; when she wakes up.”

“Of course, Khagatun,” Tolui bowed elaborately. 

“Oh, stop taking the piss,” she chided him without any real annoyance. She’d known the brothers Borjigin since childhood. Josh the snide one, Tai the noisy one, Oggy the nice one, and Lui who kept to himself a lot.

Lui reached for his ring of Palace keys, but the door was already unlocked as usual. After studying the former Jin and still-extant Song cultures, he’d concluded that Mongols were far too relaxed about defense. “But.. we’re always the ones attacking,” said nearly everyone he’d tried to explain it to. When he pulled the door open, a lithe black-and-tan shadow hissed its displeasure and streaked past his legs. “Dammit,” he said, taken slightly off-balance.

“See? If we’d locked it, he’d have been locked in,” Tori said with a note of triumph. “Now, where’s his ---”

{LOO-oo-eee}, came an uncanny snarl from between a pair of haphazardly deposited chests of drawers.

“Shut Up,” he said happily, reaching down into the darkness with what might seem to the casual observer to be a foolhardy bare hand. “You said my name! Can you say it again?” But instead of drawing back the bloody stump implied by the tone of that eerie voice, he seemed to find what he was looking for and his smile widened. 

During the previous month, an ambassador of the Khmer Empire had visited from faraway Angkor. Among the gifts for the respected Great Khan was a pair of the famous royal cats of Sukhotai. Black-masked with cerulean blue eyes, they were as clever as monkeys and almost as adroit. No pantry lock could discourage them. Their Thai names had beautiful meanings, but were difficult for non-Thais to pronounce or remember.  The cats soon concluded, after various interactions with the Palace staff, that they’d been given new Mongolian names.

Their new names, to which they now obligingly answered when in the mood, were Dammit and Shut Up.

“What’cha been eatin’, little kitty?” Tolui asked in a teasing voice. “Feels like you got fat since I saw you last.”

{NO-o-o}, said a highly unnatural, yet intelligible,  voice, and then after a slight hesitation, {LLOO-eee}.

“Oh my Tengri, Lui! Tell me you haven’t taught those beasts to talk. We’ll never hear the end.” Tori admired the creatures’ beauty and grace, but hadn’t embraced them wholeheartedly. At the end of the day she deeply prized her favorite outfits, and most were trimmed with fur, feathers, fleece, dangling beads and tassels, and other temptations to the destructive instincts of bored domestic felines. Dogs were equally susceptible and could do more widespread damage in a shorter time; yet, closed doors and shame were proof against dogs, while such measures only seemed to strengthen housecats’ resolve. “Should they be in here with No Name Girl? Won’t they disturb her?”

“We want her to wake up, right?”

“Good point. Maybe we should put her closer to the construction?”

“Last week a cable snapped and dropped a beam that brought down a finished wall.”

“Or not… Hey, let me try something.” Tori picked up the hem of her purple brocade deel and placed it in Nergui’s hand. Suddenly… nothing happened.

“In traditional European medicine,” she felt obliged to explain. “touching the hem of a king’s robe is supposed to cure subjects’ illnesses.”

“Maybe it doesn’t work with queens,” Lui conjectured. “I heard European queens don’t count for much more than ornamental heir dispensers. And if it doesn’t work with you , my ex-regent self has a fried potato’s chance in a zuud. ”

“They also think a prince’s kiss is supposed to wake up an unconscious woman.”

“Well, that I could probably do.” He leaned over Nergui and briefly bumped lips with her. This time… even more nothing happened.

“Reports differ,” said Tori soothingly, not wanting her brother-in-law to lose face. “Some say it has to be a kiss of true love.”

“Won’t work between strangers, then, unless at least one of them’s completely irrational. Does the true love have to be on the kisser’s side or the kissee’s? Or both?”

Tori shrugged, equally bereft of inspiration. “The king thing sounds easier. Oggy should be home soon.”

The two of them left the room, closing the door behind them. 

After a few minutes of quiet, Shut Up wriggled awkwardly out of the haphazard maze of stored furniture. To a human, the room would have been dark, but to the cat it was close to daylight. She needed a soft space that was defensible. As she made her way to the bed, anyone watching would have noticed that her usual weightless and frictionless sashay was degraded to a weary, burdened waddle. As she'd been too embarrassed to emerge and show anyone, but Lui had sort of guessed anyway, her  abdomen was quite enlarged. And, adding insult to injury, lumpy. 

The manifestly unhappy feline struggled to climb onto the bed. Normally, she could leap five times as high without even thinking about it. Oh well, it’d soon be over.

Nergui, still unconscious, had rolled over onto her side and half-curled her body toward the wall. Shut Up scrambled into the nest-like space between the heater-monkey and the wall, and settled in to wait.

It wouldn’t be long now.

Chapter Text

Holy steppe-dumplings, it’s good to be out of that body, Nergui reflected. I’ve got to find out what’s wrong with it.

Her consciousness drifted lazily in the Well of Songs. Not in the overbright, densely packed center where they kept the dangerous songs, but in the tranquil outer whorls of lullabies and drinking songs, where nothing was very challenging.  She reached into a jar of especially tasty qi she’d collected from a passing cloud and licked a big dollop off her fingers. Had it been from someone or something that had passed near her body in the physical world? I wouldn’t mind some more of this. It was as if honey, saffron, and smoked venison had a beautiful, beautiful baby…

(Frogspawn? Is that you over there)? came a somewhat hollow version of a once-familiar voice.

Dad? Nergui answered tentatively.

(Who else gets away with calling you that?) chided Khenbish, the former battle-shaman of Temujin-who-became-Genghis, may he ride forever in the sky.

I’m just surprised. I haven’t heard from you except when I died. I’d get up and hug you but I’m kind of amorphous right now.

(That’s what I came to tell you about. You need to get back in your body before it gets too tight. You’ve been out longer than you think. It’s starting to worry people. Specifically, people with large and fancy hats).

Sorry, Dad. I guess I lost track of time. I just felt like such guano... Hey, can you see what’s wrong with me?

(It’s a bit far off my migration path. Your mother might be a better one to ask. On the other hand, she’s a little peeved at not getting an invitation to your wedding).

I didn’t get one either. She shouldn’t feel singled out. Plus, I don’t know if the wedding really ‘took’. 

(Things will probably get more confusing before they clear, but you still need to Mongol up and get back down there).

Okay, Dad. Understood.

(Good news is, you can snag more of that qi if you get a move on).

Chapter Text

When Shut Up’s water broke, it drenched the blanket and the heater-monkey underneath. She was afraid of losing her defensible living fortress that protected her from all the directions the wall didn’t, but nothing moved.

For once, Shut Up was determined to be as quiet as possible. It was a point of pride with the queens in her Sukothai cat colony. Birthing kittens might hurt enough that you wanted to scream the roof down, but you didn’t. No, you ‘Meezered up and bore down and got through it with no more than a soft peep or two. Extra kudos if you could keep purring the whole time. The vibration relaxed over-tensed muscles, and it was a great first sound for the little ones to hear as they entered the world.  

It all went back, Shut Up understood, to the ancient wild, before the royal feline colonies were given their own Palace apartments and whole hereditary families of skilled, attentive hairless-monkey servants. Beyond the embrasured walls of civilization, the steaming jungles of the Khmer Empire were chockablock with other carnivores that considered newborn kittens a delicious snack. Finding good hiding places and enduring labor pains in silence were skills each generation of cats kept as sharp as their lock-picking claws. 

She lifted the base of her tail and let the rest of the length hang. She turned around, sat down, stood up, turned around again until she felt the first tiny head crowning. Then she balanced on her lower spine, reached down, and licked the kitten’s head as well as its stretched surroundings. Wiggle, pace, curl, straighten, Purr, purr, purr, 

A squeak and a peep from the little one. That was one down. No sooner did Shut Up bite the cord and finish its bath than it latched voraciously onto a nipple. Couldn’t they wait until they were all born? Of course not. Shut Up knew how many nipples she had, and each of the kittens probably knew how many siblings there would be, but the final nipple-to-kitten ratio wouldn’t be determined until the end. Add to that the unshakeable kitten conviction that some nipples were more desirable than others.

Through it all, the heater-monkey lay still and warmed up the wet blanket. Shut Up had to admit: In this boisterous, tactless, often tail-freezing place... this particular monkey verged on acceptable.

Shut Up’s large, sensitive ears swiveled toward the door. Someone was out there. She hoped Dammit stayed wherever he’d run off to for a while. Would he be able to tell these babies weren’t his?

Chapter Text

Ogedei Khagan sat on his private bed in his private room on the very top floor of the World Peace Palace. No one else was allowed in this room, not even to clean it. He needed a place where he didn’t have to concern himself with anyone else; where he could converse with his late father Genghis, may he ride forever in the sky, or privately enjoy all manner of bribes and seized contraband, or even pee out the window into the rock garden if he chose. When he wanted to see his wives, he visited their own well-appointed apartments. For other liaisons, there were guest rooms, garden gazebos, tower solaria, and other accommodations limited only by the parties’ imagination. The Great Khan’s imagination probably had limits, but he hadn’t run into them yet. But this room was his alone. 

At least, it was supposed to be.  

Unbidden and only half-intentional, his hand opened the top nightstand drawer and withdrew a small scroll he could now recognize by feel alone, and unrolled it by the light of an oil lamp.  

The artist wielding the ink-brush had been very good. He was, rumor had it, a former Tibetan monastery boy who had become a Darga in the army. Ogedei often wondered what else he could do.

The picture showed a couple astride a tall, proud-looking, but fidgety coal-black stallion. The tension between all three subjects was palpable. The man was a seasoned Mongol warrior with plumbline-straight- blue-black hair and whiskers, wearing a general’s armor and a challenging grin on a face much more accustomed to scowling. With one hand he held a smaller woman casually but securely on the saddle in front of him.  Her legs were bare, and her silk tunic clung to the lithe and buoyant contours it covered. Her black hair, except for a few tendrils snatched up by the wind, was pushed behind one ear to display an opened miniature lock, the dainty key still inside, dangling from the earlobe. Her wide-eyed, flush-cheeked, mid-gasp expression, though, was what most arrested the viewer’s imagination: Overall discomfort interrupted by sudden shock, an edge of fear, and a frisson of excitement. One attempted explanation, that she was reacting to the arrangement of the warrior’s other, hidden hand, had led to the work’s famous nickname: Goose Girl.

The original had arrived by pigeon, addressed to the Anatolian spymaster Sungurtekin: the first communication of any kind in months from Baiju Noyan, a formerly excellent general who had lately begun to worry other people besides the enemy.  The picture was meant to convey, as impolitely as possible, that the first phase of rookie Intelligence Agent Nerguitani’s mission was complete. Baiju, the man in the picture, had accepted the task of Unsealing Nergui, the woman in the picture, to release an enhanced level of shamanic power for her to use on the rest of the mission. Her previous life as a Sealed One had been so restrictive that she’d never been allowed on a horse before. Her presence in the saddle, as well as the unlocked earring, attested to her change in status.

Baiju had expected the Khagan to see it and be envious; most Sealed Ones were deployed for the metaphysical benefit of the Golden Family, but Ogedei and his brothers had been cheated out of this one. Somehow, though --- and the exact sequence of events had never been clear ---- a large number of copies had been made and pasted to walls all over KK. 

Officially, the Great Khan frowned (a surprisingly rare occurrence) on such an egregious leak related to a secret mission. Privately, Ogedei had to admit that the picture, in and of itself, was strangely compelling. Perhaps, in some larger scheme of things known only to the gods, it needed to be seen.

He’d had the posters torn down all over the city, but kept this one in the top drawer of his nightstand for… private contemplation. He wondered what expression he could have put on her face if he’d been the one to take her on her first ride. 

Except… what were those punctures, the size of raw millet seeds, in one corner of the parchment? 

Little tooth-marks ? Seriously?

“Dammit!” the Great Khan of Greater Mongol growled to his theoretically empty bedroom.

Dammit the Thai tomcat, asleep in a concealed hollow under the edge of an antelope-hide bedspread, heard his name taken in vain and treated himself to a silent but luxurious stretch and yawn. He felt less than no shame:

1. This was obviously The Boss’s Room. 
2. He had not been challenged and beaten by any other tomcat since he’d gotten here. (In fact, Dammit and Shut Up were the Palace’s first housecats. KK’s barn cats, mainly variegated variations of the hardy, thick-coated Tufted Ruffneck landrace, considered the newcomers a different species and therefore ignored them).
3. Therefore, he was The Boss and this was his room. Other than the frequency at which the heater-monkey went out, he had no complaints.

From Dammit’s perspective, all was as it should be. Borjigin Genghis’s Ogedei Khagan might have disagreed… until he remembered he didn’t need a picture tonight. Not with the picture’s inspiration under his very roof. 

Lighting a lamp, Ogedei padded toward the door. Dammit, sound asleep again under the bedspread, showed no visible reaction.

No Name Girl was still installed in the storage room, on a velvet-padded fainting couch Tori had picked out in Romantown. She lay curled up on her side, facing away from the door, visibly breathing but otherwise motionless. A small patch of shoulder skin, laid bare by the oversized nightshirt’s too-wide neckline, was all that the hand-lamp illuminated from the doorway --- until suddenly a pair of glowing scarlet disks flared out of the glom and an eldritch voice snarled: {nGo-o-O wAY - y - y!} and hissed inhospitably.

Ogedei hadn’t gotten to be Great Khan by being easily rattled. The lamp oil sloshed a little, but he recovered quickly. “Shut Up, it’s only me,” he stage-whispered. “Oggy. The treat guy. Remember?”

{ahg EEE? NOo-o,} Shut Up insisted. {nGO-o-o}, but made no move as  further protest against Ogedei’s slow, non-threatening approach (one which would have deeply surprised anyone who had faced him across a battlefield). Breathing deeply but slowly and silently, Ogedei, at last, gained the edge of the couch and carefully perched a royal buttock on the available space. He did smell something odd. “What’s the matter, Shut Up?” he inquired softly, then let out an awed “Oh… my… Tengri.” 

Ogedei’s night vision was not quite as good as a cat’s, but it was better than most humans’. He could see the four little pure-white fuzz balls nestled against their mother’s belly, protected by the defensive wall of Nergui’s sleeping body. “Oh! Oh, no wonder! He marveled softly, lying down on the couch and carefully drawing up his long legs.

Behind closed lids, Shut Up rolled her big round cerulean - blue eyes. Even in Sukothai, where an entire government ministry was mostly about cats, it was the same: As soon as a new mother licked away all the birth slime and her kittens’ fur dried to a white downy fluff, every clumsy troglodyte with an opposable thumb wanted to pick them up, inadvertently ruining the little ones’ all-important early scent attunement. Sometimes irreparably. 

Now was way too early. They hadn’t even finished their first meal yet. She opened her mouth to hiss, and even to bite if needs must...

But the heater-monkey who lay curled around the new feline family, with no sign of regaining consciousness, drew a deep, restless breath, rolled part of the way over, and settled against the intruder’s body with a sigh. He was immediately distracted by the sensation and a whiff of her skin covered by his own borrowed cashmere nightshirt. In brighter light, the visuals would have completely arrested his attention, but the dark allowed him to appreciate the potent olfactory blend of a current or potential lover and his own clothing. Nergui’s refreshing ice-and-spruce aura blended strikingly well with Ogedei’s ambience of a sunny spring meadow recently vacated by a lion.

He reached out a hand, but deliberately stopped short of touching Shut Up or her kittens. Shut Up sighed and surrendered to the prolactin buzz that came with nursing. A tendril of hair, with the same pleasing waviness as in the picture, lay across Nergui’s face. He picked it up between a deft forefinger and thumb and swept it behind her ear, letting his fingertips feel its texture all the way to the end.

“Hmmm,” Nergui sighed contentedly, as if she wished she could purr.

Did she realize that new life had come into the world inches from her body? Did she sense the presence of an approving man on her other side? What would she say and do if he managed to wake her up? ”Ogedei, I’m in love with you; please undress me and let’s do the wild thing right now” would be favorite. 

He took the hem of his robe and closed one of her hands around it. Nothing. What was up with those European kings? Was it the kind of material their robes were made out of?

It occurred to him that h e should have a hand on her waist, he realized. To keep the kittens safe if she started rolling over on them by mistake.

Mistake, his inner voice echoed as the jaw-dropping concavity under his hand lit up his palm and fingers and sent an electric jolt straight to ---

Want this, his spinal cord twinged along its entire length. WANT this.

Some obscure muscle memory cued Nergui to lengthen her spine dramatically, pushing back against her visitor with an agreeable little wiggle. Aaargh… no FAIR… And just as he made up his mind to try kissing her (just in case it amplified the healing power of his royalty --- medicinal purposes only, you understand), Shut Up raised her head, craned her neck, and rasped a loud brambly tongue of approval against Nergui’s nose. Shut Up wanted it duly noted that this monkey was… acceptable.

At this demonstration of rather rough love, Nergui’s eyelashes fluttered, her nose wrinkled, and she stirred. “Mmm --- cat,” she murmured, unerringly booping Shut Up’s nose with an index fingertip. Then she rolled her top half onto its back and opened her eyes. 

Whatever she might have been expecting to see, it clearly hadn’t been Great Khan Ogedei in a dressing-gown with a hand lamp. She stiffened and emitted a surprised little shriek. This startled the Khagan into a wordless yelp and an involuntary recoil sent him over the edge of the couch and onto the floor. The kittens woke up and let out a confused, urgent peeping like the hungry baby birds they’d probably eat someday. {OUUUT! OUUUT! OUUUT!} Shut Up howled indignantly, rudely evicted from her self-generated chemical bliss.

As if all that didn’t constitute enough of a chicken-coop flustercluck, the door banged open. 

“Are you all right?” Tolui barked. 

“Did she wake up?” Tori shrilled. 

And just like that the dark, quiet room became the finish line at Naadam. The Great Khan sat where he’d fallen, scant inches from where he longed to be but wouldn’t get anywhere near tonight. 

“Look, everyone!” he exclaimed. “Kittens!” 

Chapter Text

Somewhere, in a vast flooded cavern, something roughly the size and shape of a lentil said “Wowwww! What was that?”

The other one said “I don’t know for sure but maybe… a whole population just left its world. I was talking to them before all those invisible storms and now I can’t feel them. And they said they were scared of leaving.”

“Were they like us?”

“Yes… and no. It sounded like time moved faster for them.”

“You don’t think it’s almost time for us to leave here, do you?”

“No. Our world keeps getting smaller but there’s still plenty of space and we’re not hungry. And we haven’t even had any quakes yet.”

“So I guess we stick to the plan. Defend our world until we have to leave.”

“Ever wonder if we might be doing something wrong? Something that’s messing up the world?”

“You made too much of that new thinking glop. Make something else for a while. As long as we stick to the plan, we’re doing what we’re supposed to. Everything else needs to check itself and not wreck itself.”

Chapter Text

The Greater Mongol royals made their way down the hall to their separate quarters.

“I can’t believe how cute those kittens are,” Empress Toregene enthused. 

“You seemed to find their parents sort of scary,” Great Khan Ogedei commented.

“I still do. I’m self-conscious enough about being short, and they’re always way up high in the shadows somewhere, staring down with those creepy red eyes.”  

“They’re only red in the dark,” Genghis’s Tolui pointed out. “In brighter light they’re a beautiful blue.”

“What changed?” the Great Khan asked his primary wife, the mother of his heirs.

“Well, Momma Kraya is from Sukothai, remember? She told me that any kitten with a bent tail there is a Ring-Bearer, a special companion to the Queen. While she bathes, she puts her rings on their tails, and because of the bend they stay put. That could be handy at the hot springs. I’ve lost a couple pieces of jewelry there. I can’t wait to see those little kittens’ tails.”

They walked a little more. 

“I can’t believe how much that poor girl’s been through,” Ogedei sighed.

“We should do something nice for her,” Toregene suggested.

“I think so, too,” Ogedei agreed.

“We could send up some good meat and milk for breakfast,” Tolui proposed. “And have a specialist in to look her over. Then, when she’s ready, she could move into my room.”

"Your room?” Ogedei repeated, cocking an eyebrow.

“Well, you don’t let anyone in yours. And with Sorgha off on another pilgrimage, I could use the company. There’s plenty of room for her to curl up at the foot of the bed. Besides, I thought I heard a mouse in there the other night.”

“How does a mouse… Wait, are you still talking about Shut Up? I meant No Name Girl.”

“Oh... Well, she could probably do with a good breakfast too. And if she can get the mouse out of my room, she’d also be welcome to stay.  Instead of dissolving her marriage to Tai, we could record it as one of those Tibetan ones; when a woman marries into a family, she marries all the brothers.”  After a short pause where the others seemed lost in thought, he went on, “Cuts down on succession hassles and keeps the estates intact. Seeing how all our kids get along like cats in a sack has kind of given me a new respect.”

“Being one Borjigin’s wife is enough for me,” Toregene attested. “I love you, Oggy, but each of you boys seems pretty high-maintenance in your own way…. Say, I know! Speaking of hot springs, why don’t we give Nergui one of our VIP passes? Have her worked on by one of the masseurs you trained personally? That’ll fix her right up. It always works for me.”

“We should also check whether she needs a place to stay and how many of her belongings got lost between the mission and that… little detour Tai set up. But the hot springs would be a good start. And for massages,” he murmured, mainly to himself, “I think we can do better.”

Chapter Text

Tabriz was a thoroughly agreeable city, pleasingly plump with prosperity. Stately gardens were sprinkled throughout, which might have been how the city motto came to be “Tabriz: Discover the Freshness.”

Bakshish the merchant came back from his lunch break and immediately regretted eating anything at all. An aravt of ten lethal-looking Mongol soldiers stood at ease all across his gateway. They, however, might as well have been butterflies in comparison with the man in the premium-quality but well-used black armor who paced between the cages of shackled merchandise, scowling his world-famous scowl.

Bakshish pretended the sudden halt in his advance was caused by a pebble in his sandal, forced his face into the bravest smile he could muster, and walked himself forward with the gait of a doll propelled to a tea party where all the cups were sure to be filled with mud. “Why, it’s Baiju Noyan!” he effused. “Imagine my traveling so far away from your camp in Anatolia and yet seeing you here!”

“It’s Baiju Darughai now. I’ve been appointed governor of this protectorate. ‘For my sins,’” Baiju replied with a nod of unconvincingly feigned self-deprecation.

“Ah,” Bakshish nodded back, bobbing his head like a bird doing an unsuccessful courting dance. “Congratulations. Those fellows get their ashes hauled more often than a plague crematorium.”

“The office presents its share of opportunities,” Baiju admitted, his scowl lifting slightly before dropping back into place like a headsman’s axe.

“May I ask what brings you to see me today?” Bakshish ventured further, while thinking: Please Allah he doesn’t have another job for me. I barely survived spying for him in Anatolia. I knew plenty of people who didn’t survive it.

“You may have heard,” Baiju said lightly as the touch of a raven’s feather, “that I’ve been moving the slave markets to a regulated zone outside the city.”

“Oh… that’s been you then?” Of course it is. Bakshish had traded in Indian spices and Basra pearls before, but had lost so much profit on the spying missions that he’d gone into something with a higher margin and faster turnaround, despite the attendant risks. And he’d had a chance to prepare for something like this, though it was impossible to prepare for meeting Noyan. “It’s a good thing I’m not a slaver, then.”

“Oh?” Baiju did his eyebrow thing and gestured toward the nearest cage. “These people are not for sale, then? Are you perhaps selling the cages and shackles, and you’ve hired them as demonstration models?”

“I do not sell slaves. I rescue humans and find forever-homes for them.”

“That’s… new, ” said Baiju, thinking: And here I’d thought, growing up in the Gobi, I’d seen and heard everything a camel’s anus could possibly produce.

“Well, it’s all this warfare, isn’t it?” Bakshish warmed to his topic. “The number of people left without homes, families or jobs is geysering. Without rescuers like me, they’d starve. I foster them temporarily until I can place them with someone equipped to keep them. The temporary upkeep costs me, which is why I must charge a modest adoption fee for brokering the introductions.”

“And the reason for the… cages and shackles?”

“It’s for their own safety, Darughai. If I let them wander off, they could hurt themselves. Or someone evil might snatch them.”

“I see… Well, as it happens, I am in the market for a long-term bedmate. I do, as you surmise, get more behind than a tortoise chasing down a hare, but I’ve recently developed additional, less usual needs.”

“Well, you Mongols don’t seem to leave very many attractive young women lying around, mind you. I tell people, if you want an extra virgin, better buy some olive oil, eh?” His jovial guffaw was cut short by another eyebrow. “But look around and tell me if you see anything you like.”

Baiju did so. He wasn’t really sure what he was after: someone similar, yet different enough not to bring back memories that might upset him. He didn’t see any ethnic Mongolians; those were illegal enough that he’d be justified in summarily skinning Baksheesh for a mild-weather coat. Most of these looked to have come from the west, and many were so ill-fed that it was hard to tell what shapes would emerge after a few good meals. Then something occurred to him. 

“Can any of them… sing?” he asked, turning back toward the merchant.

Immediately a complex high-soprano trill sprang from one of the cages, but was cut off abruptly by a jostle and a hiss of “Dragi, shhh!”

“Interesting,” Baiju said, and meant it. It wasn’t at all like the multi-tonal khoomei of the Home Steppes, but it was beautiful in its own way. “Step forward, singer,” he instructed in his training-field voice.

There was more jostling and remonstrating in the back of the cage until a tiny, bird-boned, very young-looking woman burst to the front with a proud smile. Her hair was so blonde it was almost white. Her eyes were the blue of a desert sky… and just as empty.

“What’s your name… little one?”

“Dragana,” she answered, and dropped a little curtsy as if her parents had encouraged her to sing for visiting relatives in the parlor.

A taller, athletic-looking brunette pushed through the crowd and took the blonde’s arm. “Dragi, stop!” she entreated the smaller woman in a sort of whispered shout. “I’ve heard about him, he’s --- Mister, take me instead!” Turning toward Baiju, the brunette began singing. Her song was in a lower register; it had less range and fewer rapid flourishes, but had a mesmerizing intensity as if to vibrate every nearby object to pieces. 

“Well --- I ---”

“How it is , your gracious: We all sing together, ” said a new voice --- soft, blamelessly deferential, but accustomed to listeners’ full attention. A serene raven-haired woman glided, and a fractious-looking redhead shoved, their way to the front of the cage.

“Stop it, you,” the Darughai growled. “I’m only taking ---”

And the four of them broke into song.

Baiju froze. He stared. Eventually he remembered to close his mouth. When they finished the song with a synchronized yip! he jumped, as if suddenly and uncomfortably transported over a long distance.

“Dragana, Dilmana, Irina, and Tudora. They’re all from the same village in the Balkans,” Bakshish interjected.

“We are all that’s left of that village,” said the redhead, tossing her hair contemptuously.

“We cried together as babies until we learned to sing,” the blonde recited dreamily.

Baiju was silent for a moment, trying to recall. When he broke the silence, it was to sing in a surprisingly melodious voice.

“Mi no-si-mo ---” he began, and paused.

“Zel-en venchets,” the four women sang back at him in leaf-shaking harmony. 

“Dai nam Lado, le-pi Lado.”

Memories flooded back of a battle won, in part by a Tengri shaman’s rendition of that song. It had roused the souls of the enemies’ victims from their swords, eager to join the chorus and take their ectoplasmic vengeance. 

Ignoring his stinging eyes, he growled, “As I said, I’m only buying ---”

“Adopting,” Bakshish corrected.

“I’m only adopting… those four .” He tossed a heavy, clanking purse at Bakshish’s feet. 

Bakshish hesitated. Back in Anatolia, the Noyan had offered gold to merchants and then slit their throats if they took it. 

“And I’m confiscating the rest on behalf of the state and conscripting them into civil service,” Baiju finished, “which needs scholars, dung-sweepers, and everything in between. Pick up the purse, clown, and use the money to change your line of work. If you don’t, then I’ll kill you.”

Chapter Text

Nergui could vaguely remember being someone, not very long ago, who would have been anxious to walk through the streets of the capital, taking in the passing scene. And if people saw her coming out of the Palace, or going into the Agency, fine; they could make of it what they would. Perhaps a hat, or a brooch, or a pterodactyl…

Not today. She really didn’t feel like going anywhere, and the presence of newborn kittens in her bed weighed heavily on the side of staying put. She was only just up to the challenge of being self-heating furniture for the sleek, short-furred felines. Nor did she want to be seen by anybody at all. If she looked anything like she felt, she must resemble a used execution rug. Her always-perfect-looking boss had enough advantages over her already. Chagaanirvys Darga wasn’t bad to work for; just the opposite, really. It was just that anyone in the same room with her always began to suspect their fingernails were dirty or their socks didn’t match.

She fingered the special hot-springs VIP guest token that had appeared on the tray with the morning milk-tea. Should she just pidge in sick to work, then take off? Tempting, but the Agency had eyes, ears, and flapping cake-holes all over this city. Somebody would probably see. She’d have ‘splainin’ to do. Not worth it.

So she went to work, but she took the tunnels. 

It’s a common phenomenon that the first day back in the office after an extended absence can be unusually challenging. This one would be worse than most.

“Wow! Look who it is!” a total stranger chirped at her when she emerged from the supply closet that concealed the tunnel doorway. “It’s Goose Girl!”

Goose Girl. Goose Girl, she thought,  I’ve heard that before, but what --- 

The unknown co-worker was still staring at Nergui, and more were joining her. This nascent mob seemed to expect a meaningful response from her. Unfortunately, precisely what kind of response was anyone’s guess.

“I think you might have me confused with someone else?” she suggested, speaking slowly and politely as if to a very important drunk,

“I don’t think so,” sing-songed her interlocutor. “Tell me this isn’t like looking in a polished sword-blade.” She waved a scrap of rice-paper in Nergui’s face.

Oh, my Tengri. Oh, for coitus’ sake…

It had been imperfectly copied and carelessly treated, but she recognized Doldrum Darga’s commemoration of her first ride in Anatolia (and, afterward, her first time on a horse’s back). Only this was just her discomfited face, cut out and enlarged to fill a third of the page, flanked by “Venerate Goose Girl!” in large, insistent letters.

“So is it true you jumped Baiju Noyan's bones to cure him of criminal insanity?”

Nergui reminded herself that she was home now. Everyone she encountered would blurt out whatever was on their minds. That was the Mongolian Way. “If I told you I’d have to give you a siege-engine-assisted wedgie,” she answered as blithely as she could manage.

“Is it true you brought back an Azerdeli horse?”

“Yes.” Though she wasn’t exactly sure where The Fork Tongued Son of a Bitch was now.

“Are you really married to Chagatai Khan?”

“Yes, no, and maybe,” she replied, turning on her heel and stepping briskly down the hall. The growing gaggle of the inquisitive trailed behind her.

“Is it true you got engaged to one of Suleyman Shah’s sons?”

“No,” Though it might have saved me some trouble in the long run if that wheeze had been allowed to work.

“Is it true you did the Dance of the Seven Khadaks for Sultan Ale-ad-Din?”

“No.”

“Is it true if someone masturbates on your shoes, you have to grant them three wishes?”

She halted and spun around indignantly. “Ew! NO!!” A couple of guys immediately turned around and fled in awkward, hunched positions.

“Can you really make people’s privates fall off if you get mad at them?”

She thought for only a second. “Yes,” she pronounced loftily. “Yes, I can.”

Chagaanirvys Darga, Nergui’s femme-fatale boss, lounged elegantly at her desk. Sungurtekin Mergen, the tall Turkman with the bird-of-prey manner, leaned on a scroll-rack. Both drank from ceramic teacups, A third one steamed on the front corner of the desk. Chagaanirvys waved at the cup, and at Nergui, and at the visitors’ chair, indicating that she was to take the tea and sit down.

“Well! If it isn’t the face that launched a hundred wolves,” the Darga greeted her. “What are you wearing?”

“Whatever was available to make me not naked,” she sighed. Tolui had thoughtfully loaned her a freshly washed tunic and trousers that might even be his; they were only two or three sizes too big, whereas Ogedei’s nightshirt, albeit infinitely comforting, constantly tried to fall off. “My whole wagon burned to the axles at Kayis obasi , and everything I brought with me ---”

“Got misplaced in the bhaag -out after the buzkashi match,” Chagaanirvys finished for her. “We had some local agents out there looking for it. Wouldn’t want your official jacket and paiza used by someone unauthorized.”

“Nope. You’re right.” She pitied any fool who tried to pass themselves off as a sixty-three-toli shaman in the Khagan’s civil service, though. They were subject to some very tall orders indeed.

“The usual Yasa death penalty for the loss of government property will be waived due to... circumstances.”

“That’s a relief,” Nergui replied, all her supporting joints suddenly turning to mutton broth. She’d been separated from her saddlebag forcibly by someone she wasn’t allowed to fight.

“Nice belt,” said Sungurtekin. “Can I get a look?”

She unhooked it and passed it over. “I was wearing it when the wolf woke me up. Tai probably meant it as a dump-gift.”

Sun gave a low whistle, hefting the belt’s weight. “If this is his typical dump-gift, I hope he dumps me someday.”

Chagaanirvys cleared her finely sculpted throat. Nergui shrugged. “I don’t go anyplace fancy enough to wear it, but maybe I could sell it if I need to buy something...” she chattered to fill the silence.

“Yeah, like a city, ” Sun snorted. “I could be wrong, but I’m usually not: This fits the description of a commemorative buzkashi championship belt presented to Chagatai Khan by the Sultan of Delhi in 1225.”

“Ulgen wept,” Nergui said weakly, lowering her face into her hands. “It was probably the first shiny thing the Khan had to hand when the pack showed up. No effing way can I sell that. I should find a way to return it.”

“You’ll want to lay low and wait a while,” the Darga advised. “Let things cool off between the brothers. It was probably their worst disagreement since their dad passed.”

“May he ride forever in the sky,” they all said.

“I’ll be guided by you,” Nergui vowed. “I don’t want ‘started a civil war’ on my achievement scroll.”

“Now. Your next mission…”

“Is there something in the complete opposite direction from Anatolia? Like --- I don’t know --- Sukothai? Anyplace that likes cats that much can’t be all bad. Or maybe Nihon? I’ve heard people are nice there… at least if they know what’s good for them.”

“We’ve had all kinds of requests for you, what with all the publicity.”

“What publicity? This Goose Girl thing? Could either of you explain?”

Chaaganirvys pulled a fat scroll-case from a drawer and extracted a sheaf of papers. “This is a copy of the original drawing Baiju Noyan pidged to Sungurtekin.”

Nergui looked and nodded. She’d seen it while the ink was drying. There she was, looking uncomfortable, and there was Baiju behind her looking unbearably smug, and there was The Black Bitey, Baiju’s special showing-off stallion, underneath them both looking impatient for something to bite.

“This was supposed to be for Sun Mergen’s and the Great Khan’s eyes only. I wasn’t even supposed to see it. Sun would have verbally advised me of the progress in the mission.”

“Now, Cha-Cha, I wasn’t withholding any important information,” Sun Mergen interrupted in a placating tone. “I was just afraid the... tone... would offend you.”

“ And I’ve asked you not to call me that so many times! On the bright side, we can be sure the leak wasn’t from my office. Because leak it did. Copies were pasted on walls all over KK within hours! The Khagan saw them there first before Sun even got to talk to him. He came in with two handfuls of them he’d torn down himself, and he wasn’t impressed with our security.”

“So we sent people to take them all down right away,” Sun explained.

“... but the next day these showed up.” The Darga held up another sheet from the pile. This one was just of Nergui’s face, and the words “Where is Goose Girl?” There were twice as many of them, and they were everywhere. We offered a small reward for bringing them in, and eventually they seemed to be gone. But then there was this one.” The same face, with the words “Goose Girl Has an Aravt” (squad of ten). “They put these all over the outside walls, even on the Turtles. We wondered for a few days why incoming travelers were talking about Goose Girl after we thought we’d taken everything down. Then --- the day after the buzkashi championship, in fact --- they were all… updated.” She held up a sample where Aravt had been crossed out and “ MINGAN ” (regiment of 1,000) scribbled below it. “And finally, when those were torn down, they were replaced with these.” The same “Venerate Goose Girl” version she’d been shown in the hall.

Nergui looked almost as uncomfortable now as she did in the picture. “But... why?” she asked the room. ”What purpose did it serve?”

“Well, that’s the million- dirham question,” Sun affirmed. “Somebody who didn’t know any better might assume you were a political figure who disappeared somewhere and started building her own army.” In response to her horrified stare, he said, “Luckily, we knew very well who you were and what you were up to, and you’d presented yourself well at the Palace, so nobody who matters took it that way. But now that you’re back, I’ll ask: do you have any enemies who might have done this to discredit you? Anybody ever call you ‘Goose Girl’ before?”

“No,” Nergui answered definitely and immediately. “Any enemies I ever made would just walk up and bludgeon, stab, or choke me. Maybe shoot an arrow out of the dark. But something this drawn-out and elaborate, with no physical threat? I can’t imagine. 

“And why would anybody call me ‘Goose Girl’? Birds give me the red-ass. I’ve shot my share of geese for food, but I was never the best or the worst in the hunting party. No, sorry, I’m getting no inspiration.”

“It’s all right, though,” Chagaanirvys reassured her. “We think we can turn your fame to our advantage.”

Does that ‘our’ include me? Nergui thought. Aloud she said, “I’m famous? How is that good? Spies are supposed to blend in and be anonymous. Wouldn’t being famous mean I’m washed up as a spy?” 

“Not necessarily,” Sun reassured her. “You’re a good candidate for what we’d call an ‘overt operative;’ someone who draws everyone’s attention while the ‘anonymous blenders’ go about their business unnoticed. We’ve had several inquiries already. In particular, King Shahryar of Sasania would like to join our State. The location would put him in your Chagatai’s Khanate.”

“‘My’ Chagatai?” Nergui mouthed, rolling her eyes.

“The trouble is, he’s married as many wives as the Khan, but has become a grieving widower just as many times. Perhaps Shahryar’s tastes run to unusually delicate specimens; it’s not clear. What is clear is that the first time Chagatai lends him a wife and doesn’t get her back, there’s going to be the kind of trouble no one needs.”

Nergui’s unhappy prediction about where her bosses were going with this was eclipsed by the abrupt intrusion of another thought. “Now when you say ‘Chagatai lends him a wife ’...”

“Well, you must have known; it’s not exactly a well-kept secret. Chagatai was getting some slings and arrows for hogging all the best wives in the Khanate, so to appease the populace he’s been known to lend them out to selected VIPs in exchange for special favors.”

“Special…” Nergui echoed, trailing off.

“Political, military, economic… whatever appeals at the time. Oh, his three Queens are exempt, of course. But all the others are, as it were, up for grabs.”

Nergui managed to nod her head in understanding, though her throat felt stuffed with ashes. If I had stayed… “And this Shahryar character: you expect me to...”

“Fix him,” Chagaanirvys affirmed. “As you fixed our sick puppy of a Noyan.”

“Just to be clear… by canoodling with him? Just like all the women who so coincidentally died?”

“It’s up to you, of course. If you think you can do it by telling him extraordinary bedtime stories, go for it. Whatever works.”

Nergui took a deep breath, “I understand why Baiju needed to be salvaged if at all possible. Even after all I went through, I admit he’s a… rare talent in a growing field of endeavor. But this Shahryar guy? We can’t have much invested in him yet. Why don’t we just kill him? He sounds really killable.”

“Well, that option is always on the table, of course. But we find that if we can leave existing heads of state in place, annexation is smoother. People are reassured by assuming they’re still dealing with the devil they know.”

“So… is this where my career’s going? Canoodling with highly-placed degenerate psychopaths until I get too old or one of them manages to kill me?”

“There are more appealing ways to phrase it but… Yes, pretty much. What’s wrong with that?” Something about the way Chagaanirvys narrowed her limpid eyes warned Nergui they were on dubious ground.

“You’re a specialist in high demand,” Sun put in. “‘The medicine that goes down like a dessert,’ has been said.”

“Sounds like Noyan,” Nergui grimaced.

“Actually, I think that might have been him,” Sun admitted.

“You might not know this, but… not all shamanic Unsealing effects recur. That is, some former Sealed Ones’ hoo-has work healing magic over and over again, but others are one-and-done. We don’t know what kind I have yet.”

“Ah,” Chagaanirvys smiled as if she’d been waiting for this. She reached into the drawer again and removed a pigeon-sized mini-scroll. “Yesulun Khatun writes from First Queen’s Residence, Bukhara: ‘It comes to my attention that one of your Agents, while traversing the Silk Road, married, and subsequently slept with, my husband, Chagatai Khan.’”

Nergui rolled her eyes. Makes it sound like the whole thing was my idea.

Chaaganirvys waited for Nergui’s irises to complete their circular excursion, then continued: “‘Ever since then the Khan has been consistently rising before mid-morning, abstaining from intoxicants until mid-afternoon, actively training with his troops, and taking a keen interest in affairs of state. Please convey my thanks to this Agent, who hasn’t been seen since and whose name no one seems to have caught. I want her to know she is welcome in our Khanate at any time.’

Chaaganirvys gave Nergui a sharp-toothed smile that sent shivers down Sungurtekin’s back. “Busted,” she pronounced.

“That kind of praise from a Khongi is extremely rare,” Sun put in. Chagatai had chosen a pair of Khongirad consorts, who were also sisters graduating at the top of their class, as his first two wives. If he must sire heirs, he reasoned, he might as well make the process as pleasant as possible. While Khongis could be limitless in their gracious patience with their protectors --- and a select few of their protectors’ important friends --- they were famously nasty to everyone else, particularly other women who might displace them. The Queen’s effusive praise gave Nergui the urge to consult a Seer, just to find out if any of the hotter Hells had recently frozen over.

“I get that,” Nergui said slowly, “but… I’ve been experiencing side effects I can’t explain lately, and I was hoping not to have to do another canoodling mission until I get it figured out. I didn’t want to go into this because I hate to whine. At first I thought it was from being resurrected, but now I wonder if I’m leaving too much of my energy on these guys. Parting from them makes me feel all raw and shredded like my skin’s been gone over with a wool-carding brush. As everyone knows, shamans who don’t die early go mad. I want to be useful to our State for a few more decades, but I need a little breathing space to get rid of… whatever this reaction is.”

"Take all the time you need,” the Darga said magnanimously. “After all, sometimes as much as a week or two can go by without some new woman being called to Shahryar’s palace and never being seen again."

And if I needed a passive-aggressive guilt trip, I could go back to my home camp, Nergui thought but didn’t say.

“And you’re definitely not crazy yet,” Sungurtekin pronounced. “Only a sane person would hesitate at the prospect of jumping into a serial killer’s bed. Now, maybe if you were eager to go on more missions...”

Chapter Text

Half an empire away, Baiju Noyan flopped back on his sizeable provincial-gubernatorial bed (not the half-acre bed of his dreams yet, but a step in the right direction) like a somewhat gob-smacked but euphoric starfish. His expression of wonder retained no trace of his signature scowl.

“What did we tell you, batko?" teased Dilmana the saucy one, booping the most feared man in five countries playfully on the nose. “We do everything better in concert.”

“I’ve had… thousands of women...” he confessed dreamily, “but always… one at a time.”

“Maybe to keep them from running away?” suggested Irina the artless one. “But you bought us, batko. You own us now. Until you free us or sell us, we’re not going anywhere.”

“Good!” crowed Dragana the fanciful one, bouncing up and down. “Because I like this bed! Much better than haystacks!”

“What’s this… ‘batko’ word you keep calling me?” Baiju’s scowl showed signs of returning as doubt crept into his voice.

“Is respectful, And affectionate,” explained Tudora the patient one. “Like ‘father’ but not family-father. Larger. Like you might say… ‘Big Daddy.’”

“Oh! Oh! Let’s take another bath and sing more songs!” Dragana the soprano suggested, still bouncing.

“Batko has a nice voice,” Dilmana the mezzo said slyly, “in spite of, he sounds like Turk.”

“What’s wrong with Turks?” Baiju demanded. “My mother was a Turk. She taught me to sing. My father was a Mongol, but all he ever did was shout.”

“No insult to your mother, batko,” Tudora the contralto reassured him. “It’s just that where we come from, Turks make so much war.”

“Not Mongols, though,” Irina the alto clarified. “There aren’t any Mongols there.”

Oh, no? Give us another few months, Baiju thought but didn’t say aloud. “Well, pillows,” he told the four former Balkan farm-girls, “I’m quite pleased with my purchase so far. But now it’s time to work on the reason I bought you. Those needs and practices of mine that must be kept… absolutely secret.”

“Oh! Secrets are fun!” Dragana bubbled, clapping her hands. The other three women, though, fell silent and sober, exchanging wary glances.

The Noyan rose and crossed the bedroom to open the doors of a large armoire. “To that end, I’ve procured certain… properties… for us to use.”  Gentle Tudora, sensible Irina, and even bold Dilmana edged backward apprehensively.

When he turned back to the women on the bed, he was holding four bouquets of roses and four boxes tied with colorful ribbon bows. “Each of you is to take one,” he declared in a voice that would brook no dissent.  “We’ll” --- he paused for an involuntary grimace --- “hold hands and have a walk in the garden a little later, but first,” as he visibly steeled himself “each of you will tell me about your day.”

Chapter Text

Khaldun Rashaan Mönkh (Hot Springs Eternal) was not labeled, or even marked, on publicly accessible maps of KK and environs. Nergui knew this because she’d checked. It gave her an excuse to get a new map.

What you had to do, was: You had to take the morning camel train headed for Mondagovi, riding on the very last camel. To the footstool-duty person who helps you up, you discreetly say “Does the next caravanserai serve anything besides mutton?” They will reply “It’s strictly BYOB: Bring Your Own Bodog.” Tip them whatever you think is fair. If they agree that it’s fair, they will take out a distinctive handkerchief and blow their nose. When the train passes the trace that goes to the hot springs, the attendant will drop that same handkerchief. Look out for it and turn when you see it. Then just keep going even if it seems like you’re lost. The trace may disappear periodically, but sometimes you can pick it back up by lying down prone and looking at the sun’s reflection off the sand grains.

Besides the disappearing-trace vicissitude, Nergui noticed that the sides of the trace were peppered with discouraging-looking human skeletons. However, to a critical and medically-trained eye, the bones in each one were not all from the same species, let alone the same person. Wherever they’d all died, it wasn’t where they lay; someone had collected them elsewhere and staged them here.

Just when it looked like she’d already passed the place where the legendary King Gesar lost his shoes and her tailbone was ready to secede from the rest of her spine, a hidden valley opened up ahead and revealed her destination. 

It struck her as an otherworldly place. To someone like her who’d spent significant time in other worlds, this was saying something. A forest of rock towers reached for the sky in the midst of an otherwise gently rolling landscape. Slabs of rock and awnings of wood provided shade between them. Puffs of pure-white water vapor emanated from the various openings. A modest woodland wrapped itself around the rock formation like a baby’s bib, the thriving trees attesting to the wholesomeness of the water.

The camel had been here before. It took off toward the trees as though its tail were on fire. As far as it was concerned, its burden could hang on, fall off, or ascend to the sky with a troupe of dancing djinn. Nergui clung like a tick and vocalized to distribute the pain over more of her body so it would be less intensely concentrated in that one spot.

The landscape may have been gently rolling, but Nergui’s descent at the corral was not. “No, in fact, I haven’t gotten down off a lot of camels, she muttered half-aloud. ”I usually get down off of geese.” The camel was already ears-deep in a food bucket; the rest of the world could be on fire for all it cared. She wandered into the misty shade and found a beautifully carpeted reception area illuminated by hanging lamps. Leafy plants grew in attractively glazed pots; Nergui’s senses picked up their contented, thirsty slurping of water from the air and soil. A subtle scent of ylang-ylang and oak-moss drifted from an incense burner.

A host sat at a teak desk. Like many civilian receptionists, he was dressed and groomed far above his probable pay grade. Nergui always wondered how they managed. She quickly produced the VIP paiza before he could send her away with a flea in her ear for being scruffy.

“Welcome, fortunate guest of the thrice-blessed Borjigins,” he said smoothly. Or perhaps ‘she’? Nergui wondered at the resonant counter-tenor. “I’m Torgonshaakhai of Khongirad, an acolyte of the Fog Temple. I’ll be your guide while you’re here. Would you like some iced tea, now that you’re off the parched and dusty road?”

“Yes, please. Thank you. I’m pleased to meet you.” She had as many questions as there were poppy seeds in a poppy-seed cake, but she wasn’t inclined to blurt them out immediately. To begin with, she knew what ice was and she knew what tea was, but… ?

It was delicious; milkless and saltless like Red Panda’s hot tea, but not painful like hers because instead of being scalding hot it was icy cold. Along with some kind of fruit there was ice floating in it too.

“Up at the top of the pinnacles, ice forms in rock crevices almost every night,” Torgonshaakhai conversed.”After our morning service, we carry it down to our deep cellar, where it lasts most of the day.”

“I knew someone that grew up in the Gobi licking ice out of rock crevices,” Nergui replied casually, then realized that had been Baiju Noyan, then winced as her spine and hips seemed to wrench themselves with a sudden lash of pain… though not all pain…

“Oh dear, you did have a rough ride,” the guide commiserated. She gave him her questioning look: the one that gave many targets the impression that their world was flattening from front to back.

Torgonshaakhai looked back at her just as blankly and quizzically.

In a moment something occurred to Nergui that made her break the eye-lock and look gratefully at the ceiling. “On the camel. ”

“Of course, on the camel. What did you think I meant?”

“Don’t mind me. I must just really need this.”

“They say satisfaction extracts the truth as effectively as deprivation.”

“Wouldn’t know. Not my department, and I hope it’ll never be.”

“Shall I describe our healing procedures?” he asked as they walked down a cool tunnel lit by lamps in crystal=paned niches,

“Please do, gracious host.”

“I would suggest the gentlest of purifications and realignments. No discomfort will last more than a moment.”

“If your standards of discomfort are close to mine, I agree.”

“Would you like the No Distractions accessories?”

“What are those?” Despite the attendant’s melted-butter voice, Nergui’s professional suspicions instantly raised a snub-nosed head and tasted the air.

“A blindfold, ear shells, and a silk sheet. You can remove them at any time”

She paused to use her extra senses to scan the vicinity. No lurking nasties were revealed.  She didn't completely trust her instincts lately, but what the hells. She’d heard of the Fog Temple and none of it had been bad. “I already feel like I’ve got the whole place to myself.”

“Slow day. Gibbous moon phase.”

She made up her mind. “Yes. Yes, Torgonshaakha of Khongirad, I place myself in your capable hands.” She stretched out face-down on the padded slab and felt the sheet waft lazily down over her.

“Do you have any restrictions on healing touch? Someone who claims your heart, for example?”

“My soul belongs to Tengri,” she murmured, already drifting off into a trance, “and everything else is the Khagan’s.”

Well, that’s handy, Ogedei Khagan thought as he rubbed fragrant oil between his palms outside the doorway.

Chapter Text

When Ogedei opened his senses to qi patterns, Nergui's back reminded him of a burning city. 

On the conquest road with his father and brothers, he’d seen enough burning cities to become something of an expert. There were different ways of doing it, depending on the result you were after. You paid attention to the weather, especially the prevailing winds, and lay low until a good day came. You’d send your torch-bearers after certain types of targets in a certain order. You could arrange it to trap everyone or to give them enough warning to escape. Provide a blistering blaze full of dancing nightmares, or start with a cloud of thick smoke that let sleepers vacate their bodies quietly before the flames took hold, never realizing what was happening to their homes.

Nergui’s energy didn’t look as if it had been razed according to any kind of plan. Ogedei had seen this kind of result when townsfolk had lit out ahead of the advancing army and tried not to leave anything useful behind. Every home, shop, storehouse, and other structure had the earnest but roughshod attention of a different and inexpert arsonist. Nergui’s qi had hot and cold spots that showed up to him as intermittent blazes and charcoal smears. Meridians were blinking and interrupted. Most of her lower back was shadowed as if the energy there had been looted by some intruder. He’d seen this before in people, especially women, who had overstretched their resilience. 

He began without touching her skin, instead passing his hands through the air four inches above her surface, collecting and shaking off the static charges that jumped to his palm with a campfire ember’s sting. In time there were no more snaps and zaps, just a smooth warmth that pushed back gently and reacted when he changed direction. Her breathing had slowed and deepened, Other than breathing, her physical body was perfectly still. Her energy body still blinked out intermittently, but less often than it had before; parts of it still struggled against twists and knots. While the angle of the sun through the skylight followed its accustomed promenade, he patiently continued to smooth out her aura, letting his hands travel closer and closer until he touched her shoulder blades with the fragrant oil.

He took his time and gave it his entire attention. He could run a fingertip down one of her meridians and hear a buzzing hum, like a damaged singing bowl. He worked patiently until he could produce a single clear note, then moved on to the next one, and then the next. When he started work on her lower spine a sudden sensation of being bitten made him pull back, although he managed to do so smoothly so as not to break her relaxation. He half-expected to see blood on his fingers, but there was none, and when he cautiously returned to the lower back nothing more happened.

Ogedei’s interest in counteracting human suffering began in childhood. His older brothers Jochi and Chagatai were preparing for careers in warfare by squabbling from the white thread of early-bright to the red thread of early-black… during the weeks when they didn’t wrangle all night after bickering all day. They’d fight, and bite, and fight and fight and bite. Fight, fight, fight. Bite, bite bite. “Oggy,” his mother Borte would sigh in frustration, “if you can simmer those two down, or at least get them to fight somewhere else, I’ll be grateful. There might even be a shoe-sole cake in it for you.” So small Ogedei became peacemaker, tie-breaker, and referee for his brothers, who realized his usefulness and saw no point in antagonizing him. The system became stable and fairly predictable. Then along came Tolui.

Temujin’s Tolui was not the sort of baby brother that constantly tagged after his elders, pestering them to include him in their plans. Josh and Tai would not have taken well to that. Instead, he was the only kind of baby brother that actually irritated them more: the kind with absolutely no interest in them or their activities.

Josh and Tai decided Lui was “runty” and “needed toughening up.” In fact, he simply took after Borte, neat and compact, while the other three were tall Temujin’s spit and image: Josh rangy, Tai hulking, and Oggy strapping. Also, Lui could spend an hour looking at a horse’s ear, the moon, a lizard, an interesting rock, and eventually what he seemed to have been waiting for: a scroll, practically any scroll. Josh and Tai felt this was odd and probably unhealthy, and even Oggy couldn’t convince them to leave Lui alone, though distracting them with something to argue about often worked. To Oggy’s surprise, though, Lui didn’t want to be defended. Instead, he took his brothers’ bullying with an abstracted equanimity, as if they too were specimens he wanted to study. 

Lui accepted Oggy’s ministrations, though, to the thousands of small wounds his study of bullies would cost him. Bit by bit Ogedei picked up whatever medical knowledge he needed to take care of his brother, which would later prove useful on the battlefield where sometimes there weren’t enough medics and shamans to go around. For Tolui’s part, he was utterly devoted to Ogedei and solemnly promised to help him if he ever needed it. During the year of the Kurultai that transferred the Great Khanate from Tolui’s regency to Ogedei’s rulership, Tolui had stepped up in a very big but necessarily secret way.

As a high-level shaman, this No Name Girl would be able to figure out what Oggy and Lui needed now in order to dodge the many curses flying towards them from the annexed and to-be-annexed lands. As a spy, she was trained in discretion. And if she was bonded to the Borjigins by a legal family tie, they could freely tell her everything ...

He couldn’t forget the roomful of extreme love that had surrounded them that night at the Palace. It couldn’t all have just been kitten magic, although kitten magic was a force to be reckoned with. Someone who could, without waking up, generate enough reassurance and comfort to be a doula to a high-strung Royal Thai cat shouldn’t be dispatched all over the State and its current or future protectorates to have more of this kind of damage done. Pimping her out to the elite and abusive would only add a new meaning to the phrase “laid waste.”  

She should regain her health, he decided, and stay within his reach in case he needed spiritual healing. Even in her current overstressed state, she had a beautiful soul. Admittedly, her rear end wasn’t bad either. She should experience kindness, compassion, love; even motherhood if she were so inclined. He could offer her all of that. But he had to be careful. As he’d told a chronicler who’d interviewed him in his twenties, his biggest turn-off was “unwillingness” and it had always made things tricky. Besides the other men around him thinking he might be a little bit daft, he had to approach women circuitously so they wouldn’t consent merely for the sake of national loyalty or hierarchical obedience.

And some third party was bound to have a beef. Though he’d fought it as hard as he’d fought any enemy in the field, royal courts were a haven for zero-sum gameplayers. Every breath anyone took was of air someone else thought they deserved more. But what was the point of being Great Khan of Greater Mongol if he had to get consensus on every gods’ damn thing? The succession was all set; one new wife at this late date wouldn’t upset the ammo cart. Nergui, still deep in trance, emitted a distant, plaintive whimper. Ogedei realized his breath had quickened and his teeth had clenched. Was it her nearness that brought out his all-but-dormant selfish side, or was it rebelling on its own against its peacetime suppression?

We are what we want, he realized at length. That’s the Mongolian way.

Chapter Text

Even over the sonic fog of the waterfall, Nergui could hear the ripples on the water’s surface babble and chuckle past her ears as her masseur swept her body gracefully to and fro across a mild current of water that was warm, soft, buoyant, and minerally-smelling in a good way. His strongly built arms supported her under the shoulders and knees and sailed her around like a child’s toy boat.

She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so safe and cared-for. With her ordinary tactile sense, she could feel a strong heartbeat pulsing from the broad chest through the muscular arms around her. To her augmented senses, the heart-energy buffeting against her was like nothing she’d ever experienced. Like a blast from a furnace, except that it invigorated instead of destroying; a friendly fire. Meanwhile, each beat of her own heart sent a delicious pulse down the length of her vagus nerve, echoing deep satisfaction from the inner walls of her ribcage. Let her fingertips might get as pink and wrinkled as dried goji berries; she never wanted it to end. How much time did the ninety-nine sky spirits spend floating around up there just like this?

He spoke then, but with such smooth modulation that it didn’t startle her.

“We’re the only ones in this cavern. Even if we weren’t, only I can hear your indoor voice over the waterfall. And I am sworn to keep your secrets.”

Nergui surreptitiously nipped the inside of her own cheek to keep from breaking the mood by snorting at the thought: Well, that’s a good thing. I wouldn’t want any "authority figures” listening in, and that’s for sure as horse manure.

“So if you feel anything inside that needs to get out as words, or even just vocal sounds, now is when they’ll do the most good.”

She took several deep breaths. “I ---” she began, then sighed and trailed off.

“They ---” she tried, then “Something ---” Then, without warning, she burst into tears. 

Even in the dimly lit cavern with her blindfold still on (she’d declined all offers to remove it because she “was enjoying the inside show”), No Name Girl’s crying face was a sobering sight to Ogedei, whom, truth to tell, had never been overly keen on sobriety. Her nose reddened. Her features warped and puckered. Various unattractive liquids began leaking out of her various face-holes. A sound like the attempted cross-threading of two rusty pipes emanated from somewhere in the back of her throat. Whoa, he thought, going a shade paler as he tried not to recoil too tangibly. Note to self: Never make her cry.

The keening and wailing wandered over an eldritch scale of pitches and harmonies of Two Voice and Three Voice that were highly evocative, which is to say, disturbing. Finally, she seemed to return to her earthly self. 

"I just don't know what's wrong with me," she choked out.  "All of a sudden I'm sad about everything and afraid of everybody. And my shamanics are a shambles. I hate being this way." She broke down into sobbing again, then mastered herself, though it was painful to watch. 

“I want to be brave and loyal,” she sniffled. “I want to be someone who does whatever our State needs done. I don’t want to be cowardly or childish or, Tengri forbid, useless. But the Agency wants me to go around giving all the worst villains happy endings. Indefinitely. I don’t look down on people who do that kind of work, and I don’t feel like I’ve got a good reason to be this revolted by the idea, but I am anyway. 

“They confirmed it when I got back, but I suspected even on the way home. Getting bridenapped on the way felt more like a rescue than a violation. Tai would be demanding, for sure, but at least I’d only have to adjust to him . Or so I thought, anyway. I also thought that whole arrangement was by your instigation, or at least with your consent. Neither was true, of course, and I wonder why I bother thinking anymore since I’m just so wrong. Listen to me, I sound so whiny! I didn’t used to be whiny.

“I haven’t had time to seek treatment or do any full-on rituals for myself, but I’ve prayed on it a lot. I’ve had to give up on trying to reason my way through it; like, ‘What if I had magical healing blood ? Would that be better or worse? At least I could go around telling people to bite me. Or what about tears? People would profit by keeping me miserable.’ It doesn’t help.” Her voice broke. "Maybe I need to make peace with selling myself now so I can buy myself back later," she said almost normally, then resumed sobbing. "Because now is the time in my life when I have something to sell."

He wondered who had brought this intelligent, honest, promising citizen to such a bleak, hopeless frame of mind. He had half a mind to start kicking forks until he found out.

The strong arms set her gently on her feet in chest-deep water. He leaned his forehead against hers, drew her heart against his own, and smoothed a wing of her dripping hair indulgently down her shapely back. “If that’s not the life you want,” he said in a quiet version of his Ruling Voice, “then it’s not the life I want for you. And I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen.”

The brow chakra is the seat of dreams and visions. Their sudden connection shocked them both, opening a huge vaulted soul-space of floating worlds and blazing lights and all manner of vessels traveling between them. They watched silently for a time that was difficult to measure. This one dreams as far and wide as I do, each of them thought. Together, where might we go?

Finally, a little regretfully, he spoke again. “Well then, estimable Cat-Doula? Aren’t you going to ask me how a mere hot-spring temple priest can presume to change your external world?”

“I never underestimate the influence that can be exerted by a bodyworker,” she said as he felt her shrug one of her complicated shrugs that conveyed both nothing and everything. “Especially at a high-end place like this. You must have the ears of all the deciders. And, if they prove stubborn, you have their other body parts too,”

“I do,” said the Golden Son of the Golden Family, sliding Nergui’s blindfold off with a deft pinky finger. “That I do. And you knew! What gave me away?”

“The hands. The guide’s hands had this… amazing, very unusual texture.”

“They spend an hour a day punching sandbags. And they do a special moisture treatment so calluses don’t build up.”

“And yours don’t. Not that they’re rough or anything, and your moves might be better than theirs, but I could still pick up the memories of battle. Smoothed-over scars. Plus, you left your archer’s thumb-ring on.”

“Did I?” He looked at his hand and saw the heavy silver ring, now dark with a patina from soaking in the mineral-laden spring. “Damn me,” he laughed it off. “That’s a turnip-wagon mistake. I guess I’m out of practice.”

“You don’t often come out here and impersonate a masseur for people you wonder about?”

“Not for a long time,” he realized. And, unlike those past occasions, he hadn’t thought of this one as a lark. He’d sent her on what could easily have been a suicide mission. Improbably, she’d both survived and succeeded. Why shouldn’t he clear his appointment scroll until he made her love her Mongolian life again?

“And you have way too much responsibility to spend time pounding sand every day.”

“Yes, I’ve got subordinates to pound sand for me now. So what kind of life would appeal to you?”

“Well…” she hesitated as if she feared that speaking of mundane matters would disrupt her enjoyable trance, “Before I got called up to service, I studied conventional shamanic healing, but I also sought out all the alternative-medicine teachers I could find. I paid my way by practicing in the villages. Lately, the shadow of shaman’s madness has wrapped itself around me like a scarf. With my varied training and all the experts I’ve met, I’m in an exceptional position to figure out how to prevent it, cure it, or at least mitigate it. If I could do that, shamans could stay in touch with the living world longer. All the other healers who don’t go mad will have a longer time to work on cures for other ills, so everyone would benefit. Eventually, shamans might even be able to lead less restricted lives.” Oops, she probably shouldn’t have brought that up. “But it all goes down the long-drop if I’m driven to my breaking point too early, which I think is why I’m fighting this other career path,” she returned to her main point hopefully.

But: “Less restricted? Restricted how?” Golden Ogedei asked her, his voice a little tight. She couldn’t know , could she? Then again, once you got sixty-three toli , what couldn’t you know?

“Well…” she stalled again, regretfully feeling her muscles begin to tense up again. It’s well known, at least to those who know it well, that no shaman can ever be Khan, but there’s no way I’m going there right now. Neither Oggy nor Tai was a shaman, she would have bet a whole pitcher of airag. All the Borjigin brothers had their father Genghis’s exceptional magnetism, albeit less of it. Maybe only a certain amount of that energy could be in the living world at one time. Still, there was something else here, though not a risky amount of it. 

When shamans went through their initiatory ordeals, they were euphemistically said to be “touched” by the spirits. Among themselves, they mostly agreed it was more like being “coshed over the head in an alley” by the spirits. Ogedei hadn’t been touched, but it sometimes seemed like the spirits stopped and waved at him from not too far away. It was one of the things about him that piqued her interest, although there was a lot of other stuff too.

Remembering he was sitting there expecting a response, she said offhandedly, “Oh, you know; there are a lot of fields where they’re allowed to be advisors, but not principals. Everyone’s afraid of the day they break off in mid-sentence, start flapping their arms, and fly away with the cranes.”

“I see.” He’d sensed no hesitation, as might occur while thinking of a less controversial example. “And what other things would you like in your life?”

“Traveling around to different places. Helping people wherever I am, but moving on before wearing out my welcome. Enjoying a city sometimes and the country other times, but not getting stuck in either for too long.”

“I often wish I could get away with that, the way Tai does. Dad said, though, you’ve got to have a city for all the visitors. Dignitaries need to know where they can find their opposite numbers. And you can’t just move into an established one in the annexed lands; it would open up a whole can of Death Worms. Not the least of which is that Mongols do best in Mongolia. And he was right about so many things.”

“May he ride forever in the sky,” Nergui recited, happy to have changed the subject away from herself.

“Do you think Mongolians can warm up to a permanent city?”

“Definitely. A lot of them already have. My boss never wants to see a live sheep again. Speaking of warming up, if there’s some way to accommodate nomad camps that need to get out of a zuud in the winter, you’ll probably get a bunch of their kids to stay.”

The Khagan nodded thoughtfully. The zuuds , multi-day stretches of extreme winter weather, killed hundreds of families and thousands of head of livestock so often they were classified into white, black, iron, cold, and combined; any given year might bring at least one sort. “Some walls to keep out the godsdamn wind would probably go a long way.” He turned back to her and placed his palms on her upper arms. The sun chose that moment to beam in through one of the natural skylights and dramatically illuminate Ogedei’s gold-red-black hair and Nergui’s amber irises. “But let’s not talk about matters of state right now. It’ll undo all the relaxation we’ve been working on.”

“We’d probably have to start all over,” Nergui grinned impishly. “Wouldn’t that be terrible?”

He wondered how much of his thoughts she could pick up. He imagined, as vividly as possible, the two of them frolicking between expertly tanned royal wolf-skins by a pit of fragrant embers next to a sweet-water stream under a sky with more stars than blank space in the blessed Orkhon Valley. He smiled as he saw her eyes darken, her cheekbones and lips pinken, and her breath deepen.

There, he thought.  I’ll hold this image until, ideally, she looks up and says “Khagan?” Then I’ll put two fingers to her lips and whisper “Ogedei,” and I’ll tip her head back and steal --- no, much subtler, pickpocket a kiss; it’ll only be a brush of my lips over hers as light and fleeting as a feathered wingtip splitting the air.  Mmm… sublime, just as I expected. Then I’ll whisper "I'm just a nice boy you've been looking at. I've been looking at you too. And now we have a little time with nobody else looking..." By that point, every nerve in our bodies will be almost unbearably aware of the other’s nearness. She might take an apprehensive breath and murmur something like “Ogedei --- I ---.” And then she’ll suddenly throw her arms around me and we’ll kiss passionately for about a week until I sense she wants to get on with it, and then, and then, and then...

“No, I can’t do this,” he said suddenly, holding her by the shoulders and backing a step away from her.

What? was all Nergui could think after a similar script running through her mind was so rudely interrupted. “You probably can,” she made herself tease him lightly, landing a playful fingertip on his breastbone. “In fact, word on the street seems to be ‘oh boy, can he ever.’”

"I won't... exploit you," he insisted a bit raggedly. “You deserve better than a standard playbook seduction.” 

“I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever had one before.” Unless that time Baiju Noyan had shown her he could act gallantly…? Even knowing the whole time that it was only an act, it had been fun.

"You are a brave and generous woman,” Ogedei persisted, “and I won't dishonor you the way those other men did.”

“You mean your best friend. And your brother,” she said, not looking at him.

“Yes, I mean like them. I went through war, peace, and puberty with them. They’re as close to me as my own skin. I know what thoughtless, twisted bastards they can be sometimes. I can’t reinforce your perception that all men are like them by just… taking you on the spur of the moment like this, with no more consideration than crushing a mint leaf into a glass of kumyss." He let go of her so abruptly she sank spluttered, and had to regain her equilibrium. The bubbles in the hot spring fanned her floating hair out gracefully and buoyed up the roundnesses that tempted him to change his mind. 

"You know..." she began with a tentative deference he’d never seen in her before, but which probably served her well when negotiating with tigers. "What if you… just exploited me a little bit? " I would dissolve in him like strained honey in hot water, she thought. What does a fire feel for the insect that joyfully flies to its own negation? And when the fire moves on, is anything left? But didn’t Doldrum say the one job of the living is to shed the sense of a ‘self’? If it would be a spiritual elevation, why am I uneasy with it?

Golden Ogedei. She clearly adored him as her Great Khan, as the mortal hand of Tengri, as a microcosm of their beautiful land. That, as nice as it would be, wasn’t the way he wanted her. She should share enough time and space with him to know and value him simply as her man, the way Borakchin had when he was an untried stripling. Gods, he hadn’t thought about Borakchin in years...

“I… think I ‘ve got some better ideas,” he replied, sounding more sure of himself now. “Give me just a couple of weeks to get a plan together. When it works out? Khagan’s honor: we two will celebrate.” 

There. Good one, Oggy, he congratulated himself. I suppose growing up with a hundred moms taught me a little bit about women.

Chapter Text

"Oggy! How could you!" Empress Toregene raged. "Don't you understand women at all?"

With reflexes honed on battlefields from the Amur to the Amu Darya, the Great Khan of Greater Mongol ducked a colorful, glittering object as it streaked through the air from the Empress’s righteous hand of retribution. It hit the wall behind him with an expensive-sounding shatter.

The popular, magnanimous, eloquent son of Genghis was most atypically at a loss. "Tori, please. Where is this coming from? I was thinking of your happiness." A little bit, anyway. "You told me you liked Nergui and you hoped to spend more time with her when she got back to the capital."

"As my friend! Not as one more skank trying to take my place the second I turn my back!"

"Tori, you know no one could ever take your place.” Because you’d eat them alive and floss your teeth with their veins. “You're the Empress. Your sons and their sons are first in the succession.” Don’t pause for breath; this is no time to let her pounce on the designated-heir issue. “You never seemed to worry about the skanks --- I mean, the other wives and mistresses --- before. I didn’t think it would be a problem. I’ve been pretty moderate in that regard, I think." Certainly compared to Tai I have been. “The harem quarters are still half-empty.”

“I would call them half- full,” his wife sneered venomously. “Anyway, I never took any of the others seriously. Gorgeous empty-headed dolls. Well-bred wallflowers. Faceless political game-pieces. Nothing like her! Magical healing hoo-ha aside --- though how could anyone ever compete with that?  --- she’s smart, insightful, and even charismatic when she thinks to turn it on. A friend like that is a prize, but a rival like that…? And just to put the wax seal on it, sixty-three turtle-fucking toli! If a shaman that shiny wanted me out of the way, she could probably kill me off from a hundred miles away by brushing her hair to a secret rhythm or something. I’d never get a good night’s sleep again."

“You really think she’d want to be Empress that badly?”

“Anybody would if they thought they actually had a shot at it. Except maybe you!”

"You’re right, Tori, you’re absolutely right. I don’t want to be Empress.” To stop an argument from escalating, find something to honestly agree with. “I was just thinking that as our healer, she’d need to know family secrets. So if I married her into the Borjigins, she’d be family and we could all confide in her completely.”

“Okay then, but does it have to be you? She’s married to Tai already; she can just be his wife-in-the-Capital. Or how about Guyuk? If No Name Girl fucked the crazy out of Baiju Noyan, she can probably implant a personality and a spine in the Crown Prince somehow, don’t you think?”

She probably could, but wasn’t that the same kind of life everyone else was trying to urga her into? And Tai’s spontaneous bridenapping had flouted both the Yasa and the Great Khan’s specific order. Ogedei couldn’t be seen to let that slide.  Besides, he wanted to personally… but that was a card best kept face-down for now. “What if she doesn’t live in the Palace?” he tried. “Or even in KK. She could manage the Kurultai Center at Lake Khovsgol. Or the base camp for the Winter Hunt in the Orkhon Valley. Or that... ‘Xan-du’ place Lui took his family last summer and can’t stop raving about. It would make sense to have an intelligence agent in that position. All kinds of under-the-table deals get made at those places.”

“Well, then I’d never get to see her socially,” the Empress quibbled mournfully. “And every time you went out of town I’d suspect you of making an excuse to meet her! Do you know what I wish? I wish you would've just snuck around behind my back and had a secret fling that I’d never find out about. Don’t ---” she raised her hand to forestall whatever her husband was going to say ---- “It’s too late to do that now, so don't even think about it. But no! You just have to try to do right by everybody, don’t you? You can’t help being open and honest about your feelings all the gods-damn time! With your wife!   What kind of husband does that?”

Ogedei, not having a good answer at hand, fell silent for a long moment. Then, "Please,  Tori, " he entreated in a completely unaccustomed tone that the Great Khatun found highly disturbing, "just let me have this, once in a while, and I won't ask you for anything more. I'll never want anything more.  Please."

Tori gasped, her face going pale. "You'll never want anything more?  Munkh G. Tengri, Oggy, now you're really scaring me.  We all want. Therefore we're Mongols.  If the Great Khan stops wanting anything, the people will follow suit. If none of us want anything, who will we be then?"

Chapter Text

Although the prevailing winds in Tabriz blow primarily from east to west, things there can still sometimes go south in a hurry.

Dragana cowered by the antique garderobe, her fair skin so blanched the purple veins showed through, her Alice-blue eyes as big as robins’ eggs. She clutched a folded yellow blanket decorated with small black, white, gold and silver squares scattered like windblown cherry-blossom petals. She’d found it while putting away some freshly washed sheets and thought it was pretty.

Baiju Noyan’s face was a snarl of rage. His scowl was deep enough to break a horse’s leg. His Stygian black eyes promised profligate bloodshed. His right hand, only empty because none of his blades were handy was raised to deliver a shattering blow.

Dilmana stood in front of Dragana, facing down Baiju with an expression that dared him to find out if the rumors about redheads’ explosive tempers were true. Both her flashing green eyes and her gravity-defying breasts were fixed on the maddened provincial governor… which some small, same fragment of him thought was kind of unfair.

Irina stood behind Baiju. She’d caught the underside of his elbow and upper arm at the high point of his wind-up,  pulled them back further than he’d intended, and planted herself like an oak tree where his center of gravity was supposed to be. The small, sane fragment grew a little bigger and bolder, commenting that the girls’ fighting lessons seemed to be going well.

Tudora stood behind Baiju’s other shoulder, resting her warm, relaxed hands on his bowstring-taut shoulder muscles. In the sudden electric silence that had burst like firemix in the sunny bedroom, she was the only one who spoke. Quietly. Lovingly. In that contralto voice that could massage his feet through the wooden floor.

“Now, batko, remember what we said the villagers used to call Dragi? ‘Our little angel who flew headfirst into a wall.’ She’ll be innocent all her life, poor thing. That’s why we got you to buy all of us together, so we could keep looking out for her. 

“You’re very angry about what she did and you’re a strong, trained warrior. So maybe you’ll hit her anyhow, though we do our best to stop it, we promise you! But Dragi won’t connect an act with a reason. Hitting her won’t teach her anything except to be afraid of you all the time forever. Her father would witness to that if he had lived. And you want to be stronger, remember? Controlling your anger takes strength. If you give in to it after all your work with us, what will you think of you?”

Baiju breathed percussively in and out of his nose. Eventually, his muscles began to relax and his breathing normalized and he allowed Irina and Tudora to walk him over to the bed and sit him down between them.

“Dragi, dyevoychicha! ”Tudora called out. Only a well-trained ear would be able to pick up the nearly imperceptible shadow of strain in her voice. “Put the blanket back in the cupboard and run down to the cellar, will you? Bring something cold we can all drink. Dil, how about the onyx goblets?”

“The ones that are really hard to break,” Dilmana muttered under her breath.

Baiju rose abruptly from the massive gubernatorial bed, triggering gasps from the women. But he merely strode out to the balcony, ignoring them and closing the double doors behind him. He leaned on the rail and looked out over his adopted town and country. Today the mountains reminded him of the folds and hummocks of an unmade bed. He scowled again, but his heart wasn’t in it. The storm winds had left his sails and now he was high and dry.

He had been progressing. Days were starting to go by when he scarcely thought about… the Agent. Didn’t wish she could come to his enormous new house, with the balconies and gardens and fireplaces and solaria and, of course, the huge bed. Didn’t wonder what she would think of everything new that he saw. Would she approve of his new favorites and how well he was learning to treat them?

He replayed the last ten minutes in hid mind and sighed. Maybe not today.

Only a few inconsequential white clouds wandered across the Eternal Blue Sky of Tengri. Did the Agent ride across that sky now? Did she gallop beside her father and Teb Tengri in the train of blessed Genghis? Or had she already been born again, a fractious infant howling to be fed? 

He sincerely doubted that she’d shed all vestiges of herself and ventured into the Nine Voids Beyond. She might have collected enough toli to give it a try, but she’d been vibrant in life, wholly disinclined to asceticism. No, she would want to experience the various nearby worlds for a while. If he paid enough attention, he might find her again. He could explain…

He was aware of the door opening behind him but did not turn around. When a few moments went by and nothing else happened, he turned and went inside.

“Well, it sure is pink, whatever it is,” Dilmana sounded a little nonplussed as she poured out the wine.

“It wanted to come,” Dragana asserted, her smile beginning to return. She watched her… sister? Cousin? Friend? Had he ever asked?... arrange the refreshment tray. She didn’t look at him.

“Thank you, Dragana,” he said, earning thankful smiles from his other favorites.

“Oh, you’re welcome, batko, ” she answered, without a trace of resentment. Or much of anything else.

He and his “Balkan chorus,” as the mansion’s staff called them, sat around a small marble-inlaid table with their goblets. The wine turned out to be so sweet he spluttered a little. “Strawberries,” he guessed gamely. “Well, maybe mostly strawberries.” The women chuckled, only a little tentatively.

“Who was she, batko? ” Tudora asked in a casual tone that, though he hid it as well as he could, always caused him mild dread.

“She who?” he deflected rather ineffectively, immediately taking --- and just as immediately regretting --- another swallow of too-sweet wine.

“The one who slept with the yellow blanket,” Dragana answered, with visible mental effort.

“The one you miss so much it hurts,” added Dilmana.

“The one it’s taking all four of us to replace,” Irina contributed dryly.

“Your true love?” Tudora suggested gently.

“She was… supposed to find out, among other things, whether I could love. But she never told me before...”

The women let the silence unwind like a skein of yarn.

“Before she died,” Baiju said finally, very quickly as if snapping the shaft of an arrow that had gotten past his armor. “She died… and I might have been... partly responsible,” he confessed.

“I don’t think it’s fair when people die and then never talk to us again,” Dragana told the tabletop.

“Too bad there’s no way for us to visit them,” Irina patted Dragi’s hand, trying to console her.

Baiju, however, felt electrified by the seemingly innocuous words. His hand shook, the goblet’s sticky contents sloshing. “Say,” he began in a carefully casual tone. “You girls all lived on farms, didn’t you?

“Are any of you any good with a shovel?”

Chapter Text

Nergui saw the Kara Koram gate and its Turtle approaching as she rode the camel train back from Hot Springs Eternal. For the first time she could remember (since childhood summers when she and her brothers would lie on a blanket in the bottom of Dad’s fishing skiff and play What Does That Cloud Look Like), she was completely relaxed. So relaxed that her speaking voice had dropped an octave. If, as everyone said, Great Khan Ogedei had a knack with people, she was definitely one of those people. She’d gone into Hot Springs Eternal as an Ogedei fangirl and come out a confirmed-4-life Ogedei fangirl. So what if she was one of immeasurably many? She'd fill her idle time with productive work for their State until her turn came around. And then they would bathe in each other’s light, and share everything they’d learned since their last rendezvous, and she would love Ogedei, come hells or no water, until her life's natural end.

They couldn't have discussed anything openly at that point, of course. Great Khan Ogedei famously wanted no one in his retinue, least of all in the harem,  who didn't genuinely want to be there. The bafflement of his relatives and near-peers had eventually run its course. Now they shrugged and accepted that he was "funny that way." It still meant he had to approach most prospects very discreetly because as soon as he issued an actual invitation, they would be duty-bound to accept.

This was not even an issue for Nergui, who would gladly subsist for the rest of her life on boiled, unseasoned Death Worm sphincters for her Khagan's sake. Although she had to admit: if that was what it finally came down to, she hoped there'd at least be a good reason. 

She picked another morsel of their warm-water conversation and replayed it:

“So, your harem or whatever: Do you loan them out the way Tai does?”  The more familiar she was becoming with the ways of royalty and nobility, the less she wanted to take for granted. 

“Only if they ask me to.”

“If they… can you tell me more?”

“Well, so many of my marriages are political. The brides’ parents drop them off at my threshold willy-nilly, convincing themselves that their daughters’ hearts are blank scrolls. If it matters to them, they hide it well. On the other hand, I have to live with their daughter now and it matters to me. I’ve arranged for more than one old flame, hometown sweetheart or miscellaneous person-of-interest to have occasional business with the government. And sometimes the weather turns bad or negotiations hang up; can’t be helped. So we put him up overnight in one of the guest apartments inside these walls. Then I find an excuse to stay out of the hallways till breakfast. 

“It’s easiest to control that way; if I forced them to sneak around behind my back, they might get caught by somebody who doesn’t work for me.”

”So, then, just as a for-instance, if Baiju came to visit and asked for me, Tai would probably just hand me over, but you wouldn’t?”

“That’s probably correct.”

“But if I asked for him , you’d allow it?” 

Golden Ogedei laughed loudly and long. Perhaps just a little more so than he absolutely had to. “If you wanted --- to see Baiju again?” he’d finally gasped out, and then collapsed into hearty guffaws for another few minutes. “Oh, I’m sorry, sweet Cat-Doula, it’s just so… but then your only other experience was Tai, wasn’t it?  I’ve got other bones to pick with him before he’s even allowed to view you, from a distance, through a tiny peephole, in a solid wall…”

She’d put her head back down against her sovereign’s solid chest (he was not one of those men whose muscles came off with their armor) as steam rose from the water all around them. “Tai did his best to treat me well while I was there,” she murmured as offhandedly as she could, “And Baiju... had his moments. I grew accustomed to his morning scowl.”

“Gamla Stan syndrome,” Ogedei pronounced sagely. She could feel him nodding his head. “Captors and captives falling in love. Gamla Stan is a city in the far northwest, almost to the Other Ocean. They say it was founded and populated by captor-captive couples. But you won’t turn out like them. We’re going to get you some healthier experiences.”

Baiju didn’t abduct me , a nagging little reflection glinted in the back of her mind. He was my assignment . The target of my mission. So if it was Gamla Stan, who’d been captor and who’d been captive?

Walking out of the shadow of the gate, she inhaled the city bouquet of smoke, fresh wood, and mixed organic fug. Staying here for a few years, watching things change every day… wouldn’t be boring. But for the rest of her life …?

With Ogedei, the Wild Flower Fairy voice in her head reminded her. Oh, that tipped the balance all right. But then: When he frees up time to see you, riposted the Erlik’s Advocate voice. Or was that even the same opposing voice as before? Hard to tell. It wasn't wrong, though; the Great Khan had a bunch of higher-ranking wives and a flock of kids and half a continent to look after before he could visit her. She’d probably spend more time with the co-wives and the kids than with him… what might that be like? Probably okay, the WFF voice reassured her. They’ll all be used to occasional new additions by now. Besides, Tori’s the most senior and you two get along ---

Someone in No Name Girl’s head happened to be looking around instead of blabbering. He, she, or it activated the knee-buckle, duck, and cover sequence soon enough that the leather lash whistling in at eye height kept going into empty air. As she dropped, her eyes registered Purple.

"Bitch!" Empress Toregene raged. “You! Him! Never! What? Why? How?” Each word was punctuated with a whip-stroke on the huddled Nergui’s back. "Trusted you! Liked you! Look at you! Fuck you."

Iron Shirt… Iron Shirt… Nergui yanked hurriedly at her aura, trying to get a Tao metal-energy layer between her skin and the violent world.  Why the mosquitoes isn’t it working?  It was more of a Glue Shirt; it let her feel the whip-strokes but damped the smack! down to a whump and made the lash harder to pull back for the next stroke, which she guessed was better than nothing. The whip, she noted, was a high-end rendition of a standard, short Mongolian riding crop that any avid horsewoman would always have close to hand. Mongols generally disapproved of hurting horses. To that end, the whips were short and flexible, capable of getting a stubborn beast’s attention with a loud snap and a moderate sting that didn’t break the skin. Horses’ skin, anyway. Though human skin was quite a bit more sensitive, this whip was unlikely to flay the shirt (and the underlying skin) off her back unless plied with uncommon enthusiasm for several hours. It would leave painfully vivid bruises, though, and might draw enough blood to threaten the shirt’s wearability. But fairly soon the strokes slowed and paused.

“I’m bored!” Tori eventually proclaimed to the world at large. “And my arm is getting tired! But I’m still really ---- pissed --- off!” She punctuated the last three words with kicks into Nergui’s ribs. Nergui redoubled her Iron Shirt efforts; one fractured rib could ruin even a Mongol’s whole day.

However, the Empress had never spent hours every day kicking anything, so those muscles tired easily. After a while, she screeched in frustration. "Are you just going to keep making me hurt my foot? There must be a death penalty somewhere in the Yasa for that. Why in your grandma’s locked box of dildos won't you fight back? You know how to fight, I assume."

"I do, a little,” Nergui admitted, “but since you're Empress and I'm... not, we should go book a ring with a referee and make it an official duel. Or..." Nergui let the relative silence roll out like the majestic grassland.

"Or what, not-the-Empress?" Tori prodded derisively after several seconds.

One way to win in a fight is to do the unexpected. "Orrrr... we could go someplace and get shockingly brunch-drunk instead," No Name Girl suggested, selling it as expressively as she could.

Chapter Text

Nergui had hardly congratulated herself for outlasting the beating before the next challenge reared its head: Where do you take an Empress to get drunk at midmorning? 

Not the freaking Palace, though Nergui longed to see the kittens. Emperors and their brothers wandered around that place. Being confronted with the bone of their contention at the wrong stage of the process might inspire the two women to pull it apart and make a wish. 

Not the Eyrie, the ironically named Agency-sponsored sub-basement “deaf bar” frequented by Nergui’s co-workers. Although they were all on the same side and all the interior design was anti-snooping, the presence of a royal would be noticed and could put a damper on the confidences exchanged.

And not any place open to the public, either, because the spectators who’d gathered to watch the fight were showing every sign of following them to see what they did next. KK was too new, with too many recent arrivals from rural or nomadic backgrounds, to be one of those cities where every citizen separated him- or herself emotionally from every other and conducted business through a tiny window in a thick social shield-wall. In such a place, the two women could have had their fight, perhaps even killed each other, without any apparent notice from passersby. Not here.

“Are they going to start fighting again, do you think?” asked a member of the audience in a very outdoor voice. “My break is almost over.”

“Why didn’t that one lady do anything?” another wondered aloud. ”Her blouse looks like trash now.”

“‘Cause she didn’t want to get her head cut off, dum-dum.”

“Maybe she had too much respect to mess up that purple dress. That’s one hell of a dress.”

Even among the often bizarre sights of KK, they were an attention-grabbing pair.  The Empress red-faced in her somewhat disheveled finery, a former Naadam champion carrying a racing whip but nowhere near a horse. The inspiration for the Goose Girl posters walking with the forced gait of one working to ignore pain, covered in road dust and leaking small amounts of blood in various places. 

The joke’s on Tori, Nergui thought; this is the shirt Tolui lent me.

Suddenly the solution seemed obvious. If you need a place where the presence of an Emperor’s consort won’t cause a stir, a place full of other Emperors’ consorts is perfect. “Let’s go to Dower House 5,” Nergui asided to Toregene, covering her mouth and trying to avoid moving her lips. The Empress nodded.

“Where are they going now?” said a bystander.

“Probably to fix their hair. It looks like weasels mated on their heads!” said another.

“Maybe they’ll schedule a duel. I’ll keep following them; maybe I can find bettors.”

After Genghis Khagan had departed the world of flesh to ride forever in the sky, Ogedei had given each of the widows her own choice of where she wanted to live, and how, and with whom. Those who delighted in gathering and trading knowledge --- the more complex and abstract, the tastier --- clubbed together to commission Dower House 5, a spacious light-filled three stories above a ground floor of cosmopolitan shops and restaurants. Its luxuriously large windows overlooked the city center. Its formidable residents, so it was said, overlooked nothing.

Nergui had first visited Dower House 5 while still Sealed; the ladies had offered to fill in certain blanks in her education before her mission to Anatolia. Then, the sexually-themed fixtures and furnishings had intimidated her a little. Now, not so much. Without hesitation she raised the door-knocker handle, which lifted the nipples off a pair of breast-shaped bells, intending to smack it down smartly a couple of times and call out “Nokhoi khor” (“Hold the dog,” a traditional ger-camp greeting) for extra politeness --- but before she could, the door swung inward. “Get in here, you two hellcats!” stage-whispered Tabanodval of Khongirad with a fussy little wave of her frightening fingernails. “And as for you looky-loos,” she projected her stage voice all the way to the back of the following crowd, “You can’t use our loo, so go look at something else!” Fearing further (and probably more personalized) verbal abuse from the renowned Sarcast credited with mentoring the famously caustic Jochi Khan,  the flock slowly and sulkily dispersed. 

As they were hustled inside, the shaman and the Empress exchanged their first sympathetic glance of the day. Normally the imperious imperial widows, especially Tabby, wouldn’t be caught dead opening the door themselves. Their hostesses already knew about their morning’s activities (of course they did) and were irrepressibly anxious to know more about it. 

Oh well , thought Nergui, ever pragmatic; it saves some explaining.

The ladies of Dower House 5 had mustered their servants to set up refreshments in a central solarium well away from prying eyes. So many large plants graced the space that it felt like the ground floor.  There were regular chairs, benches, and a couple of fainting couches (not that these formidable women ever fainted unless there was some advantage in it), but the two combatants were directed to a pair of contraptions that resembled bookcases designed for a reality with extra dimensions. Instead of books, though, the offset and variously tilted shelves held oddly shaped pillows. Joon, the imported Goryeo flower boy Nergui had met before, showed them how to thread their bodies into the structures so than their shins, buttocks, elbows, chests, and foreheads rested on the various cushions. Nergui was surprised at how comfortable she was once she got settled, though she wasn’t sure exactly how she’d get out.

In front of each of them was a big, green, roughly egg-shaped object with a bamboo straw stuck in it. “Drink up, ladies,” Kraya the doll-like Thai concubine urged. “Normally I advise not trusting any drink served in a coconut, but needs must when forest-demons drive. This is not what the swells drink at the Royal Thai palace. This is what my country uncles drink when they want to wake up in an irrigation ditch.” 

“While you’re getting started, Kaushiki and I will assess the damage,” Ai Fan pronounced. They each gently lifted a combatant’s shirt to expose her back.

“Oh my goodness. You’ve been beaten rather severely,” Kaushiki told Nergui. Nergui was tempted to reply something like “No? You don’t say so?” or “I wonder when that happened.” This was a testimonial to the better mood she was in, and by extension how fast Kraya’s coconut concoction went to work. “I think I’ve got a poultice that will be good for that.”

“What’s it made out of?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“Rose petals, sugar, a little frankincense. Coconut oil.”

Nergui wouldn’t be tactless and ask if it would help. It probably wouldn’t hurt, and a good smell was nothing to sneeze at.

“Overworking your muscles, I see,” Ai Fan commented in re: Toregene. “Next time you’re going to put a major hurt on somebody, you might try warming up first on a hay-bale or something. Dragon Lotion will take care of it.” Ai Fan had no sooner started than Tori made a face. Dragon Lotion didn’t smell bad per se , it just smelled a lot.

“We’ll leave you alone for a little while,” Kaushiki told them, “and come back later.” Everyone bustled out as silently as they’d bustled in, leaving Tori and Nergui alone.

For a while the women sipped in thoughtful silence. Though they were leaning slightly forward in their UFOs (Unidentified Furnishing Objects), they could see each other’s faces by looking up. Each of them did so until their necks started getting sore, then gave it a rest.

At length, the Empress inquired, “How’d you get a black eye? I only hit you on the back and sides.”

“A funny thing happened on my way to the roadbed,” Nergui sighed.

A few more minutes passed as the level of liquid in the strangely organic containers got steadily lower.

“How’s Shut Up?” Nergui asked.

“I didn’t say anything,” Tori grumbled.

“I mean the cat, How are the kittens?”

“One of their tails is bent funny.”

“I’m sorry. Maybe it can be corrected since they’re still so young.”

“No, it’s a good thing. The ones with crooked tails are reserved for the Queen. I’m supposed to put my rings on their tails while I take a bath.”

“Wow. That’s new to me.”

Another silence that stretched out like a slowly forming icicle.

“Why don’t we loosen up with a drinking game?” Nergui finally piped up. “ How about ‘I Never’? I’ll start. I never… canoodled with a Great Khan.” Just a big one that was pretty good.

Several of the Dower House 5 residents were listening at the door. All the doors in the house had been selected for acoustic quality.  “Lucky we didn’t go back in yet,” Chimeg giggled. “She would’ve just wiped us all out with that one.” 

Tori started to bend down to drink, then hesitated. “Sure about that?” she challenged.

Nergui locked her amber eyes with the Empress’s slightly tear-misted ones and said, “Sword-hand to the Blue, Khagatun. We never even Frankish-kissed. He said he didn’t want to traumatize me any further after Baiju and Chagatai.” She hoped her frustration didn’t show in her voice, but Tori was bound to read some into it anyway so it probably didn’t matter.

Tori blew out a long breath, the alcohol-laden vapor causing the nearest candle to flare up momentarily. “I wanted to disbelieve you, but that last part… sounds just like him.”

“I know!” Nergui sizzled with a thin bright edge of injured pride. “I couldn’t make this stuff up . And you also need to hear me say this: If it’s going to screw up anything important like your family or the state,  then we just… won’t.” That pledge cost Nergui more than she expected, but it was the only way she could imagine to defuse the situation.

“But you have feelings for him , ” Toregene accused.

“Yes, I do,” No Name Girl admitted. “I’m crazy about him. But so what? You can't choose which feelings drop out of the sky on you, no more than you get to choose which bird shits on you."

"Oh no you're not comparing my husband's feelings with birdshit ?"

"No, I'd never,” Nergui deflected, silently beseeching Tengri to preserve her patience. “I'm comparing my own feelings to birdshit. I can’t even be sure they’re really my feelings. I could be intermittently possessed, Maybe some goddess wants to wear me and canoodle with some god who’s wearing him. Stranger things happen on land… but ever since my resurrection back in Anatolia I've been extra moody and squirrely. I hope to hell it’s not shaman's madness already, but..."

“I Never,” Tori broke in, ”had any feelings that I just... ignored! ”

Nergui took her penalty drink without hesitation. Tori had probably never had a feeling that didn’t work her like a shadow-puppet before she even knew it was there. “Got me,” she conceded. 

“Is that part of your shamanic discipline or what?”

“Could be. Could be,” she hedged, continuing to sip. It was also part of her childhood cultivation of Not Giving Mom The Satisfaction. “But since I died everything’s been a mess. I get the impression, for instance, that at least some folk think I should be more upset about what Tai did. But it didn’t feel like a big deal then and it still doesn’t.”

”Borjigin Blindspot!” issued a loud whisper through a crack between the double doors. Nergui snorted and dissolved into giggles. She thought Tori, making similar noises, was also laughing at the situation, but when she looked up she saw the Empress’s eyes were brimming with tears. 

“Oh, my Tengri, of course !” Tori sobbed. “It wasn’t your fault! You’re from too far away to know about it, and I’m so used to it I forgot.”

“Why? What’s a Borjigin Blindspot? I think my dad used that phrase once or twice, but he’d become so obsessed with fishing by that time that I probably assumed it was some kind of fancy lure.”

“It’s --- kind of an extra-strong charisma,” Tori explained once she caught her breath. “There’s just something about that family that makes people want to follow and serve them. No matter what they do, it’s hard to get mad at them and almost impossible to stay that way. Genghis, may he ride forever in the sky, had a mountain of it, but it seemed to get divided up among the sons. Oggy got the lion’s share and gets along with everybody; that’s why he’s Great Khan. It never affected me much, maybe because we saw each other a lot growing up. Maybe that’s why he married me. Of course, nobody knows what happened with the grandkids. Batu’s definitely got it but the rest of them…” she shivered all over like a horse shaking off sweat.

“I did sense, with Tai, that there was something extra going on, but it wasn’t like anything I’ve run into before. And everybody in the place was equally buzzed on it. Lately my intuition’s been half-dead and I get all these random strong emotions drowning out everything else.”

“Well, that has to be it, then. And maybe you’ve got something like it that attracts them back.”

Nergui dismissively blew a stray hair away from her face. “Pff. I’d be very surprised.”

“Then how come you’re such a hot topic? Goose Girl?”

“Because word went around, true or not, that I have a magical healing hoo-ha, and now everybody wants to try it out. Do you think it might even be a political strategy on the Borjigin brothers’ part? I got famous in a new weird way, but if they claim me then it will have always been about them somehow?”

Tori got to the bottom of her drink and made thoughtful bubbling noises. “You’re making way too much sense,” she frowned daintily. “It’s why I should want you around, and also why I don’t. I want the woman who fixes my hats and makes friends with my cats and keeps up with my drinking and might even teach me some new swears. Not the one who gets recognized in the street by more people than me. Not the one who can think her way through plots thicker than February ice with twists complex enough to break a snake’s back. And certainly not the one who makes that very important man’s eyes go opaque like fried eggs at the mention of her name. That’s a horrible sign, a harbinger of multi-month disappearances our State can ill afford.”

"I think you’re overestimating both my feminine allure and my powers of manipulation. Still, when you put it that way it scares me too.” She poked desultorily at the coconut and found the meat inside tender and yielding, like a milk custard. She dug at it with the little spoon whose purpose she’d been wondering about and sampled the translucent fruit-flesh. “Mmm,” she nodded, gesturing with the spoon. “There’s stuff to dig out when you run out of juice.” After chewing she swallowed and said earnestly, “I could never replace you as Empress, and I’d never try. Too much fuss. My personal fuss-budget’s too meager to cover it. I’d be fine with an obscure, neglected corner of the Palace because it’s still a freakin’ Palace. And, should I ever have children, I wouldn’t want them in the line of succession, no matter how pissed off it got them. I've seen the upcoming generation of Khans. No offense ---”

“None taken,” Tori nodded, raising a fresh coconut in an unspoken toast. Nergui looked down and found a fresh coconut in front of her too. When had that gotten there? She’d heard that in the Lands with Sticks Up Their Butts, as she privately called some of the urbanized annexations, the very best servants were invisible. Had Dower House 5 hired one of the invisible women of Kabul? 

Maybe, but more likely I just really wasn’t paying any attention.  

“...But those kids’ first Kurultai without their parents will be a freakin' meat grinder. They might as well just paint big targets on their backs and be done with it.”

“You’re not wrong,” Tori ruefully admitted.

 "All I planned on being was another addition to the Palace’s shamanic staff, taking care of cats and hats and whatever. Trying to keep all the curses and evil Eyes off you guys. A nice job doing useful things in a beautiful and exciting place. An occasional visit with an accomplished lover would be dried orange peel in the tea." Nergui sipped her own fresh coconut only a little gloomily. “Now the hedgehog’s so far down the snake hole that backing out isn’t an option. I feel like anything I do to fix things would just make them worse. Maybe I should just get out of KK for a while. Out of sight, out of mind. Just not back to Anatolia. In fact, what’s in the opposite direction from Anatolia?” She waved her hand vaguely. 

“The Jin and Northern Song annexes,” Tori said contemplatively. “The ocean. Someplace called Nihon.”

“Nihon?” Nergui perked up. “One of Tai’s other wives was from there. She said the people are very nice.” What else had Retsuko said? Nergui’s memory was hazy. No surprise.

“I know we send exploration boats out there,” Tori mused, looking into the middle distance. 

“Perfect! They might need somebody to snoop around and report, do you think?”

“Maybe. Those ships are so big I heard they take all kinds of people besides sailors. Navigators, cooks, carpenters, sailmakers, doctors...”

“I could be one of the doctors. Even if my shamanigans are messed up I know lots of physical medicine.”

“We’re only a quarter-mile from the new Admiralty Office,” Tori suggested, warming to the idea. “We should go see.”

“Keep those shipments of coconuts coming, Kraya,” Ai Fan whispered outside the door.

“You see why I missed them,” Kraya whispered back.

“I still don’t get how Tori could put such a beating,” Kaushiki murmured, “on a woman who’s...”

“Shush,” Meg warned. “It’s not our business.”

Tabby frowned in bafflement and tugged at her ear as though to clear it. “I can’t have just heard you right, Meg. You said it’s what our what?”

Chapter Text

Are you there, Dad? It’s me, Oggy.

{What do you want, numb-nuts? Dad went to see a demon about a hellhound; Orion’s taking us hunting.}

Ogedei shut his eyes and ground his teeth at the unwelcome and still-familiar voice. Josh? Is that you?

{Well it ain’t the Rabbit in the Moon... How come you contact Dad but not me, snot-nose? You could benefit from my too-soon-extinguished brilliance.}

How much do you think I miss being called “snot-nose” and “numb-nuts,” Big Bro?

{I could have told you to send an escort for that girl with the magic hoo-ha. And then bring her home north through Batu’s Horde, avoid Tai’s Khanate completely.}

There wasn’t time. The situation in Anatolia cracked up too quickly. I hoped Tai would be focused on the buzkashi playoffs. Anyway, you’ve always been great at placing blame for damage that’s already done.

{Ah, but I know our Tai much better than you do. He’s more complicated than he seems. If multiple ideas make it into his head, he can juggle agendas with the best. Say, you’re not draining the Death Worm right now, are you?}

No. (By that time he’d finished).

{Smothering a Scarab? Mangling the Marmot?}

No!

{Making the Sign of the Three-Tailed Scorpion?}

What does  that even mean?

(Ah! Oggy! Nice to hear from you, son. Is everything all right?)

Just doing a little all-purpose ancestor reverence... Mostly... In fact, I could use a little advice. I’m leaning toward adding Khenbish’s Nerguitani to the household.

{Why?} Jochi broke in. {She doesn’t rule any land we need to add or pacify. Just sample the magic hoo-ha and give her something shiny to remember you by. You don’t have to marry her just because Tai did. Tai marries everybody.}

Genghis the Great and Wise gave a mildly pained sigh. Ogedei imagined him pinching the bridge of his nose as he often had when his sons had gotten up it. (Josh, I believe the current Khagan was asking me, thank you.)

I thought it could affirm the meritocracy in a way everybody understands. Her parents are Mergens who’ve done outstanding service to the State. Also, some of the curses getting flung at us are testing the Palace shamans’ limits. One of these days something’s going to get through. If I have a skillful healer beside me who can take all the family secrets into account ---

(This all sounds reasonable, son… but something tells me your head is justifying something your heart instigated.)

{More like your --- } Jochi couldn’t resist inserting before an inaudible but tangible pop, as of a ghost backhanding another ghost upside the head, scattered a handful of stardust that briefly flared aflame yet felt as cool as morning mist on the skin of the living. 

(I always prized her father,) Genghis continued as though nothing had interrupted. (A shrewd battle-shaman and a good companion. His daughter would  have been wasted on Tai, but I think she’d be good for you. And vice versa. That said, though...)

The pause drew out.

When I mentioned it to Tori, she freaked, Ogedei confessed. I wasn’t expecting that. They were becoming friends.

(Women are famous for reacting unexpectedly, but sometimes it turns out there’s a good cause. Tori’s high-strung, to put it mildly, but she’s secure in her own position. My ectoplasmic instinct is that your path to the wedding ovoo isn’t clear. Some powerful forces are already in motion. The elemental kind that won’t be turned by words or swords. Best thing is to watch them play out from a safe distance and then see where things land.)

Aaah, shit-too-wet-to-burn. I’ve been blaming myself for not acting immediately.

(Don’t take it hard, son. I’m sure you’ve got more urgent things to think about than how to persuade even a smallish raptor to thrive in a songbird’s cage.)

Chapter Text

Portgas Noyan (known to most of his Kara Koram acquaintances as “Admiral Ace”) sat in his office in the Greater Mongol Admiralty HQ. His feet were up on the desk, one of them wiggling impatiently. His hat was tilted over his eyes. He leaned back even further and finally found out what it took to make his chair tip over. 

It was then that a woman’s voice lilted “Hello-o? Sailors?” and the door opened.

“Nokhoi khor!” added another woman’s voice. This was a Mongolian greeting he’d become used to. It required no action unless a dog was with him, which they seldom were.

Ace dusted off his hat and gallantly clapped it over his heart as he bowed. It was his particular reflex, when confronted with unknown women, to bow first and surreptitiously estimate their social and financial capital while straightening back up. 

Nice boots.

One hemline of green embroidered wool, high-quality but very recently distressed. The other hemline of shimmery silk in a purple that reminded Ace of the halo around night lightning. Noble ladies he’d chatted with in the courtyard of World Peace Palace had dressed in reddish-purple or bluish-purple, but this… it cost him some effort not to involuntarily whistle through his teeth. Above that, the two were wrapped head-to-hem in identical pieces of fringed cloth that, they clearly thought, concealed all identifying features. 

“Uh…  salaam al-aleikum?” he tried. Although KK had plenty of Muslims, he doubted these two were the real deal. Their veils looked remarkably like tablecloths. There was even a tea stain on one. And they were both in that aimlessly wandering, bouncing-off-random-obstacles, speaking-to-the-air stage of being drunk.

“Ami…tabha?” responded the one in green, with a small burp in the middle, looking at his necklace of big round red beads. 

The whole way here from the coast, people had assumed the beads were a Buddhist rosary of the type worn by monks. Nothing else about Ace was the least bit monastic, but that didn’t seem to matter. Greater Mongol had grown larger than most people could even imagine, and there was no telling whom one might meet next. 

Indeed, one’s Maker was usually a distinct possibility. 

This motivated people to hedge their bets. As a result, when buying milk-tea in the street, Ace always had to cover his tea-bowl with an extra plate so people couldn’t drop donations into it.

“Y’r the… Navy admiral, right?” said the one in purple, looking at him sidelong and gesturing vaguely. Her veil was not very effectively covering a very tall hat. “My gods , you’re cute! If I wasn’t married to --- oops, I better not say it. I’m being in-cog--nonymous.  Aaaaanyways, my friend here. My friend,” she choked up a little with emotion, “needs a job on one of those… big, wooden, floaty things...”

“A ship?” Ace asked after a polite pause.

“Yes. Yes. A ‘camel of the sea’!” Purple concluded triumphantly. “Do you have any empty humps?”

“Are both of you going?”

“No, just me,” said Green, rather resignedly. 

“I’m here to help,” Purple seemed intent on reassuring someone --- perhaps herself --- notwithstanding that the little manic edge to her voice cast doubt on her words as she said them.

‘Mm-hmm,” Ace nodded, writing something on a piece of paper, then looking up at Green. “When are you available to leave?”

“I’m flexible,” Green shrugged, an elaborate multi-step gesture that made Ace wonder if she was one of the Extra Shoulder Tribe he’d read about. “I could leave anytime --- ” she glanced at Purple and attempted to interpret what she sensed --- “before... say... sundown today?”

Purple nodded so vigorously that something on top of her head and under her wrapping began to teeter precariously. “Mm-hm. Mm-hm. It’s best, I really think.”

Ah, thought Ace. One of those. “And how long a voyage are you looking for?”

Green leaned down to Ace’s ear and whispered, loudly and flammably, “How long does it take to fall out of love?”

Hoo boy, thought Ace. One of those those. “What special skills would you bring on board?”

“I’m a doctor... I can sew pretty well…  Oh, and I sing,” Green answered, then proceeded to make some inexplicable , yet compelling, sounds that bore no trace of originating from a human throat. Ace had attended interoceanic mermaid-choir competitions, but this was vibrating the wax out of his ears. Maybe she can scare Sea Kings away with that, he speculated, making another note.

“Any nautical experience?” Ace asked everyone that, but had long since lost any optimism. The Home Steppes were as far from the ocean as you could get before you started getting closer to another ocean. And dry? Even Alabasta was a swamp by comparison..

“My dad took me fishing in rivers and lakes when I was little,” said Green a little self-consciously. “It was just a little Baikal canoe. We called it ‘the Bathtub’.”

Ace felt a slosh of sympathy. He’d found self-consciousness almost as unusual in Mongols as familiarity with boats. “Get seasick at all?”

“Umm… what’s that?”

“Hey!” Purple protested irascibly. “I was givinna understan’ you guys took anybody, and never asked any questions.”

“What, never?”

“No, never.”

“Let’s call it hardly ever. Just one more. Gree -- I mean Hatun, you seem to have had a few drinks tonight. Are you sure you’re drunk enough to sign on for a sea voyage?”

“Oh, probab---”

“It’s not a decision anyone should make while too sober.”

“You know best, but ---”

“Because if you’re not sure, I keep a barrel of grog in the credenza for contingencies.”

“Well, when you put it that way...”

“I should maybe be drunker, too,” Purple said doubtfully.

“ Ba-dip ba-dip ba-dip ,” went something on the desk, startling everyone in the room.

 Ace recovered first. “Excuse me, ladies, I have to take this snail.”

Green and Purple silently mouthed his last six words, then exchanged significant glances, which signified something like: “Did he just say ‘take this snail ’? What the dung does it mean? Well, I don’t know...”

“This is a Transponder Snail,” Ace explained, depositing a spiral-shelled, stalk-eyed, half-pound univalve back on the desk with a squelch. “I think I’ve got the first one in KK. I’d be willing to bet there’ll soon be more.”

"We do most of our communication by bird," Purple said as if Ace were the one who had many things to learn.

"So do we,” Ace admitted, “when we're not in a hurry. But you’re going to want a few of your top offices to have these. Better range, plus having a live conversation..." Ace rose and ushered his guests ahead of him. 

The room stood empty, a chilly breeze sliding soundlessly through the open window. A very large crow alighted on the sill. Upon struggling its way into the room, it thankfully relieved itself of the burden of a thick document bearing the seal of the Paperwork Introduction Office, on which it then, rather recursively, relieved itself. Nibbling the Admiralty Office’s signature bird treat of seaweed-and-chili-flavored dried squid, the communication crow cast a critical eye around the workspace.

Scarcely able to believe its luck, it proceeded to devour the transponder snail. 

Chapter Text

As Nergui and Tori came out of the Admiralty Office, Admiral Ace locked it up behind them. His inland tours were becoming less and less nerve-sandblasting. There was always something interesting going on in KK, but he had an odd feeling about today, as though he were seeing a black fin of History gliding just below the surface.

The Empress frowned. The wind had picked up outside and now it snatched at her wrapper, chilling her face and, in the process, sobering her up a little. For fungus’ sake! Not now. It would be tough to say goodbye to Nergui, a drinking buddy with a great swear vocabulary who showed no interest in seeing Tori fail. Why did she have to leave again so soon?

Because of Oggy, Tori reminded herself firmly. If those two get together, it’ll be a disaster for our whole State.

...and how do I know that again?   prompted her inner opponent. There wasn’t an official Seeing…

Then she remembered. And she really didn’t want to.

That really gross dream...

She’d been walking in the palace arboretum and seen Oggy and Nergui kissing under a flowering plum tree. They look cute together, had been all she thought. Then she’d suddenly felt a horrible, slimy, wriggling pressure inside each of her ears. Two little --- bugs? worms? grubs? had spoken to her in deafeningly loud, indescribably unpleasant voices that made her want to throw up every meal all the way back to her mother’s milk. She had to thwart that cute couple, warned the grubs, or Greater Mongol would crumble under a host of warring Borjigin cousins, and KK would vanish as if swallowed by the earth. And, just for extras, the grubs would come back tomorrow night while Tori was sleeping and this time they’d crawl up her nose.

Suddenly, in the eyes of her waking self, her actions began to seem cowardly and false.  A tiny splash on the ground might have been an isolated raindrop, or maybe not. “No Name Girl?” she began, then looked up…

And her heart forgot that there was something it was supposed to keep doing.

In a nation of horse people, Tori, the former Naadam racing champion, managed to stand out. She’d considered having one of the visiting European sculptors make a statue of her as a centaur. But trotting toward her was something truly special. 

This horse seemed to glow with its own internal light: yellow-white or blue-white by turns.  Tall, muscular and graceful, its mane and tail stirred fitfully even though the air had gone quite still. Its long-lashed eyes spoke of an old and compassionate soul.

Admiral Ace, still standing outside his building, had never been a horse guy. It said much of his character that everyone in KK liked him anyway. He’d seen a variety of horses in his travels, of course, including some with both eyes on the fronts of their heads. Just now he was pretty sure he was meeting an exceptional animal.

Nergui whooped with unexpected cheer. “Well, what’ya know about that? I must be meant to leave tonight. My ride’s here.” The celestial apparition walked right up to No Name Girl and seemed to bow differentially, but he was only on his way to sniff her pockets. She stroked the horse’s ears apologetically. “I didn’t know if you’d be back, boy! Otherwise I’d have a treat for a good horse.”

Wordlessly Tori, who sometimes went so far as to spoil the lines of resplendent ball-gowns by stuffing the pockets full of treats for good horses, surged forward to proffer a couple of carrots and only momentarily recoiled at the sight of its tongue.

“That’s normal for an Azerdeli,” Nergui explained, leaning her forehead against the creature’s. “That’s why his description in Mongolian is The Fork-Tongued Son of a Bitch.” 

The horse raised his head back up and nibbled Nergui’s hair. Silently it sent her the thought (If something goes without saying, do you monkeys say it anyway? I told you before, you’re my Burden. Always assume I’ll be back. Always assume I’ll want a treat!).

“But he’s behaving like a perfect gentle...god,” Tori protested.

“He likes you. And he doesn’t hate Ace.” Nergui turned and gave the Admiral an impressed nod. “But he hates most humans. Just ask Tai. Or Baiju. Or Suleyman Shah’s son, Ertugrul.” Or should I ask whomever owns that fancy tack and full pair of saddlebags you’ve got on? she continued silently for Summer Cloud Sultan’s inner ears only. 

(Don’t worry about it), the horse replied, (They’re rich tourists from way out of town. Couldn’t track a dog dragging its ass across a solid white carpet).

“You should stay a little longer,” Tori suddenly suggested, expertly rubbing the horse’s nose. “We could have a… a horse-warming party!”

“You’ve convinced me to go… but we can have a party when I get back.” Nergui attempted to leap gracefully into the saddle, but landed on her stomach with the wind knocked out of her and had to squirm and flail herself into a workable position. No sooner could she commit both hands to the reins than the horse took off like a djinn with its tail on holy fire. Even Ace thought he saw flames linger in its hoofprints,

“Nergui, wait!” Tori shouted desperately, “I’ll trade you ---” But she realized just in time how stupid it would be to finish that sentence where her subjects might hear.

Chapter Text

Anyone passing by the most remote garden of the Protectorate Governor’s Mansion in Tabriz might wonder why the Governor and his four slave concubines were personally digging in the soil. Anyone familiar with the current regime, however, would creep away silently, head down, and forget they saw anything.

Baiju Noyan and graves: They went together like reindeer and toadstools, combining to create unexpectedly vivid and widespread effects.

“I hope we don’t get in trouble for this,” Dilmana sighed, planting her shovel. 

“I’m the Imperial Darughai of the Southwestern Annexes,” Baiju reassured her, “and you’re doing it under my instructions. Who’s in any position to give you trouble?”

“No one, if you come out alive and well,” Irina admitted. “But if you die, and it gets out that we’re the ones who buried you alive, we wouldn’t stand a pastry’s chance in a pigpen.”

“Talking to ghosts is a Christian sin,” Dilmana reminded him. “We could go to hell.”

“I wouldn’t,” Dragana piped up. “I decided I’m on Tengri’s side now. Go Tengri!”

“Everything that isn’t painful seems to be a Christian sin,” the Noyan observed, “but I’ll be the only one talking to ghosts.  You’ll only be digging a hole and then filling it in.”

"And burying a fellow human being alive,” Irina insisted.

“Opinions vary as to my humanity,” Baiju retorted, “but the important part is that I have taken many of these ‘dirt naps’ and always come out alive. You see, the dead have returned to the bosom of Etugen, our Mother Earth. Only by joining them in her embrace may I speak to them. But the temporary grave is shallow and the covering soil will be loose. I can get out without help if I need to. There’s often a risk, and there’s always a biological price, but I’ve managed it in the war theater with only knuckleheaded recruits to help.” He tucked the folded golden blanket next to his heart and wrapped his tunic tightly around it before stepping into the shallow, coffin-sized hole and lying down on his back. He withdrew a hollow reed from a pocket and held it up. “I’ll breathe through this, if it makes you feel any better.”

Mollified, Irina nodded. “It does.” The women began shoveling dirt into the hole.

“Tudora, do you have my sword?” Baiju asked around the reed clamped in his teeth. 

“‘Hilt over your heart, point toward your feet,'” Tudora repeated his earlier instructions. Then, suddenly unable to help her usually-imperturbable self, "Are you really sure this is safe?"

"Of course not,” he said. “It never has been before."

Chapter Text

This part of No Soul’s Sky was known as the Visitations Hall. 

It was a place, and yet not a place. It was small enough on the outside to fit up an atom’s asshole, and big enough on the inside for two solar systems and an Empress’s walk-in closet. As impressive as that sounds, though, it was dim and drafty. The acoustics muffled some sounds and amplified others alarmingly. Random currents of cold dampness insinuated themselves through the not-quite-an-atmosphere like ghost trails. This was doubly annoying to the living who were here to converse with ghosts; it could be compared to sitting at a tavern table alone, thirsty, and utterly ignored while numerous serving-wretches trotted briskly past in all directions, bringing drinks to other people. Time in the Visitations Hall always seemed to ooze at a cheese’s pace, which was a good trick since technically it didn’t exist here. It would try the patience of a saint.

Baiju Noyan was no saint.

No wonder nobody wants to die, he ruminated gloomily. This place reflects very poorly on the afterlives. They could make some small allowances for visitors whose sundials still cast a shadow.

Abruptly a bench appeared, shoving into the backs of his knees and forcing him to sit down. Behind him was a single tree. In front of him was a chessboard. Across it was a tall, thin man with an old face and young eyes, ice-blue eyes that gazed upon the Noyan with a world-flattening frankness.

The ambient temperature plummeted like a hunting bird of prey.

“Shall we play shatar? Hiashatar?” the apparition proposed, naming the two best-known Mongolian chess games. “Or have the Persians got you playing shatranj?” As he gestured over the board, the patterns and pieces rearranged themselves for each of the games. “I started to learn that new Frankish style, but it’s for short assize. Then again, you’re not that tall.”

Baiju’s teeth gritted and his knuckles turned a whiter shade of pale. He took a long, slow breath through his nose. “With respect... Uncle,” he said in his best attempt at a tone of gracious patience, “if this is the one about a game determining whether or not I go to one of the hells, I don’t believe today’s my day. It’s just that I’m not dead yet, you see. I’m only taking a short dirt nap so I can speak to a particular soul. I’m waiting for her now.”

Unconcerned, the older fellow waved the chessboard back into its first version and moved a pawn. “You’re Baiju, aren’t you? One of Khuruugaaraa’s sons?”

Baiju stared back narrowly and nodded carefully. He hadn’t seen or spoken to his father in over a decade; it’d been one of his better ideas.

“I remember you,” said the other man with a smile, showing no sign of noticing the reaction. “Promising lad in the Kheshig, stricken by shaman’s sickness. Managed to stay both courses, against all history, and become a Noyan. Not bad. Have to keep your head in two worlds at once to do that.”

Baiju’s hand, as if pulled by an invisible thread, hovered over one of his own pawns. He deliberated for a moment, then picked it up and made a countermove. The old man nodded and smiled affably. “See, there you go, son. There’s always time for a quick game.”

Baiju’s impatience surged abruptly past his defenses. “I’m not your son,” he snapped, more rudely than he intended.

“Don’t you want to be? You want to marry my daughter, correct?” All innocence, the old man made another move on the board.

Baiju felt disarmed, disoriented, and disconcerted. He was accustomed to taking threats, curses, and even quite severe beatings in stride (speaking of his father), but this seemingly affable conversation was unnerving him.

The old man sighed in resignation and held up four fingers. Baiju stared dumbly for a moment, and then the copper dropped: Holding up a random number of fingers was the have-you-gone-mad-yet greeting of one shaman to another. “Four,” he answered, and made a gesture of his own.

“One,” said the stranger, “and you didn’t really have to hold up that one. You put out a summoning for Khenbish’s Nerguitani to meet with you here.” It wasn’t a question. Baiju nodded. “Well, you’re shit out of luck, son, but then again you’re not. She’s not here. At least, not anymore. That’s why you’re talking to me --- that is, Khunbish’s Khenbish --- instead.”

Khenbish! Noyan thought, impressed in spite of himself. One of Great Genghis’s top battle shamans. A legendary war hero. Jebe Noyan, Baiju’s uncle and mentor, always spoke with respect ---

Khenbish, he realized, all his internal organs suddenly looked for somewhere to hide. Nergui’s. Father.

In an infamous lifetime of behaving badly with almost any woman who crossed his line of sight, Baiju Noyan had sensibly avoided meeting their fathers, at least on any turf he didn’t control. By almost any standard, he’d behaved pretty badly with Nergui.

Play the game, keep talking, skirt the subject. But don’t say “skirt!” he told himself. “Gone from the afterlives, you say? So soon? Did she have an express rebirth?” Meanwhile his thoughts raced around like colts on Gelding Day. How am I supposed to wait for a baby to grow up? Oh gods, what if she’s a boy? The Yasa says ‘No poofters.’   Or was she whisked off to the cosmic void to serve her Chaos Goddess? Or ushered to a bench among the judges of the living and the dead? “She didn’t… leave the wheel of life and death to merge with the sky forever, did she?” She never seemed like the type…

Khenbish made a countermove and gazed across the table with something almost like pity. “No, son. She was Resurrected by a team of Imperial specialists. She was barely here long enough to give her old dad a hug and greet some young friends. Then pop! Back to life. I suppose I have you to thank that I got to see her at all.”

“You’re welcome,” said Baiju, still not thinking straight.

“That’s irony, son,” said the ghost, raising one eyebrow.

“I’m sorry, Mergen,” Baiju backtracked. “Please believe me. I… I never meant to cause her death.” She'd seemed to forgive him at the end, hadn't she? When she'd given him that sad, brave, kind look and finally called him by his personal name? What was it she'd said? Hadn't it been about seeing him later? “I wanted to appease her spirit. I thought she’d come back to haunt me and then I could explain.” She still would have thrashed him to a pulp, but once she'd purged her anger they might have made up. Morning after morning, though, he’d awakened from bleak, dreamless sleep feeling more alone than he'd ever been. 

“That’s what I’m getting at. You can’t make amends with her ghost because it re-integrated. But you originally wanted to hang onto the living version of her and you can still go back and do that.”

“I wrote to the Khagan to get her seconded to my permanent staff, but ---”

“Chickenshit, son. Marry her. Make her your legal primary wife and give her children full succession rights in your illustrious Besud clan, and she just might consider taking you seriously.”

“A… About children,” Baiju’s discomfort could be seen from space. “I think I can’t… that is, I’ve never...”

Both of Khenbish’s eyebrows went up this time. “Can’t you? You surprise me…” Baiju suspected that this was more irony, but he couldn't guess its basis.

A familiar squeaky, hissy feeling told the Noyan it was time to get back in his body. “If No Name Girl lives,”

he told Khenbish, “I want to live with her. Living without her hasn’t worked for me.”

“Then you go get her, son,” the old man nodded. “We’ll finish this game some other time. Be kind to her, though. Do I need to paint you a picture of what will happen if you mistreat her in any way…?”

“No, Mergen.”

“Good. Because I don’t imagine there are enough red pigments in the world.”

Chapter Text

Lightning strobed through a bruised-looking sky. 

Thunder growled. 

From the newly-turned earth of a grave-sized mound, a hand suddenly sprang up.

A gifted but flighty soprano gave a startled screech that reached the ears of scholars at a mosque half a mile away. What a pity, several thought, that women couldn’t be muezzin.

Four different hands grasped the slightly dirty forearm and hauled. Baiju Noyan sat up, shaking himself like a wet dog. Tudora clasped his face to her bosom, which was improbably vast by Mongolian standards and smelled faintly of goat-milk soap.

“You’re back, batko!” Dragana trilled, her earlier fright forgotten. “We were so worried!”

“Now, now, I told you girls I’d be safe,” he said, unexpectedly moved by their devotion.

“And you are! Yay!” Irina stipulated, “But it’s about to rain buckets, so let’s get inside before we’re covered with mud.”

Later…

“Hey, we forgot to ask: How’d it go?” Dilmana inquired, wrapping her damp strawberry-blonde hair in one of the fluffy white towels strewn around the room among the pillows and clothes. “You never moved a muscle or made a peep out there.”

“Did you contact your ex’s ghost?”

“Was she mad at you? Or will she forgive you?”

Their hands were back on him everywhere. All the intrigued sittings-up and leanings-forward were starting the bed bouncing again. “I didn’t find her,” Baiju confessed, expending a certain amount of effort to stay on-topic.

Tudora flopped down sympathetically. “I’m so sorry to hear that, batko, ” she said. “We didn’t mess anything up, did we?”

“No, no,” he assured them. “Her ghost wasn’t available because she’s still alive. ”

Excited whoops and yips. More bed-bouncing.

“You mean she didn’t really die? That means you didn’t really get her killed! That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Oh, she died, all right. But only for a few minutes. A resurrection team brought her back. Her father’s ghost told me all about it.”

"So, this wonder of all womanhood still lives," Dilmana smirked. "What will you do now?"

"I'll... send for her, I suppose."

Dilmana jumped to her feet and made a rude noise. "Wrong! If I were her I'd burn the message. And then eat the pigeon it came in on. Haven’t we taught you better than that?"

" You only just found out you didn't get her permanently killed," Tudora pointed out, "She probably still believes you tried."

"Well," he ventured somewhat doubtfully, "Ogedei, the Great Khan, ordered her to liaise with me in the first place. She’s a civil servant, not military, but she’s still sworn to obey him. I could pull some strings and get him to send her back. Probably," he hedged. 

"Oh, that's much better," Dilmana scoffed. "Except it’s not! She’ll have the whole Silk Road to get angrier and angrier at being forced back into contact with the man she remembers mostly as her murderer." 

"Think personal, batko ," Tudora urged him. "This isn't about work or orders. It can't be forced and it can't be communicated at a distance."

“Yeah, and you got her killed. It’s not like you tracked mud on her rug. This requires a very advanced apology. You'll have to go to some conspicuous trouble to show you're serious about making up."

What had old Khenbish said about getting Nergui to take him seriously? "I could... send some expensive gifts? A military escort to bring her back?"

"You should go wherever she is and talk to her yourself. Face to face," said Irina.

"Those other things are nice,” Dragana explained, “ but they're just… cheese sauce and parsley. Without a good solid pierogi underneath or it’s just.... soup."

"Ah,” he nodded sagely, as if he understood perfectly. Then, “Wait! So... I'm the pierogi? Is that it?”

“More like your feelings for her are the pierogi ,” Tudora elaborated.

“And that… mistake you made… was just a fly landing on it that you can brush away!” Dragana concluded in triumph.

“If she’s any further away than Baku or Erzurum, I can't just bugger off there. I have responsibilities here. She's very practical. She would understand."

"She might," Tudora allowed. "But understanding isn't the same as being impressed. You need to impress the daylights out of her, batko . It's your only hope."

The Noyan scowled doubtfully. "But why does it matter if I’m there in person or not?"

" Batko , for such a smart man..." Dilmana looked down and shook her head.

The scowl deepened. Tudora stepped in quickly: "You're a very smart man, but one who’s venturing past the edge of the map. Can I relate it to something familiar.... Ah! I know. You fought a great many enemies. Were any of them really special?"

Baiju didn't need to think for long. "Yes, of course. Ertugrul, the Bey of the Kayis Turkmen tribe. He irritated me so much I almost let go of the whole rest of the war just to hunt him down."

"So," Tudora continued. "Imagine with me for a moment. What if you thought you’d killed this Turkman? This Ertugrul. But then, much later, you found out he survived. What would you do?"

"As Tengri is my witness,” the Noyan snarled, “I would not rest until my own dull knife separated his head from his body!"

“Really?” Tudora responded, feigning some surprise but not too much. “You wouldn’t pidge him a hate letter?”

“No!” 

“Or send a good assassin to finish the job?”

“No!” 

“Wouldn’t you be worried about neglecting your office?”

“Hells. no! Revenge is more important than...”

His chorus looked at him in expectant silence. A couple of them nodded encouragingly.

"...Oh," he said finally, looking away. "It's like that, isn't it? Love is as personal and important as hate or revenge?"

"Some say love and hate are opposite sides of a very thin coin," said Tudora. "If that's so, then if you can hate, you can also love. You always could, batko ."

“Ha, ha!” Dragana crowed. “You’re a human being!”

“Don’t worry,” Irina consoled him. “We won’t tell anyone.”

Chapter Text

Chagaanirvys Darga’s workday at the Agency had begun with a message borne by interoffice crow. The crow couldn’t stop vomiting. It picked the scroll off its leg, dropped it on her desk, and snapped up her office’s identifying treat from its tray, vomiting all the while. Erlik only knew what it had tried, so very unsuccessfully, to eat. Not to mention why, when a different treat awaited it at the end of every errand, it had decided to bolt down something random and toxic besides. Weren’t crows supposed to be smart ?

Loath to spoil her manicure, she prodded the crow back out her office window with the end of a scroll case and rang for an intern to come and mop up the mess. This, she reflected, was one of the good things about adopting a little of the hierarchy that, it seemed, some of the annexed territories couldn’t imagine living without. She picked up the message between a reluctant thumbnail and fingernail and decamped to the inner solarium where she could wipe it off, unroll it, and read it.

And here, of course, was one of the bad things about hierarchy.

The message was a single word followed by a single punctuation mark:

“Sasania?”

Outwardly serene, Chagaanirvys groaned inwardly. Sasania was a new annex to Greater Mongol. Its absolute monarch, King Shahryar, was happy to pay taxes and listen to advice --- actually, make that promise to pay taxes and pretend to listen to advice --- in exchange for the Mongols‘ shouldering the burden of running his country. He looked forward to the freedom to spend more time on his hobbies. Unfortunately, his hobbies included recruiting new wives and murdering them on the wedding night. It was playing seven merry hells with administrative staffing; all the best and the brightest Mongols had excellent reasons why they were needed more urgently elsewhere.

“What about that --- that Sealed One with the magical healing hoo-ha?” asked someone with a big hat. “Isn’t she supposed to be good with psychotic murderers or something?”

“She’s already been Unsealed,” Chagaanirvys replied. “That can only be done once,” she explained, not sure whether the committee might be a eunuchs’ operating system and if so, how much they’d know about things they’d never do.

When Chagatai Khan’s bridenapping of the homeward-bound No Name Girl became known, Chagaanirvys had dutifully sent a report middle-ward to the top strategists. When nothing further transpired, she’d optimistically proceeded under the assumption that the Shahryar problem had either gone away or become someone else’s.

News of Agent Nergui’s unexpected and high-profile extraction, apparently instigated by Great Khan Ogedei himself, got to the long-knives before Chagaanirvys could even pick up an ink-brush. It soon came to her attention that the requisition was re-issued (really, a European intern just grabbed her by the sleeve at the tea station and passed along the message that “it’s back on like a denouement ,” but it sounded more professional the other way). 

When Nergui dragged herself in looking like roadkill (not that the product of the Altai backwoods usually looked all that polished), Chagaanirvys Darga and Sun Mergen had very briefly briefed her about Sasania. She’d requested some time to get rid of some illness or other, and she’d certainly looked the part. Then had come the rumor that she was being tapped for a new position in the Palace (accompanied by the kind of knowing snicker produced only by the deeply ignorant) and so Chagaanirvys let the Sasania wheel keep rolling by in the hopes that it wouldn’t start squeaking until Nergui either recovered or became unapproachable.

After this morning’s scroll, though, No Name Girl would just have to Mongol up and go to Sasania. Maybe as a bonus, they could let her load up her pockets with anything she wanted from Shahryar’s palace, which was reputedly a very glittery place.

Now the question was: where in the Thirty-Nine Steppes was No Name Girl?

The Darga wondered if Sungurtekin, the spymaster for Anatolia, had called Nergui in for some extra meetings. But no; Sun Mergen was on some sort of mission to Erzurum (“probably a cover story for visiting his Kayi Turkmen family,” his thwarted rivals muttered, but never very loudly).

Tengri in the sky, did anybody actually work here anymore?

A glance out the window at the sundial told her it was hours too early for the palace garden party to start. The second biggest gossip magnet was her own Agency’s tea station. Fill up a cup, stand off to one side, and keep stirring the contents with one’s ears open wide.

The whole “Goose Girl” poster debacle was displaying its left-handed blessings. The Darga’s quarry had become quite a hot topic. Anything she did or might have done was news. The downside was that any scooped-up eaves-droppings had to be taken with a grain of salt big enough to sustain a migrating reindeer herd: throw out the obvious flights of fancy and try to find some overlap among the remainder.

It intrigued Chagaanirvys to hear, all within half an hour, that her Agent purportedly (1) wandered away from a camel train to Mandogovi and must have died in the desert, (2) taken a severe beat-down from the Empress right inside one of the Turtle Gates, (3) was hiding out at Dower House Five until her divorce came through, (4) had given birth to kittens somewhere in the Palace(!), and (5) lit out on an absolutely incredible horse to catch a ship to Nihon.

Normally something like (5) would have been tossed out immediately along with (4), except… Nihon, Nihon… hadn’t Nergui mentioned some kind of interest in the place? But No Name Girl wasn’t the type to just run away from work... Could she have thought the trip was for work? But who could or would send an Agent on missions without telling (preferably asking) that Agent’s boss?

A few names sprang immediately to mind.

No doubt about it, Chagaanirvys would have to spend a couple of hours in the Palace gardens this afternoon.

Chapter Text

“You know what this party needs?” Coming from Ertugrul, it wasn’t really a question. “Pekmez!”

Developed by a community that lived a difficult life and abstained from alcohol, the Kayi version of grape molasses was staggeringly sweet, producing an hour or two of unbridled enthusiasm followed by several hours of the kind of headache normally associated with horse kicks.

“I wouldn’t want to deprive your Alps,” Sungurtekin protested mildly. 

“Oh, step up, ‘little brother,’” Gundogdu urged him. It was funny because Gundogdu was the oldest but Sungur was the tallest. “Mom saved your spoon and everything!”

A reunion of all four of Suleyman Shah’s sons was a high-spirited occasion. Back-to-back feasts, hunts, races, and infidel-bashings had been planned for the upcoming week. Tonight, though, was meant to be a low-key respite after the second brother’s long journey from KK where, as far as his tribe knew, he heroically spied on the Mongols for the Seljuk Sultan. Which he did. Sometimes.

“What’s with sad-sack over there?” Sungurtekin casually deflected the group’s attention to the youngest brother, Dundar, who gloomily boot-gazed near the door.

“Girl trouble,” Ertugrul scoffed. 

“This Chavdar girl, Gunyeli, latched onto him at Hanli Bazaar,” Gundogdu explained. “Her dad’s a real social-climbing, back-stabbing piece of work, so we can do without him as a relative. And whenever she comes around, she asks all kinds of suspicious questions.”

“She wants to join our tribe. Of course, she’s interested in how we do things,” Dundar was trying hard not to sound pouty.

“In how much money we have, and where we keep it? In who’s traveling and where to? In how we deploy our camp guards?” Just as in the blacksmith shop, once Ertugrul picked up a hammer he could swing it all day. “But at least this one’s from a neighboring tribe. Sungur, you’ll love this: if he’d married his previous ladylove you would have had a Mongolian sister-in-law.”

“You have got to be kidding me.” Sungurtekin put on the shocked expression of a man who had not read all the dispatches written by Nergui and by those watching her.

“She helped Ibn-i Arabi wake me up from my coma,” Dundar said softly to his boots.

“Oh?” Sungurtekin continued playing his part. “How do you know she didn’t poison you to put you in a coma in the first place? It’s the kind of thing those people might do.”

Dundar looked up, his expression of sorely strained patience the image of his father’s. “Because I wasn’t poisoned,” he stated flatly. “Not this time. I was at Alp camp and some guys bet me I couldn’t head-butt this boulder off the edge of a cliff.”

“You didn’t?” Sungurtekin challenged him.

“After I came to, there was an extra sack of gold in my saddlebag,” Dundar grinned goonily, “so I probably did.”

“Is that… why your face is all beaten up, Dun?” the visiting brother succumbed to his curiosity.

“No,” Ertugrul interjected. “Lately he keeps swinging his face around and hitting other people in the fist.”

“They made me kill her,” Dundar sighed.

“The Mongol hatun?” Sungurtekin asked.

“We let you kill her,” Ertugrul corrected Dundar. “We were going to kill her regardless, but we let you do the honors. Tell us --- was it a valuable lesson?”

Dundar’s face darkened. To keep him from smashing Ertugrul’s fist with it again, Gundogdu put in, “Look, I liked her too, as much as I didn’t want to. But it would have been like bringing home a baby bear. Adorable and loads of fun, right up until her wild side forced its way through, or maybe until something bigger and meaner showed up looking for her.”

“She was Noyan’s cast-off whore,” Ertugrul sneered.

Sungurtekin got to his feet, stretching to look casual. “Well! All this sharbat we’ve been drinking… I gotta go drain the Death Worm.”

“‘Drain the death worm?’"

"Bismillah, I’m sorry," Sungurtekin apologized over his shoulder as he exited the tent. "I meant to say 'water an infidel's grave.''" 

A few moments later, he was settled into midstream and marveling that he wasn’t peeing solid sugar granules when the last voice he expected to hear came out of the shadows.

"Ah! Sun Mergen, ah! How have you been?"

"Sheep shagging shit!" Startled, Sungurtekin swung around a wide arc. "Noyan?" he continued in a loud whisper. “How are you here?” And why must you fuck up my vacation, he didn’t add; not out loud, at least. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Tabriz, getting more ‘behind’ than a government construction project?” 

"Turkman, please," the invisible, but fully audible, Mongol general scoffed.  "Once you've snuck into a few European fortress-castles, obasis are a piece of cake. Anyway, your brothers think they killed me. If any of them do see me, they'll think they see a ghost. As good Muslims, they'll keep something like that to themselves."

"Did I, uh, splash your boots or anything?" Sungurtekin asked nervously, looking around, still not seeing the friend of his youth but vividly recalling the staggering body-count ascribed to his hair-trigger temper.

"Oh, no. I'm high and dry, up a tree. Agent Nerguitani taught me that trick. Oh, say, that reminds me --- where is she?"

"Didn't they tell you, there were problems trying to bring her back from the drowning?"

"They did.  With much show of regret. But she isn't among the dead. I'm a shaman, remember; we can check. So where is she?"

"Maybe she just... mmm... doesn-wanna-talk-t-ya?" Sun tried to sneak it by as quickly and quietly as he could. "Everybody who saw you two walk to the execution ground said she looked pissed off enough to kill you before Ertugrul could."

"Just hypothetically: If she were alive, and somehow your paths crossed again here on earth, would... you... be... upset with her?"

"No. I never meant to get her killed. It was an idiot mistake and I want to make amends. Where is she?"

"Noyan. Buddy,” Sun laughed lazily and shook both heads. “This doesn't sound like you. All the time I've known you, you've bedded countless women and forgotten all of them."

"And now I've forgotten all but one. Where is she?"

“Well, she started home… and then Chagatai bridenapped her…” Sungurtekin would have continued, but sensed he was talking to empty air.

Chapter Text

Baiju fell asleep in the usual way; having his way with two or three local girls who happened to cross his path (he had asked about brothels --- “those women work so hard at their craft, they deserve fair trade” Nergui had once said --- but there was none), then doing a deep-breathing exercise from his shamanic training while counting heads of enemies he visualized decapitating. Typically, some of the faces were familiar.

Next thing the Noyan knew, he was struggling to breathe an atmosphere that smelled like a Death Worm’s nest. He was glad to be in full armor, but felt disadvantaged without a horse; in fact, he couldn’t see, smell, or otherwise sense any horses anywhere and he found that quite disturbing. Under his feet was a punishingly perfect geometric plane of a substance that felt harder than limestone. He struggled against a tide of humans who were struggling past him; dressed all wrong, smelling all wrong and babbling incomprehensibly. His unmistakable Greater Mongol top brass regalia, which by rights should make all civilians cringe away into the nearest corner, seemed to be inspiring vacant curiosity instead.

A deafening ringing in his ears abated, leaving mere pandemonium in its wake. “Hey, Dude! Cool costume,” enthused one of the pulpy-looking throng, touching the Noyan’s shoulder and making eye contact, which came this close to getting cut in half. Luckily for him, there wasn’t room to swing a fist, let alone a sword. How had Baiju understood? Oh, it was Turkish, his mother’s language… sort of.

The walls closed in. The miserly oxygen content seemed to drain even further out of the air. Baiju fought to stay strong. An invisible force pulled his hand toward the handle of a door. He opened the door and stepped through…

...into a space about three jail-in-the-boxes wide. Something like a grossly oversized desk took up most of the area. Shelves of what looked like brightly decorated bricks covered every wall. A clear glass window --- Baiju had seen one or two in the more modern palaces --- admitted sunlight to shine on three or four plants that were growing inside in little cups full of wet dirt for some reason. 

A black-haired man of about Baiju’s own age was seated behind the desk, and in front of the window, scowling at a pile of papers, He held a small, pointed red stick in his hand, about the size of a spoon handle, yet he flourished it as if it were a serviceable dagger about to slice an enemy’s throat. He seemed to be wearing an advanced form of chainmail that conformed to his body like a second skin and weighed virtually nothing. Gorget, cuirass, and gauntlets were all of a single, fitted, matte-black piece. It looked oddly… soft.

“Sit,” the man commanded, without looking up, in a tone accustomed to being obeyed without question. A hand with an ominous signet ring waved at a strange-looking object made of a stranger-looking substance. It looked far too unstable for a grown man to sit on, even one wearing no armor.

Baiju did his best. The alien contraption groaned threateningly, yet bore his weight. 

The man at the desk delivered a red death-blow to the paper in front of him and looked up. A cloud passed in front of the sun outside, changing the black silhouette into a man with a face. The face seemed familiar, but from where? “Baiju Noyan?” he inquired, the genuine pleasure in his voice belying his deadpan expression.

Baiju lifted his chin in defiance, though unsure of exactly what he was defying. “Yes,” he said simply.

The man beamed out of a face not accustomed to such expressions. He stood and extended a hand. “Bismillah! I hoped this would work but, to be honest I didn’t think it would.”

The beard was trimmed short and the icicle-straight blue-black hair was pulled back, but Baiju realized where he’d seen the face before: reflected from the surface of the water in his washbasin. “I’m Barysh,” he said.

“You’re… ‘Peace’?” Baiju pulled a translation from distant memory, determined not to look as lost as he felt.

“If you like. Professor Peace, Special Chair of Criminal Psychology, for my sins. The rest of the time, I’m Chief Inspector Peace of the Circle Task Force on Inventive Homicide. I am your descendant and reincarnation, and you are visiting me in the twenty-first century of the common era.”

Baiju nodded as if all of this made perfect sense, which it certainly did not. “We’re… where, now?”

“You would have known this city as Konstantiniyye,” Peace gestured toward the view outside the window. “But now it’s Istanbul, not Constantinople.”

“Why’d they change it?”

“I can’t say. People just liked it better that way. Anyhow, I arranged to meet you so I could help you find your No Name Girl.”

“What do you know about her?” The Noyan tried not to sound accusatory, but he couldn’t help it. He just wasn’t reasonable where that woman was concerned.

“Her reincarnation was engaged to marry me until some shitheaded pus-bucket killed her.”

Turks still like to swear; that’s reassuring, I suppose. “Is that man dead?”

“Very,”

“Good.”

“It wasn’t easy. You’d be shocked at how hard it is to kill someone and get away with it these days.”

“But surely those who really need killing...”

“They’re the hardest of all to reach... if you follow the rules. If you decide to break them, though, you’re fair game if anyone ever finds out.”

“When it’s the right thing to do, why not stand up proudly and admit it? Genghis Khagan, the Great and Wise, may he ride forever in the sky, always had mercy on the courageously honest… well, usually ,” the Noyan amended, remembering some of Uncle Jebe’s stories.

“That was the old Mongolian Way,” Peace admitted. “In today’s world, it just gets you killed or thrown into prison for life. You took one degenerate off the board, but who will hunt down the others?”

“Are you a hunter, then?” Finally, something Baiju could readily grasp.

“A highly specialized one,” said the professor/chief inspector. “I hunt down humans who don’t want to be found. I’m good at it because I seem to understand murderous psychopaths at a very visceral level. I believe I have you to thank for that.”

“You’re… welcome? Hm.” Discomfited in a new way, Baiju shifted on his precarious seat, which wobbled and pinched.

“Sorry about the chair. It’s for students who come in, usually to argue with me about their grades. It discourages them from staying very long. So does the sun shining directly into their eyes. These little tricks are our ammunition for everyday battles.”

Baiju shook his head, looking down between his boots. “Ugh! Sounds depressing. Why don’t you just reach for a sword? I find I can clear any space that way.”

“If I did it here, these striplings would be fascinated and ask to touch it.” Peace scowled then, a real Besud scowl that might have impressed even Baiju’s father and uncles, undisputed scowl-masters all. Then the scowl lifted as a happier thought entered Peace’s mind. “I can show you something you’ll probably like, though.” He opened a drawer in the desk, reached in, and withdrew something matte-black that clanked metallically on the wooden desktop. “This is a Chekhov Backwards-R-666. 9-millimeter, fully automatic.”

“I see,” said Baiju, who didn’t.

“You had gunpowder, right? It was only just becoming available in your time.”

“Gun...??”

“Oh, sorry; before guns were invented, they would have called it something else. Black dust? Goes bang when you light it on fire...”

“Ah. Thundermix.” Even the memory of its intoxicating scent transported him to dangerous and beautiful places. 

“Well, for the last 800 years, people have worked on concentrating all the banging force in one direction. Guns like this are one of the results. This can put a hole through a wall and into someone standing behind it without so much as burning your fingers.” He put it back in the drawer. “Next time, come to my police station and I’ll show you more.” 

“Next time? I’m not clear on what happened this time.”

“A soul-road now connects us. You can visit me here at home in your dreams because of your shamanic training. For me to ride along with you and look for your girl, though, you need to carry something of mine as  a talisman.”

“Hmm… The gun?”

The professor laughed dryly. “It is tempting to set this high-caliber cat amongst the medieval pigeons, but every time-crossing story ever told says it’s a bad idea. No, I was thinking of this ring. When I dreamed I was going to meet you, I scoured the antiques market for something from your time.” Peace removed his ring and passed it over. It was a weighty chunk of finely worked silver with a single, square, black stone surrounded by angular geometric shapes. Engraved striping all around the band recalled the segmentation of a snake’s belly.

Baiju’s acquisitive instinct flared. If he’d seen this on a dead enemy, he’d have walked away with it, no matter what kind of knife-work it took. “It’s a very good one,” he said.

“I hoped you’d think so.” Suddenly the air went foggy, the room tilted, and Baiju felt a sharp pain in the bridge of his nose. “What’s happening?” he heard Peace ask, sounding very far away.

“I think it means our time is up. Breathe slowly, it’ll pass.”

“All right then. Talk to you tomorrow.”

At some point, Baiju came half-awake. Shadowy shapes from the dream world skulked stubbornly in corners, wriggling with uncertainty. He deliberately slowed his pulse until all was still.

He spent a few fruitless minutes trying to recall what he’d had to drink the previous night, then remembered the exhausting dream. “Professor Peace,” he muttered to himself incredulously. “How did any descendant of mine come to be saddled with that name?”

Now that he thought about it, how could he have a descendant?

Scowling slightly more deeply than his usual morning scowl, he sat up and flung the blanket toward the foot of the way-station cot. Something dropped to the floor and bounced with a metallic sound and a wink of reflected light. 

He leaned over and picked it up. “Vai, vai, vai,” he avowed, grudgingly impressed.

Chapter Text

Summer Cloud Sultan ran eastward into the growing dark, heading for the Port of Tianjin. Once outside the Kara Koram metropolitan area, horse and wagon traffic slacked off and foot traffic all but vanished. As the sun shed its last rays on the annexed Jin territory, there was barely a soul to be seen on the Yam road linking KK with points east-by-southeast. 

Nergui was either meditating or napping in the saddle. Normally, such aplomb would be highly improbable in a rider of her paltry experience,  but the messenger-style saddle helped support her spine and the Azerdeli stallion’s top speed, unlike all his other ones, was preternaturally smooth; she could feel his mighty heartbeat and he could feel hers, slowed down to well below its waking tempo. Her aura was pulled in too, so that in the spiritual spectrum she was only a hazy shadow. 

Because of that, the not-a-normal-horse had internally debated taking the shorter cross-country road despite his Burden’s earlier instructions when they’d looked at the map together. The shortcut went through the ruins of Zhongdu, the old Jin Dynasty capital. Courtesy of the late Genghis Khan, may he ride forever in the sky, what was left of Zhongdu sheltered thousands of angry ghosts that had absolutely no love for a Mongol. Before the Anatolia mission, Nergui might have gone through on purpose and done a little cleanup work, but lately her mojo had been wobbly and she wasn’t in a mood for any extra tuovuog. “Follow the river until we run out of land,” she’d directed him, stifling a yawn. “It’ll be a while.”

So he galloped along the river road, or at least the remains of several attempts at one. This was the Wuding River, the very name of which meant “changeable.” The locals, though good builders, could never manage to finish much of a road before it flooded and they had to start again in a newly exposed strip of weedy mud.

(Hey! Buddy! Horse… shaped… thing!) something silently called out.

Are you thinking at me?

(Yeah! You! You’re pretty fast! You want to race?)

Where are you? I don’t see you.

(Look down! No, over here! In the water!)

You’re… a turtle?

(That’s right. Name’s Xuanwu. Haven’t seen you before).

A turtle. Who wants to race. Me.

(A turtle, who’s kept pace with you the whole time we’ve been talking, wants to race you).

Summer Cloud Sultan whickered thoughtfully. Good point.

(We can turn around and run upstream if you like. If you’re worried about the river current helping me unfairly), Xuanwu offered, blowing a disingenuous stream of bubbles.

Can’t, the horse answered without inflection. I’m carrying my Burden to Tianjin. Catch you on the way back, perhaps?

(Even if it’s tomorrow, the road and the river might have parted company by then), Xuanwu predicted. (You’ve noticed no houses anywhere near its banks? A sage once said you can’t step in the same river twice. If it’s the Wuding, you can’t step in this same river even once).

What will you want from me if you win? Summer Cloud Sultan was, in a way,  part horse and part Djinn; two classes of being that were both naturally suspicious and historically suspect.

(Only some passing entertainment and salutary training), the turtle reassured him. (As Guardian of the North, I’m very rich and attract all the females, but there hasn’t been much immortal excitement up here since those strapping blondes from Asgard stomped the Ice Giants. Meanwhile, I’m bound for Tianjin to choose the new River God. All the strongest human salvage divers will race to catch me, and I'll need to escape from everyone except my favorite).

The deals we make with these hairless primates, eh? Summer Cloud Sultan shook his mane, heedless of little tell-tale sparkles fell out on the darkening, deserted road. You honor me, friend Xianwu. Let us race.

Chapter Text

Nergui’s consciousness floated, groggy and bleary, around the edges of the Well of Songs. She hadn’t even been here, one of her favorite astral-plane haunts, in weeks. Had she stayed away because she’d been feeling so drained and divided? Or had she been feeling that way because she’d been away from the places that usually gave her power? Where shamanigans were concerned, questions about cause and effect were unlikely to have coherent answers, but it still occasionally paid to ask.

One song was clinging to her like thrice-chewed pine gum. Why had it even come near her? Usually, the Well connected her with songs she liked and could use. But this one!

Havin’ my baby
What a lovely way to say how much she loves me
Havin’ my baby…

Gag. 

She remembered a long-ago warning about how some really repulsive songs might attach themselves to visitors who weren’t paying attention. It had never happened to her before. Then again, her dad’s old buddy Kokachu, aka the great shaman Teb Tengri, had said of her five-year-old self, “Khen, you’ve got to get your little girl to relax. She’s so intense all the time.” Inattentiveness and unguarded moments were things that happened to other people.

At least... until now.

Abruptly, an unidentified tiny voice piped up, “Here’s a better one!” and a waterfall of end-of-the-world noises cascaded around her as something snarled in agony:

Deep in the mist of the gray death
Your demise is summoning
Wolf is chanting; eagle is screaming
In this forest of dark terror
Fading path leading to void
Flame consumes all the light

That is better, she admitted, realizing it reminded her of Chagatai’s wife Red Panda. Thanks, random floating thoughtful entity…

She had no time to think anything more. She uncannily sensed something poised to attack her physical body before the hairs even stood up on her neck. Instantly, unerringly, she pulled out the right song for the job. Her body straightened in the saddle. She turned and flung a fistful of static sparks and a warning glare behind her and upward, and sang:

Don’t shoot, shoot, shoot that thing at me
Don’t shoot, shoot, shoot that thing at me
You know you have my sympathy
But don’t shoot, shoot, shoot that thing at me

A knotted dotted do-rag, two goggling eyes, and an improbably long thin nose rose above a carved wooden taffrail. A lush mane of chestnut-brown Mediterranean-painter hair was slightly singed on the ends.  The gangly, slightly pasty youth’s knuckly hands slackened on a strange-looking weapon and even stranger-looking ammunition. “M-madam... g-Ghost? d-Demon? Whatever you are?” he addressed her in a quavering voice.

Nergui, sensing she had the upper hand, softened her glare from “Who’s ready to die?” to “This had better be good.” 

“I was securing the area,” the man explained, a little defensively. “People have been saying there’s a Tao-Tieh tearing up the port.”

“And you were afraid I was this ‘Tao-Tieh’? Hah?” She appended the universal Turco-Mongol “verbal slap” for emphasis.

Instead of cringing, Long Nose Guy straightened and bristled. “Captain Usopp fears nothing!” he snapped.

“How nice for him. But I don’t see him here.”

Long Nose Guy’s fury had him hopping like a Chinese vampire. “Yes, you do! I’m Captain Usopp!”

Nergui’s stare went blank. “You are? Then why are you talking like he’s someone else?” In fact, she'd met other people who did this. It seemed to be a way to confess and shift the blame at the same time. Her native distaste for affectation flared, to be instantly subdued by her professional commitment to Unite Greater Mongol, Posers And All. “So the Tao-Tieh,” she addressed Captain Usopp in a marginally more placating tone, “looks like what?”

Captain Usopp thought for a moment, considered making something up, glanced at the tendrils of smoke still meandering lazily from Nergui’s fingertips, and changed his mind. “Never seen it,” he admitted, grimacing as if he’d bitten into a bad rice-ball. “I’ve heard from different reports that it’s a tiger with two bodies attached to the same head. Or a pair of one-legged dragons conjoined at the bridge of the nose. Or a deer with bristles, tusks, and claws, but no lower jaw. Or a big green hyeniguanaraptor with 10,000 identical twins.”

“Not much, then,” Nergui prodded gently but pointedly, “like an agent of the Great Khan riding by, minding her own business?”

“They all agree it’s got scary eyes,” he snarked back, though with more pout than threat.

“Well, thanks for the warning,” Nergui returned to her affable self as she dismounted to lead her horse and stretch her legs. “No hard feelings, hey? We’ve both had a long night.”

Still and all, I’m glad we’re not on his ship, she reflected.

Chapter Text

Now that No Name Girl was awake and not arguing, Tianjin’s ambience came to the fore. 

The humidity made each of her individual hairs spring-load itself and reach out for something to stick to. 

The smell was like when her dad and his buddies brought home those big slimy eels and decided that cleaning them would be a good learning experience for the youngsters.

Times a million.

(I know what you’re thinking), Summer Cloud Sultan conveyed.

I’m wondering how these people built their city inside a giant dead fish, and why anyone thought that was a good idea?

(That too, but I meant you’re thinking about dispatching the Tao-Tieh, even though we don’t know what it looks like and you’ve got a ship to catch).

If I can help out, I should. That’s ---

(The Mongolian Way., I suppose? I understand it a lot better now that I’ve seen your Home Steppes. If your nearest peer is more than a day’s ride away, you have to take everything on yourself. This is a big city, though, and it’s even older than anything I saw in the West. They’ve seen a lot of things come and go. They’ve got people for this. In fact. I know they do because I spoke to one on the way here).

You did? I must have nodded off.

(You snored like a timber saw for hours on end. Anyway, they’ve got somebody called the River God. That person might have bagged the Tao-Tieh already… or set a trap for it that you could stumble into).

You’re making a lot of sense, City Horse. How about: We’ll find the River God, ask about the Tao-Tieh, and pidge from the Yam station if they need help?

After a few false starts (demonstrating that the Mongols weren’t yet a fact of life accepted by all the citizens), Nergui found not just a River God, but also his apprentice Little River God, a senior Sorceress, and her apprentice Junior Sorceress, a skinny teen with weightless-looking hair topped by what looked like the initial twig frame of a bird’s nest. Always interested in hats, Nergui peered at it covertly, reluctant to ask about it after the somewhat bumpy introduction. (Nergui had greeted them in the Mongolian shaman’s style of holding up a random number of fingers. The prickly teenage Little River God had glowered at her from the doorway and growled “I don’t know what kind of curse you’re casting, but piss off, Imp,” and slammed the door in her face. Nergui had to convince the group through the closed door that it was a customary greeting that also served to check the other shaman’s mooring to consensus reality, which could never be casually assumed).

“We city Sorceresses never go crazy,” the elder Sorceress boasted, once they’d cleared up the misunderstanding and settled down to some watery, twiggy tea. “Wouldn’t stand for it. Shows a weakness of character, if you ask me. Don’t you agree, Constantly-Masturbating?” she asked the apparently empty chair beside her.

“What, never?”

“No, never.”

“What, never? ”

“Well… hardly ever.”

“Then I’d really like to listen to you about it at some later time. At the moment, though, I’m here to ask about something called a... Tao-Tieh?”

The two young apprentices exchanged a gawk of perplexity. Their two teachers looked at each other with reserve… and distinct undertones of dread. 

“Why are you asking us?” the River God challenged her. “They were supposed to show up near the Wall, not way out here. Did you already kill off everybody over there who knew about them?”

Nergui leaned back in her chair, settling in as if for a visit that could turn out to be very long, and shrugged eloquently, letting the bait float by. “You’re here. So am I. Humor me, will you? What does it look like?”

“We can’t tell you.”

“Temple secret?” she inquired, trying to hide her potential dismay. A temple secret would stop most inquirers cold, but not her. Work-arounds existed; they were just a painy-ass. For example, she could almost certainly assemble a chain of people who knew either the river priests, herself, or each other, and get vouched for all the way down the line. The trouble was timing. It would take weeks she didn’t have, and if this thing was attacking the town right now...

“No. It’s just impossible to describe with words.”

Ah. One of those. “I’ve actually heard a lot of descriptions today, but no two of them match. One kid could only remember its --- hat?” Nergui shook her head, as if to dismiss the ridiculous notion to keep from involuntarily looking at Nest-Head Girl. Was she wearing the same kind of twigs that were in the tea? “Is it some kind of shapeshifter?”

The elder Sorceress shook her head. “To be a shapeshifter, it would need a shape to begin with.”

Ah. One of those those.  

“It doesn’t have a proper outline,” the Sorceress continued. “It’s a formless presence that fills the whole horizon. It might stretch, shrink, ripple, or undulate. Parts of it sometimes point up or down, or circle around themselves. But there are no edges, as such.”

“It’s supposed to have... eyes?” A stabbable sensitive spot would be a fine thing.

“All the old carvings have eyes, but it might simply be the way the ancestors expressed a feeling of being looked at. Eyes or no eyes, they knew it ’saw’ them. And wanted to eat them, along with all other existence.”

“So this wouldn’t be,” Nergui asked without much hope, “some kind of artists’ allegory for the ravenousness, of nature, or the greed of man, or something like that?”

“Gory, yes. Allegory, no. It’s older than space and time! It’s bigger than heaven and hell! And it’s only resting temporarily.” Clearly the old man was warming to his topic. “Even our distant ancestors forgot what it really was. They carved it on ax-blades to help the axes chew up the trees. They cast it on cabinet handles so the compartments could swallow more things! They imagined it would help them when it came back.”

Nergui leaned forward, elbows on knees, and looked at the floor without seeing it. “So if one of those was attacking here, it wouldn’t bother squeezing through a restaurant door. It’d eat the whole building and everybody inside. Wouldn’t it?” 

Vaguely affirmative noises bounced around the room.

“And it probably wouldn’t do any good to wave magnets at it, or shoot fire arrows, or rope-dive at it wearing candy-colored armor?” she continued.

“Nope. Relax, rest your head between your knees, and kiss your ass goodbye. Fortunately, nobody’s seen a living Tao-Tieh in thousands of years.”

“Maybe they did, but they didn’t live long enough to tell anyone,” said the young girl with a certain morbid relish.

“So the thing that wrecked those places yesterday ---” She didn’t bother finishing. Nobody was listening. They were all howling with laughter. 

“You thought,” cackled the senior Sorceress, “that was a Tao-Tieh?”

“ I didn’t,” she felt obliged to clarify. “I never even heard of them before. Other people were saying ---” Hearing herself, she decided it sounded lame. She trailed off and contented herself with silently sipping her tea until her hosts regained their composure.

“That ---” the young Sorceress finally managed to shape words, “was no Tao-Tieh. It was just a ship’s captain who ate a Devil Fruit. It made him a super-strong fighter, but fighting gives him a crazy appetite. If it gets bad enough, he can’t even use his words until he’s eaten a few wagon-loads of food. The ship’s purser is going around now, paying for all the damage. But you got one thing right: He was wearing a hat.”

Embarrassment, in Nergui’s experience, was a waste of her time and energy. She’d learned something, and been given something new to be curious about. 

“So… what’s a Devil Fruit? Do they grow around here?”

The elder Sorceress sniffed. “They certainly do not! They’re from the Grand Line or The Red Line or some group of seas that are all called The Something Blue. Apparently they’ve never had a mapmaker eat an Imagination-Imagination fruit.” 

“Devil Fruits seem to be quite ‘a thing’ among those new sailors who came to work for you people,” the elder River God scoffed.

  Ah. ‘You people.’ The world’s least explicable insult. Implying that (1) I am a person, and (2) at least one other person has something in common with me. Horrors! I shall never live it down.

“They’ve brought in some weird talking snails, too,” the younger Sorceress sniffed disdainfully. “What will those do to our estuary ecosystem when they run away and start multiplying? Senseless jabbering all day and night!”

Not like now, Nergui thought but didn’t say. Wait a beat; what was nudging her memory at the mention of talking snails? Sort it out later, she told herself firmly. The water-clock’s dripping, and the snails will still be here when I come back. Or at least not very far away. “I’ll stop bothering you now,” she said, standing up. “I need to find a Mongol Navy ship called, I believe, the Feeling Lucky. Do you know it?”

“It’s probably in the water,” the teenage Sorceress suggested. “You know. That wet stuff?”

“Thank you,” Nergui smiled. “You’ve all been very helpful.”

Outside the temple, there was a distinct absence of not-a-normal-horse. However, Nergui only had time to hiss out a frustrated “Oh, for fart’s sake!” before Summer Cloud Sultan poked his head out of a narrow alleyway. 

(I got hungry), the horse silently explained. (I thought I’d practice foraging for myself, Mongolian-horse style. Turns out I’m pretty good at it. I’ve still got an apple left. You want it)? He raised his elegant nose and peeled back his lips to display a tooth-marked, saliva-covered specimen.

Thanks, but you go on and finish it, she politely declined, rubbing the dazzling white forehead clockwise in benediction. Have you spent time in any port cities? Like around the Black Sea or something? How do we start looking for the ship?

(Walk toward the smell), he replied.

The street dead-ended at another boardwalk --- or was this near where they’d come in? A long line of ships, moored gunwale to gunwale, stretched away in both directions. The figureheads on the bows looked back mutely and unhelpfully. 

Nergui sighed, tired and sore. “We’ll walk one way and then the other, hassling people until we find it.” They set off in a clockwise direction, peering at any legible names.

One of the ships must have just sailed recently, leaving a gap. Nergui glanced over... and instantly wished she hadn’t.

She suddenly couldn’t move.

She couldn’t even breathe.

It was as if someone had taken hold of the horizon and forced it open like the jaws of a snake. Visible behind the torn edges was something staggeringly immense, fretful, inexorable. Formless. Faceless. Restless. Alive.

And, judging from the way it glittered and sighed and groaned,  very, very hungry.

She was ready to believe the all-devouring Tao-Tieh was something not unlike this.

(What’s the matter with you?) Summer Cloud Sultan mentally prodded her. (Sure, it’s big, but it’s just ---)

He seemed far away, his voice drowned out by the hammering of her heart,

How long had she stood there when a slender hand gently touched her shoulders. “Mongolian?” a sympathetic female voice said close to her ear.

After a moment Nergui, harnessing all her remaining willpower, managed a tiny, silent nod.

“Been to the Eastern seacoast before?”

Another moment, followed by a tiny, silent negative headshake.

“First sight of the ocean takes a lot of dryfeet like this, especially at night. My name’s Nami. What’s yours?”

“No Name Girl,” Nergui said in a distant voice as still as her form.

Nami clasped both of her shoulders in a friendly way, incidentally checking for purse-straps. “I have some time before my ship sails. Let’s get you a cup of tea,” she said cheerfully. “You can even put salt in it if you want. How’s that?”

Chapter Text

The light in the establishment (really more of a bar than a teahouse) was strange; it made the hostess’s hair look dark green. Then again, maybe her hair was green and that was why she had most of it tucked under a yellow kerchief.

“Welcome back, Nami!” she greeted them, rinsing a tray in a bucket behind the counter. “I see you found another Mongol.”

Even Nergui, still half in shock and wholly unpracticed at social dissimulation, couldn’t help noticing that Yellow Kerchief had a mixture of emotions going on behind her relentless affability. Maybe she doesn’t want Mongols around the place, she assumed. Some people don’t seem to. Go figure.

“I make an effort to take care of our Imperial visitors while I’m in port, Makino,” Nami dimpled sweetly. “Our town overwhelms them. They lose their way, their focus, sometimes their breakfast...”

“And so many of them lose things they were carrying ,” Makino’s voice remained light, but one eyebrow quirked up. “We had three or four lost-and-found inquiries this week. I was sorry I couldn’t help them. What’ll you ladies have?”

“Tea, please, if you’ve got some,” Nergui piped up. “I still have to find my ship, and then probably hit some shops before I can relax. Do either of you know a Mongol Navy ship called the Feeling Lucky?”

Makino’s expression didn’t change, but she stilled, oblivious of the tray now dripping soapy water on her feet. Nami tensed, a flush of red coming and going from her cheeks so quickly that a casual observer would have missed it.

Makino looked down and resumed wiping. “Nami, isn’t that the name of your ship?”

“Yes,” Nami sounded a little strained. “It is.”

“Bet you’re Feeling Lucky now.” Makino winked at them. “Have a seat, I’ll bring your drinks out.”

Nergui and Nami sat across from each other at a small, wobbly table with a candle in a bowl. These folks like unusual hair colors, No Name Girl observed. Nami’s hair was a uniform shade of red-gold, brighter even than the Borjigins’. Remembering Ogedei, she sighed involuntarily and the room began to go purple.

”You can stare at my boobs if you want,” Nami was saying. “Everybody does. I’m used to it.”

Nergui jumped a little, catching herself gazing off into space and twining a humidity-kinked tendril of hair around one finger. “What?! I was not! I was staring at your hair. It reminds me of… someone.” She cursed inwardly as she felt her cheeks heat and tingle, knowing full well that it made her look guilty.

“Oh. I thought you were just staring at my hair to keep from staring at my boobs. A lot of people do that too.”

Some kind of comment seemed to be called for. “They’re... very big,” she floundered. “And the way you’ve got them pushed up and together makes them very noticeable. I’ll bet you can even hide small objects between them, with no one the wiser, eh?”

It was Nami’s turn to blush. It looked more like unease than pleasure. “Oh… oh, stop.”

“As a doctor, I see all kinds of different anatomy,” Nergui casually dismissed the subject with a breezy handwave, then spoiled the effect with an involuntary flinch; this time it was a memory of Chagatai she’d conjured without meaning to. “That’s why Admiral Ace sent me down here,” she continued, deflecting. “To be the ship’s doctor on the Feeling Lucky. What do you do onboard?”

“Navigator,” Nami responded absently with a humble handwave of her own. She sounded a little abstracted, as if preoccupied with some kind of inner conflict.

“Wow, with maps and stuff? I love maps! I hope we’ll be friends.” The light in Nergui’s eyes was genuine, but Nami squirmed with discomfiture.

“All right, here we go, ladies,” Makino appeared beside the table with a teapot, a small teacup of the same color, and a large wooden bowl. “Regular tea, and a house specialty Nami likes to treat her guests to: Sanhe Island Unheated Tea.” Nami shot Makino an urgent look, but the barkeep was already heading back. 

Nergui took a sip. It tasted more or less like tea, but it warmed her stomach more than she expected. If they’d been able to get it colder, she guessed the generous helping of booze might escape notice. She dipped her right ring-finger in and flicked three drops into the air, silently thanking the sky and the earth and sending peace to everything in between. 

“Was there a bug in there or something?” Nami asked, puzzled.

“Something,” Nergui murmured noncommittally.

A horse whinnied loudly out in the street. 

“Oh, hey, Doc,” Nami was urgently waving both hands now. “Is that your horse-alarm going off?”

Nergui was the very picture of unconcern. “Naah. That sounds like a normal horse. Not mine.” She slid down in the chair a little, as if to get comfortable.

“Are you sure? Maybe somebody’s trying to steal it! Shouldn’t you go check?”

Nergui laughed, placing what outwardly looked like two light, friendly fingertips on the back of Nami’s wrist. “Munkh Gokh H. Tengri, Nami! You don’t need to create a diversion! We’re shipmates.” Then, leaning forward and lowering her voice, “Just give me back my stuff and we’ll say no more about it.”

Nami tried to pull away, but found her wrist pinned firmly to the table.

And her entire arm beginning to go numb.

With an exasperated sigh, she looked sullenly down at the table. Then she fished around with the other hand and brought out Nergui’s replacement paiza, her small purse, and her decorated belt. Nergui nodded, smiled, and held out her hand, palm upward. Reluctantly Nami reached into her decolletage, withdrew Nergui’s ring, and plunked it into the waiting palm.

It was warm.

“Thanks. Look, the Greater Mongol military is full of thieves. A lot of recruits sign up mainly for the pillage. It’s a tradition. All we ask is that if you’re one of us, don’t steal from us."

Nami, still looking down, nodded. Nergui obligingly released the immobilized wrist. Actually, Nergui reflected, this woman is very good. Agency material, assuming she can control herself. I only busted her because Summer Cloud Sultan telepathically tattled. She would have gotten away with it if it weren’t for that meddling horse. But she doesn’t need to know that right now. Let her think I’m unpredictable and a hard target for scams.

The door banged open and a young, fit-looking, green-haired man stumbled in, the three swords he carried clattering in their scabbards. He rebalanced himself quickly and looked around with wary, narrowed eyes. When his eyes lit on Nami, he sagged with relief. “Oh, Nami, thank goodness!” he said, coming over and pulling up an additional chair. “You won’t believe the day I’ve had. Would you believe a horse pushed me in here? Took the scruff of my shirt in his teeth and dragged me half a block!”

He turned around to show them his rumpled collar, wet with drool. Nergui grinned. Yes, she could believe it.

“But this is lucky,” the swordsman continued. “Now we can walk back to the ship together so you won’t get lost.”

“Of course,” Nami agreed. “So I won’t get lost.”

Strange hair, Nergui reflected, and odd manners. And yet, sarcasm is a universal language.

Chapter Text

(What’s with the upside-down saddle?) Summer Cloud Sultan wanted to know.

“It’s a sling to keep you steady when the ship rocks back and forth,” Nergui explained aloud, rubbing the stallion’s forehead reassuringly while wishing there was someone handy to reassure her.

“I invented it,” said a voice behind her. “All the ships in the Mongol Navy have to take horses, but below-deck stalls are too stuffy and cramped. Look, this ring hanging down adjusts an awning over the space. The horse can operate it without human assistance. He’s the first horse we’re taking, but we tried it out on a reindeer.”

“Why, Captain Usopp!” Nergui greeted the long-nosed man, surprised to see him again. “Are you visiting us from your own ship?”

“Actually, he’s not ---” Zoro the swordsman began.

“It can be confusing,” Nami interrupted. “In fact, ‘Captain’ is his first name. His parents had maritime ambitions for him. But since he’s not the captain --- just a very naughty boy --- he just goes by Usopp, his middle name, when he’s aboard.”

(How am I supposed to get out of this thing to forage?) the horse wondered.

You won’t have to, Nergui silently answered. We’ll bring you food, and on calm days you can have some exercise. “Can we feed him now?” she asked aloud.

Usopp hit a large button on the outer cabin wall. A trough filled with grain. “This other reservoir’s for water,” he explained.

The horse lost no time, munching and crunching noisily as the humans walked away. Strangely, the chomping and gnawing sounds seemed to get louder as they approached the bow of the ship. “What --- are there pigs on board too?” Nergui inquired.

“No, but there might as well be,” Nami replied mysteriously.

On the bow stood a lanky, loose-limbed youth in a round-crowned yellow straw hat, rolled-up blue trousers, a red jacket that blew unbuttoned in the breeze. In one hand he held the cooked leg of either a very large chicken or a very small goat, which he gleefully continued to skeletonize with large, noisy, greasy bites.

“There you are!” Nami accused. “I paid for all your damages, with enough extra that we can come back here again. I had to cut into the food budget. Sanji won’t be thrilled.”

The man on the bow turned around and grinned broadly. Despite the scar under his eye and the weathered look of his skin, Nergui guessed he was still in his early twenties. “Ah, we’ll just catch him some fresh fish to make up for it,” he replied, none too concerned. 

“What got into you?” Nami continued her pursuit. “There were rumors in town that a monster was eating everything in sight. You haven’t even fought all that hard recently.”

 “Couldn’t help it,” the scrawny man shrugged, unrepentant. “This town has awesome food --- but five minutes later I’m starving again.”

The realization dawned on Nergui that she was now looking at the “real” Tao-Tieh. Not what she’d expected... 

“This is No Name Girl, our new Mongol medic,” Nami was saying. “She’s been an Imperial Intelligence agent. From the capital.” Nami seemed to be willing the implications of her words to sink all the way in, but without much hope of success.

The grin didn’t change. “Already?” was all he said. “I thought Ace would call first.”

“There might be a communication foul-up somewhere,” Usopp offered. “I haven’t been able to raise anybody in KK on the snail for a couple of days.”

“Hello, Doc No-Name,” said Straw Hat, advancing to grip elbows with Nergui. “I’m Captain Monkey D. Luffy, and I’m gonna be king of the pi---”

“The pie-eaters ," Usopp broke in loudly. "He enters pie-eating contests whenever we pull into port. And he always wins. Don't you?"

Luffy took another bite out of the big drumstick and chewed almost thoughtfully, staring at Nergui all the while. “What’d you do?” he finally asked.

“With what?” Nergui stared back with a flat neutrality that would have cowed most people.

Luffy, however, was undeterred. “To get sent here. Usually, it’s a punishment for something pretty bad. So what’d you do?”

“I volunteered.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to get away for a while,” she admitted. “My plans didn’t work out and I had no better ideas and --- and those damn posters of me were all over the damn city --- ” Her voice threatened to break treacherously.

“O-o-ooh,” everybody --- including some bystanders who hadn’t even been in the conversation --- chorused at once, as if suddenly relieved of a dire apprehension. “You’re one of us! We know what that’s about.” Zoro lifted up a hatch cover. Plastered on the underside were individual portraits of the captain and crew, with prices in Berries below each likeness and phrases such as “Wanted, Dead or Alive’” “Did you bring a copy of it?” Luffy asked. “There’s still room.”

Chapter Text

Empress Toregene felt the ornamented pins sliding through her hair as her new hat-servant unfastened her headwear of the day. Now that Nergui was out of the picture at least temporarily, Tori found herself feeling insecure. What if she had things to say and no one inconsequential to talk to? What if she had a hat emergency? She’d found and hired Fatma, one of the best milliners in the Twelve Steppes. Laconic and completely asexual, Fatma was soothing to be around, almost like a comfortable piece of furniture.

Oh, how wonderful it felt to have that top-heavy contraption lifted from her head! The apex, a full two feet above the crown, suspended two rows of free-dangling strands of chunky cinnabar beads that threatened to topple Tori over every time she turned a corner, her neck muscles groaning in protest. But what could she do? Her sister-in-law, Sorghaghtani-Beki, had become obsessed with a similar one, but she was scrupulous about not appearing to outshine the Great Khatun. Therefore, Sorgha had presented Tori with a taller, fancier version, which Tori was implicitly obliged to wear in the name of Palace harmony.

“Do you think you could… comb out my hair?” Tori asked Fatma almost shyly. The many cultures that had been hammered into the Greater Mongol State all had different ideas about master-servant dynamics. The ones with special skills, in particular, could be very sensitive about tasks unbecoming of their status.

“Mm-hmm,” Fatma acknowledged, reaching for the chalcedony comb.

What is it, Tori mused as she relaxed, about having someone else comb one’s hair? Her childhood horse-racing trainer had been a terrifying harpy most of the time. Her frequent shouting had carried far and wide, and her whip-hand was cruelly quick. Still, before every race, she’d gently and expertly arranged Tori’s hair to stay tidy and out of her eyes. No impatient yanking, no frustrated tongue-clicking or teeth-sucking. The girl liked to think the wordless gesture meant that however inexcusably hopeless Tori had been the day, week, or month before, today she was good enough to win.

Tori had never gotten Nergui to comb her hair. She wondered if she’d be really good at it… damn! Think about something else .

“More, Khatun?” Fatma asked without inflection.

“No thank you, Fatma. You may go.”

Tori slipped out of her clothes and into a silken shift. Thank Tengri, the Dowagers had insisted on court clothes in which they could ride, dance, fight, and dress themselves. They’d embraced silks and brocades to replace the wool and kidskin, but there was none of this nonsense that other countries imposed on women, such as corseting and foot-binding and tall, wobbly, ankle-breaking shoes. So far, the precedent was holding firm. When the whole world embraces the Mongolian Way, she mused, at least half of it should be happier.

The Empress burrowed under her embroidered bedspread and reached into a handy cupboard for a bottle of the smoky, fruity Chinese cordial she currently favored. She took small sips, aerating them to bring out the flavor, but she took them straight from the bottle. She could have had a servant pour it out, or even just used a glass that someone would wash in the morning… but she had to have a few things that were just nobody else’s sheep-shagging business.

She put the bottle back, doused the lamp, and dozed.

An uncertain length of time later, Oggy came in. She felt, as much as heard, his familiar tread and caught the scent of his clothes and hair. They’d never stood on ceremony through their long marriage, but it had been a while since he’d spontaneously dropped in on her like this. Was he lonely up in his tower under the stars?  Realistically, there was always the possibility that he’d gone to one of the other wives and she’d begged off. Or she hadn’t begged off, but she hadn’t worn him completely out either. Oh well; her loss.

He stopped beside the bed and his shadow fell over her from the lighted doorway.  He hadn’t shut the door or lit the lamp. She rolled over to make room, but he didn’t move.

Finally she looked up, shading her eyes. Something in his stance sent a chill rippling across her skin, but not the enjoyable kind. “...Oggy?” she probed cautiously, her mouth suddenly dry.

“Did you know?” he challenged her in a quiet, deadly voice like the distant cracking of ice in a killer zuud.

She sat up quickly, now full-awake. She hadn’t heard him use that stone-cold tone since he retired from the battlefield, and he’d never used it to her.

“Did. You. Know?” he repeated, with an implacable patience whose end was nonetheless in sight, like a river with its end cut off by turbulent fog.

“Husband, I ---” she faltered, genuinely confused.

“Did you know that there’s a reason it’s so easy to sign on for sailing expeditions in the Eastern Sea? Why a lot of the crews include convicts, smugglers, and probably even pirates? Did you know it’s because we don’t even get half those ships back? At least, not in one piece... Did you know,” he continued relentlessly as he leaned over her, “that you were probably sending No Name Girl to her death?”

Her complexion went so white with shock that she imagined she was glowing in the dark. “No!” she protested. “Blue Tengri, Oggy, no! She really wanted to get away for a while --”

“After you horsewhipped her on a public street ---”

“Yes, yes,,” Tori waved a dismissive hand, recovering a little, “but it wasn’t just that. She seemed troubled about the Goose Girl posters and she didn’t feel ready to tackle Shahryar. And she wanted to see Nihon. We’ve got people here who come from there, so it seemed possible.”

Ogedei, still standing still as a deer-stone, took several long, contemplative breaths. Toregene refrained from reminding him of her presence. Then he abruptly folded up like an iron war-fan, sitting down on the bed and taking his wife in his arms. He buried his nose in her hair and inhaled deeply, a gesture both affectionate and inquiring. Words and expressions and postures are easily falsified, but it would take a much better liar than Tori to disguise her pheromones.

“Good,” he finally said, and she felt him nod firmly. “I mean, good that you didn’t do it on purpose. Still not good that a valuable civil servant is now floating over a watery grave on a few flimsy pieces of wood with a random bunch of Erlik-spawn.”

“‘Valuable civil servant’?” Tori allowed herself a little bit of snark now that the danger seemed to have passed. 

“All right, more than that to me,” he allowed. "I just don’t get why the two of you couldn’t sit tight and trust me to smooth things over. It’s what I'm good at." He sounded more hurt than anything else,

“You sure can pick ‘em,” Tori sighed philosophically.

The Khagan applied head to pillow with an air of closure. His Khagatun still sat up, not quite finished. “Ogedei, I love you with the force of a flash flood,” she beseeched him, “but you always do this! Half the world fits in your great big heart, but the Palace isn't that big. You feel indebted to… her... because she was damaged in the line of duty.  Fine. Give her a medal, or a promotion, or some land or goats or something. She's not a lonely orphan puppy who needs a home. She's a grown woman with mad skills and her own weird-ass woodland charm. Sooner or later, someone won't be able to live without her.”

Yes , Ogedei thought gloomily. Possibly me.

But what he said aloud was, “Don’t worry, Tori, She won’t keep me from you or from our State. I don’t think she even wants to.”

Tori rolled over and settled under the arc of the Great Khan’s embracing arm. “Well, don’t you keep her from me, either,” she murmured sotto-voce to the pillow.

Chapter Text

As Nergui understood it, the ship was ready to leave port as soon as the tide was right, which would happen at an hour in the shank of the evening that Cimmerians would call “Crom O’Clock.” Now that we Mongols are in charge, she thought, we should make these tide things happen at more convenient times. I bet everybody would thank us. It was a favored peacetime tactic to find out the annexed people’s pet peeves with the old regime and change them with much fanfare. It was turning out that much of the rest of the world had been forced to operate with so many sticks jammed in its spokes (and elsewhere) that it was a wonder anyone got anywhere at all. The conquerors were spoiled for choices of socioeconomic obstacles to remove, but they were learning that had to be careful to identify the load-bearing ones that were holding a given civilization together.

She could afford to mentally slump into this kind of reverie because, like the rest of the crew, she’d gotten her domain in order and now had time to kill. Everyone else was eating and drinking and toasting, so she joined them. They’d started by toasting their hometowns, such far-flung shores as Foosha Village, Syrup Village, Orange Town, Shimotsuki Village, Germa Kingdom,  Water 7, and Ohara Island. Nergui’s parents’ encampment didn’t really have a name, since any discussion of the subject quickly became an argument, and the arguers would stop speaking to each other for months. When it was her turn, though, she managed to blurt something she’d overheard in a caravanserai somewhere: 

“Here’s to Kara Koram, its towers rising high, 
So the Besuds can talk to the Borjigins while the Borjigins talk to the sky.”

It seemed to be well-received, but any excuse to drink some more probably would have been.

Next, an extremely thin sailor --- bony, really ---  stood up and hefted some kind of stringed instrument, which turned out to produce the loudest music, and possibly the loudest noise of any kind, in the known world. As a decisive note died away, the musician howled: 

I can't help about the shape I'm in
I can't sing, I ain't pretty and my legs are thin
But don't ask if I’m alive or dead
‘Cause I know you’re not saying what I thought you said

Much angry-sounding twanging of the instrument followed, as if a giant bee was trying to escape from under the reed of a giant mouth-harp. “Brook! Yeah, Brook!” “Soul King!”

Wow, Nergui thought, inserting a careful fingertip in her ear and feeling grateful when she pulled it out blood-free. This is dangerous… I like it.

Meanwhile, the straw-hatted Captain had hoisted what looked like a birdbath full of booze. The crew quieted respectfully while he sang:

My bounty’s the highest in hist’ry.
My bounty’s as high as can be,
Where they’ll get the gold is a myst’ry,
So just pay my bounty to me…

Then Usopp was crooning:

I can’t hide… my lyin’ nose
Every time... I fib, it grows
Would a bigger hat help, do you suppose?
There ain’t no way to hide my lyin’ nose

Nami lifted her impressive lungs to belt out:

We got a thing that we call Compass Love,
Finding our way everywhere...

Nergui was facing those facts that eventually confront every drinker: nature would call sooner or later, and she should at least find out where to go and answer while she could still walk. Out of habit, she walked in a sunwise direction, as if going to the pit outside a ger. In her father’s small boat, they’d always brought along a special leather bucket rather than insult the river or lake they floated on. The last thing she needed on her first night was to piss off, as it were, something as big and restless as the ocean.

On deck, something moved, but its shape didn’t make sense. As she drew closer, it resolved itself into Zoro doing one-handed handstand push-ups. She waited a moment in case he finished, then realized she couldn’t wait that much longer. “Excuse me… where do we go to make a waterfall?”

Zoro regained his feet and gave his spectator a puzzled look. “To... what?”

“You know, um, drop gold in the snow? Drown a scorpion? See which way’s downhill?”

The swordsman turned away thoughtfully and scratched his brush of green hair, trying to remember. When his sensei’s daughter Kuina had talked in riddles like this, and expected a male to understand it… “Heads are on either side of the bow,” he replied, waving in the general direction without looking at her.

“Wow,” Nergui marveled, impressed in spite of herself. “You guys pee and poop on people’s heads? Are they dead, at least?”

It took a few more exchanges to clarify matters. She mentally apologized to anything that might be listening as she went. People from the Home Steppes were reflexively careful with water because it so often went scarce. She was surprised to feel a sense of connection and reassurance rising up toward her, as if the ocean wanted her to know that her few drops were an insignificant contribution and that its water wasn’t for land-creatures to drink anyway.

When she went back to the revels, someone was still singing:

He rolled into town 
With all his hair slicked down
Cause everybody knows an apeman, and apemen aren’t allowed
In Fishman Town

As soon as she stepped into the light, all eyes swiveled toward her. “Your turn, newbie,” the skeletal Brook cackled. But she was still feeling more like she did now than she had before, and her connection to the Well of Songs sparked instantly:

If I should fall from Tengri’s grace, to where no warriors stand to catch me
If I haunt my chieftain’s tent and no shaman can dispatch me
Let me go, boys, Let me go, boys
Let me go down in the sand where the rivers all ran dry

After some applause, everyone filled their glasses and stood with an air of solemn ritual.

“To become the King of the Pirates!” Luffy shouted at the top of his far-carrying voice. “...Or the Pie Eaters,” he amended belatedly.

“To chart all the seas of the world!” Nami called out.

“To be the world’s best swordsman!” bellowed a returned Zoro. 

This must be where everybody makes their personal wish, Nergui thought. No --- more like a promise.

“To reach the All Blue!”

“To be the bravest warrior of the sea!”

Nergui looked down to hide her eye-roll. Sheesh! Grandiose much? she thought, then realized, But what will I say?  I’ve got nothing. Other than ‘make myself useful until I come up with a better idea ---’

“Tooo… find a cure for shaman’s madness and canoodle with the Great Khan!” she heard someone say, then reailized it had been she.

Now that I hear it out loud, she suddenly understood, I’m just as grandiose as the next goofball. This might work out after all.

Chapter Text

Nergui awoke lying on her stomach on a high branch. She couldn’t hear her brothers crashing around anywhere down below. They must have given up looking for her. But then why hadn’t they yelled “All ye, all ye outs in free?”

The trunk of her tree swayed. The wind must have picked up. If the weather was about to turn bad, those yak-skulls would be in trouble for just leaving her out here. She opened her eyes… and instinctively clinched every part of her body around her perch. 

Directly below her, instead of a forest floor full of dried evergreen needles and scattered cones, dark greeny-blue water shook and shivered, throwing occasional glints of blinding sunlight into her sleep-sticky eyes. Then the ship beneath her rocked back toward the vertical and she could see the deck below. With a major effort of will, she slowed her breathing and began to relax. This was just like that summer at Uvs where they’d found those springy saplings at the edge of an outcropping that overhung the lake. Those had been fun. Even when that one tree came out roots and all, it kept the big kid who’d been on it afloat until one of the fishing boats could scoop him up…

“Good morning, Doc,” said a voice right next to her ear. “Sleep well?”

Suddenly panicked, she looked around… then down. Captain Luffy stood on deck, grinning. He doffed his straw hat and waved it at her. “There’s breakfast,” he reported in a normal upward shout, putting his hat back on and walking away. 

Well, then, how had he… Nergui put her forehead against the smooth surface of the yardarm. There were pranks, she was aware, where people could make their voices seem to come from all kinds of places. None of her singing tutors, for instance, had ever taught the art of running commentary from the inside of a cookpot or the depths of a long-drop pit, but every kid in her classes could to it.

Either that or Straw Hat was one hell of a high-jumper.

Looking down, she realized it wouldn’t be so tough getting down. The sail had a bunch of horizontal ribs maintaining its shape, and there were plenty of ropes, though she couldn’t see where some of the ends went. Just as she decided to climb down the sturdy-looking mast using the beaded rings that secured the sail’s ribs, another voice said next to her, “May I help you descend, Mademoiselle Médecin?”

“You guys are good,” she called down to the deck, a little grudgingly --- although, how had he managed to project the tactile tickle of slightly damp breath into her ear? “What’ll it be next, voices from the bedpan?”

“Please allow me,” said the voice, and an entirely solid-feeling hand clasped hers.

“What the - ” She whipped her head around and almost fell at the sight of a yellow-haired man with a strangely hypnotic curly eyebrow who appeared to be standing in the middle of the air.  “How do I --- I mean, how are you --- ”

“I’ll carry you, fille sans nom, ” he replied. “The Sky Walk is a highly advanced Black Leg Style technique.”

“But damn handy, I’ll bet,” she speculated, allowing him to scoop her up and drop down to the deck, landing as lightly as a zephyr-borne tuft of lamb’s wool landing in a stewpot. We need to get his guy teaching at the Armory, she silently resolved. 

“I noticed you last night, but we have not formally met,” Curly Eyebrow said around the lit incense stick trapped between his lips. “I am Sanji, the ship’s chef.”

Nergui wriggled out of his arms, but nearly fell, so he caught her again. As they walked to a table set up on deck, it became clear that she hadn’t had a random dizzy spell. The deck was slanted and the entire ship was rocking back and forth. Nobody else seemed to take any notice of it. That probably meant she’d get used to it. Meanwhile, her companion solicitously kept both hands on her body. To steady her, no doubt.

Zoro, going through a sword drill while balanced on the taffrail, “Oh, look, there’s a new woman on board and Shoe Chef has to try his luck.”

“Sanji’s chivalrous to all of us ladies. Aren’t you, Sanji?”

“Of course, my darling Nami-Swan,” said yellow-haired Black Leg Sanji. “A place without the sweet sights and sounds of women would be my idea of Hell. Here we are, Doctor.”

Sanji helped Nergui sit down, thoughtfully keeping a supporting hand under her rear end until it hit the seat. She picked up the pair of sticks by her plate and poked tentatively at the gleaming, quivering, multi-colored mass in front of her. It smelled pleasant enough, but that texture… 

She looked around the table under cover of her lowered eyelashes. Her messmates devoured the unidentified substance with gusto. Oh, well --- no guts, no fiddle-strings. Hoping to get the drop on it before it tried to run away, she quickly stabbed both sticks into it and pitched it into her mouth.

Wow, it was really good! Crispy little scallions and tender shreds of pork cooked into a kind of missing link between a noodle and a pancake. She tried it with a few drops of the brown sauce. Hey, not bad! Then she tried it with a spoonful of the clear sauce that had orange-ish slivers on the bottom. Very nice! Still encouraged, she tried it with a generous splash of the red sauce...

It had a nice little zing for two or three seconds, but then it progressed to blistering the top layer off her tongue. She grabbed her glass of water and gulped down all its contents, and that was when she found out it wasn’t water. It was bitter, sour, and almost certainly flammable.

“You all right?” Nami asked.

Nergui nodded, forcing herself to smile but not quite trusting herself to speak yet. She gestured questioningly toward her glass.

“Grog,” said Usopp. 

At first Nergui thought that Usopp had merely belched, but then he went on, “Adding booze helps keep the drinking water safe. You’ll also find it helps you get used to the tilting of the deck.”

Brook, the starved-looking musician, sat down next to Nergui and served himself a huge pile of food.. Where was he putting it all? 

“Good singing last night,” Nergui greeted him with a nod. 

“You too,” he replied. “Can I see your underpants?”

The other women at the table exchanged mortified, though unsurprised, glances. Nergui’s knife slowed and paused for half a heartbeat. “Nope,” she demurred matter-of-factly.

“Why not?”

“They’re secret spy underpants. They’re invisible.” 

Captain Luffy, barely pausing in the demolition of a teetering tower of breakfast, gestured at her with his sticks. “You’re not like other Mongolians,” he pronounced around a mouthful.

“How so?” she asked warily after she swallowed the grog.

“Whatever kind of hot stuff they might be on land, they’re just ballast at sea. They force themselves to adjust, but it takes a while. Never heard of one climbing the mast on their first day.”

“A lot of Mongolia is flat, with grass and little scrubby bushes. I grew up in the part with all the trees.”

Sanji re-emerged from the galley, cradling something in his arms. If it was a baby, it was the most off-putting one Nergui had ever seen. It had a big stem at one end and was covered in spikes. He placed it next to her plate, using the opportunity to put his arms around her and linger in the hug. The smoke from the incense stick he chewed had a strong, acrid smell. Nergui struggled to shut her nostrils tight like a camel in a sandstorm while she gave the suspect vegetable the skeptical fish-eye. Vaguely she recalled something she’d overheard in port. “Is that a Devil Fruit? I don’t know if I’m ready to trade away my swimming ability yet.”

“That’s not a Devil Fruit,” Nami smiled indulgently at the clueless dryfoot. “It’s just a durian. We started to grow them in pots on board to keep us healthy on long voyages.”

“Allow me,” Zoro interjected with a bow, and swung one of his swords to split the eldritch spiky thing down the middle.

The stench that poured out nearly made Nergui faint. Sanji, on the pretext of steadying her, held her even closer, squeezing across her stomach. He was wearing some kind of scent on his skin that, in a weaker concentration, could possibly have been pleasant. “I yearn to know more about this ‘canoodling’ you spoke of,” he murmured in her ear. “For instance, what kind of noodles do you use?”

Captain Luffy, belatedly continuing his earlier comment after chewing and swallowing a large bite of meat, said as Nergui’s ears began to ring. “And you don’t even get seasick! That’ll be a big plus.”

Nergui squeaked and, like a housecat confronted by an amorous skunk, squirmed and scrabbled her way out of the press of people and away from the table.

She barely made it to the rail before she threw up.

Chapter Text

No Name Girl threw up and threw up and threw up. She retched and puked and barfed and hurled. She urped and upchucked and heaved and gagged. She purged and spewed and disgorged. She regurgitated and disembogued and eructated. 

She lost her breakfast, followed by the previous night’s dinner, then worked her way back to things she’d eaten as a child. Then emerged some completely unfamiliar things she guessed she must have eaten in past lives.

The crew of the Feeling Lucky had never seen anything like it. And they’d seen shit that’d turn you white. “Did she eat a Barf-Barf Fruit or something?” Captain Luffy asked, though completely unaware that several languages translated “durian” as “Barf-Barf Fruit.” 

Before an audience awed to silence, Nergui tossed her cookies and fed the fish, who trusted her instantly because, like them, she was green around the gills. She seemed to call out for friends named Ralph and Ruth, but none appeared. Finally, both physically and hydrologically exhausted, she crumpled to the deck, finally releasing her death-grip on the rail.

I must have lost a dozen pounds, she thought, so why can’t I hold myself up?

She breathed in and breathed out, and for quite a while that was enough. She felt gentle hands patting and stroking her shoulders, back, hands, and head. She let herself enjoy it until embarrassment took over and made her raise up on one elbow. Was she sicker than she’d thought? She could have sworn at least a dozen hands had been ministering to her, but as her eyes re-adjusted to the bright sunlight she could only see one person, a dark-haired woman who regarded her gravely but not unkindly from under a wide hat-brim. “Better out than in, I always say,” was her greeting. "Although if there's a next time, you might want to go to the leeward side. The one that doesn't face the wind."

“Sorry,” Nergui greeted her ruefully, wiping her face with the back of her wrist and accepting a clean towel from her rescuer. “Thanks, uh...”

“Nico Robin,” the woman introduced herself. “Or just Robin. Ship’s archaeologist. I would have called a medic for you, except...” She tilted her head expressively to one side.

Ships are packed full of so many surprises, Nergui thought. Then she realized that although she felt physically atrocious, her mental and emotional turmoil had mysteriously calmed. All the cutting, strangling fiddle-strings that had pulled her psyche in every direction for months had slackened. Was it just something I needed to puke out? she wondered. Could it possibly be that simple?

“You’ll probably think I’m nuts,” she confessed, with a sudden, instant loss of inhibition that can happen around those who have just seen one at one’s absolute worst, “but were there other people touching me?”

Robin smiled. “Devil Fruit,” she explained. “I can duplicate my hands and feet, sprout them out of any surface, and set each copy to a different task. Ever see those statues with extra arms? When they say ‘All hands on deck,’ they mean me.”

At the image that entered her mind, Nergui’s face went gray again. “I’d like to see that sometime, but definitely not now!”

“Fair enough,” Robin answered, unruffled.

Chapter Text

Baiju Noyan scowled a scowl he kept on reserve for special occasions. He said a word so bad it was impossible to write down.

Chief Inspector Peace heard it in his office eight hundred years in the future and stirred on his perch in the back of Baiju’s mind. “What’s up?”

As Baiju brought his mare The Sweet Georgian Brown to a halt and his spare horse 

The Black Bitey obediently stopped beside them, he lent Peace his eyes and gestured in front of him. “We’re approaching the border of Chagatai’s Khanate,” he communicated silently. “And if I didn’t know the road, that would have been, as you detectives say, a clue.”

The Yam roads were intended for high-speed messengers to and from KK. They skirted around populated areas with their unbearably slow traffic. The landscape around the rider and his invisible passenger appeared to be empty. Except, that is, for the enormous ger tent on an even more enormous raised platform on proportionally enormous wheels that was  parked smack in the middle of the road.  Numerous horses and yaks, relieved to be unyoked and unpacked, nibbled at the scrubby grass and drank from a small, rocky stream.

“Are those guards wearing fur bikinis? ” Peace marveled. “Yowza! I hope they’re women.”

"That’s the first thing you notice?”

“Well, I am your... sequel,” Peace scowled, but mild embarrassment dampened the effect. “We’re bound to be kind of alike. But I’m at least as impressed with the old-school answer to the film-crew bus. I read where Genghis Khan had one of those, but the illustrations don’t do it justice.”

“May he ride forever in the sky, yes, he did,” Baiju confirmed with a certain reverence. “Compared to this one, though, it was discreet and understated. This one’s Chagatai’s.”

“Well, that’s handy. Isn’t it? Didn’t you want to talk to him, after the Anatolian told you he bridenapped your Agent?”

“Eventually,” Baiju qualified it. “First I wanted to reconnoiter, find out some more details. But Tai must have gotten wind of it. Here he is, heading me off at the pass.”

“He lets you call him by a nickname?”

“All of us have nicknames. It’s the Mongolian Way. But I’ve known him since we were striplings, when I was in the Kheshig. He was a physical terror, but his smarter targets could sneak around and avoid his beatings. It looks like he’s gotten a lot craftier with age.”

“Not everything is all about you , Baiju,” Peace suggested, just a little reproachfully. “He might be here for some other reason.”

“Of course, what with all the points of interest around here. And winged horses ‘might’ fly out of my ögzög."

“You’re grown up now too. You’re a high official. He’s bound to acknowledge your usefulness.”

“Oh, Tai had a use for me back then, too. At least, once he discovered drugs. I was the only shaman in the Kheshig and the most convenient source of… visionary compounds.”

Peace nodded sagely. “You were his dealer. Did you bring anything along?”

“Of course.”

“Then where’s the bug?”

“All those substances take an hour or two to do anything. He’ll have plenty of time to be irritating. He’s a Borjigin, so I’m forbidden to offend him. And by all reports he’s a popular and effective Khan, so I don’t even want to.”

“Let me help. I’m an expert at profiling.”

This was opaque to Baiju. “What? You --- get people to face sideways or something?”

Yes, in mugshots, the Chief Inspector reflected, but realized it would clarify nothing. “No, I study people’s personalities to predict what they’re likely to do. Particularly the bad stuff; it’s why detectives have jobs, and it’s also a lot more interesting.”

“So, you’re very good at thinking like a bad man. I’m not surprised.”

“Baiju Noyan?” asked the leader of a phalanx of Chagatai’s Girl Guards who had ridden up the road. The voice she used was more suited to “decomposing animal carcass in the well.” One of the other guards tossed her hair and curled a derisive upper lip; she wasn’t a Khongi, but she clearly wanted to be.

“Our Khan wants to know if you’re sitting up here pulling your plonker, or what. If you’re finished, clean up and follow us down.”

Chapter Text

Chagatai the Inevitable, Khan of Chagatai's Khanate, lounged loose-limbed on his big divan, hipbones to the sky. He'd been learning some Hatha yoga and the space he'd opened in his hips had done wonders for his pesky buzkashi backaches. His baggy trousers would have been cut almost laughably wide and deep... on anyone else. His fame, however, was not visibly preceding him at the moment. Visitors less knowledgeable than Baiju, or more inclined to politely delude themselves, might imagine that some pet animal, perhaps a mongoose, had crept under the folds of fabric to nap.

"Ah! B-man!" the big redheaded Khan grinned raffishly. “Don’t stare. One of your Dargas is an artist, isn’t he? Have him paint a picture, it’ll last longer.“ This seemed to be for the benefit of the gaggle of hangers-on playing sheep-ankle bones on the sumptuous carpet. “ I heard you were in the neighborhood,” Tai continued. “You weren't planning on sneaking through my Khanate without stopping in for a drink, were you?"

"Never in this life or the next," Baiju lied, quite smoothly thanks to Inspector Peace's coaching.

A flicker of disappointment came and went in the thunderclouds of the Khan’s eyes, almost too quickly to track. He’d expected at least a little discomfiture from his guest. “I assumed you'd want to talk to me,” he said to the ceiling, casually adjusting himself. “I decided to make it convenient. If, instead, I was out where Rama gave his shoes away, you might have slashed your way through my caravanserais until you found someone with directions. I've heard what kind of damage you can do to a caravanserai, Noyan.”

“Saved me the trouble, then.” The Noyan shrugged: a clipped, utilitarian gesture that gave nothing away. “Appreciate it.”

“Bring me anything?” Chagatai cocked his head and quirked a rusty eyebrow. “You shamans always get the best drugs.” Purveying mind-altering substances to the Borjigin boys had been Baiju’s role as a youth in the elite Kheshig guard. This was a hint that the relationship hadn’t changed.

Baiju withdrew a roll of deerskin from his sleeve. “I might have. Odds and ends, bits and bobs. Nothing truly outstanding but it all gets the job done. But --- before we go see the spirits dance,” he pre-empted. “I’m looking for a woman.”

“Aren’t you always? Well, you know I’ve always got them. Take your pick.”

“No Name Girl,” Baiju flipped it like a pebble into a pond, watching carefully for ripples.

A faint line of puzzlement appeared between the Khan's thick red-gold-black Borjugin eyebrows. "No Name who?" He shook his head dismissively. “Names, no names, I never remember anyway.”

Baiju was remembering everything now. Tai and his big brother Josh would periodically tire of bickering between themselves and bully the younger warriors. While Josh was ever-ready to spout a stream of finely-honed, scathing insults, Tai would say stupid crap that made his targets’ knuckles itch to punch him. But then they'd look up (way, way up) at him and think better of it.

"Khenbish's Nerguitani." the Noyan elaborated patiently. Still no flash of recognition, "Intelligence agent? Shiny shaman? Eyes of a wolf? " he tried hopefully. “Rear end of a goddess? Some people say you married her.”

“I marry a lot of people,” Chagatai fidgeted restlessly. “What d’you want with her, anyway?”

Baiju had given this some thought: what would sound plausible? “She stole my horse.”

Awakening Chagatai’s hippocampus (the part of the Mongol brain that thinks about horses) did the trick; the drachma finally dropped. “OHhhh,” Tai bellowed triumphantly. “You must mean Little Rabbit!”

Inside Baiju’s head, he and Inspector Peace winced and grimaced at each other. ‘Little Rabbit?!’ they mouthed incredulously. 

“Tengri blind me!” Tai roared with glee. “That was YOUR horse she rode in on? Now it makes sense.”

“The Fork Tongued Son of a Bitch,” Baiju sighed. "Whiter than winter lightning and faster than bad news. Originally one of my battle spoils from Azerbaijan."

”Sorry, but none of my guys could catch that thing. I would never’ve gotten the woman either if I hadn’t tricked her into dismounting.” Tai looked directly at Baiju, a little of the arrogance subsiding. “I knew bridenapping her was a dumbshit move, even as I did it, but I had to have that horse.”

“An Azerdeli does that to a man,” Baiju commiserated. “Too bad they’ve got a hate-on for most of the human race.” 

“But at least I got to try out her magical healing hoo-hah. That’s something, anyway.”

And, whoomp! There it was.

It was over the din of his grinding teeth that Baiju heard the Khan go on, “And it was magical. Can’t even picture what it was like for you Unsealing her. Just as well, I tend to damage ’em. But being Khan means never having to say you're sorry." Genghis’s second son examined his boot as he stretched a leg, then looked up with a smirk. "And anyway, I'm not sorry! But say, B, what’s wrong? Hung over or something?”

"No, no. It's just that her Unsealing released a lot of mojo, y’know? It was supposed to. And then there were… side effects. Like, the thought of her canoodling with another man makes me go insane with rage. Just a little bit, though."

"Oh... You do realize I did her, right? Because I did. Do her."

"Yes. In fact you said so."

"So that probably upsets you, right?"

"Maybe. It’s possible."

“But I have to say, I honestly thought you were done with her. After all that time and then... you know..."

"Getting her killed, yes," Baiju finished for Chagatai, sounding (and also feeling) as though he'd confessed that particular transgression individually to each and every other living soul from here to Anatolia.

“That’s usually a pretty clear signal that a relationship has ended,” Chagatai reasoned.

"Hm?" Baiju responded. This was no longer a show of stoic disinterest to resist being baited by an undisputed master baiter. A vein in his temple was pounding, resounding, that he could hear only half of what was being said.

... do you get what I'm saying, B?" was the next thing Baiju was aware of.

In their shared mental space, Peace pinched Baiju's astral shoulder with a grip like blacksmiths’ tongs. “Why? Ask yourself why he’s doing this,” he hissed at his predecessor.

“This knucklehead doesn’t need a reason,” Baiju growled internally.

“My people-hunting senses say he’s got one now, though. What could it be?”

Back in physical space, Baiju’s brow cleared abruptly as he locked eyes with his tormentor. “Would you like to fight?” he asked.

The Khan sagged visibly with relief. “Thank you!” he crowed. “Brother! I thought you’d never ask. These suck-ups around here always let me win. I’m sick of it.”

Chapter Text

The first rule of Mongolian Stand Down (quite possibly the only universal rule of Mongolian Stand Down) is: 

You don’t talk about Mongolian Stand Down. 

This is because, if you’re still capable of speech after a bout of Mongolian Stand Down, you were doing it wrong.

The Burkhan Bear-on-Fire and the Black Snake of the Gobi had a great fight together. They struck, kicked, slung, and slammed away years of the great constant dull gonad-ache that always accompanies great responsibility. Their last nominally recreational dust-up had been over two decades ago. Since then, they’d each grown as fighters in highly dissimilar styles, which made for some delightful surprises… for a certain highly specialized value of “delightful”. 

Sweat droplets sprayed as knuckles smacked into flesh and rebounded off underlying muscle and bone. Breath, too hot and too cold at the same time, seared the throat. Struggling for control of the collective center of gravity, strength countered speed and foresight countered unpredictability. Hearts pounded like fists. Fists pounded like blacksmiths’ hammers. Bodies sailed through the air and rebounded off the ground until the dust just seemed to hang there, the only motionless thing. The length of rope that kept the combatants inside each other’s striking distance, one end tied around each wrist, was the only object available to be used as a weapon, and use it they did, to choke and whip and sweep and trip. Guards and retainers skulked about in the background, taking surreptitious notes.

They lay on their backs on the ground while the sky spun above them. Onlookers made not a sound and tried hard to become invisible. For a while all was quiet except for labored breathing and the slow dripping of sweat and only a very small soupçon of blood. Spilling noble blood was bad form, and putting one’s own side out of commission when a real battle could start at any time was just plain stupid. 

(Wow,) Inspector Peace marveled soundlessly inside Baiju’s reverberating head. (Our society’s mostly lost this kind of therapeutic violence. People just let things stew until nothing but death or permanent injury will do.)

“Thank you,” said the Khan eventually.

“Don’t mention it,” the general replied. “Thank you. ”

“You’re still active military,” Tai panted, “and I’m not.”

“Ha!” Baiju scoffed. “I’m a pale, lazy, flabby Darughai with a mansion in Tabriz now. Though it hasn’t been all that long,” he realized.

“Do they play Dead Goat Polo out there?”

“Oh, yes. The Turks and Persians invented it; just ask them.”

“That’d be news to the Pathans and Kyrgyz. And by ‘news’ I mean ‘instant frothing rage.’”

The silence returned and stretched out like Turkish taffy. 

"So?" Baiju finally prompted, as deferentially as he could, which wasn't very.

“So what?”

“No Name Girl. I mean, ‘Little Rabbit.’ May I see her?”

“Still want to? Even if she hasn’t got your horse anymore?” That was the thing about Tai. He never seemed to be paying much attention until all of a sudden he had been all along.

“Yes,” Baiju affirmed, and decided to come clean. Kind of. “I need to speak to her. To… apologize. And explain.”

Chagatai let out an impressed whistle. “Aren’t those the two things you officers don’t ever do?”

“Yes.” Baiju admitted without hesitation. “I was told my Besud clan started that.”

“And, Little Rabbit being no dumb bunny,” Chagatai surmised with that surprising sagacity that was like watching a very fat old man suddenly do a back flip, “she knows that, doesn’t she? She’ll see what it costs you. So what were you hoping for in exchange, besides the horse? A roll in the hay for old times’ sake?” 

“Before  I confirmed her marriage to you, I would have seized the opportunity,” Baiju admitted, since Tai knew him. “I wouldn’t dare presume, though,” he added, since he also knew Tai.

“Nobody starts wars over romantic birdshit anymore,” the other man reflected. “Look at the mess it made in the Mediterranean, never mind Red Cliff. But I’m no normal nervous king, B. Other than the two Queens, I’m not stingy with my female treasures. Expediencies are different out here at full gallop. Little Rabbit was recent and rather special. I might not've been ready to loan her out yet, but perhaps we could've visited her together.”

(Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve), the ethereal presence of Inspector-and-Professor Peace swooped down on the wording like a hawk on a snake. (Why’s he put it that way)?

Baiju let his scowl deepen. “I’m beginning to get the feeling that you won’t be letting me speak to her today.”

"Oh, don’t be that way, brother," the Khan reproached him, "It’s not about letting. It’s out of my hands, in fact. She’s not here, and I don’t know where she is."

Gradually, and without the usual pride and bravado, Chagatai told the story. The invitation. The attempt to politely decline. The unsuccessful attempt at a cavalry ambush. The trap. The bridenapping. The buzkashi match. The wedding. The scattering of the huge crowd by a marauding wolf pack just before dawn.

“I know of only one man in the world who commands a mixed detachment of wolves and dogmen,” Tai averred with a significant look. “He’d forbidden me to interfere with Little Rabbit, and I did anyway. Wiping my ass, in the process, with the Yasa I’m sworn to enforce. I assumed there’d be consequences, just not so soon or so humiliating. But, like I said, I’m not about to start a war over personal stuff. Especially a civil war, can you imagine?” His gray eyes stared gloomily into the middle distance.  “All I could do was grab the first portable, valuable chunk of bling I could find and leave it with her for her trouble.”

“You think she’s with Oggy.” It wasn’t really a question. The Noyan wasn’t 100% convinced he had a heart, but he felt something inside him sink with dismay. The Great Khan of Greater Mongol, independent of all the wealth and power, was also kind and thoughtful and reputedly one of the most skillful lovers in the hemisphere. Best friends or no best friends, any interest Ogedei developed in Nergui’s welfare was unlikely to be good news for Baiju.

“Either that, or somebody in KK will know where she went from there. I don’t hold out much hope of getting her back. I actually regret it, can you believe that?” Chagatai the Inevitable laughed bitterly. “I don’t kid myself that she fell in love with me, but she did see me. As a man and as a Khan. And I think I actually impressed her as a good one of each.” He briefly lapsed back into reverie, then gave an involuntary shudder. “The queens think she might have made a better man of me if she'd stayed," he confided. "Think about it that way, I might have dodged an arrow. Let’s go get a drink. And a massage."

“We villains need happy endings too,” Baiju readily agreed.

Chapter Text

Berkant Alp (retired) was a new caravaneer, but he wasn’t born yesterday, or even the day before. He fought with  just-plain-Yesugai’s-Temujin (first “with” meaning ”against,” later “with” meaning ”alongside”) before there was a Genghis Khan. Rising through the ranks of caravan guards, he’d been up and down the Silk Road so many times his horse’s footprints were permanently stamped on the earth. He made it his business to know what was what and who was whom. Baiju Noyan --- now Baiju Darughai, Berkant supposed; Allah help us all --- had a reputation that spread like a bloodstain.  

It wasn’t that Berkant Alp minded conversing with the bounteously-blessed, pleasantly-spoken woman across the table from him. It was only that she seemed in unexpectedly good condition for a woman who had met the devil in human form.

“This would be.. Baiju’s tribute caravan to KK, then?” he asked again with different wording.

“The very same,” Tudora smiled. Honestly! Greater Mongol had been a meritocracy from the start. Would these older Mussulmen ever get used to it?

“And… he gave you the authority to hire a caravaneer?”

“He did.” She plopped a sizeable purse down on the middle of the table. It made a convincing clunk and gentle jingle as she set down a scroll case beside it. Berkant opened the scroll to see the Darughai’s tamgha conspicuously stamped on the orders. As Tudora had known he would, since she’d stamped it herself that very morning.

The retired Alp eyed the purse warily.

The Balkan contralto held up her two hands. “See? No daggers. The Golden Family persuaded our batko not to handle money transactions personally anymore.”

Berkant bet they had. More than once, Commander Baiju had showered collaborators with gold coins, then stabbed them to death for picking any up. A golden shower indeed, and not conducive to repeat business.

“Well, this seems in order,” was all Berkant had left to say, scooping the purse and scroll off the table.

“See you next week,” Tudora replied, rising and turning away. 

Out of earshot, she breathed a sigh of relief. So far, no one had insisted on meeting the Darughai face to face. They’d all heard the stories, and some had seen the graves. 

Otherwise, some bright spark might realize that the Darughai had suddenly left his governed region at this critical administrative juncture. Questions would be asked. Answers would be made up out of whole cloth. And every scheming opportunist in town --- which is to say, everybody in a trade crossroads like Tabriz -- would pay someone else’s money and take their chances.

All kinds of things could happen. None of them were likely to end well for the absent Darughai’s slave-concubine quartet. So, as far as the rest of the world was concerned, everything was nice and normal at the Tabriz mansion. 

“The Noyan? Of course he’s around; you just missed him. If you’d been five minutes earlier…” 

Meanwhile, Tudora would do the talking. Dilmana would do the appraising. Irina would do the adding up. And if dear, delightful, damaged Dragana could sit still, be quiet, and look aloof and unattainable, they might just traverse this metaphorical cow pasture with their feet clean and dry.

***

Mullah Beybi barreled into the hashti beyond the Important People’s Entrance with a brow like thunder. He would give that upstart pagan Noyan a piece of his mind about all the sacrileges being allowed. And Allah would preserve him in his righteousness, just see if he didn’t ---

And he stopped dead in his tracks.

He’d intentionally waited until the well-armed kestrel-eyed Mongol guards went down the street for some tea. Some local bureaucrat would be covering the entrance, someone easier to intimidate.

No.

Instead, behind a bulwark of a tall desk (had that been there before?) sat a stunningly beautiful, delicate blonde woman, dressed in the dizzying height of Constantinople fashion, in a dress that cost more than his house and no veil at all. A strategic shaft of sunlight turned her hair to molten gold and her pale skin a translucent peachy pink, accentuating the extremely fine bones underneath. Absorbed in painting a design on her palm with mehndi, she took no notice of his presence.

“Now see here, you shameless,” he meant to challenge her, and follow it with something about not taking no for an answer. Except his vocal cords refused to function. He just stood there, changing colors.

***

Dilmana bustled through the bazaar-cheh pavilion across the semi-covered koocheh from the kitchens’ delivery entrance. Traditionally used for small, exclusive market events, it was presently piled high with tribute items to be sorted and packed. She lifted a small end table inlaid with mother-of-pearl into a patch of sunlight to admire it. Keep it in the governor’s share, or send it on? Neither a long trip nor a vastly different climate would do it any favors , she reasoned, and set it aside to inspect a group of rolled-up rugs stood on end.

A sneeze from the shadows made her hesitate, but only for a moment. Dust billowed, producing more sneezes, as she woman-handled the rugs aside. Maybe this one’s a dog, she told herself without much hope. Or a goat…  

But no. Dilmana cocked a hip and sighed. On a rough wooden stool behind the sheaf of rolled rugs sat a sullen-faced girl of about eleven or twelve, with puppy fat and an overbite. “May I help you?” Dilmana asked, trying not to sound as tired as she felt.

“My dad said to send for him when the Noyan was done with me,” the girl replied gloomily.

Saint Petka’s preserved corpse. Another one. “Come with me.”

***

Behind the oversized desk in the hashti, the henna designs on Dragana’s fourth and fifth fingertips were beginning to dry. She dipped a light cotton cloth in a bowl of sugared lemon and dabbed delicately to re-moisten them. It helped to have something to do while she ignored the swaggering, pompous men that came, stood around gulping air like frogs, and eventually left. 

“Don’t look at them,” her sisters had told her, “and don’t laugh.” 

It wasn’t easy. Little Dragi was accustomed to being chivvied here and there by those who could think faster and remember more, which felt like everybody. Her first taste of administrative power was deliciously delightful. She wanted to giggle out loud. But she allowed herself only the faintest shadow of a secret smile.

***

The well-house, equipped with a table and chairs, was an agreeable place to escape the heat, and water was there whenever thirst struck. Irina had installed some large mirrors to keep the limited sunlight from wandering off her account books. 

“Dil! ‘Sup?” Irina greeted her cousin and fellow slave-concubine. 

“We got another daughter.”

“Didn’t Tudora post that notice? ‘Cash, livestock, or high-value movable goods only’?”

“Sure she did, but you know batko’s history and so do they. Deadbeat dads aren’t taking it seriously. Either that or they think daughters count as livestock.”

“Have some water, kiddo. Dipper’s right over there. What’s your name?”

“Mahnaz Mirzan. Our family trades silks in Shiraz.”

“That’s some distance. Couldn’t they have dropped off some money or silk instead of leaving you here?”

“My dad’s friend said the Darughai would like me better.”

Dilmana and Irina exchanged glances. If they simply turned the daughters away, their fathers would wonder if something at the governor’s mansion wasn’t normal.

Irina made a note on her scroll. “Tell you what: We’ll put you to work in the private garden for a few days, then we’ll pidge your folks and have them pick you up.”

“That sounds hard,” the girl complained. “I’m just supposed to warm the Darughai’s bed.”

Dilmana kept her face neutral, though it cost her some effort. “And how do you expect to do that?”

“Well, after supper, I go up to his room and lie down under the blankets. Then when I’ve gotten the bed nice and warm, I get up and go to my own room.”

“Sounds like nice work if you can get it,” Irina nodded soberly.

“That’s what I thought,” the girl agreed. “His sheets and blankets are probably really nice. And I can probably take naps or look at pictures while I wait.”

“Only thing is, Mahnaz,” Dilmana explained, not unkindly, “it’s been hot as Gehenna these last few nights. The Darughai gave orders not to have his bed warmed until the weather cools off, you see?”

***

Mullah Beybi had tried getting Dragana’s attention by clearing his throat, then by coughing. I sound like I have a disease, he thought. 

And what if she notices me? Looks up? What color are her eyes? Maybe blue! That’s the color of the Evil Eye!

At the very least, she'll probably look at me like “What entitles an ordinary bag of mortal flesh like you to be noticed by an otherworldly being such as myself?”

No, I’ll just stand here quietly a while longer...

Chapter Text

Contrary to all expectations, Nergui wasn’t a bad sailor. She didn’t spend all her time rolled up in a ball and whimpering, as many dryfeet did. In fact, she spent a lot of time entwined high in the rigging, breathing deeply and eyeballing the far horizon to settle her stomach, effectively serving as a redundant lookout. Needles always at the ready, she was as dab a hand at flag-making and sail-mending as she was at the suturing and acupuncture that dwelt, as it were, in her wheelhouse.

As a quick study who quietly moved to help others and doggedly refused to complain, she might have crossed the invisible line to being branded a “Su Mei-Li”  -- roughly translated as “Little Miss Perfect,” one of the innumerable suspected harbingers of Bad Luck At Sea --  except for her readily displayed redeeming flaws.

A Su Mei-Li, for example, would be never, ever sick at sea. 

What, never? No never. What, never? Hardly ever… 

By contrast, Nergui’s constant digestive eruptions put the Punk Hazard Island volcano to shame. She’d tried various treatments but nothing had worked; even such a skilled physician was at a loss to heal herself. Instead, she became a vomitrix of legendary skill, owing to all the practice. She could delay it for up to fifteen minutes, aim unerringly at the most discreet target, make virtually no noise, and feel no worse afterward than if she’d merely sneezed. Once, on a moonless night darker than the inside of a yak, she’d fortuitously puked over the rail all over a small boat full of pirates who’d been hoping to sneak aboard. “Not flashy!” hollered the blue-haired captain with the round, honkable red clown nose.. “Not flashy at all!”

On the subject of noses, Nergui’s own nose had also begun to betray her, as if in cahoots with her stomach. Nearly every smell seemed strong and bad, or became so without warning. To Sanji’s disappointment, she couldn’t remain in the galley for more than a few minutes running, so she was excused from kitchen duty. The sickbay down in the orlop was ventilated by a pair of hatches, but she often had to hold her breath to work there. She treated patients on the main deck whenever possible, but even then, at times it took only a very small fish dying quite far away and releasing a very small smell...

She couldn’t bear to delegate the unspeakable medical laundry to anyone else, though. She would  stuff it into a net, tow it in the ship’s wake astern, and poke it with a very long stick until it was clean enough for a very conservative fresh-water rinse. She was dragging one such noisome parcel aft when a moving shadow crossed hers on the deck. 

“BIRD!” she yelped, instantly ducking and covering where she stood. 

Zoro and Nami halted and stood gaping at each other. As far as they knew, their Mongol companion might match their Captain for sheer oblivious fearlessness. Was this the same woman who’d reacted to her first sighting of a monstrous Sea King with “Hm! Don’t think I’ve ever seen a Death Worm that big. Or that pretty”?

“It’s just... the News Coo,” Nami explained, bewildered. “They fly around delivering newspapers and Wanted posters.” 

With an echoing thump, the mighty bird (complete with messenger bag and official hat) landed on the deck. Captain Luffy, who had been sitting on the bowsprit when Nergui dragged her burden up the fore companionway, was suddenly in their midst without visibly crossing the intervening distance. “Let’s see the new Wanted posters!” he cried out with a broad grin.

As the crew jostled for glimpses, the big white News Coo walked over to the fallen No Name Girl and eyed her with interest. When she warily raised her head to look back, it ducked its black beak-tip a couple of times, then opened its mouth wide and inverted its gullet to display a mass of chewed food that might once have been squid. 

“Ew,” Nergui acknowledged it weakly, turning away.

“You okay, Doc?” Zoro enquired.

Thinking Fifteen minutes of visceral stability, counting down, she answered “Sure, sure. I’m just… not a... bird person.”

“Oh, me neither,” skeletal Brook the Soul King chimed in. “Always swooping in for a peck at me, just in case. Do I look like I have any eyeballs or other flesh left? I ask you.” 

“Nami-Swan!” Sanji hollered, hearts of adoration bursting from his eyes. “Your bounty’s up by fifty thousand Berries!”

“I… ran a few errands last time we went ashore,” she replied, none too modestly.

“Luffy’s and Zoro’s bounties are up too,” the chef sighed regretfully. “But not mine.”

“Poor Sanji; always the best man, never the groom,” Nami gleefully rubbed it in. “They’re still using that awful picture of you, too. Who picks these things out?”

“I’m not in there… am I?” Nergui asked hesitantly, thinking with chagrin of the Goose Girl posters.

“Nope.” Robin shrugged. “But why would there be? You’re a civil servant doing your job. Even if you, er,  did something more interesting before, you probably got pardoned when you signed on. It’s good, though,” she explained hastily, seeing Nergui’s feeling-left-out slump. “If there’s any trouble, you can vouch for the rest of us.”

Later, when the squabbling bustle around  the World Economy News Paper had subsided like a summer squall, Nergui gathered up the scattered, smudged, higgledy-piggledy pages and took them to a sunny spot on the lee side of the deck and to read. After a while:

“Excuse me, Captain!” she called out to Luffy, who had resumed his cross-legged seat on the bowsprit. “This newspaper’s supposed to be about the whole world, right?”

Luffy turned and winked at her. The slanting sunlight emphasized the lean muscles on his otherwise rather scrawny frame. “Big chunk of it, anyway,” he nodded.

Then why, she wondered silently, is there no mention of Greater Mongol? At all? Their State was enormous, and positively bursting with  events. As an Agency recruit, she’d learned about more than fifty countries and thought she was really getting the big picture now. But this “world economy” newspaper didn’t mention a single place she’d ever heard of! Instead, there were all kinds of things going on in other places that she could only assume were really far away: Alabasta, Dressrosa, Water 7. The East Blue, the Grand Line, the Calm Belt. Apparently their answer to KK was someplace called Marie Joie, which sounded chock-full of assholes. Nergui made a note to get it onto the Agency’s calendar. Even the worst case, which her boss termed an “oops they’re all dead,” could only improve the place.

She folded the paper on her lap and sighed. Why did she feel a little bit personally disappointed? What did she expect: that Oggy and Tori would publish an open letter to her? “Please come back, all is forgiven” or some such... veterinary laxative? They’d both probably forgotten her. Which was all right in Tori’s case if it spared Nergui another beating… but ‘her’ Golden Ogedei…

Well, why would he think about her? He had Tengri’s plenty of other things going on. He might be relieved that she wasn’t right there competing for his attention. And to be fair, she’d made heroic efforts to stop thinking about him, at least until it stopped making her want to cry. 

She’d once caught herself sizing up her reflection in the face-wash bucket. Were her boobs getting just a little bigger? Was it something that happened to women at sea, to help them float if they fell overboard? Would Oggy like it, or not? 

She’d splashed the cold water in her face to break the chain of speculations, then straightened up and made a show of stretching her waist in case anyone was looking. Nami and Robin were headed over with their towels. Compared to them, she was still as flat as one of those fish with both eyes on one side of its head. 

She supposed she could have a shipboard fling if she wanted to take her mind off home, but her heart -- if that was really the operative organ -- wasn’t really in it. The captain was married, she’d heard, to an empress of an island somewhere. Maybe not all empresses were jealous painy-asses, but why step in that again? Sanji made passes at her every day, but he pursued every female he met. Nami and Robin habitually ignored him, and they probably had the right idea. He gave off this zero-sum vibe, like if he “won” then the woman “lost,” which, yuck. No, if Nergui had to pick somebody it would probably be Robin, for the same reasons Robin was Nergui’s first choice of a surgical assistant; studious curiosity, heaps of discretion, and hands that were… good gods… everywhere at once.

Chapter Text

Day by day, the salt spray and distance from land seemed to smooth away the broken surfaces of Nergui’s psyche. Not that she felt good, or confident, or secure. Her old, cheery, sporting self was still missing in action, and her spiritual resources had become elusive. Yet she found herself  occupying a new professional, social, and personal space that felt less surreal and more plausible as time went on.  

Not that long ago, before she’d been called to duty, she was content to travel around hunting for new knowledge and using what she had. She particularly treasured being “en route” with its feeling of suspension between one place and another. All the obligations behind her paid in full, all those ahead of her a matter of her own choice. Maybe in one of her past lives she’d been one of those palm-sized, bug-like creatures scuttling around Nami’s durian trees. Periodically they’d outgrow their shells and scrounge around for something new that fit. Natural shells, medicine jars, cracked grog-cups, it didn’t matter.

The sea and the sky had schedules, though, and so did those that lived between them. Nergui’s schedule had come to look something like this:

1. Wake up.
2. Puke.
3. Pee.
4. Check sickbay.
5. Feed, water, and generally placate horse.
6. Check medical supplies. 
7. Distribute Pills for All Ills.
8. Breakfast.
9. Puke.
10. Write in log.
11. Nap.
12. Pee.
13. Lunch.
14. Puke.
15. Sew. If there were no wounds to stitch up, she’d mend sails and nets. If possible, she’d pick a spot to do it where she might learn something about Nami’s maps or Zoro’s sword style or those Poneglyph things Robin studied.
16. Take horse for a swim alongside the ship, if there weren’t any sharks. The horse tended to kick sharks. Which drew blood. Which drew more sharks.
17. Pee.
18. Nap.
19. Dinner, always an adventure. “What are these curled-up pink things?” “Shrimps.” “I’ve had dreams about them. They talk to me.” “Do they say ‘Don’t eat us’?” “No.” “Well, then.”
20. Puke.
21. Drinks and singing, her favorite. 

It pleased her to think she’d made some real contributions in that area. The crew had taught her “Binks’s Booze,” the one song they never got tired of. She, rather smugly, had taught them close to a hundred. Some from home, about horses and fiddle playing and falling in love and fiddle players who fell in love with their horses. Others that bubbled out of the Well of Songs, which had grown more distant and blurry and harder to reach lately, but hadn’t quite deserted her. And some… some only called to her from somewhere far away and mysterious, around the time of night when it stopped getting late and started getting early…

And there it was now, barely audible on the deserted deck. Everything in soft-focus, it was just an indistinct melody. Then suddenly lyrics crystallized out of the fog.

(“Now she's starting to rise”)

Out of breath, yet refusing to abandon the moment, Nergui ran back to the rail, leaned over, and sang the best she could manage right then:

"Takes a minute to concentrate and she
Opens up her eyes"

This was the clearest she’d ever heard them - from an island? Probably not. The Feeling Lucky covered a lot of distance in a day, but the same voices seemed to recur on different nights. Some nights the voices came when nobody’d seen land for days…

(“She was proud about it, no doubt about it
She isn't sure about what she's done”)

Breathless, not stopping to consider, she scrambled up the mainmast and stepped out onto the lofty yardarm, singing the response:

“No time to think about what to tell him
"No time to think about what she's done”

Directly overhead, the cloud cover shattered. Starlight lanced down like a hail of arrows.

(“She had a pleasant elevation”)

When it was this clear, she could detect unusual overtones. Mongolia, Tuva and their neighbors famously exploited all the potential of the human voicebox, but this…

(“She's moving out in all directions”)

What if they weren’t human? That, indeed, might make it harder to keep up. 

Oh well. No guts, no ghee-casing. Jump into the chorus:

“The world was moving, she was 
Right there with it and she was…”

Oh yes; oh no; oh yes --

“The world was moving, she was 
Up above it and she was…”

There came an impact and a tremendous CRACK! like lightning striking a giant tree.

The ship’s stout, stalwart  timbers…

… SHIVERED.

As Nergui went airborne in a downward arc toward the restless water, the voices seemed to take on a malicious, taunting edge.

(“Joining the world of missing persons and she was”)

Chapter Text

I was up above it
Now I’m down in it

There should have been a splash, Nergui thought, and I should feel wet.

Instead there had been a stinging smack, followed by cold and vertigo.

“You think you’re a clever monkey, don’t you?” someone  gloated.

“Wrecking our livelihood. Getting us in trouble,” someone accused.

“... th’ fuck ‘d I do?” Nergui gasped, struggling against the scaly talons that held her down.

“Singing,” several someones hissed venomously.

“Wha… what’s wrong with that?” Nergui struggled for any glimmer of comprehension. “Weren’t you singing too?”

”Our singing is serious business,” someone scoffed. “We make ships crash on the rocks so we can deliver treasure and slaves to our bosses. What do you sing for?”

“I enjoy it,” Nergui protested.

“Ha! Hear that? She enjoys it! Arrogant air-breathing bitch.”

“I bet it’s just so easy to sing when you’re born breathing air.”

“Well -- yeah, I guess.”

“Well, for your information, we’re mermaids. We breathe water through our gills, and you can’t get a decent sound out that way. We’re forced to learn to suck air in and shape it into a singing voice.”

“It takes years and years.”

“And it never stops hurting.”

“So we don’t” -- the talon jabbing Nergui’s sternum was as sharp as a catfish spine -- “need competition from some privileged air-breathing bitch!”

“I wasn’t competing! I swear! I thought we were playing a game! I was just having fun! I swear I’ll never do it again.”

“On that we agree,” said a voice dripping poisoned honey.

“You bet your tail-less ass you won’t do it again,” snarled another one, “because we’re going to kill you.”

“Eventually,” another chimed in.

“Listen, I’m a civil servant for the biggest State ever to exist on land,” Nergui ventured. “If I disappear, questions will be asked and ‘gurgle, bubble, splash’ won’t be taken for an answer. You’d save yourselves a whole lot of trouble by letting me off with a warning. You can always kill me later if I get in your way again.”

“What a great idea! Why didn’t we think of that? Oh, right - because if we don’t kill you right now, our bosses will kill us.”

“Orrr…” Nergui tried to think fast, “I could help you kill them instead! Then you’d never have to sing again. Unless you wanted to. Which it souls like you don’t.”

“Good luck with that. The original Sirens descended from birds. Can you fly? Didn’t think so. Us either. That’s why they got to retire and be the bosses.”

In the not-quite-a-second before she blacked out, all Nergui could think was: 

Birds! Why does it always have to be birds?!

Chapter Text

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By mermaids wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.  

The adolescent  male octopus, identified by the individual sigil of a four-looped hexagonal spiral with a triangle in the middle, could not believe his luck.

“She took two sea cucumbers and an electric eel,” the mermaids had explained, “but the coral and anemones were too much. As usual. So… if you’ve got a use for her now, she’s yours. Happy Tako Tuesday.”

And they’d dumped a female hairless land-ape of reproductive age right in front of him! Yikes! And yowza.

He’d seen many, many deep-sea stone carvings of cephalopods mating with “pinkies” (so called for the single color they seemed to be stuck with) in various positions. He and his classmates had been forced to memorize them. They would be on the exam.

Pinkies were stiff and dry and warm and gross, but a ceph had to “siphon it up” and do his  best to fertilize one if the opportunity ever arose. The future of his species was at stake. Here they were, the most intelligent beings on the planet (dream on, dolphins, you chittering boneheads) and only one thing stood in the way of their progress: Ceph parents didn’t survive long enough to teach their children anything they learned.  

Every individual ceph had to figure everything out from scratch, as if no other ceph had ever solved the same problem before. How to change colors and textures to imitate particular creatures or objects. How to identify vibrations in the water as particular predators or prey. How to get the lid back off a sunken amphora if you got stuck inside. How to fertilize the spawning-aperture on a pinky instead of the other one that was right next to it for some stupid reason. No other beings known to them could assimilate knowledge faster. But life was short and a single generation could make only so much progress before its time and tide ran out.

He’d heard there was even a space-going vessel around here somewhere, one that kept almost getting finished (!!!!)

That was where the pinkies came in. They had all kinds of pitiable disadvantages, mostly because the thinking part of the pinkie nervous system was concentrated in a big messy blob (pink, of course) in a thick, heavy, nearly incompressible casing of bone at one end. Every sensation had to travel all the way through the body to the blob so a pinky could realize that something had happened and try to make sense of it. Every command had to travel from the pink blob all the way to the body part that was supposed to carry out the action. What a way to run an organism, eh? It was easy to see why pinkies were so very slow on the uptake. However, they lucked into a work-around so their species could survive: stay alive as individuals long enough to transmit knowledge between generations. 

If some kind of hybrid could be produced with a ceph’s quick wits and superior design and a human’s staying power and drive to communicate with its offspring… cephs wouldn’t just be the apex predators of the sea. They’d be the apex everythings of everywhere.

Therefore, although this experience would probably be repulsive, he was prepared to (as it were) "take one for the tentacled team"...

He cranked up his bioluminescence to get a better look at her. At some point in his reverie she’d woken up. She was looking back at him now. With those two eyes on the same side of her undersized rigid head. Ew.

On the other hand, the water was doing some attractive things with the millions of tiny, helpless tentacles attached to her head. She exuded warmth like a gentle undersea volcanic fissure. And the electric impulses he could feel from her through the water were not entirely unpleasant.

Slowly he unspooled a tentacle to carefully contact one of her appendages. 

Whoa!

Ho-lee detritus! Nothing had prepared him for this inrush of unfathomable alien memories. The Light Above, so deeply blue and still compared to his. The vegetation, so impossibly short and bright. What it felt like to keep siphoning air in and out of a bone-caged thorax. Everything making so much deafening noise!

Suddenly he felt unsure of himself. He’d already been molested by various Slut Squid (so had everyone; the damned things were inescapable). From this he knew what love looked like in his own kind, so he tried displaying the sequence of colors, shapes, and textures he’d been rehearsing for the special sweet-beak he expected to meet someday. She took an interest, he could tell, but it was distant and reserved, like someone intrigued by a jellyfish ballet.

He reached out further, engaging more infindibula around the bony stalk just above her fringe-ended appendage. Drawing her skin tighter against his acetabula, he could feel the lonely thumping of the pulse of her single heart --

 -- wait, what?

He was sure these things were only supposed to have one heart. Certainly not three, like his more sophisticated self. And yet he thought he could almost feel -- only an echo, surely?

He engaged his nervous system more intimately with hers. He located her language centers, the way he’d been taught, and hoped he remembered his vocabulary. “I have three hearts, eight arms, and one life to give you,” he said. “My first love is also my last.”

“I’m dying too, I think,” rippled through her system. He hadn’t expected to feel it so clearly.

“You mustn’t,” he urged, wrapping more of his arms around her, taking note of her contours, searching for her secret places. “Live, and help your children live. Otherwise I’ll have died for nothing.”

Everywhere he touched her, he danced with light. Her kind, he’d been told, had only a few small places where they could feel love, or attraction, or lust. They were hard to find and sometimes they moved. Some lived and died without ever feeling. The thought made him indescribably sad. “I have to do this,” he said. “I have to. But I have a regard for you.”

She flinched once, then again. A few more times. Was she having some kind of seizure? He saw that her mouth was stretched from side to side, turned up at the corners. Her eyes twinkled weakly, but they twinkled nonetheless. They called it… laughing.

“You’re just,” she conveyed to him, “kinky for a pinky.”

After a while, he could feel her electricity fading around him, her muscular clench augmented to a death grip. It was exquisite. In all the Waters Below, he knew, nothing could ever come close.. Near her eyes, the water had become warmer and saliter. An unexpected surge of tender gratitude sent ripples of color rioting across his skin. As a few last small bubbles slipped from her lips, she struggled to vocalize something.

She got one word out, then her entire body went slack with a very final feeling about it.

He withdrew his tingling special-purpose tentacle slowly. It didn’t tear off, leaving him to bleed to death, the way he’d told her it would. That was just part of his script. He paused to enjoy the oddly compelling sight of his ink clinging to her face before he jetted off.  

He wondered briefly, in passing, what an ""Ogedei"" was.

Chapter Text

Some people suffer from excessive surprise or disorientation upon regaining consciousness in an unfamiliar place. To a shaman, if it’s Tuesday, this must be the Upside Down. It definitely wasn’t the Upside Down because there was too much light, too many colors, and it smelled only mildly unpleasant. Therefore, Nergui thought a little dazedly, it must be some other day.

The sun was bright. The clouds were oddly curlicue-y. The river was bright red and impossibly wide. The bridge across it was impossibly long. A loop of huge elongated body, like a Sea King, rose above the surface here , and a vermilion claw as long as a person was tall stuck out there.

More people than Nergui had ever seen in the waking world stood in front of her on the bridge. Even more stood behind her. 

On the nearer bank grew an enormous tree. Articles of clothing hung from every limb, A gaunt, white-haired figure added an oddly familiar-looking tunic as Nergui watched.

None of this furnished her with any clues.

When you find yourself in a strange world, she’d been taught, first check for other shamans. Whatever beefs might develop between rival shamans on Everyday Earth, in the spirit world they generally had each other’s backs. She held a random number of fingers -- this time two -- high overhead and turned this way and that, scanning the crowd.

Nobody shouted out a right or wrong number, as another shaman would. Instead, one young girl held up two fingers sideways, spread apart slightly next to her eye, and winked saucily. 

What the camel-humps could that be about? … And why, she wondered as her normal outlook finally caught up with her, is everybody JUST STANDING HERE?! Nobody’d moved a hair as long as she’d been observing. Where was everyone going, or, perhaps more accurately, hoping to go? It was impossible to see, but they all appeared to be expectantly looking forward, across the river.

She waited a few more immeasurably interminable moments.Then,

Bugger this for a short-toed lark.  She wheeled on one heel and began walking back toward the clothes-drying tree.

“Oh miss, don’t do that,” a young-sounding voice wheedled her. “You’ll lose your spot in the queue.”

Nergui first looked down under her feet. The only “queue” familiar to her was a long hair-braid. She soon satisfied herself, however, that she was only standing on wooden bridge-planks and not on anyone’s hair. She then examined her interlocutor, an adolescent white-haired horned boy with a slightly feline muzzle, sleepy eyes, and two short horns growing from his forehead. Demon , her background knowledge silently supplied.

“None of these sinners will let you back in, miss,” said a darker young horned lad with a widow’s peak you could throw yourself off of. “You’ll just have to wait even longer.”

“Wait for… what, 'again'?” She’d rather be thought a bit forgetful than completely oblivious.

“For judgment, of course,” said the second demon indulgently. “For whatever torment and torture will rehabilitate you for reincarnation.”

She looked at the human souls lined up ahead of her and behind her. Most of them looked depressed. “I’m in… a Hell? Which one?” Her shamanic education had taken her on day-trips to some of the Mongolian and Siberian heavens and hells, but none of them looked like this.

“The best one,” said the white-haired demon boy, whose name was Nasubi.

“This is Jigoku, the Hell complex of Nihon,” proudly attested the dark-haired one, whose name was Karauri. “We have 272 custom sub-hells. A devastating tailored punishment for every crime.”

Nergui stood stock-still for a tick or two, taking it all in. Then, “I shouldn’t be in Hell. All I did was piss off a couple of mermaids.”

“Molesting legendary sea creatures,” said the first demon. “Would that be Reviving Hell or Animal Cruelty Hell, do you think?”

“Well, if we take as precedent Ariel v. Ursula… but then there’s the swear she just said, too -- “

“Stop,” Nergui moaned, covering her eyes and crumpling to the planking. “You’re giving me a horrible headache.”

“All part of the service, Miss -- what is your name?”

“Nerguitani. It means ‘No Name Girl.’”

“How can your name be ‘No Name’?”

“It just is, I don’t know, Mom and Dad thought it’d keep demons away.”

“And how’s that working for you?” This challenge was delivered in a devilish whisper to great dramatic effect…

…which was unfortunately lost on Nergui because she was distracted by self-examination, though not the kind normally assumed to concern a soul facing judgment. 

Her entire body was covered in circular bruises of varying size, as if an entire medical-school class had used her for cupping practice. Reaching up to scratch an itch on her scalp, she found a bundle of hair strands as stiff as a wire that refused to smooth back into place. And why did she feel a breeze there... shit shit SHIT! What in the names of 99 Tengri was she wearing?

Karauri seemed to read her mind. Its content wasn’t exactly coded allegorical poetry. “Short-skirted schoolgirl uniform five sizes too small, and ahoge hairstyle. Provided by the Stripping Hag at the foot of the bridge. The sucker-marks, though? You came in with those. We’d love to hear that story. Anyhoo: Just a couple of the many insults and humiliations we offer here in Jigoku. Feel ashamed?”

“A… shamed?” Nergui turned the word over in her mouth, as if tasting unfamiliar food. The Mongolian language had a similar expression, but it rarely saw any use. “Nope,” she pronounced. “Pissed off.” And she stormed away toward the front of the line.

“She said that swear again,” murmured Nasubi, half-horrified and half-impressed.

“Nerguitani! Stop! Come back here,” Karauri called out. And received no response whatsoever.

“Hey,” said Nasubi to his fellow Hell Minion. “You know how a mortal can only control a demon if he knows its true name?”

“Yes,” Karauri replied curtly, his attention fixed on the unruly new arrival.

“Do you think it works the other way around too? But then if the mortal has no name…”

Karauri stopped, paused for thought, then said a word reserved for Hell employees only. “We’d better notify Mr. Hozuki,” he decided. “We might have a problem.”

Chapter Text

Chagaanirvys Darga, up-and-coming department director for the Greater Mongol Intelligence Agency, hadn’t been happy about having to rearrange her agents’ assignments again. She’d been even less happy at the prospect of leaving her hard-earned desk and finally-comfortable chair in an uncommonly warm room of the draft-besieged Agency building for a thumpy, bumpy, mud-splattery ride out into the field from which she’d gratefully accepted promotion. But… needs must when Erlik drives, and this thing needed doing. And now there was a certain satisfaction in getting it done, and getting it done well.

Sometimes, she reflected as she speedily inventoried Sultan Shahriyar’s private bedchamber one last time, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.

The Sultan’s body lay prone and still below her. She’d slit his throat very quickly with a very sharp blade, then rolled him over so the profusion of pillows would soak up the blood and sat on his shoulders and head until the thrashing, then the jerking, then the last weak tremors stopped. There’d been no spatter and no noise loud enough to rouse the household. The maids would thank her later, she was sure.

Privately she felt it was probably better than he deserved, after all those murders, but her private feelings had no place here. She acted on behalf of her State. Her State was generally in favor of leaving the existing regime in place when they took over a new protectorate; people were reassured by the appearance of continuity. There were exceptions, though, and Sasania had been one of them. If the Sultan continued killing one or more women every single morning on principle, who’d be left to have babies that could grow up and pay taxes? The survivors had to know it was purely practical, nothing personal. If it had been personal, the Darga might have made more of… an example.

Instead, she’d silently endured his drooling and snorting and pinching and biting and sweating and bouncing and squelching. Then he’d suggested that if she told him a sufficiently entertaining bedtime story, he might let her live so they could do it all over again the next night. Chagaanirvys stretched languidly to mask her derisive eye-roll, then sat up and related in a soothing and encouraging voice:

“Once upon a time there was a Sultan who set out to fuck every woman in the world. Afterward he would always kill them. Maybe he enjoyed the killing part just as much as the fucking. Maybe he just wanted to be sure he didn’t repeat any experiences. Maybe he didn’t want the women talking afterwards about what a very, very tiny outpointer he had, which would have been useless because all the servants already knew. Anyway, one night one of the women killed him instead.”

(SLICE)

“And the rest of his country lived a little more normally for at least a while after. The End.”

What should that story be called? the Darga wondered as she prepared to sling her grappling hook over a rafter and escape via the roof. How about A Thousand Nights Minus One?

Chapter Text

Time must have been passing, because the glaring red flat circle of a sun oozed grudgingly across the Jigoku’s hazy yellow-white steamed-pee sky. 

The air kept getting hotter and slimier. The river under the bridge smelled ever more strongly of blood, but  not in a good way. Something very loud was buzzing, not in a steady hum like the insect swarms of home, but in a repetitive rhythm that made Nergui’s fingernails vibrate. 

“Kchr-kchr-kchr-kchr-kchr-kchr-kchr-kchr-kraaaaaaaaaaaaaw…”

To where had Nasubi and Karauri, her two tween-demon escorts, buggered off? How long had they even been gone? Was she absolutely sure that they’d definitely, physically, objectively,  been there at all? 

That was Hells for you. Hot, cold, dry, wet, or just plain gross, they turned your own mind against you. Before she knew it, she found herself sure of only three things. 

One, that she had to go to the long-drop (One-A: if she were dead, why did she still seem to have an active bladder?). 

Two, that the person immediately behind her in the “queue”  huffed a fresh miasma of clammy saliva onto the nape of her neck with every mucus-gurgling breath (Two-A: She would take notes on this new-to her practice of “queueing” and add it to the Agency’s torture playbook if she got home. Two-B: She meant when she got home).

Three, that the person in front of her… and the uncountable multitude in front of them… HAD. NOT. MOVED. AT. ALL (Three-A: Are you freakin’ kidding me with this?)

When you wanted to go someplace in Mongolia, off you simply went. The place  was so spacious, and the people so practical, that everybody  instinctively spread out sufficiently that almost no one had to take turns for anything. 

Maybe I’m sure of four things now. Four, that enough is dry-shaved-with-a-dull-blade ENOUGH.

And she took one giant step out of the line and started striding forward.

The numberless throng of other souls in the queue were instantly (and mortally, albeit a bit too late) shocked, scandalized, mortified and furious. Their outrage was so irrepressible that many of them shifted their gaze slightly to the side under partially lowered lids. The most inflamed among them flushed ever so slightly about the cheeks. Those few so incensed that they found a need to stop themselves from fainting took on extra oxygen through barely-audible gasps.

All this scandalized trauma was completely lost on No Name Girl. She was accustomed to Mongolian expressions of displeasure, all of which could be seen from space, most of which were physically painful. The reaction of the damned souls of Nihon felt like a bit of mild curiosity about herself,  mixed with understandable restlessness about the general situation. They must have been waiting for someone with the courage to be the first to break free, she guessed.  I’ll just show ‘em how it’s done.

She carefully did not  push anyone. Insead she smoothly eeled her way forward, gently steering human obstacles aside by lightly clasping their shoulders when needed. When reached the first counter,  she turned to the infinite line of souls, gave what she meant to be a winning smile, and said. “Excuse me, everyone. This’ll only take a second and I hope it’ll speed things up.” Then, leaning on the counter in an attitude of friendly relaxation, she complimented the seated Hellion official: “Wow, nice snakes, big sister.” 

Suddenly the prospect of indefinite delay lost much of its vexatiousness. Seated before her was the most beautiful demon Nergui had ever seen. Her hair was a delicate celadon, and her attenuated moth-wing brows lifted over eyes a few scant shades darker than her own. Over each shoulder swayed the head of an enormous pink-and-white snake. With the same color eyes. One snake extended a tentative tongue at the disturbance, but otherwise all three beings maintained a languorous aplomb.

 “So graceful… very impressive…” Nergui caught herself babbling in hypnagogia and resolutely  pulled it together, “...but… I can see you’re busy -- anyway -- could there have been a mistake somewhere?  I should not be here.”

Lady Oko was taken aback at the rough-looking girl’s rudeness; she must have been born in some kind of rude hut! A silent refusal to acknowledge her existence was called for. And yet… Oko-sama found intake duty SO BORING!! And she had the  hangover that inevitably followed a graveyard shift in Drunkard’s Hell.  And one of her snakes had PSSS (Pre-Skin-Shedding Syndrome).

Oko allowed herself a slow blink to recoup her equanimity, The PSSS-ridden snake gave a sulky hiss: (*mussst be nice to have eyeliddsssss*). Then she turned her full attention to the outlandish young woman in the noisy boots, whose clumping over the bridge planks had been disagreeably audible for several minutes. 
“And where,” the demonic idol inquired with an exaggerated yawn, “do you believe you should be?”

“Well, first choice, back on my ship, the Great Khan’s light transport Feeling Lucky,” the odd visitor responded, gesturing with way too much of her body, “with my medical patients and my horse. But if it’s any easier, then Greater Mongol, where I’m from. Or Nihon, where we were going.”

“Well, good news then. Jigoku is part of Nihon. Sort of,” Lady Oko allowed herself a barely perceptible and thoroughly enchanting squint and an equivocal  waggle of a horizontally held hand. “And if your patients find themselves up shit creek, it flows through five of our hells and you can catch up with them there.”

Nergui attempted a conspiratorial lean-in, the effect of which was wrecked by the ridiculously skimpy pleated skirt hiking up nearly waist-high in the back. With an exasperated snarl, she reached back to adjust it, but just at that moment a spiked iron club swung by, so close she could hear and feel the whistling breeze of its passage… an instant before smashing the stout timbers of Oko-sama’s counter to flinders.

The archdemon’s eyes were commanding, the color of antediluvian permafrost, though Nergui’s gaze kept skittering up to the single horn protruding from his forehead. Despite the chill certainty that she faced a powerful entity with no sense of humor, she wondered if he could hang things from it to keep his hands freer while working.

“You are… No Name Girl?” he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.

“That’s my lack-of-a-name, don’t wear it out,” she blurted uncontrollably. D-oh! What the leafy green vegetables is wrong with me?!

“Jigoku does not tolerate this kind of disruptive behavior, miss.”

“Really? Most of the Hells I’m familiar with are full of surprises.”

“Not Buddhist hells. Souls are here to atone and reform so they can move on.”

“So it isn’t even advertised as a ‘forever’ hell? So that means… I can get out?”

“Some exceptional souls who help a sufficient number of other souls can be paroled after only, say…  ten million years.”

“O..o..oh,” Nergui pretended to let it sink in. “Now, see, Mr. --?”

“Hozuki,” the tall pale archdemon replied. “The O is extra long. Like ten million years.”

“Mr. Hozuki, that’s not gonna work for me. I’m supposed to do this mission, and then hopefully go back to the capital and enter the Palace --”

Hozuki drove the iron club down at the surface of the bridge, cracking it. “You,” he pronounced in sepulchral tones, “are in desperate need of patience and detachment. You will stay until you develop these qualities.”

Nergui surprised him by clasping his hand firmly and shaking it. “Deal,” she grinned. “I’m a quick study. How hard can it be?”

Chapter Text

Time must have been passing, because the glaring red flat circle of a sun oozed grudgingly across the Jigoku’s hazy yellow-white steamed-pee sky. 

The air kept getting hotter and slimier. The river under the bridge smelled ever more strongly of blood, but  not in a good way. Something very loud was buzzing, not in a steady hum like the insect swarms of home, but in a repetitive rhythm that made Nergui’s fingernails vibrate. 

“Kchr-kchr-kchr-kchr-kchr-kchr-kchr-kchr-kraaaaaaaaaaaaaw…”

To where had Nasubi and Karauri, her two tween-demon escorts, buggered off? How long had they even been gone? Was she absolutely sure that they’d definitely, physically, objectively,  been there at all? 

That was Hells for you. Hot, cold, dry, wet, or just plain gross, they turned your own mind against you. Before she knew it, she found herself sure of only three things. 

One, that she had to go to the long-drop (One-A: if she were dead, why did she still seem to have an active bladder?). 

Two, that the person immediately behind her in the “queue”  huffed a fresh miasma of clammy saliva onto the nape of her neck with every mucus-gurgling breath (Two-A: She would take notes on this new-to her practice of “queueing” and add it to the Agency’s torture playbook if she got home. Two-B: She meant when she got home).

Three, that the person in front of her… and the uncountable multitude in front of them… HAD. NOT. MOVED. AT. ALL (Three-A, were they freakin’ kidding her with this?)

When you wanted to go someplace in Mongolia, off you simply went. The place  was so spacious, and the people so practical, that everybody  instinctively spread out sufficiently that almost no one had to take turns for anything. 

Maybe I’m sure of four things now. Four, that enough is dry-shaved-with-a-dull-blade ENOUGH.

And she took one giant step out of the line and started striding forward.

The numberless throng of other souls in the queue were instantly (and mortally, albeit a bit too late) shocked, scandalized, mortified and furious. Their outrage was so irrepressible that many of them shifted their gaze slightly to the side under partially lowered lids. The most inflamed among them flushed ever so slightly about the cheeks. Those few so incensed that they found a need to stop themselves from fainting took on extra oxygen through barely-audible gasps.

All this scandalized trauma was completely lost on No Name Girl. She was accustomed to Mongolian expressions of displeasure, all of which could be seen from space, most of which were physically painful. The reaction of the damned souls of Nihon felt like a bit of mild curiosity about herself,  mixed with understandable restlessness about the general situation. They must have been waiting for someone with the courage to be the first to break free, she guessed.  I’ll just show ‘em how it’s done.

She carefully did not  push anyone. Insead she smoothly eeled her way forward, gently steering human obstacles aside by lightly clasping their shoulders when needed. When reached the first counter,  she turned to the infinite line of souls, gave what she meant to be a winning smile, and said. “Excuse me, everyone. This’ll only take a second and I hope it’ll speed things up.” Then, leaning on the counter in an attitude of friendly relaxation, she complimented the seated Hellion official: “Wow, nice snakes, big sister.” 

Suddenly the prospect of indefinite delay lost much of its vexatiousness. Seated before her was the most beautiful demon Nergui had ever seen. Her hair was a delicate celadon, and her attenuated moth-wing brows lifted over eyes a few scant shades darker than her own. Over each shoulder swayed the head of an enormous pink-and-white snake. With the same color eyes. One snake extended a tentative tongue at the disturbance, but otherwise all three beings maintained a languorous aplomb.

 “So graceful… very impressive…” Nergui caught herself babbling in hypnagogia and resolutely  pulled it together, “...but… I can see you’re busy -- anyway -- could there have been a mistake somewhere?  I should not be here.”

Lady Oko was taken aback at the rough-looking girl’s rudeness; she must have been born in some kind of rude hut! A silent refusal to acknowledge her existence was called for. And yet… Oko-sama found intake duty SO BORING!! And she had the  hangover that inevitably followed a graveyard shift in Drunkard’s Hell.  And one of her snakes had PSSS (Pre-Skin-Shedding Syndrome).

Oko allowed herself a slow blink to recoup her equanimity, The PSSS-ridden snake gave a sulky hiss: (*mussst be nice to have eyeliddsssss*). Then she turned her full attention to the outlandish young woman in the noisy boots, whose clumping over the bridge planks had been disagreeably audible for several minutes. 

“And where,” the demonic idol inquired with an exaggerated yawn, “do you believe you should be?”

“Well, first choice, back on my ship, the Great Khan’s light transport Feeling Lucky ,” the odd visitor responded, gesturing with way too much of her body, “with my medical patients and my horse. But if it’s any easier, then Greater Mongol, where I’m from. Or Nihon, where we were going.”

“Well, good news then. Jigoku is part of Nihon. Sort of,” Lady Oko allowed herself a barely perceptible and thoroughly enchanting squint and an equivocal  waggle of a horizontally held hand. “And if your patients find themselves up shit creek, it flows through five of our hells and you can catch up with them there.”

Nergui attempted a conspiratorial lean-in, the effect of which was wrecked by the ridiculously skimpy pleated skirt hiking up nearly waist-high in the back. With an exasperated snarl, she reached back to adjust it, but just at that moment a spiked iron club swung by, so close she could hear and feel the whistling breeze of its passage… an instant before smashing the stout timbers of Oko-sama’s counter to flinders.

The archdemon’s eyes were commanding, the color of antediluvian permafrost, though Nergui’s gaze kept skittering up to the single horn protruding from his forehead. Despite the chill certainty that she faced a powerful entity with no sense of humor, she wondered if he could hang things from it to keep his hands freer while working.

“You are… No Name Girl?” he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.

“That’s my absence-of-a-name, don’t wear it out,” she blurted glibly with a  manic simper belying her inner sentiments of D-oh! What the leafy green vegetables is wrong with me?!

“Jigoku does not tolerate this kind of… levity, newly-damned.”

“Really? Most of the Hells I’ve been to are more relaxed. Why have a stick up your ass? Unless it’s your punishment. Or your kink. Or both.” Get a grip, No Name! You’ve been a diplomat. A good one. Why are you hitting yourself?

“Not Buddhist hells. Souls are here to atone and reform so they can move on.”

“So it isn’t a ‘forever’ hell? So that means… I can get out?”

“Some exceptional souls who can be paroled for impossibly perfect behavior after only, say…  ten million years.”

“O..o..oh,” Nergui forced her expression into nodding solemnity, pretending to let it sink in. “But you see, Mr. --?”

“Hozuki,” the tall pale archdemon replied. “The O is extra long. Like ten million years.”

“Mr. Ho-o-o-ozuki, can we talk as one career civil servant to another? I’ve got this mission to Nihon, and then I’m supposed to go back to the capital and enter the Palace --” She carefully kept the preening to a minimum, the equivalent of only shiny-ing up one small, though conspicuous, feather.

Hozuki seethed, baring his impressive carnassials. “It is entirely too late for ‘supposed-to’s’ now.” He drove the iron club down at the surface of the bridge, cracking out several planks. A soul in line fell screaming through the hole. “You,” he pronounced in sepulchral tones, “are in desperate need of patience and detachment. You will stay with us in Jigoku until you develop these qualities and demonstrate them to our satisfaction.”

Nergui surprised him by clasping his hand firmly and shaking it. “Deal,” she grinned. “I’m a quick study. How hard can it be? Later, satyr.” And she turned her back on Hell’s Chief of Staff and sauntered away.

“STOP!” Hozuki thundered. It had been a millennium or more since he’d last raised his voice. He almost never had to. The line of newly damned souls to drop instantly into fetal positions. Many of the junior staff demons looked around wildly for something to hide behind, The bridge trembled like a shaken bag of yogurt, sections of railing cracking off and falling into the river, which splashed up in startlement.

Nergui turned, framed the outer edge of one eye with two split fingers, and winked saucily with the other. Then she resumed sauntering away.

The length of the bridge was wrapped in a shocked silence as tight and clammy as tidal waterweed. Lady Oko finally broke it, as one of very few who could.

“Hmmm… just a thought. I’ve heard that living spiritual scholars all agree that there’s no way to control a demon without knowing its name.”

Another pause. Oko let it stretch out. They had all the time in all the worlds. Finally Hozuki responded with a distant grumble, “And your point, learned colleague?”

“Well, does it maybe work the same the other way around?”