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It wasn’t often the Khan’s three “sons” came together into a single room (without the presence of Kublai himself, at least). Jingim, for one, was not entirely friendly with Byamba and Amhad still. Lately he was making more of an effort to get along, but he couldn’t put himself on their level entirely—not on the level of an adopted son or a bastard, not when he was Kublai’s heir and still had so much to prove. Besides, the three were always too busy to sit around chatting. Nevertheless, in recent times, with all the trouble that had been going around, they were working to put aside their differences and present a unified front. For this reason they did occasionally meet to discuss current events. And tonight was one of those rare occasions. Ahmad said they had something to discuss.
Of course, whether this could be called a “room” was another question. They had agreed to meet in the stables at night and go riding together, so they could talk where there were no listening ears, privacy always being dubious in Khanbalig. Jingim had, frustratingly, arrived early and therefore first. Ahmad had made the meeting sound urgent, but neither he nor Byamba were here yet. It had already been a long several minutes, and Jingim was getting impatient.
He had spent the time currying his horse. Usually a servant did it for him—he had no time for menial labor and trifling matters. But it was relaxing, and his horse seemed to appreciate it. As he brushed, he gently patted its neck. Probably, he thought to himself, this would be the best company he’d get tonight. Inevitably he and his brothers would end up arguing. He would be able to hold his own, but he did not look forward to it.
The sound of the creaky stable door opening had him turning around, an accusation of tardiness already on his lips. It died in the first syllable when he saw who it was, not Byamba or Ahmad, but a stranger. A man in dark clothing with cloth over his face. Jingim didn’t recognize the man but he did recognize the uniform.
“Hashs—”
A knife came hurtling his direction, on course to skewer his throat. He dodged, and the assassin was on him. He blocked another knife strike but caught a knee to the sternum. The man was quick. Jingim dodged another blow and tried to catch his breath. Getting some distance between himself and his attacker, he drew his sword. He hadn’t expected trouble tonight, but he carried it with him everywhere. These days, you never knew.
He held it steadily in front of him. “Who sent you?”
Of course the assassin didn’t answer. He tucked the knife away silently and drew out, instead, a length of cloth.
Jingim narrowed his eyes. It felt off. But enough hesitation. He lunged forward. The sword nearly pierced the assassin’s chest, but at the last second, the cloth twisted and tangled around it and the sword flew out of Jingim’s grasp and down to the floor. Before he could step away the assassin stabbed him in the gut, a sharp slice that sank deep before Jingim jumped back.
He pressed down on the wound, hard. The assassin sheathed his knife and regarded him coolly.
“You mad bastard,” Jingim gasped. “You think you’re untouchable?”
The assassin cocked his head.
“I have seen your kind die. I have seen them scream and beg. You are not as strong as you think.”
He cast around with one hand for the hilt of his sword, now buried in cloth and straw, while holding his guts in with the other. The assassin touched a hand to his chest—a brief, maybe wry, salute—and walked out. Jingim heard the door again creak closed.
So either he hadn’t been sent to kill Jingim but merely to wound him or he thought Jingim was as good as dead already and didn’t like to kick a dog who was already down. The latter was more likely. The straw below Jingim was already puddling with blood. Jingim cursed and ripped some cloth off the bottom of his robe, which he wrapped around the wound, around his waist. And he tried to think of what to do next.
The stables were not very near his room. They were near Byamba’s, but Byamba and Ahmad were the only ones who knew Jingim would be here tonight, and for some reason they still weren’t here, even though it was long past time. He had to operate under the assumption that this treachery had been planned by one of them, distasteful as the thought was.
Which left Jingim making a decision he bitterly resented—instead of going to the room of someone he at least wanted to trust for aid, he headed to the living quarters of someone he was fairly certain he couldn’t, but who at least was too inept to plot something of this kind.
The Latin. Marco Polo.
His pride would be hurt, but his body was in a worse state, and it was more important to his survival. The stab wound was still leaking despite his makeshift bandages. Funnily enough the robe was already red, but the blood was making it darken. He pressed down as he walked. His hands were sticky, and along with the echo of his footsteps, he could hear a tell-tale dripping, regular and almost patient. Every step was jarring.
Step, drip, step, drip, step, drip. Drip drip drip.
He pressed harder.
When he reached Polo’s door, he spared a hand to knock. Hard. Still, a torturous moment passed before Polo answered. Their eyes met before Polo’s eyes dropped down to Jingim’s torso. He gaped.
“There are more Hashshashin in our city,” Jingim said. He pushed in past Polo, who was still frozen in the doorway. “I need cloth and you should alert the guard. Probably a doctor as well.”
“Prince Jingim…”
“Now, Latin,” Jingim said. “You wouldn’t want me dying on your doorstep. My father might be fond of you but that’s not something he would overlook.”
He sank down on Polo’s narrow bed, listening to him scramble. After what seemed like forever the cloth arrived. Polo hovered as Jingim wrapped it on top of the old bandage, now already soaked and doing a poor job of staunching the wound. Jingim glared at him.
“I said to fetch the guard.”
“You said to keep you from dying,” Polo said. “Please, my prince, let me help.”
“A doctor would be more useful. Now, go.”
Byamba and Ahmad had good excuses for their absence. The same excuse, actually. Both claimed to have received a letter in Jingim’s handwriting, stamped with at least a good facsimile of his seal, telling them the time of the meeting had changed to an hour later. The letters had been pushed under their doors—no messenger could be identified. Ahmad could produce sucha letter. Byamba said he had burned his for the sake of secrecy, and could produce only edges of parchment from the ash of his lamp.
This Jingim knew from the doctor, who brought both medicines and news. His mother had brought updates as well. They were the only visitors he had received so far. Both Byamba and Ahmad had requested an audience, and he had refused them both. He would not refuse them forever, but until he could face them, his possible murderers, without so much as flinching, he did not want to see their faces. He would not show them weakness.
Kublai had not visited, nor had he sent any messages. Rumor had it he was angry. Rage was good—concern, in person, might have been better, but Jingim knew better than to expect that. Besides, in person Kublai might well express disappointment that Jingim hadn’t been able to fend the assassin off, and Jingim was already disappointed enough in himself.
So Jingim kept visitors away. Except for one. He summoned Marco Polo.
“My father says your investigation into the matter of the assassins turned up nothing, even after the voyage I sent you on. That you could come to no conclusion.”
Polo bowed. “That is correct, my prince.”
He’d gotten into the habit of calling Jingim that. Jingim didn’t much like the habit—it was familiar, and it gave the impression of loyalty that Polo probably didn’t have. It made Jingim want to trust him when he knew he couldn’t. Even these words could well be lies—Polo would lie if Kublai asked him to. That was only right, to obey the Khan, but it would have been nice if someone would give Jingim the truth, a straightforward answer, for once in his life.
He sighed. “Well, here is another lead for you. I expect you will follow it thoroughly.”
“Yes, my prince.” Polo bowed again. At least he was respectful. “I hope you are doing better.”
“I’m not doing any worse. That would be difficult.” Jingim snorted. “The doctor said it was good he got to me when he did. You may yet earn my trust.” At least in small things, and efficiency. “Impress me.”
One final bow. “I’ll do my best.”
With that, Polo was dismissed, and Jingim sighed. There. It was out of his hands—Kublai wanted him to stay out of it, so he would, even if it was his own assassination as well as Kublai’s. He knew the value of patience. Soon he would be back in court, and he would have a scar but would pretend that the attempt had done nothing to shake him. Maybe it would fool Byamba and Ahmad or whoever else might have tried to kill him. Probably it wouldn’t be enough to scare the culprit off. But there was nothing else Jingim could do. For now he would have to rest.