flinging something in Cranston’s direction.
Reflexively, Cranston’s right hand caught the object in midflight. And in the same moment, Shiwan Khan was gone.
“We’ll speak again, Ying Ko,” came a distant voice, seconds before the sound of the clockwork door mechanism rumbled through the room.
Cranston glanced down at the object in his hand—a coin of dull, yellow metal with a square hole in the center, larger than a silver dollar and engraved with what might have been Uighur script.
Shiwan Khan had spared no expense in appointing his throne room, a spacious surround of elegance, one-hundred feet in diameter, whose soaring ceiling was supported by a ring of columns as thick as oaks. The columns stood on plush, deep-blue carpeting, and their capitals met the ceiling in rainbow starbursts. Decorated with spirals and mandalalike mosaics, the central area of the floor was a sunken circle, four broad steps below the columned ring.
The throne itself was wide and high-backed and had two slender arms. Facing south, it sat beneath a halfcircle canopy meant to symbolize Tengri, the One God, the Eternal Heaven, who was worshipped at the tops of sacred mountains in Mongolia. On either side of the throne stood gilded torchieres that resembled papyrus columns, and behind it was a tapestry that had hung in the court of the Kha Khan. On tables rested other priceless objects transported from Mongolia and Sinkiang: golden effigies, ritual knives, and the Altan Debter, the Golden Book, in which was written—in Chinese characters to represent Mongolian phonetics—the most secret history of the Mongols.
The room had been financed by liquidating a small portion of Khan’s treasure trove, which included what had been bequeathed to him by his ancestors and what he had acquired on his own in half a lifetime of evildoing.
With Shiwan Khan were the twelve members of his inner guard, Mongols whose faces were highcheekboned and more dark-complected and roundeyed than the Chinese of other provinces.
Genghis’s guard had clothed themselves in fur hats with earflaps, felt boots, and fur coats that reached below the knee; in battle they had worn metal helmets and armor made from strips of strong but supple buffalo leather, several layers thick. But different times and different climes called for different uniforms.
Shiwan Khan’s dozen wore tunics of patterned maroon silk with embroidered hems, baggy silk trousers, and knee-high black boots. The sleeves of the tunics covered their hands in a simulation of hooves, for—lessers of the Khan—they were nothing more than beasts of burden. Their breast and biceps plates were shingled with hundreds of ancient coins and two-inch-long rectangles of sharpened metal, and over their middles they wore a hubcap-size shield. Some carried folding crossbows over their shoulders—the nou of old; others, long, curving sabres that dangled from their red waist sashes.
Many a bribe had been paid, many a string pulled to get them into the United States, but what was influence if it couldn’t be peddled.
Just now, the guards were lined up in two rows in front of the throne, and Khan was stepping down to review them, evaluating each as he meandered. Then, satisfied, he positioned himself at the foot of his throne and addressed them.
“The day of the Mongol warrior is once again at hand.”
Acquainted with the litany, the dozen responded with loud hissing sounds that increased in frequency and volume as their emperor continued.
“Soon, with wings outstretched—” he lifted his arms in a dramatic gesture “—we fly to our destiny!”
Those with swords drew them from their scabbards in salute, arranging their glinting weapons in such a way that they formed the Chinese character of conquest!
10
A Deadly Contest
“G ood Morning, Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea!” the newscaster’s voice blared from the bread-box-size radio in the Tam kitchen. “Flash! New York City reels from yet
Reflexively, Cranston’s right hand caught the object in midflight. And in the same moment, Shiwan Khan was gone.
“We’ll speak again, Ying Ko,” came a distant voice, seconds before the sound of the clockwork door mechanism rumbled through the room.
Cranston glanced down at the object in his hand—a coin of dull, yellow metal with a square hole in the center, larger than a silver dollar and engraved with what might have been Uighur script.
Shiwan Khan had spared no expense in appointing his throne room, a spacious surround of elegance, one-hundred feet in diameter, whose soaring ceiling was supported by a ring of columns as thick as oaks. The columns stood on plush, deep-blue carpeting, and their capitals met the ceiling in rainbow starbursts. Decorated with spirals and mandalalike mosaics, the central area of the floor was a sunken circle, four broad steps below the columned ring.
The throne itself was wide and high-backed and had two slender arms. Facing south, it sat beneath a halfcircle canopy meant to symbolize Tengri, the One God, the Eternal Heaven, who was worshipped at the tops of sacred mountains in Mongolia. On either side of the throne stood gilded torchieres that resembled papyrus columns, and behind it was a tapestry that had hung in the court of the Kha Khan. On tables rested other priceless objects transported from Mongolia and Sinkiang: golden effigies, ritual knives, and the Altan Debter, the Golden Book, in which was written—in Chinese characters to represent Mongolian phonetics—the most secret history of the Mongols.
The room had been financed by liquidating a small portion of Khan’s treasure trove, which included what had been bequeathed to him by his ancestors and what he had acquired on his own in half a lifetime of evildoing.
With Shiwan Khan were the twelve members of his inner guard, Mongols whose faces were highcheekboned and more dark-complected and roundeyed than the Chinese of other provinces.
Genghis’s guard had clothed themselves in fur hats with earflaps, felt boots, and fur coats that reached below the knee; in battle they had worn metal helmets and armor made from strips of strong but supple buffalo leather, several layers thick. But different times and different climes called for different uniforms.
Shiwan Khan’s dozen wore tunics of patterned maroon silk with embroidered hems, baggy silk trousers, and knee-high black boots. The sleeves of the tunics covered their hands in a simulation of hooves, for—lessers of the Khan—they were nothing more than beasts of burden. Their breast and biceps plates were shingled with hundreds of ancient coins and two-inch-long rectangles of sharpened metal, and over their middles they wore a hubcap-size shield. Some carried folding crossbows over their shoulders—the nou of old; others, long, curving sabres that dangled from their red waist sashes.
Many a bribe had been paid, many a string pulled to get them into the United States, but what was influence if it couldn’t be peddled.
Just now, the guards were lined up in two rows in front of the throne, and Khan was stepping down to review them, evaluating each as he meandered. Then, satisfied, he positioned himself at the foot of his throne and addressed them.
“The day of the Mongol warrior is once again at hand.”
Acquainted with the litany, the dozen responded with loud hissing sounds that increased in frequency and volume as their emperor continued.
“Soon, with wings outstretched—” he lifted his arms in a dramatic gesture “—we fly to our destiny!”
Those with swords drew them from their scabbards in salute, arranging their glinting weapons in such a way that they formed the Chinese character of conquest!
10
A Deadly Contest
“G ood Morning, Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea!” the newscaster’s voice blared from the bread-box-size radio in the Tam kitchen. “Flash! New York City reels from yet
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