Thus had gone the debate, with no consensus growing out of it. Then Kaidu had withdrawn his proposal^ knowing that the people would continue to talk about it, arguing among themselves, while his friends among them spoke for it. In another year or two, the tribes and clans might be ready to agree, and elect him their leader.
That had been a year ago.
This much Achikh had learned from talking with Jelme, his uncle, and he shared it with Nils in the presence of Hans and Baver. What he didn’t know, hadn’t the perspective to know, was that the Buriat were the most political of the three Mongol peoples, and the most inclined to assign power and loyalty beyond their clans to their tribes and chiefs. During the preceding two centuries, they had twice elected Great Khans to lead all the Buriat. These arrangements, however, had not taken root. The organization of khan rule, what organization there’d been, had been superficial, and in the absence of continuing strong incentives had come apart.
Each time, however, it had served its purpose: it had broken an invasion out of China.
Achikh wasn’t the only person in the Buriat camp to make a report that evening. Fong Jung Hing had made one earlier, long distance.
The procedure could be somewhat cumbersome, but it was far quicker and easier than a courier riding 1,200 kilometers. Also it provided two-way communication— the exchange of information, and particularly of questions and answers—in a matter of minutes.
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With Fong on mission, the Circle of Power had at least three adepts linked from suppertime till midnight— enough to detect any thought that Fong might “cast toward them.” When a call was detected, other members of the Circle were sent for if necessary; five was adequate, even four in a pinch. And a runner rushed to the palace to inform the emperor.
With Tenzin as a guide, the Circle created a conduit, with the emperor the receiver. He would come at once, even if asleep when sent for, and sit in the middle of the Circle in what a twenty-first-century psychologist might have called a trance state, but in fact was a state of heightened, focused sensitivity.
Meanwhile Fong waited. Those who worked closely with the emperor had their patience well-developed. When he felt the emperor’s psychic touch, Fong began their mental dialog: “Your Reverence, the barbarian you are interested in has arrived here at Urga. With the raven.
“The man’s appearance is as Tenzin read it from the bird—very large, very powerful, and seemingly a great warrior. Certainly a superior telepath.
“His talents go much beyond that, however. He has great force of personality, and he is clever.” Then he reran mentally the man’s conversation with Kaidu, up to the time when the chief had cleared the ger of its other guests. “At that point,” Fong said, “it was required that I leave. And as I am accompanied at all times by guards who both protect and constrain me, I could not loiter near the chief’s ger and listen through the mind. The raven was there, however. Tenzin can learn for you what happened in my absence.”
The emperor nudged his envoy’s mind with a question.
“Where he will go from here,” Fong answered, “he did not say, any more than he did in the hearing of the raven. Perhaps he spoke the truth to his companions last winter, when he said he didn’t know, beyond accompanying the Mongol to his people. Perhaps he is someone who simply desires to see new places.
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“But Your Reverence, there is something about him that makes him—unusually interesting and perhaps even dangerous. He seems not to think to himself. I discern no internal monolog.
. . . “No, Your Reverence, it is not a matter of screening. I would know if he screened. He simply does not carry on an internal monolog, and beneath his words, his mind seems still. It’s as if he were in deep meditation constantly, even while talking and moving, seemingly alert. Obviously alert. The raven was not able to tell us that, of course. It could only show us his movements, let us listen to his words.”