"Rub it onto your skin," the assassin murmured. "For the dogs."

As the spy understood, he looked up, but the black figure was already padding away on noiseless feet, vanishing in the darkness. The spy thanked his ancestors for the gift as he rubbed the muck over his skin. He thought at first that it had been kindness, though it was more likely the assassin did not want the camp roused while he set about his own work. His face flushed in humiliation at the thought. Let there be no other surprises that night.

When he had composed himself, he stood and trotted through the darkness, heading to a destination he had marked while there was still light. Without his grim companion, he felt his confidence begin to return. In a little while, he would be among the Chin recruits, chatting and talking as if he had known them for years. He had done it before, when the emperor suspected the loyalty of a provincial governor. He put aside the thought, realizing that he must be in place before the assassin struck or he could be caught and questioned. He strolled into the sleeping camp, calling a greeting to a Mongol warrior as the man came out to urinate in the night. The man responded sleepily in his own grunting language without expecting to be understood. A dog raised its head as he passed, but only growled softly as it caught his scent. The spy smiled, unseen in the darkness. He was in.

The assassin approached the great ger of the khan, moving through the dark camp like a wraith. The Mongol leader was a fool to reveal his location to everyone on the walls of Yenking. It was the sort of mistake a man made only once, when he knew nothing of the Black Tong. The assassin did not know if the Mongols would go back to their mountains and plains when the khan died. He did not care. He had been given a scroll tied in black silk ribbon in a formal ceremony by his master, pledging his life in a blood bond. No matter what happened, he would not return to his brothers. If he failed, he would take his own life rather than be captured and perhaps reveal the secrets of his order. The corners of his mouth tightened in dark amusement. He would not fail. The Mongols were sheepherders: good with a bow, but like children against a man of his training. There was little honor in being chosen even to kill a khan of these stinking tribesmen, but he gave no thought to that. His honor came from obedience and a perfect death.

He was not seen as he reached the great ger on its cart, shining whitely in the darkness. It loomed above him as he crept around it, looking for guards. There were two men nearby. He could hear them breathe as they stood in bored stillness, waiting for others to relieve them. From the walls of Yenking, it had been impossible to discern details, and he did not know how often they were replaced in the night. He would have to act quickly once he had brought death to that place.

Standing in perfect stillness, the assassin watched as one of the men moved away and took a tour around the khan's ger. The warrior was not alert and by the time he sensed someone standing in the shadows, it was too late. The guard felt something whip round his neck and slice into his throat, cutting off his cry. A sigh of bloody air came from his lungs and the other guard called a whispered question, not yet alarmed. The assassin lowered the first and edged to the corner of the cart, taking the second quickly as he came around. He too died without a sound and the assassin left him where he fell, crossing quickly to the steps that led upwards. He was a small man and they barely creaked under his weight.

In the blackness within, he could hear the slow breaths of a man deep in sleep. The assassin crept lightly across the floor. In perfect balance, he reached the sleeping figure and crouched by the low bed. They were alone. He drew a sharp blade, its metal blackened with oily soot so that it would not shine.

He pressed one hand down on the source of the breath, finding the mouth. As the sleeper jerked, he brought the knife quickly across the throat. A moan was cut off as quickly as it had begun and the spasming body fell still. The assassin waited until silence had returned, breathing shallowly against the stench of opening bowels. In the blackness, he could not see the face of the one he had killed, and he used his fingers to trace the features, a frown creasing his brow. The man did not smell like the warriors outside. His hands quivered slightly as they explored the open mouth and the eyes, moving up to the hair.

The assassin cursed to himself as he fingered the oiled braid of one of his own people. It could only have been a servant, one who deserved death by the rope for aiding the Mongols with his service. The assassin sat back on his heels as he considered what to do. The khan would surely be close, he thought. There were a number of gers clustered around the largest. One of them would contain the man he sought. The assassin composed himself, reciting a mantra from his training that brought instant calm. He had not yet earned the right to die.

GenghisLordsoftheBow

T HE ASSASSIN COULD HEAR BREATHING as he entered another ger. The darkness was absolute, but he shut his eyes and concentrated on the sounds. There were five sleepers in that small space, all unaware of the man standing over them. Four breathed shallowly and he grimaced to himself. Children. The other sleeper was probably their mother, though he could not be certain without a light. A single spark from a flint and steel would be enough, but it was a risk. If they woke, he would not be able to kill them all before they cried out. He made the decision swiftly.

One quick strike brought a flash of light in the ger, enough to show five sleeping bodies. None of them was large enough to be a grown man. Where was the khan? The assassin turned to leave, aware of time running out. It could not be much longer before the dead guards were discovered. When they were found, the peaceful night would be shattered.

One of the sleeping children snorted in his sleep, the rhythms changing. The assassin froze. He waited an age until the long breaths resumed, then stepped lightly to the ger door. He had greased the hinges and it opened without a sound.

He straightened as he pulled the door closed behind him, turning his head slowly to choose the next ger. With the exception of the impudent black tent facing the city and the one on the cart, all the others looked exactly the same.

The assassin heard a sound behind him and his eyes widened as he realized it was an indrawn breath, the sort that went before a shout or scream. He was moving even as the sound began, darting away into the deep shadows. He could not understand the words that echoed through the night, but the response was almost immediate. Warriors came stumbling out of every ger in sight, bows and swords ready in their hands.

It was Jochi who had shouted and whose sleep had been interrupted by the silent presence of the man in his home. His three brothers were jerked awake by his yell, and as one they began calling questions into the darkness.

"What is it?" Borte demanded over the noise, throwing back the blankets.

Jochi was already standing in the darkness. "There was someone in here," he said. "Guards!"

"You will wake the entire camp!" Borte snapped. "It was just a bad dream."

She could not see his face as he replied, "No. I saw him."

Chagatai rose to stand beside his brother. Alarm horns sounded in the distance and Borte cursed under her breath.

"Pray you are right, Jochi, or your father will have the skin off your back."

Jochi threw open the door and stepped out without bothering to reply. Warriors were swarming around the gers, searching for an intruder before they even knew there was one. He swallowed painfully, hoping he had not dreamed the figure.