The maidservants’ voices were bright with excitement. He’s here, Sorghaghtani thought, and a smile touched her cheeks.

  Before long, a man appeared in her workroom. He did not have the solid, broad build of a Mongol. His frame was slender, supple, almost catlike. He wore Mongol dress, yet he was no Mongol. He did not stride with heavy footsteps, but moved quietly, as if gliding across the ground. Rather than making himself large to threaten, he carried an ease that suggested elegance, and, if need be, the speed to deal a fatal blow. When the mood struck him, he could be familiarly warm; when it did not, he ignored everything entirely. He was less like a cat than a larger, more dangerous beast of the same kind.

  “Norjin. I’ve arrived,” he said.

  Sorghaghtani lifted her gaze.

  “Welcome. You seem well.”

  “You as well, Lady Sorghaghtani.”Norjin smiled, a clean and pleasant smile. Most Mongol men bore faces reddened by sun and drink, yet despite having spent some time in Karakorum, this man’s complexion remained pale. From his appearance and his manner of speech, Sorghaghtani suspected he might be Jurchen.

  Norjin never spoke of his past, and so his origins remained unknown. What was known was this: he had once rescued one of the Tolui household’s stewards after a bandit attack and escorted him safely to Karakorum. For that reason, he had been taken in and supported by the Tolui household for a time.

  It was only later that Sorghaghtani learned that Norjin himself had been one of the bandits.

  The revelation left her momentarily speechless. When questioned, he admitted it without shame, saying simply that he no longer wished to live as a bandit.

  For a while he lived as a dependent guest of the Tolui household. Norjin could read and write, and he had a quick grasp of numbers. Rather than let such abilities go to waste, Sorghaghtani recalled hearing that Yelü Chucai—an official held in high esteem by ?gedei—was seeking a capable assistant. She wrote Yelü Chucai a letter of recommendation for Norjin.

  Since then, Norjin had left the Tolui household and entered Yelü Chucai’s service.

  “At last, it’s finished,” Sorghaghtani said, handing him a sealed letter.“Take this to Lord Batu. He departed two or three days ago. If you hurry, you should be able to deliver it before he reaches the Jochi Ulus.”

  “Lord Yelü told me not to come back for a while,” Norjin said, already grinning.

  “Oh? And what have you done this time?”

  “That, I cannot say. I was strictly warned not to tell anyone.”Norjin instantly adopted a serious expression and placed a hand over his chest.

  “You will be killed someday,” Sorghaghtani said, giving him a sharp look.

  In an instant, Norjin’s handsome face drew closer.“If it were you?" he said lightly. "Anytime.

  Sorghaghtani felt her face flush.

  Norjin laughed cheerfully, inclined his head, and left the room.

  “This is no laughing matter,” she said, but he was already gone.

  Sorghaghtani sighed. After a moment, she laid her hand gently upon the Bible resting on her desk.

  “Into your hands,” she said, no more than a breath.

  The steppe looked endlessly the same, Norjin thought. Grass without end, low mountains, and sky. Nothing more. From time to time, a hawk-like bird cut across the heavens.

  After leaving Sorghaghtani’s tent, Norjin managed to catch up with Batu’s column in about five days.

  Batu burst out laughing as he opened the two letters—one from Yelü Chucai, the other from Sorghaghtani. That old man—what in the world did he write? Norjin frowned.

  “I understand well enough,” Batu said, still grinning. “You may stay in my ulus as long as you like. Ah, yes—my daughter’s name is Zaya. Let us see whether you can manage her.”

  “Yes, sir. I will serve with all sincerity!” Norjin replied earnestly—though he had no idea what, exactly, he was meant to serve with sincerity. In truth, neither Yelü Chucai nor Sorghaghtani had ever told him what he was to do. From Batu’s tone, it clearly had something to do with this daughter, Zaya—but dealing with a girl? Was this Yelü Chucai’s idea of revenge? At least, that interpretation was easy enough to accept.

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  A month later, as they crested a low ridge, Batu’s ulus spread out before his eyes.

  Tents stretched so far they seemed to reach the horizon, livestock gathering around them like drifting clouds. Norjin stopped short. He had not expected this. If the people of Karakorum imagined the west to be some thinly populated backwater, they would do well to reconsider.

  The tents were laid out in careful order. Batu’s wife clearly possessed a formidable hand. As he made his way through the flocks that wandered across his path, he reached Batu’s great tent. Batu’s wife, children, kin, and senior retainers had gathered to greet him. One woman stepped forward to offer her greeting. This, Norjin supposed, must be Batu’s wife, Borokchin. From her dress, she appeared to belong to the Tatar Alchi clan.

  As he glanced over the women and children, one figure stood out. A woman with black skin, her crimson garments striking against it. She kept her eyes lowered, half-hidden among the others, but it was useless. She stood out too much. Batu was said to be adept at taking in those of other peoples; perhaps she, too, was one of his wives. Batu had wives and children enough. Norjin could not tell which of the girls might be “Zaya,” but there was no need to hurry. He had been told not to return anytime soon.

  The Jochi Ulus seemed more comfortable than he had expected.

  Norjin felt an urge to strike his former self—the one who had thought he could take things easy here.

  After a small welcome feast attended only by Batu’s closest kin, Borokchin led Norjin toward the livestock pens.

  “The steppe will soon be turning toward winter,” she said with a pleasant smile. “No matter how many hands we have, it is never enough for winter preparations—especially strong ones.”

  From what she had heard from her husband, a large-scale war was expected to begin the following spring. Provisions would have to be prepared for the soldiers, armor and weapons made ready. There was far more to be done than in an ordinary winter. There was no room to leave even a guest idle.

  “Whatever you require,” Norjin answered at once.

  “How reassuring,” Borokchin said. “Then I will leave it to you.”

  Before him lay a pile of stakes and a livestock enclosure on the verge of collapse. The number of animals owned by Batu, lord of this ulus, was beyond counting. The fence seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance. A soldier, bare-chested, handed Norjin a stone maul. Without a word, the man moved a short distance away, set a stake into the ground, and began hammering it in.

  So that’s what you want me to do.

  Norjin felt a wave of reluctance, but there was no help for it. He took the maul, set his jaw, and raised it.

  After a while, his expression changed.

  He lifted the maul. Brought it down. Lifted it again.

  The ground was hard as stone. The stake barely sank. When it did, it went in crooked. He adjusted the angle. Shifted the point of impact. Spread his feet wider to steady himself. Changed his grip on the handle. Little by little, he began to understand.

  Sweat flew from him. He slipped his deel from his shoulders, tied it around his waist, and took up the maul again. This man, it seemed, was the sort who looked slight only until he moved.

  He raised the maul and dropped it. Raised it again.

  His breathing grew harsh and shallow. He forced himself to breathe from his belly. His arms felt like lead. Muscles trembled. He clenched his teeth and lifted the maul once more, bringing it straight down on the center of the stake.

  A groan tore from his throat.

  Up again. Down.

  The soldier who had been watching him with a grin wiped it from his face, turned away, and resumed his own work.

  By the time Norjin had driven nearly a hundred stakes into the ground, evening had fallen.

  The soldier who had first handed him the stone hammer came over. Without a word, he grabbed one of the stakes Norjin had driven and shook it hard. It did not budge.

  He moved to another. Then another. None of them shifted. Norjin leaned heavily against the hammer, too spent to speak. The soldier finally nodded once and held out a leather flask filled with kumis.

  Zaya entered the guest tent carrying salves for sore muscles and ointments for wounds.

  On her way there, she had inspected the enclosure. Every stake stood straight. None were loose. The work had been done well enough.

  Inside the tent, the guest lay sprawled across the bedding, utterly spent.

  “I brought medicine. Show me your hands,” Zaya ordered.

  The man stirred, pushed himself upright with visible effort, and sat. He held out his hands. Blisters had torn open across his palms, blood seeping through the broken skin. A maid brought hot water.

  “Put your hands in,” Zaya said, her tone even. The moment he did, he let out a low groan.

  “Pathetic,” she said.

  “I never imagined I’d be made to do something like that,” he replied.

  Zaya worked quickly, spreading the salve and binding his hands with cloth.

  “Anywhere else injured?”

  “My pride, perhaps.”

  Zaya stared at him. What sort of man said such things? He looked about the same age as Taghray, perhaps a little younger.

  “Take off your upper clothes,” she said. “You won’t be able to lift your arms tomorrow. This will help.”

  “It already hurts,” he said. “Tomorrow feels far away.”

  “Then tomorrow you should be assigned work you can do sitting down.”

  “I was told I’d be dealing with a girl,” he said. “Lessons, maybe. Letters. Manners. Do you know her? A girl named Zaya.”

  Zaya blinked.

  “I’m Zaya.”

  He looked startled. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.

  “OK. I’ll take mine off. And you?”

  Zaya felt her face burn.

  “Not fair if it’s just me,” he added, pursing his lips. He knew exactly what he was doing.

  Zaya sprang to her feet and threw the jar of ointment at him.

  “That's not funny. Not funny at all,” she said. “Apply it yourself.”

  “Hey now. You saw the fence, didn’t you?” he said. “A little reward wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

  Zaya drew a deep breath.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Norjin.”

  “My name is Zaya. I am Princess of the Jochi Ulus. One more insolent word—”

  “Going to tell your father? Or your mother?”

  Zaya pressed her lips together and turned on her heel, storming out of the tent. Behind her, she heard Norjin laughing.

  To Zaya, he was the absolute worst guest imaginable.