"Wax is soft. No thread. And the camel saddles are Uzbek style — not ours. It's a decoy to draw us west. The real ilgeemj is probably already moving north through the black marsh."
Baasan grabbed the man's sleeve, begging for water. As he did, he slid his thumb across the blue wax seal on the nearest bundle. The wax crumbled. Fake. Real seals had a hairline of red thread baked inside.
"Report," Batzorig said when he returned. mongol shuudan ilgeemj shalgah
Baasan coughed, stood up, and limped back toward the rocks.
Baasan nodded, slipped from his saddle, and tumbled down the slope, crying out in pain. The caravan halted. The leader — a thin, hawk-nosed man in a faded deel — dismounted and walked toward the "injured" rider. "Wax is soft
In the valley, the false caravan master looked up. He knew he'd been assessed. And found wanting.
From above, Batzorig watched the hands. The caravan master's right hand never left his belt. That was where a small knife would be — or a signal horn. It's a decoy to draw us west
The wind over the Khyilung steppe did not howl. It sang — a low, mournful vibration that made the grass bow like a congregation in prayer. In the shadow of a rock outcropping, five riders sat motionless on their stocky horses. They were the Shuudan — the Mongolian quick-response unit. Their mission: assess the "ilgeemj" (the delivery/consignment) before the winter solstice.
Batzorig turned to his men. "The shalgah (assessment) is complete. The ilgeemj is false. We ride north. The real test begins now."
He drew the bow. The arrow whistled as it flew, a sound like a screaming eagle.