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cupful of air, just a sip, but it did not come and he collapsed, hitting the ground hard enough to numb his final agony.
    At the fires that evening, Tsubodai rode through the camp of his ten thousand. The dead knights had been stripped of anything valuable, and the general had pleased the men by refusing his personal tithe. For those who received no pay for their battles, the collection of bloodstained lockets, rings, and gems was something to covet in the new society Genghis was creating. A man could become wealthy in the army of the tribes, though they thought always in terms of the horses they could buy with their riches. The knights’ forges were of more interest to Tsubodai, as were the spoked cart wheels themselves, ringed in iron and easier to repair than the solid discs the Mongols used. Tsubodai had already instructed the captured armorers to demonstrate the skill to his carpenters.
    Jochi was examining the forehoof of his favorite pony when Tsubodai trotted up to him. Before the younger man could bow, Tsubodai inclined his head, giving him honor. The jagun Jochi had commanded stood with pride.
    Tsubodai lifted his hand to show Jochi the gold paitze he had taken from him before noon.
    “You had me wondering how Russians could come back from the dead,” Tsubodai said. “It was a bold stroke. Take this back, Jochi. You are worth more than silver, no matter what jagun wants you to lead them.”
    He tossed the gold plaque through the air and Jochi caught it, struggling to keep his composure. Only the praise of Genghis himself would have meant more at that moment.
    “We will ride home tomorrow,” Tsubodai said, as much for the men as Jochi. “Be ready at dawn.”

CHAPTER TWO
    CHAGATAI FELT AN ITCH in his left armpit, where sweat dribbled under his best armor. Though he was the second son of the khan, he sensed it would not be right to give the spot a good scratch while he waited for the king of Koryo.
    He risked a quick glance at the man who had brought him to the distant, walled city of Songdo. The hall of kings was stifling in the midday heat, but Jelme showed no discomfort in his lacquered armor. Like the courtiers and the royal guards, the Mongol general could have been carved out of wood.
    Chagatai could hear water running in the far distance, the gentle sound somehow magnified in the oppressive heat and silence. The itch became maddening and he struggled to think of something else. As his gaze rested on a high ceiling of white plaster and ancient pine beams, he reminded himself that he had no reason to feel intimidated. For all their dignity, the Wang dynasty had not been able to crush the Khara-Kitai when those people came into their land from Chin territory and built fortresses. If Jelme had not volunteered his army to burn them out, the Koryon king would still be a near prisoner in his own palace. At fifteen years old, Chagatai felt a vague smugness at the thought. He had all the pride and arrogance of a young warrior, yet in this case, he knew it was justified. Jelme and his warriors had come into the east tosee what armies might stand against them and to view the ocean for the first time. They had found enemies in the Khara-Kitai and driven them out of Koryo like whipped dogs. Chagatai knew it was only just that the king pay a tribute, whether he had asked for help or not.
    Sweating in the heavy air, Chagatai tortured himself with memory of the breeze off the sea in the south. The cool wind had been the only good thing about that blue vastness, in his opinion. Jelme had been fascinated by the Koryon ships, but the thought of wanting to travel on water baffled Chagatai. If it could not be ridden, he had no use for it. Even the memory of the royal barge swaying at anchor made his stomach clench.
    A bell sounded out in the courtyard, the tone echoing through gardens where bees buzzed in hives around acacia blossoms. Chagatai pictured the Buddhist monks heaving on the log that struck the great bell, and he