To make one man ascend to power, Tuzniq later realized, it only takes six words, heard by the wrong ears. In Baraat’s case, those six words had been:

“Baraat Buriyat will be myangan-lord”, relayed from one of Tuzniq’s guardsmen to a particularly drunk arbat-lord, who belonged in the 35th myangan. This arbat lord exclaimed his joy at the news, since he (a man barely two years older than Baraat, who had been awed at the news of the young wolf’s exploits) perhaps saw this as a shining example, a promise of glory waiting for him around the corner. So he informed the men under him and the men that he had drunk under the table. They, in turn, groaned and roared and spread the news outward, in a radial pattern of rumor and speculation. Inside an hour, an entire zuun’s worth of men beat their chest, chanting the boy’s name, carrying it further down among the ranks, like a particularly virulent disease.

It spread out through caucuses of concentrated joy, of disbelief, of drunkenness infecting a myangan’s worth of men in a single night and doubling its rate of infection every half-hour since then. In their tents, the soldiers beat their chest and chugged down vodka or shouted, between bites into their mukhomor mushroom, the young wolf’s name. From the rooftops of occupied buildings, arbat-lords chanted his name to the rhythm of their drums. Beside their Tngri, the shaman-engineers beat their palms against the hulls to the very same rhythm. In their RVs, the officers were roused by the sound of it.

By dawn break that very same night, the Khan rolled on his bed away from Tuzniq (who had slept lightly, kept awake by the terror of Baraat and the possible repercussions of siding against the Khan), left his bed and snarled “What the Hell is that noise? Who is chanting?”

It turned out to have been the vast majority of the Horde. Not so much its officers or its scribes and commanders, but the masses that made up the lifeblood of it. And they shouted, to the rhythm of a hundred thousand beating hearts: “Baraat Buriyat! Baraat Buriyat! Baraat Buriyat!” rattling their sabers, firing their guns. The young wolf’s name resounded across Volgograd, echoing in the ears of the Khan and his tumen-lords and the myangan-lords, who grit their teeth and clenched their fists at the sound of it. So the Khan roused Tuzniq from his sleep and commanded him “Find Gansukh Kiryat. Bring him to me.”

And Tuzniq left the Khan’s tent, sending off his men to look for the dead man, who had dissolved to nothing by that time in the boiling waters of the Volga. With the tumen-lords and the Khan preoccupied with the uproar, he went into Gansukh’s RV, where Baraat was waiting, grinning happily. 

“Is that your doing?” Baraat asked.

“Don’t sell yourself too short; you had already done most of the work for me. All it took was a tiny bit of coercion.”

“I am as good as a myangan-lord already. These men, they want me to lead them.”

“Most of those men are bombed out of their skulls or high on mukhomor. But they make enough noise, yes. It won’t be long before the Khan calls you by his side. After he has made certain that Kiryat is nowhere to be found.”   

Baraat went pale at that “They won’t find him. He’s already melted into the Volga.”

“But he’ll know. It is certain that he will know. He probably suspects you already. Not that he can do anything about it, when he has all those men shouting your name. He will have to cave in.”

“Then you are saying I’m as good as a myangan-lord already.”

“The Khan will have the final say.” Tuzniq replied “but I would suggest you start getting comfy on that bunk bed. It’s going to be yours soon. This and everything that comes with it.” He barely contained his smile, as soon as he saw Baraat’s strained expression, his eyes wandering over the possessions of the man he had just stabbed in the back. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Get out of my RV.” Baraat muttered. Tuzniq obliged him.

***

Of course the Khan yielded, in time. By then, it had been noon and the search for Gansukh Kiryat had proven fruitless. The Khan would have pressed further in his investigation, but it was not long before rumors reached his own ears, as well, from one of the Ogtbish in service to the myangan-lord Asai. That Ganuskh had acted in a very suspicious manner and was suspected to have worked through an Ogtbish agent of his, having him flayed after three of his zun-lords were poisoned. His tumen-lords also agreed that Gansukh had appeared to be averse to the Khan’s campaign plan on Russia. 

“He seemed…unsure of the wisdom of your tactics, Khan.”

“There is, of course, the incident of his ordering a retreat in Saryozek” they informed him, through the testimony of one of his zuun-lords.

“Not to mention his lack of appeal among his own men. Any one of them could have done it. He was not loved, Khan.” They advised.

“He has fled, Batu. This is clear as day. And the men have made their choice” Tuzniq said, as the Khan sent his own men to detain Baraat from his superior officer’s RV. In a way, it was these words that sealed the deal, more than the evidence or the hearsay or the advice of the men that the Khan had bled and fought and burned his way through Asia with. And because the Khan was not above his Horde (not in any way that would have allowed him to maintain his hold on the masses of blood-thirsty killers) he yielded. And so, he had Baraat Buriyat brought to his tent, in the absence of his most trusted advisors and Tuzniq, leaned very close into Baraat’s ear and whispered:

“The rabble wants to make you into their leader. I will grant them this, because they are many and they rarely ever speak with one voice. You will be granted a myangan, as you desired and you will fight for me and you will win for me. But fail me, even once and I will destroy you, boy. I will crush you and burn you and pin your worthless hide to the fender of my mount and when the world is mine, I will make your name a word of shame.”

Then the Khan leaned back, clapped Baraat on the shoulder and commanded him:

“Now come, Baraat of the Buriyat. I would grant you authority before the Horde itself.”

The young wolf followed close behind the Khan, on the makeshift stage that had been set up just outside the square, on the crossroads with Raboche-Krestnyaskaya, took the microphone from the podium and bade Baraat Buriyat kneel, the Mongols ceasing their chanting at the sight, holding their breath, waiting for the announcement. How small he seems, the Khan thought, his fingers tracing the grip of his saber. How wiry and exposed is his neck. I could draw my sword and cut him down right now, kick at his head as it rolls. Then perhaps the rabble would know what I think of their baying and their screaming. It would be so easy…he mused, as he drew the saber from the scabbard, holding it high for the men to see, the finely-honed edge gleaming in the sunlight. It would only take a moment…

But he did not bring it down on his neck in a single swooping motion. He did not kill Baraat, for fear of the uproar, because he knew, right then and there that even here, at the very end of the world, it was as it had always been: the power rested among the masses, the rabble, the grunting heaving, small-minded creatures. And these creatures maintained the illusions of command and the appearance of civilization. It was their assent that had made him Khan. It was their uproar that would make the young wolf into a leader of men…

“I name you myangan-lord of the 35th myangan, according to the will of the Horde! Rise now, Baraat of the Buriyat and may the world tremble at the sound of your engine!”

And they sand his praises, showered him with adoration. They carried him on their arms, the object of fascination for the young, a receptacle of jealousy for the old. He shone like the sun, in that moment: a war-god, held aloft by the miraculous power of a hundred thousand believers. But it would not last for long, this the Khan knew. It would not be long, before the boy slipped and made a mistake. It would not take much, to turn the masses against him. And when they did, he would savor every single moment.

***

Heng had expected this, before the Khan’s voice had come from the speakers. She had prepared herself for Baraat to burst inside the tent, to drag her by her hair so he could have her outside. Or for perhaps his men to do it for him, to hold her down so they could stop her from plunging her thumb in his eye and twisting it as deep as she could, hoping that perhaps she could dig out a bit of brain. She had even considered the possibility that Baraat might simply kill her outright; she had, after all, abandoned him for Gansukh and he would have no trouble realizing where the poison that came close to killing him came from. These options had not scared her. She feared for the well-being of her child, of course, but if her death was inevitable, she preferred it would die in the womb rather than exist in this world of madmen.

Heng had palmed the razor-blade from Shaba’s vanity set when the women were busy peeking outside. If she couldn’t strike at Baraat when he would force himself on her, then she would wait until he slept and she’d cut him between the legs. She knew how to do it in a way that would bleed him worse than a knife in his gut and hurt three times worse. And even if he did kill her right then, if he shot her in the head or cut off her head, there would be nothing anyone could do to save him and still allow him to call himself a man.

What Heng hadn’t been expecting was the tent’s guardsmen to enter and very politely ask her to come along. They did not brandish their weapons. They merely smiled at her and said: “The myangan-lord Baraat Buriyat wishes to see you in his quarters.” Heng had followed without a moment’s hesitation. When they helped her inside the mount and led her back to Lenin Square, leading her to the entrance of the RV, the only one to greet her was the boy called Tuzniq, his expression almost unreadable. Outside, the ruckus had ceased. The guards kept their distance, leaving her alone, unharmed.

When Heng stepped inside, Baraatwasn’t sitting on Gansukh’s bed. He was waiting for her, arms crossed. His expression seemed strained, his lip trembling. Heng made no motion toward him, or against him, even as Baraat walked up to her, pressing his body on her own. His hands cupped her breasts and she only drew breath, clenching her fist around Shaba’s razor-blade so hard it bit into her flesh. His motions were clumsy, his kisses hard and off the mark, his lips brushing against hers with harsh, careless kisses. Heng clenched her teeth, when Baraat squeezed her breasts, his fingers finding her nipples over the fabric of her top, pinching them roughly. She bit her lip, turning away from him as he kissed her neck, his hand moving down her body, over her swollen belly, between her legs. His fingers were tracing her sex over the fabric of her skirt and Heng saw the back of his neck and knew exactly where to strike and how deep, which nerves to sever to plunge him into a deep dark abyss of pain because she knew right then and there, that she could never let him have her.

Heng moved the razor-blade to the tip of her fingers, just as Baraat’s fingers pressed against her sex and she winced in pain. He moaned, perhaps in pleasure. She felt his manhood hard and swollen against her and a wave of nausea overtook her. Closing her eyes, breathing in, she moved the razor-blade down, close to his chest, when suddenly something gave way inb her belly and she felt her waters break between her legs. Baraat gasped at the sight, just as Heng’s muscles contracted and she fell on her knees, going into labor. The child inside her kicked as it turned, her entire body convulsing as it pushed its way out from under her, the razor-blade clattering unheard on the floor, lost as she screamed, falling on her knees. 

Oh, thank you, thank you…she thought, as she watched Baraat’s horrified expression at the writhing, squirming woman in his tent, howling like mad as the child inside her pushed its way out into the world. He ran outside, calling for help and Heng’s eyes rolled back as the waves of pain washed over her: she had not been prepared for this, but she knew what to do. The nurses and the medics and the midwives came to her aid, as Baraat ordered them to, with warm towels and soothing words and a pillow for her head.

She bit her lip and screamed out, as the child pushed its way out of her, the pain overwhelming her senses, knocking the wind out from her. The world became a haze of white, streaked with the blue of prolonged agony, until finally it fell apart in a million pieces, the second she heard the child’s cry, coming from somewhere in the unknown distances beyond the haze that was her entire universe at that moment.

The child was a bawling, ugly thing, with almond-shaped eyes and a yawning mouth that she loved the second she saw it. It was tiny and loud and to Heng, it was worth its weight in gold. It kicked at the length of umbilical cord clumsily, until one of the nurses severed it, revealing her sex. It’s a girl, Heng thought, her heart sinking. It’s tiny and it’s frail and it’s doomed, but I love it.

And she did love it, so much so that she changed the tiny part of her own world for her sake. 

“You’re Ying.” She told the little girl, her voice barely heard over its bawling. “And I love you.”