“What has he decided, Bourkina?”

The round-faced woman shrugged. “I don’t know. He whispers his secrets to you ladies under the quilts, if he tells them to anyone at all.”

“He will have himself proclaimed Great Khan tonight,” said Seremeter. “I’m sure of it.”

“I’m not,” said Taniko. “If he makes himself Great Khan, he may wreck the empire of the Mongols. If he doesn’t, whoever becomes Great Khan may destroy him. If I were he, I could never decide what to do.”

“His enemies are many and powerful,” said Seremeter. “What will happen to us if there is a war and he is defeated?”

“You know what will happen,” said Taniko, thinking that if such were the case, Horigawa would have his vengeance on her after all.

“It’s better not to talk about it, ladies,” said Bourkina briskly. “Let’s ride back to the city.”

Taniko and Seremeter sat on silk cushions in a gallery overlooking the great hall Kublai Khan had built for the kuriltai. The hall smelled of newly cut wood and fresh paint. There were hundreds of Kublai’s women in the gallery, including the great lady herself, the principal wife, Jamui Khatun, a serene women who looked a good deal like Bourkina.

Hotai and several other young Mongol women sat near Taniko and Seremeter. Hotai sighed loudly. “These are strange times indeed, when we must share our places with a cannibal and fire worshipper.”

Taniko, who as a good Buddhist had never eaten meat, could not understand how the story had started that her people were cannibals. She wondered what Seremeter’s reply to Hotai would be. To disparage Hotai’s Mongol background would hardly be politic, especially at a

“You know as much about the customs of our lands as a lump of camel dung knows about the sea,” said Seremeter, tossing her head.

Poetry, thought Taniko, sheer poetry. I wish I could teach Seremeter to write tanka. But first she’d have to learn our language.

She turned her attention to the main floor of the hall. In a space as vast as a public square, men from three-quarters of the world were gathered—Kin, Cathayans, Tibetans, Manchus, Koreans, Annamese, Kampuchans, Burmese, Nan Chaoans, Turks, Persians, Arabs, Alans, Kipchaks, Armenians, Bulgars, Russians—, and men of many other nations whose names Taniko had not yet learned. Lording it over all were those of the many northern nomad tribes who now called themselves Mongols—dark Kiraits, broad-shouldered Merkits, talkative Uighurs, tall Kankalis, silent, secretive Reindeer People. The most splendid, in furs, silks and jewels looted from half the kingdoms of the earth, were those whose grandfathers had been Yakka Mongols, the tribe of Genghis Khan himself.

On a raised dais under a cloth of gold canopy was the place, still empty at this hour, where Kublai Khan and his chief advisers would sit. They were meeting elsewhere, Taniko knew, deciding what this gathering of leaders of the Mongol empire should proclaim as its collective decision.

Besides those who had a vote in the kuriltai, there were many who came simply to be present and to observe. There were lamas in red; black-robed monks from the lands of the Franks, the white-skinned people to the west; men with turbans and long white beards from the Moslem countries where Seremeter’s people lived. There was even a sohei from the lands of the Franks—a warrior-monk with yellow hair who wore a white cross-shaped crest on one shoulder of his black cloak. He reminded her a little bit of Jebu.

The kuriltai was the knot that held together the Mongol empire. At the kuriltai all members of the house of Genghis Khan, all Mongol nobles and generals, all the princes of the kingdoms that had submitted to the Mongols came together in council to vote on great decisions. At a kuriltai, Genghis Khan had proclaimed one government for the warring tribes of Mongolia with himself as its head. At kuriltais his successors, Ogodai, Kuyuk and Mangu had each in turn been elected Great Khan. At a kuriltai the Great Khan Mangu had reopened the war against China that had ended in his untimely death.

Now Kublai Khan, Mangu’s younger brother, had called a kuriltai to choose the next Great Khan. Whoever was elected would lay claim to all the lands from Korea in the east to Russia in the west, from Siberia in the north to Burma and Annam in the south. He would rule not only the largest empire in the world, but the largest empire mankind had ever known.

There was a blast of horns and a rumble of drums. Hangings parted, and Kublai Khan, surrounded by noyans, orkhons, and tarkhans, entered the hall. The assembled chieftains, most of whom had been seated on the carpeted floor eating, drinking and talking, rose to their feet.

When Kublai opened his mouth to speak, a total silence fell. “Ten months have passed since my brother, the Great Khan that was, died of his illness at Hochwan.” His voice, deep and powerful, carried to the furthest parts of the hall. “Thirty days ago the summons went out to this kuriltai. Four days we have been meeting here. There has been time for all to come to this kuriltai. The Ancestor said, ‘All they who do not come to a kuriltai shall be as arrows shot into reeds. They shall disappear.’ So let it be with all those who have not come to this kuriltai.”

Though Taniko had by now spent many hours with Kublai Khan, the sight and sound of him appearing before this group of powerful men was breathtaking. He wore robes heavy with gold embroidery, and his shoulders were draped with collars of gold and jade and precious stones; on his head was the jewelled headdress of a Chinese Emperor, making him look even taller than he was. But he would have dominated this gathering physically even without such a display of magnificence. He was a huge man, towering over the Mongol commanders who stood at his side. He was heavy as well, with the build of a wrestler. His broad face was swarthy, his eyes so black they seemed to draw light from the room—light radiated again by his glittering robes.

“I demand the right to speak.”

All heads turned to look for the source of this new voice. Taniko saw a man pushing his way forward, striding from the centre of the hall towards Kublai’s dais.

“I am of the Yakka Mongols, O Khan, and I have served the Golden Family all my life.” The descendants of Genghis Khan were known as the Golden Family.

An orkhon beside Kublai called, “Be silent now, Torluk, if you want to be able to speak tomorrow.”

“This is no true kuriltai if we cannot make our voices heard,” the grey-haired Mongol answered back. Taniko heard a murmur of agreement from other Mongols in the crowd.

Kublai Khan raised a large hand. “The tuman-bashi Torluk is quite right. All men may speak freely at the kuriltai. Torluk’s years of service are three times my own, and his words deserve our respect.”

Torluk walked up to the dais with the rolling gait of a Mongol horseman and turned so that all in the room could hear and see him.

“I urge the Khan to call an end to this kuriltai at once. This meeting has no right to choose the next Great Khan.”

Now there was a shocked murmur. Taniko could see those who did not understand Chinese asking others near them what the tuman-bashi Torluk had said. The orkhon beside Kublai who had spoken before cried, “Treason!”

Taniko felt a chill of fear. Torluk clearly spoke with the voice of those who were in league against Kublai. Everyone in the hall was watching the khan now, waiting to see how he would meet this challenge.

Liu shook his head. “If you escape, this general is in as much danger from Chia Ssu-tao as I am. Whether it is my lot to live or die, I am content.”

“If you are not afraid of death, no one has power over you,” said Yukio.

“If you understand that, you understand everything,” Jebu said to Yukio, and Liu nodded.

Again Yukio gave the order to march, and the samurai and the people of Kweilin moved off together, leaving Governor Liu standing beside the general from Linan. Jebu turned n his saddle and made a gesture that was part wave, part a reaching back. He felt he was leaving a father behind, never to see him again, and sorrow filled him.

Chapter Fourteen

Laughing, Taniko kicked her pony into a gallop and quickly left Seremeter behind. Ahead there was a creek still swollen with melted snow. Spring came late to this northern country. Taniko raced her horse through the water, splashing her riding skirt. Behind her, Seremeter dashed through the creek, wincing at the spray.

“How dare a mere consort try to outrun the wife of the khan?” Seremeter had ivory-white skin and fathomless brown eyes. She had bound her long black hair up under a jewelled cap.

“The wife of the khan encourages familiarity by her own undignified behaviour,” said Taniko sweetly.

From the hills through which the creek ran, they could look back at Kublai Khan’s city of Shangtu, newly built on a fertile plain beside a slate-grey river. Shangtu had been erected on territory that had always belonged to the nomadic tribes, about two days’ ride north of the Great Wall of China. The city’s raw wooden palaces were little more than warehouses built to contain the loot gathered from below the Great Wall. Around the permanent buildings clustered the round tents of Kublai Khan’s army. Kublai’s command was called the Left Wing and included one-third of all the Mongols under arms.

Taniko and Seremeter heard the hoofbeats of other horses and turned to see Hotai, a Mongol woman of the Chestnut Horse tribe. She was followed by a servant carrying a wicker cage in which the dark, hunched shaped of a hooded falcon brooded.

“It’s a shame to waste our good Mongol horses on foreign women,” Hotai sniffed. “You treat them like toys. You know nothing about real riding. I cannot imagine what charm the khan finds in women like you.”

Taniko stared at Hotai. She was not joking, as Taniko and Seremeter had been. Kublai Khan’s Mongol wives and consorts deeply resented his interest in women of other lands.

“Perhaps the khan likes us because you Mongol women, being such marvellous riders, are all bowlegged,” Seremeter said.

Hotai’s broad cheeks flushed a dull red. “You have a sharp tongue, but my dagger is also sharp. Take care.” She and her servant rode away.

“Your answer to her was splendid,” Taniko said. “I wouldn’t know how to talk like that to anyone.”

“In my country that would be considered a passing pleasantry,” said Seremeter. “When the people of Persia really insult each other, the earth shakes.”

“In my land men are polite even when they are about to kill each other. Especially then.”

It was amazing, Taniko thought, the freedoms people of other countries allowed themselves. One of the delights of living among the Mongols was the liberty she enjoyed. She did not have to stay cooped up in her house, hiding behind a screen whenever a man appeared. The Mongol women came and went as they pleased in Shangtu; indeed, throughout the Mongol empire women went about without fear. So rigorously did the Mongols enforce their laws that it was said a virgin with a sack of gold could ride from Korea to Russia without being molested. Warriors might rape and loot in newly invaded territories, but where the Mongol peace was established, it was absolute.

Taniko made full use of her freedom. There was so much to be seen. The Persian princess, Seremeter, ten years younger than she and eager for good company, followed Taniko eagerly as she explored the city Kublai Khan was building as headquarters and resort on the edge of the steppes.

Seremeter had been sent to Kublai by his brother Hulagu, campaigning far away to the south-west in the lands of peoples called Persians, Turks and Arabians. She traced her lineage back to Cyrus the Great, founder of her country, but her family was Zoroastrian, she explained, not Moslem. These were two religions, Taniko gathered, but in the West religions did not blend with one another as Buddhism and Shinto did in the Sacred Islands. The Moslems ruled Persia, and families like Seremeter’s, who belonged to a rival religion, had been stripped of their position. Seremeter’s family welcomed the Mongols as deliverers and gladly married their daughters to the family of the Great Khans. Seremeter had lived with the Mongols for three years now and spoke passable Chinese.

“Look.” Seremeter pointed to a procession of mounted warriors winding slowly towards the palace, through the rows of tents. Crowds gathered along the way to cheer them.

“That must be Bayan of the Hundred Eyes,” Taniko said. “I heard that he arrived this morning from Shensi. He and Uriangkatai, the son of the great general Subotai Baghadur, are the best generals in Kublai’s service. But Bayan is much younger than Uriangkatai, and—”

“How do you know so much?” Seremeter interrupted her.

“I ask a lot of questions, princess.”

They turned their horses and started riding back towards Shangtu. “Perhaps that’s why Kublai sends for you so often,” Seremeter said. “Most of his women don’t understand what he does. He can talk to you about it.”

“Oh yes,” said Taniko. “That must be it. I can’t imagine why else he would want to spend time with a withered hag like me.”

Seremeter waved Taniko’s mock modesty away. “In my country we have a story about a sultan who used to behead his wives after spending one night with them. One wife kept herself alive by telling him stories that were so good, he couldn’t bear to kill her. You are somewhat like that. Kublai doesn’t behead his women, but he does forget them. Of course, it is important to be beautiful, too, and you are. But Kublai has his pick of all the beautiful women in the world. Yet you are among the women he sees most often.”

They were closer to the city now, and Taniko noticed a woman coming towards them, riding out on the road they had taken. “He hasn’t sent for anyone in days and days,” Taniko said.

Seremeter nodded. “The kuriltai.”

“Most of the officers and nobles seem to think a kuriltai is a fine time for sport with women,” said Taniko.

“Some men, at times like this, are overwhelmed with excitement and must lie with a woman before they can sleep,” said Seremeter. “If they can sleep at all. Other men put all their powers into thinking and acting. They have no interest in women at such times. Kublai is that kind of man. Once the succession is settled, he’ll wear us all out with his demands.”

Bourkina, lightly dressed in bright blue coat and trousers, galloped up to them. “Ladies, there is to be a great gathering today, starting at the Hour of the Rooster. Everyone will be there, including the wives and consorts of Kublai Khan. You will want to return to our quarters and begin dressing now, if you are to be ready on time.”

“What has he decided, Bourkina?”

The round-faced woman shrugged. “I don’t know. He whispers his secrets to you ladies under the quilts, if he tells them to anyone at all.”

“He will have himself proclaimed Great Khan tonight,” said Seremeter. “I’m sure of it.”

“I’m not,” said Taniko. “If he makes himself Great Khan, he may wreck the empire of the Mongols. If he doesn’t, whoever becomes Great Khan may destroy him. If I were he, I could never decide what to do.”

They returned to Yukio. “You will have to live off the land,” said Liu. “Which means you will take what you need from the peasants. In your baggage train you will find a cart carrying as much gold as I could spare from the city’s treasury. Pay the peasants as much as you can. They suffer abominably when any army passes through.” He reached into his sleeve and took out a scroll. “Here is a map of some of the lands through which you will pass.” He reached up and took each man’s hand. “I doubt that I will ever see you again, but you are sons to me. You saved the thousands of lives that were in my keeping.”

“The fortunate death of the Great Khan of the Mongols saved them,” said Jebu.

Liu shook his head. “Only because you held out so long did the death of the Great Khan make any difference. You fought like—” he smiled up at Jebu—“like devils.”

Liu turned and gestured to the people around him. A hundred red-robed officials of the city grouped themselves in front of the samurai leaders. Liu nodded, and the procession of samurai and their unarmed protectors started off.

The Chinese troops were massed west of the city. Between them and the samurai stood almost the entire population of Kweilin. Led by Yukio and Jebu, like a river flowing between steep banks, the mounted samurai moved slowly along a road that led north-west, the direction Liu had suggested.

In the distance, people were parting to let through a single chariot drawn by two horses. They pressed close around it, and then closed ranks behind it. In the chariot stood a stout man wearing a flowing scarlet cloak. His cuirass was shaped to cover and protect a huge pot belly, and it was plated with gold and decorated with a peacock design worked out in precious stones.

“The general who’s come to take us back to Linan in chains,” said Yukio.

The general drew up his chariot before Liu. The procession of samurai and their protectors stopped.

The general smiled. “A most impressive demonstration of public feeling. I imagine you, esteemed Governor Liu, arranged it?”

Liu shook his head. “I am but one of the thousands who wish to be here. For over three months these men defended us with their lives. Now we protect them with our bodies.”

“Such heroism,” said the general. He smiled at Yukio. “Are you their commander?”

Yukio bowed. “I am.”

“As one military man to another, I’m sure this is all a mistake. Come with us now, and the governor and some of the distinguished citizens of Kweilin can travel with you and testify to your worthy deeds. Doubtless the charges against you will be dropped.”

Yukio smiled back. “We agree to come, as long as we are not disarmed and do not have to wear chains.”

The general looked sorrowful. “I wish I could allow that, but I am forbidden to do so. Your arms will be kept safe and will be returned to you as soon as this unpleasantness is settled. And the chains will only be token chains—children’s toys, nothing more.”

Yukio bowed. “I’m sorry, but we must decline your offer.”

The general turned to Liu, his face darkening. “If you continue to protect these men, you will certainly lose your post and probably your head as well.”

Liu shrugged. “I am disgusted with my government. I am resolved to give up my post. And I may very well end my own life as a protest against this vile treatment of faithful warriors.”

“Good for you,” said Yukio.

“You must not,” Jebu said at almost the same moment. They looked at each other.

“I can command my troops to cut their way through your people,” the general blustered. “Will you let them be destroyed just to protect these ridiculous dwarfs?”

Yukio reddened, and Jebu put a restraining hand on his arm.

Liu said, “I do not know where you and your army were when we desperately needed reinforcements here. Doubtless you have never seen a Mongol. If you cut your way through my people to attack these brave men, a Chinese general will have done what the Mongols could not do. You will have massacred the Chinese people of Kweilin. You will dishonour your ancestors and shame your descendants.”

Yukio said, “We dwarfs, as you call us, will fight to the death, and we will take five of your troops with us for each one of us you kill.”

“And I will make it my business to see that you yourself do not survive, esteemed general,” Jebu added.

The general looked at Jebu, Yukio and Liu for a long, silent moment. His pudgy face was set in a stern military mask, but Jebu could see indecision in his eyes.

He got down from his chariot and approached Liu, saying in a low voice, “It could be reported to the Emperor that the dwarfs got word of our coming and fled before we arrived.”

“The saviours of Kweilin are not to be called dwarfs.”

“Of course. I do not want to fight these warriors. I do not want to kill your people. But I cannot simply let the foreigners go. Chia Ssu-tao would have my head.”

“What tale you tell back in Linan doesn’t concern me,” said Liu.

“But you must swear to support my story, otherwise I might as well cut my throat here and now.” The general thought a moment. “Yes, and you must agree to come to Linan with me, otherwise I will not be able to trust you.”

“No,” Jebu said before Liu could agree. “It is too great a sacrifice. This actor in general’s clothing will take you to Linan to blame you for letting us escape. Chia Ssu-tao will have you executed. Remember, you stopped me from giving up my life for your people.”

Liu shook his head. “If you escape, this general is in as much danger from Chia Ssu-tao as I am. Whether it is my lot to live or die, I am content.”

“If you are not afraid of death, no one has power over you,” said Yukio.

“If you understand that, you understand everything,” Jebu said to Yukio, and Liu nodded.

Again Yukio gave the order to march, and the samurai and the people of Kweilin moved off together, leaving Governor Liu standing beside the general from Linan. Jebu turned n his saddle and made a gesture that was part wave, part a reaching back. He felt he was leaving a father behind, never to see him again, and sorrow filled him.

Jebu was in the great hall of the compound where the samurai were quartered, presenting the Chinese recruits who had survived his training programme with swords, when a samurai entered and called Jebu.

“Forgive my interrupting you, shiké, but Lord Yukio requests that within this stick of time, you have your men ready in full parade armour to honour the Chinese general.”

Acknowledging the disruption as a problem set for him by the Self, Jebu finished the sword presentation ceremony quickly and set the recruits to polishing and donning their armour. He had hardly finished giving this order when Yukio sent for him.

Yukio was in a small room on the second floor of the samurai hall, which he used as a headquarters. A White Dragon banner hung on the wall behind him. Yukio sat cross-legged on a flat cushion, his face flushed with anger. A tall, grave-looking mandarin knelt before him.

“What would you say of a chief minister who repaid all the fighting we did for him by ordering us arrested and brought to him in chains?”

Jebu’s chest contracted. “I’d say he was a fool. But a fool such as many rulers have been.”

“If such behaviour is customary for rulers, then fighting men are the fools, to give their lives for them. We are betrayed, Jebu.”

The mandarin had come with a message from Liu. The general said he had orders from the Emperor to disarm and arrest the samurai and bring them back to Linan in chains. Chia Ssu-tao had accused Yukio of coming to China to overthrow the Son of Heaven and make himself Emperor of China. He accused the samurai of ending the siege of Kweilin by making a secret pact with the Mongols.

“Such charges are incredible,” said Jebu. “Why do they really want to destroy us?”

The mandarin shrugged. “Someone has convinced the Emperor’s chief councillor that you are a danger.”

“We may have been fools to fight for the Sung Emperor, but we would be greater fools to surrender,” said Jebu. “We’ll have to fight our way out. Do we try to escape overland, or should we take some junks and sail down the river to Canton?”

“No,” said Yukio. “This gentleman tells me that Governor Liu intends to help. If the governor’s plan works, we’ll leave Kweilin without losing a single man.”

Jebu stood beside Yukio as six men pushed open the iron and wood outer doors of the double gateway. Solemn faces peered in at him. The people of Kweilin had cleared away the causeway built by the Mongols and had constructed a new wooden bridge at the juncture of the two lakes, calling it once again the Green Belt Bridge. There was a line of people along each rail of the bridge, leaving a broad aisle through which the samurai could ride. At the far end Jebu could see Governor Liu in his vermilion robes of state.

Beyond Liu, on the far shore of the lakes, were thousands and thousands of people crowding the land where the Mongols had been camped two months ago. Past the people, Jebu could see the long, gleaming spears of soldiers. The Chinese army.

“Are we sure this isn’t a trap?” said Yukio beside him.

“Nothing is certain,” said Jebu. “But I trust Liu. And I trust our horses, our swords and our bows.”

The sun, low in the south-west, sparkled on the silver dragon on Yukio’s helmet. He and Jebu mounted their horses. Behind them, the samurai followed suit. Yukio raised his arm.

“Forward.”

Holding their mounts to a walk, Jebu on Yukio’s left, they stepped out on to the bridge. Jebu wore his black-laced armour with his sword at his side and his bow in a saddle case, the long pole of a naginata held in his right hand and resting on his shoulder, the reins in his left.

The bridge shook as the horses of the samurai stepped on it. As they crossed, the people on either side were speaking softly to them.

“Goodbye. Thank you.”

“The gods be kind to you.”

At the far end of the bridge, Liu held up his arms to them. “If my son were alive, he would be marching with you today.”

Yukio held out his hand in appeal. “Why have the rulers of China turned against us?”

“Perhaps someone has poisoned Chia Ssu-tao’s mind against you,” said Liu. “But perhaps it is simply that the Court is afraid of you. At first it was thought you were ignorant barbarians. Now it is known that you are formidable fighters. Victorious generals have always been a menace to the throne. This Sung dynasty was founded by a successful general who overthrew his Emperor. Many times before and since, generals who fought too well have been imprisoned and executed.”

“I am ashamed to accept the protection of unarmed civilians,” Yukio said. “And you, Honourable Governor, are risking your career and your life for us.”

Liu pointed over the heads of the crowd. “There are five thousand soldiers there, sent to arrest you. You could fight them, of course, and you would kill many of them. But what a waste of lives on both sides.”

“We are grateful to you,” said Yukio.

Liu beckoned to Jebu. “A word with you.” Jebu dismounted from his horse and followed Liu a little way along the shore of Lake Rong hu.

“Head north and west, towards Szechwan and Tibet,” Liu said softly. “The Order has temples in that direction. You will be contacted.”

“Thank you,” said Jebu. He looked into Liu’s eyes and saw a warmth like a distant fire on a cold night. That sense of remoteness, he realized, was the remoteness of the Self, communicating with him from deep within Liu.

They returned to Yukio. “You will have to live off the land,” said Liu. “Which means you will take what you need from the peasants. In your baggage train you will find a cart carrying as much gold as I could spare from the city’s treasury. Pay the peasants as much as you can. They suffer abominably when any army passes through.” He reached into his sleeve and took out a scroll. “Here is a map of some of the lands through which you will pass.” He reached up and took each man’s hand. “I doubt that I will ever see you again, but you are sons to me. You saved the thousands of lives that were in my keeping.”

He fixed his strangely empty eyes on Jebu. “For you also, son of Jamuga, this is only a respite. Three times now I have tried to carry out the command of Genghis Khan that you die. Each time you have been saved, but never by your own power. A man who must rely on others or on chance events to protect him is a poor creature. Destiny will bring you and me together again, and the next time I will surely kill you.”

Chapter Thirteen

Jebu and Yukio stood on the broken western parapet of Kweilin and watched the Mongols depart, as they had come, in a dust cloud that obscured the sunset.

“You see?” said Yukio. “You may have saved those prisoners from my anger, but they were fated to die. It was their karma.”

Jebu shook his head. “Not karma. Arghun’s ruthlessness.”

Yukio shrugged, “Karma put him there to end the lives of those men.”

“What do you foresee as our karma?” Jebu asked, recognizing that the argument was like a ko situation in go, where players endlessly repeated the same move, taking and losing the same stones again and again.

Yukio laughed. “We have little choice. We’ll simply stay here at Kweilin until we get new orders from the Sung Emperor.”

“If the Mongols have called off their war with China, perhaps Chia Ssu-tao will decide that he doesn’t need us.”

Yukio shook his head. “The chief councillor may not be a very wise man, but he must know that the Mongols will be back once they have a new Great Khan.”

But judging by the news brought back by Governor Liu’s intelligence network, it might be some time before the Mongols returned. Factions were forming behind two of the late Great Khan’s younger brothers, Kublai Khan and Arik Buka. Supporters of Arik Buka declared him a true Mongol, untainted by the Chinese influences that surrounded Kublai Khan. Arghun Baghadur had thrown his weight behind Arik Buka. The opposing party claimed Kublai Khan was far better fitted to rule the vast empire than Arik Buka, whose name in Mongol meant Little Man because he was the youngest of his family. Kublai’s backers frequently quoted the words of Genghis Khan, who said, when his grandson was but eleven years old, “Heed well the words of the boy Kublai. They are full of wisdom.”

If the Mongols chose peaceably between Kublai Khan and Arik Buka, China would feel the weight of a new onslaught in a year or so. But if the divisions were deep enough to lead to war among the Mongols, the Central Kingdom might be safe for generations.

Throughout the city which all summer long had heard nothing but the crash of stone and the roaring of fire and the screams of the dying, the most noticeable sound now was the rapping of hammers. Moko joined in the rebuilding, learning the Chinese methods of carpentry, suggesting economical ways of doing things from his own practice and spending hours down by the docks watching the building of new river-going junks.

Less than six hundred samurai had lived through the siege. Day by day, as it became clearer that the Mongols were really gone, Yukio eased them down from a war footing. Even though they heard nothing from Linan, much less received any payment for their services, the warriors were well fed and comfortable. Governor Liu gave Yukio whatever he asked. Weapons were repaired or replaced. The precious swords of the fallen were distributed among the living. With the governor’s help Yukio obtained three horses for each of his men.

After the samurai had rested for about a month, Yukio reintroduced discipline and training. Each day bands of mounted warriors rode through the beautiful blue hills around Kweilin, practising Mongol-style cavalry. tactics. About a hundred of the Chinese soldiers garrisoned at Kweilin who had come to admire the samurai and their way of fighting asked permission to join them. Since idle troops could be a problem, Governor Liu persuaded the soldiers’ commander to release them to Yukio. Yukio put Jebu to work bringing the new recruits up to samurai standards of fighting skill.

“You’re the best trained among us, Jebu-san, and you’re always practising.”

“That’s because I don’t spend as much time in the Quarter of Ten Thousand Delights as you do.”

“I said you were well trained, Jebu-san. That doesn’t mean you’re as much of a man as I am. Though more than once my arrival in the Quarter has been greeted with mournful looks because I haven’t brought the red-haired giant with me.”

Jebu mulled over his education as a Zinja and his current practises and put together a basic course of exercises that combined physical and mental discipline. He chose the most competent samurai to help him conduct the training. The recruits took up the work eagerly, and after they had studied some days under Jebu, more Chinese soldiers were asking to join the group. After a month some of the samurai themselves were coming to Jebu to ask whether they could take the training as well, “to brush up their skills.”

“Clearly you are a great master,” Yukio said. “Everyone is clamouring to study under you.”

“Clearly I must be doing something wrong,” said Jebu. “If I were teaching as I should, I would be driving them away.”

Two months after the Mongols left, Jebu and Yukio heard that a Chinese army of five thousand was marching towards Kweilin. Their general sent word ahead that he had been dispatched there by the Emperor, to restore order in the regions invaded by the barbarians. Governor Liu had gone forth to greet them.

Jebu was in the great hall of the compound where the samurai were quartered, presenting the Chinese recruits who had survived his training programme with swords, when a samurai entered and called Jebu.

“Forgive my interrupting you, shiké, but Lord Yukio requests that within this stick of time, you have your men ready in full parade armour to honour the Chinese general.”