The Tiger Queens (27 page)

Jingue arched an eyebrow. “Is that an order?”

“Does it need to be?”

He tucked the wet brushes into their bamboo roll, then crouched and shuffled through a box of papers beneath the table, retrieving a sheet that bore creases from having been folded and unfolded many times.

He laid it before me, standing so close he almost brushed my arm. “What do you think it says?”

I pointed out several characters, the signs for daughter, son, and nation, triumphant in my newfound knowledge. I knew my identifications had been correct, so I was annoyed when he pursed his lips. “Anything else?” he asked.

I shook my head, irritated.

He pointed to the scrawl at the bottom. “You don’t recognize your father’s name?”

I almost laughed at that, but his expression was serious. “My father doesn’t write,” I said, ashamed of my father for the first time I could remember. I could only imagine the insults running through Jingue’s head, cursing the illiterate infidels who’d usurped his kingdom, but he simply folded the paper.

I snatched it from his hand and stared at my father’s name, overwhelmed by how much I missed him. “He might have dictated it,” I said. “What does it say?”

“This is the letter in which Genghis Khan demanded that my father marry you.”

My head jerked up at that. “It says no such thing. Your father wrote to mine, begging for the alliance our marriage would bring.”

Jingue gave a harsh laugh. “Is that what you were told? That my father pleaded for the honor of demeaning his wife and disowning his children in return for a child bride?”

Suddenly everything and nothing made sense—the Onggud hostility upon my arrival and even my father’s easy acceptance of my demand that Ala-Qush set aside his wife. But why would my father lie to me?

My emotions must have been writ plain on my face—confusion, anger, and embarrassment—for Jingue’s tone was softer when he next spoke.

“Ask your Tatar scribe to confirm my claims,” he said, taking the paper from me and returning it to its box. “Your father positioned you to fail, Alaqai. He knew you’d be loathed here.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” I said, but my voice lacked conviction. I grabbed the clutch of dead rabbits, ignoring the smear of dark blood on Jingue’s table. “I should go now, before the meat gathers flies.”

It was a terrible excuse, but Jingue didn’t challenge me. “Go in peace, Alaqai.”

His words were a common farewell, for both the People of the Stone Walls and the People of the Felt were unwilling to bid final good-byes in case malicious spirits decided to make the words into a permanent parting.

Still, as I walked away, I was struck by the miserable realization that there wasn’t a soul in Olon Süme who wouldn’t rejoice if I left and never came back.

*   *   *

“Is it true?”

I stood before Shigi that evening, my two long-nosed strays sitting at my feet like silent soldiers. The dark obscured my accusatory glare while the autumn stars shone sharply overhead and the last of the faded leaves fell into the blackness around us. The children huddled in a firelit circle across the way, having been herded outside after Ala-Qush had joined us for a stilted dinner and then disappeared with the excuse that he needed to meet with the Jurched ambassador in the morning. That had left me to entertain his surly sons and daughter, and I’d ignored their glares when I harried them out to tell stories under the stars. I’d promptly dragged Shigi far enough out of earshot that no one could hear us, although not before
whispering to Boyahoe that I expected a full accounting of his siblings’ conversations when I returned. Still, I felt Jingue’s gaze on my back while he pretended to listen to Boyahoe’s tale of a one-armed shepherd and his lost camels.

Shigi patted the end of the merchant’s cart next to him, but I refused to sit.

“You’re an obstinate mule sometimes, Alaqai Beki.” He sighed. “And yes, Jingue was right about the letter. Your father’s message fell scarcely short of ordering Ala-Qush to marry you. I transcribed it myself.”

“So he wished me to fail.” I pressed the heel of my fist to my lips to keep from yelling in frustration. “And he lied.”

“Your father took liberties with the truth,” Shigi acknowledged. He shrugged off his wolfskin coat, a gift from my father, and wrapped it around my shoulders. I almost shoved it away, but it was so cold I could see my breath, an early warning of the winter yet to come. “But it was for your benefit.”

“It was hardly beneficial to believe that my husband desired our marriage, when in fact he already despised me.” I sat then, pulling the fur tight and inhaling its scent of animal musk and Shigi’s inks. One of the dogs pushed his wet muzzle into my hand and I petted his head absentmindedly.

“How would you have felt to know you were marrying a man who was adamantly opposed to you?” He crossed his arms and the cart creaked as he shifted next to me. “And don’t tell me you would have been imbued with eagerness and confidence.”

I scowled, hating the truth of his words. My father’s lie had allowed me to act the part of a
beki
, at least for a short time. Now it was up to me whether to continue the deception.

“If you hadn’t demanded Ala-Qush set aside his wife,” he said, “Orbei would have you scrubbing pots and opening the doors to the Great House by now.”

“That doesn’t excuse your complicity.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Shigi draped an arm around my shoulder and squeezed me to him. “I value my head far too much to risk your father’s wrath.”

“I plan to give him an earful when I see him next.”

“As only you could do, and survive to tell the tale.” Shigi dropped his arm to lean forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Or I could carry the message to him myself.”

“You’re leaving?” I’d known that Shigi wouldn’t stay with me forever, but now I felt a surge of panic at the idea that he’d soon be gone.

He nodded, the gold ring in his nose reflecting the campfire’s light. “Your father commands me to join the campaign before the snows render travel impossible. He wants me present to record his victory over the Tanghuts.”

Something in the way Shigi spoke made me realize that he didn’t wish to obey my father’s summons. Yet I also had a feeling he didn’t seek to remain at my side. “You’d rather return home, wouldn’t you? There’s someone you miss, isn’t there?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, stiffening next to me. “Of course I miss our family—”

“Don’t lie, Shigi,” I said. “You’re not very good at it, even in the dark. I’ve seen the way you gaze toward home.” I glanced at his profile from the corner of my eyes, decided to take the chance. “She must be very special.”

I waited for him to deny it, but he only sighed. “She is.”

I grinned at my victory and nudged my shoulder against his. “She’s a lucky woman, to make you pine away so. I expect I’ll hear of your wedding, then, after my father’s campaign is over. And your tent full of precocious children reciting the wisdom of Tanghut sages.”

It was a wedding I’d never see, and children I’d never meet. I sobered at the thought, but Shigi made a noise in the back of his throat, a sound devoid of all humor. “I’ll never marry, Alaqai, nor will I have any children. My only legacy shall be the histories I write for your father and the records of his new laws.”

“But I thought . . .” I watched Ala-Qush’s children sitting in the firelight, while I tried to make sense of Shigi’s words. “This woman—”

“Is married, Alaqai.” Shigi stood and brushed his
deel
, as if brushing away our conversation. He looked at the stars, as if he might gather strength
from them. “The Eternal Blue Sky is with us wherever we go, yet there are some things we can’t have, regardless of where we are.”

There was nothing I could do to dispute that; I wished for many things here in Olon Süme, and I knew enough now to realize that they might be forever beyond my grasp.

“Will you take Neer-Gui with you?” I asked Shigi, needing to fill the painful silence.

“Your horse?”

There was an old Mongol saying, that once a man has ridden a horse, it will never leave him. I loved Neer-Gui, but still I nodded, cursing the tears that welled in my eyes. “This is no place for him,” I said, wanting to add
or for me
. “He needs to be free to run.”

“I’d be honored to ride him as my own,” Shigi said, squeezing my hand.

“I’ll miss you,” I said, my voice catching. I’d be friendless and utterly alone once Shigi left Olon Süme. Panic tightened my throat, and I knew I’d have to harden my heart even further when he was gone.

“You’re stronger than you know, Alaqai. And you’re not entirely without allies here, at least not if you choose to seek them out.”

I followed his gaze to where Jingue sat with Boyahoe and Enebish, all singing a haunting sort of melody, like those Sorkhokhtani once played on her
tobshuur
. “You’re wrong,” I said, patting the flanks of both the mongrels at my feet. “These dogs might stay by my side, but Jingue would feed me to the wolves if given the chance.”

Shigi rubbed his chin. “I don’t think so, at least not anymore. Cultivate his friendship, for one day you may need it.”

“I’d sooner eat that foul Onggud porridge.”

Shigi laughed then, and I felt Jingue’s gaze on us. “Who knows, little marmot?” Shigi said. “One morning you may wake up to find that you crave a steaming bowl of boiled millet.”

Somehow I doubted that very much.

*   *   *

In the end it wasn’t my loneliness that forced Jingue and me together, but his father.

“You drove away my wife,” Ala-Qush said one cold morning almost a month later when I visited him in the Great House. I’d found him slurping gray porridge from a pewter bowl. “And now you chase off my son.”

Shigi had left me before the first snows fell, riding east with Neer-Gui to rendezvous with my father. I’d stuffed his saddlebags to bursting with bean sprouts for the long journey, a final gift for the horse I’d likely never see again. When they’d disappeared, I was alone for the first time, surrounded by enemies and so isolated I decided I’d take Shigi’s advice and cultivate Jingue’s friendship.

But then I’d awoken one chilly morning to discover Jingue’s horse tracks interspersed with those of a raven in the dusting of fresh snow, returning him to the Nestorian monastery to which he retreated from time to time.

“I did nothing to urge Jingue to leave,” I said, restraining myself from dumping the extra pot of porridge over my husband’s head.

“That’s not what he claimed.” Ala-Qush scowled, using his finger to lift the last drop of lumpy porridge from the bowl. “He couldn’t have left any faster than if his horse’s tail was aflame.”

I didn’t know why Jingue had left again, and I told myself that I didn’t much care. My only concern at his absence was that it would be impossible to learn Turkic—and therefore truly rule the Onggud—now that both my teachers had abandoned me.

Then I realized there was another teacher right under my nose. I took advantage of the fair winter weather to instruct Boyahoe on riding and wrestling, and together we climbed the great oak tree that grew inside the city walls, shimmying along its thick branches to jump over the stone wall into drifts of snow on the other side. Ravens often paused in their digging to watch us, snow speckling their beaks and faces before they continued their search for food. At night, Boyahoe tolerated me peering over his shoulder as he practiced his lessons in my
ger
with my dogs at his feet, my stepson’s tongue caught between his lips as he struggled to make perfect characters for Jingue to marvel over upon his return. We held competitions on who could master the most symbols each night, competitions I won as
often as Boyahoe did, until at last I could read and write Turkic with some ease.

Life was dull but almost pleasant. How quickly things change.

*   *   *

A temperamental spring brought warm rains, and with them, my roof leaked and dampness seeped into the ground beneath my
ger
. My morning porridge remained uneaten and as gray as the weather outside as I locked away damp scrolls and rolled up sodden rugs while ordering Boyahoe to place every bowl and bucket at my disposal to catch the drips. A spotted ewe had dropped twin lambs early and I’d brought them inside to avoid the deluge, but their downy coats were drenched and they bleated at me in consternation. I cursed back at them and found myself wishing for a solid roof above my head for the first time in my life.

The door opened, bringing the sound of spitting rain, and my waterlogged husband stumbled inside. His drenched hair obscured his face, and his boots squelched with each step.

“Have you come to help us, revered husband?” I asked over my shoulder. Ala-Qush rarely deigned to set foot inside my tent, and I awaited the inevitable comment about my living in filth and squalor while surrounded by muddy beasts, but he only mumbled something under his breath.

“Father?” Boyahoe’s voice trembled and I straightened over the chest I’d been lugging away from the growing lake at my feet. I wiped the wet hair from my eyes and gasped in horror.

The flesh on the right side of Ala-Qush’s face drooped like hot wax, and one of his pupils was dilated larger than during the worst of his headaches. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words were slurred to incomprehension. He fell to his knees with a muddy splash.

I abandoned the chest and wedged myself under his leaden arm, struggling to lift him until Boyahoe helped support his unaffected side. Together we scarcely managed to drag him to my bed. “Find a physician,” I ordered Boyahoe. “Now!”

The terrified boy ran from my
ger
while I maneuvered Ala-Qush to his
back. I didn’t know what to do; I’d never heard Toregene describe an illness like this and prayed it wasn’t the plague I shared a name with. Ala-Qush moaned and attempted to speak again, but I could only make out a few words in jumbled Turkic.

Pain.

Children.

Death.

“Don’t you dare die,” I said, jabbing a trembling finger into his chest. I was ambivalent toward the man who claimed to be my husband, but as his childless widow, I’d be cast back to my family. Unless the Onggud decided to dispose of me in some other way.