Conqueror. Conn Iggulden

      A storm growled over Karakorum city, the streets and avenues running in streams as the rain hammered down in the darkness. Outside the thick walls, thousands of sheep huddled together in their enclosures. The oil in their fleeces protected them from the rain, but they had not been led to pasture and hunger made them bleat and yammer to each other. At intervals, one or more of them would rear up mindlessly on its fellows, forming a hillock of kicking legs and wild eyes before falling back into the squirming mass.

      The khan’s palace was lit with lamps that spat and crackled on the outer walls and gates. Inside, the sound of rain was a low roar that rose and fell in intensity, pouring as solid sheets over the cloisters. Servants gazed out into the yards and gardens, lost in the mute fascination that rain can hold. They stood in groups, reeking of wet wool and silk, their duties abandoned for a time while the storm passed.

      For Guyuk, the sound of the rain merely added to his irritation, much as a man humming would have interrupted his thoughts. He poured wine carefully for his guest and stayed away from the open window where the stone sill was already dark with wetness. The man who had come at his request looked nervously around at the audience room. Guyuk supposed its size would create awe in anyone more used to the low gers of the plains. He remembered his own first nights in the silent palace, oppressed by the thought that such a weight of stone and tile would surely fall and crush him. He could chuckle now at such things, but he saw his guest’s eyes flicker up to the great ceiling more than once. Guyuk smiled. His father Ogedai had dreamed a great man’s dreams when he made Karakorum.

      As Guyuk put down the stone jug of wine and returned to his guest, the thought tightened his mouth into a thin line. His father had not had to court the princes of the nation, to bribe, beg and threaten merely to be given the title that was his by right.

      ‘Try this, Ochir,’ Guyuk said, handing his cousin one of two cups. ‘It is smoother than airag.’

      He was trying to be friendly to a man he barely knew. Yet Ochir was one of a hundred nephews and grandsons to the khan, men whose support Guyuk had to have. Ochir’s father Kachiun had been a name, a general still revered in memory.

      Ochir did him the courtesy of drinking without hesitating, emptying the cup in two large swallows and belching.

      ‘It’s like water,’ Ochir said, but he held out the cup again.

      Guyuk’s smile became strained. One of his companions rose silently and brought the jug over, refilling both their cups. Guyuk settled down on a long couch across from Ochir, trying hard to relax and be pleasant.

      ‘I’m sure you have an idea why I asked for you this evening, Ochir,’ he said. ‘You are from a good family, with influence. I was there at your father’s funeral in the mountains.’

      Ochir leaned forward where he sat, his interest showing.

      ‘He would have been sorry not to see the lands you went to,’ Ochir said. ‘I did not … know him well. He had many sons. But I know he wanted to be with Tsubodai on the Great Trek west. His death was a terrible loss.’

      ‘Of course! He was a man of honour,’ Guyuk agreed easily. He wanted to have Ochir on his side and empty compliments hurt no one. He took a deep breath. ‘It is in part because of your father that I asked you to come to me. That branch of the families follow your lead, do they not, Ochir?’

      Ochir looked away, out of the window, where the rain still drummed on the sills as if it would never stop. He was dressed in a simple deel robe over a tunic and leggings. His boots were well worn and without ornament. Even his hat was unsuited to the opulence of the palace. Stained with oil from his hair, its twin could have been found on any herdsman.

      With care, Ochir placed his cup on the stone floor. His face had a strength that truly reminded Guyuk of his late father.

      ‘I