Bone Jack

The steward from Modris Khan left amid jeers from the assembled khans. Apparently he did not get the support he’d been asking to get. Itzal watched his face as he left, and in spite of his failure the steward didn’t seem distressed. He looked excited, actually. Itzal took note of him, presuming he’d become a useful character later.

Ben urged Ganzorig to start his appeal to the Khan next. Ganzorig said that wasn’t the way, and with enough finality to make it clear that this was his world and Ben ought to hold his tongue for the present.

Which Ben did, beginning to pace a little distance from the circle of Khans. Ganzorig joined a few khans he knew and began to chat with them, lighting a cigar and keeping half an eye on the proceedings.

Itzal kept all his eyes on the proceedings. He’d read about how the Tal Khumuus conducted politics. It pleased him to have an opportunity to see them in action. They famously conducted such meetings in a sideways kind of way, spending long periods of time ostensibly doing nothing except smoking and sharing stories and laughing. That’s what went on now. It helped Itzal to keep track of it if he concentrated on Ganzorig, because otherwise it just looked like a group of men and women in silk robes chatting.

Ganzorig started in his first group, the group where he knew people. There he must have learned something about the business of the next group over, because soon he joined their conversation. After a while, he stood and walked across the rugs to a group of sages. He bowed to them and introduced himself, and they invited him to sit. He talked with them, less long but also less loud. That conversation seemed successful, because soon he sat with a group of men who smoked especially tall hookahs and sampled sugared fruits from bronze dishes. That group sat close to Galzuu Khan, and they had satisfied looks on their faces.

It had all been strategic. One did not simply approach the Great Khan. One had to wait one’s turn. But one did not have to wait passively. Others might be copacetic to going further down the list, if the incentive proved good, or if there could be some sport from it. It was all theatre to them.

It all happened in low voices and with frequent chuckles. Itzal knew that blackmail and threats could be freely exchanged too. But in the presence of the Great Khan, one did not have the leisure to grow angry or show fear. Fear might attract the undesirable kind of attention. Since you sat in a circle with all of your direct competition for loot and position, and sometimes for survival, it did you no good to show fear.

And anger was the luxury of the Great Khan only. That was the usual way.

Ganzorig navigated the circle like an expert. Itzal pitied him the unfortunate inheritance of the black mark of his name. Without it, Ganzorig’s wit and cunning would probably have allowed him to rise high in the Tal Khumuus. Ganzorig wouldn’t have thanked him for his pity, though. Itzal chose to be impressed with the khan. He could at least do that.

It came to be Ganzorig’s turn to make his appeal. Itzal knew it, because Ganzorig stood and walked to the open space in front of Galzuu Khan’s table. He made the appropriate ministrations to the assembled khans, that is to say he ignored them. That kept in proper form with the etiquette of the court. He walked toward Galzuu Khan, smoking his cigar and looking pleased with himself.

The steward who sat nearest Galzuu Khan’s table—Galzuu Khan’s steward—started the conversation with Ganzorig. Itzal couldn’t understand the Yaria, but he took it that they exchanged the appropriate pleasantries. Then Ganzorig, addressing the steward, asked if he could make his appeal. The steward looked to the Khan for confirmation. The Khan nodded, half to Ganzorig and half to his steward.

Itzal appreciated all the ceremony. Everyone knew what they needed to do and why. Galzuu Khan, sitting calm as stone on his table, impressed Itzal with his air. He spoke rarely and watched closely without staring. He left most of the talking to his steward, and when he had something to say it held everyone’s attention, and not with the pandering of yes-men who paid heed to his title. They listened like a band of school boys in the presence of a teacher who they all respected.

The Alwatan that Itzal had seen patrolling the grounds of the Gurvan Arduu estate stood near the circle. He looked over the proceedings with the practiced disinterest of a good guard. If he saw any threats, he made no signal. Every ounce of his muscle rested with the tightly-coiled boredom of someone only pretending not to be on high alert. The clever bit was that no one would have noticed it except if they had a good grounding in tradecraft. He would be the easiest person to underestimate and attempt to ambush. Then he’d have a knife’s point on the side of your neck before you could stop laughing.

His kohl-lined dark eyes flitted to look at Itzal. Itzal gave the mock salute with two fingers that he liked to give to people who could probably outmaneuver him.

Itzal shook his head. He missed something. It had been easy to miss things happening with everyone speaking a language he didn’t understand. He looked again.

One of the khans had stood suddenly. Galzuu Khan’s steward leapt to his feet as well, shouting at the started khan. Ganzorig watched it happening, and his chuckle had a satisfied sound to it.

“Captain Od,” Captain Younes said, nodding at the surprised khan, who sat back down at the urging of Galzuu Khan’s steward. “I believe.”

“So Ganzorig’s probably having some success,” Itzal said.

“I do believe you’re right,” Captain Younes said. “Why don’t you go fetch the honored loser? I would not be surprised if they called for him soon.”

Itzal hopped down from the barrel where he’d been perched. He started through the pavilions, searching for Ben. His pacing had taken him away from the circle of khans. After not much searching, Itzal found the slandersmith sitting on a small chair. He leaned back in it, stretching his legs out and crossing his ankles over each other and his arms over his chest. He looked asleep, or nearly asleep.

“Ben,” Itzal said.

Ben opened one eye. He looked down his wrinkles at Itzal. Then, sighing with a sound almost a grunt, he leaned forward.

“You ever…” Ben started, as if he’d been thinking of something for a while, but now he started saying it he decided he didn’t like it anymore. Frowning, he started again. “You ever feel like fate is out to get you?”

“I’m a Bone Jack,” Itzal said. “Our first words are ‘my life is not my own.’ ”

That seemed to surprise Ben. His frown took on the surprise of concern. “Is that true?”

“Not quite,” Itzal said, withholding the words but nearly. He only thought them with the usual mixed feelings. He’d never known another life, so he didn’t know whether he ought to be sad to be a Bone Jack. If anyone with memories of another life had come to the Order, they probably would find it sad.

“I was supposed to be a farmer,” Ben said.

“I thought you said your ancestors were thieves,” Itzal said.

“My father wanted out of the life,” Ben said, turning his gaze inside. “He nearly succeeded.”

“What happened?” Itzal asked.

The question seemed a wrong one. Ben looked back at Itzal, his eyes hardened. The conversation had ended.

“Am I wanted?” Ben asked, nodding toward the circle of khans. Itzal nodded. Ben grunted. He followed Itzal back through the pavilions.

A thumping sound summoned them back to the circle of khans. “I do believe we’re hearing the birth of a new house,” Ben said.

Back at the circle of khans, they thumped the rug-covered ground with their hands and feet. Looking now immensely pleased, Ganzorig strode around the circle, puffing a cloud of cigar smoke behind him as if he had turned into a fire ship.

When he caught sight of Ben, Ganzorig gestured to him. Ben went to stand near Ganzorig, and Ganzorig apparently introduced Ben. Something peculiar happened then. The circle of khans all rose to their feet. They all pressed the knuckles of one fist into the palm of the other hand. Then they bowed. In one voice, they all said something in Yaria.

“ ‘Hail the defeated,’ I believe,” Captain Younes muttered near Itzal. Itzal nodded.

Ben returned their bow. He muttered something back to them, but Captain Younes didn’t provide a translation of it. From the becalmed look on Ben’s face, Itzal took it to be something like thanking them for not killing him.

The khans all took their seats again. Ganzorig went back to his circle of friends to share a bowl of apricots with them. He left Ben to stand by himself in the middle of the circle. Itzal had a sudden urge to go stand next to him, Ben looked so crumpled. He sagged at the shoulders, and the twitching of his mouth spoke volumes about his struggle to find words. He began to say something in crumbled Yaria. It sounded more like the harsh syllables of the mountain country. Before he could make any distance into whatever he tried to say, Galzuu Khan raised a hand to stop him. Following the age-old wisdom to follow the suggestions of the most powerful person nearby, Ben stopped.

Galzuu Khan took a deep breath. Then he spoke. He had the clipped accent of an intelligent person who recognizes the use of a language but has no interest in the art of it, and he had the vocabulary of a similar fluency, as if he’d learned the words for trade and never intended to read any poetry. Which, Itzal reflected, was probably spot on. Add to it a harsh voice, like a sword’s edge drawn across a duller sword’s edge, and it made a voice that demanded attention.

“We understand you have an appeal,” Galzuu Khan said. “Some of my court do not speak your tongue, and it would be impolite to require any further stumbling from you. You will trust me to translate for you.”

Ben took a deep breath. Itzal might have taken it for a relieved sigh if he didn’t know Ben better. As it was, Itzal took it as a relieved sigh that tried not to be taken as one.

“Thank you, Great Khan,” Ben said.

“Good. I have a request before we begin.” Galzuu Khan took up a bowl of tea that had been cooling next to him for a while.

“Yes, Great Khan?” Ben said.

“Use short words,” Galzuu Khan said. A few of the khans in the circle chuckled. Itzal now knew which of them would understand Ben without a translation.

“I’m a simple man. I prefer simple words,” Ben said.

“Good,” Galzuu Khan said. He waved at Ben to invite him to continue.

“Um, would you prefer it if I said it in…short bursts, or what have you?” Ben said. His blunt fingers plucked at his green silk robes. “So that you could translate it as I said it? Or would it be easier—”

Galzuu Khan paused from blowing the steam from his tea to interrupt Ben. “Sir Benedict,” he said.

“Yes, Great Khan,” Ben said.

“Do you know the story of the man who had a fear of endings?”

“No, Great Khan,” Ben said.

“His khan saw fit to teach him to face his fears.”

“In some horrible way, I imagine,” Ben said. “Given the subject matter, no doubt horribly final, to teach the value of brevity.”

“Ah, then you are familiar with the fairy tales of my people?”

“I’ve heard a few.”

Galzuu Khan looked at ben through the steam of his tea. He frowned. One of his thick eyebrows rose.

“Point taken,” Ben said. He took a deep breath and quite transformed. His head and shoulders rose. When he spoke again it was in the voice of a man certain that he had only a few words to say so he had better make them good ones.

“I have no kingdom, no lands, no wealth,” Ben said. “What I have, I built with my hands. What honors I have I earned with my hands. Any worth I can say I have, I have by work. By sweat and time and work.”

Pleased now, with half a smile on his face, Galzuu Khan put up a hand to ask Ben to pause. He translated the words Ben said into Yaria. They caused some murmuring and nods among the khans. Galzuu Khan turned his hand over and gestured to Ben to ask him to continue.

“I can call few things mine, except my blood—my son—and things I have made,” Ben said, he took another breath. “Those few things that belong to me…I will defend them. I will take them back if they are taken away. I have nothing in this world but my son and those things that I make with these hands. I will protect those things that are mine.”

Ben paused, as if to let Galzuu Khan translate if he wanted to. Galzuu Khan, still half smiling, sipped his tea and gave no signal. Ben took another deep breath and he kept talking.

“I made something…something beautiful,” Ben said. “It has been stolen from me,” Ben paused again. Galzuu Khan’s smile changed to a veil-eyed look that Itzal couldn’t quite interpret. Perhaps the forced patience of a strategist who sees an endgame and knows that he can do nothing but wait for the maneuver to finish. Hesitating, as if to choose his own words carefully, Galzuu Khan translated for Ben. It took a few moments; Galzuu Khan took his time. No murmuring followed his words this time. The khans kept an attentive silence, hardly moving. The smoke from their pipes and cigars curled into thin clouds.

When Galzuu Khan finished, he looked at Ben, this time without gesturing. He only waited.

Since Ben had all of Galzuu Khan’s translation to decide what to say next, it seemed precious of him to let the silence linger for a moment, but he did it. Whatever he had to say next he didn’t want to say it.

Through a tight frown, he said, “One of these khans stole it.”

“That is a serious thing to say in my court, Sir Benedict,” Galzuu Khan said.

“I know it is, Great Khan,” Ben said.

“It might have been the spoils of a raid,” Galzuu Khan said. “Honorably got by winning in battle against a well prepared enemy.”

“I say it was not so,” Ben said. “I say that this khan killed my couriers and took my property without honor. I say it was done as dogs would, stealing food from boys who can do nothing for themselves.”

Galzuu Khan let those words hang in the smoky air for a moment before translating them. He need hardly have made his translation. Most of the khans seemed to get the idea, and besides one in particular seemed to understand. One in particular—a bald one with a long, grey beard on only his chin—looked graver than any other, and the khans near him avoided looking at him or Ben. This khan, though, stared at Ben with a tight jaw and the sort of cold eye of a man past anger and into shrewd strategy.

Ben had no evidence. Itzal imagined he could have produced some, if asked. Perhaps he had a dossier of the crew and armament of the ship that had been carrying his property. It hardly mattered if he did or not. In the economy of that court, where a reputation for honor and power meant honor and power, an accusation and the suspicion that came with it was as good as evidence. In a way, it was better. Evidence could be refuted. Suspicion, however, could do whatever its bearer wanted.

To Itzal, it looked as if Galzuu Khan made no effort to mitigate the suspicions that had started edging into the circle of khans. He seemed to have his own game to play. For his own reasons he saw fit to include Ben’s appeal as a piece in it.

“It must be made clear that I have nothing to protect what is mine except my hands—my body—my blood,” Ben said. Itzal didn’t quite get what Ben meant by that but he didn’t like the sound of it. “That must be understood.”

“It is understood,” Galzuu Khan said.

“And I will fight for what’s mine.”

“Name a man,” Galzuu Khan said, barking it, his voice more like the breaking of brittle iron.

“The Khan of Gurvan Arduu,” Ben said.

A shushing of whispers fluttered around the circle of khans like a breeze through a forest. Galzuu Khan’s half smile came back to his face.

“Well, Bat-erdene,” Galzuu Khan said without looking at the long-bearded khan that Itzal now supposed to be the khan of Gurvan Arduu. Galzuu Khan kept his eyes on Ben. Ben, his wrinkles deep around his frown, looked at the air between himself and the khan’s table. “A deal has been offered. Blood for blood. Serious words have been spoken. Will you meet with Sir Benedict?”

Everyone except Ben and Galzuu Khan looked at Bat-erdene Khan. He looked at Galzuu Khan. Itzal could just about see his rage bubbling like the water in the hookah next to him. To his credit, he kept his composure. How could he not? He sat among his peers, these men who served as both his business partners and who would serve as his executioners if they judged him worthy enough.

He never really seemed to think about it, only to dislike it. After stewing for a moment or two, Bat-erdene gave one clipped nod. “Blood for blood,” he said.

It seemed to please Galzuu Khan. He had seen the maneuver play out, and his half smile filled out, though only for a moment and with more cunning satisfaction than cheerfulness.

It did not please Ben. He returned the clipped nod, and there he left it.

The circle of khans broke their silence with the busiest hubbub of whispers that Itzal had ever mistaken for a coming storm.