Reincarnated as Genghis Khan's Grandson, I Will Not Let It Fall-Chapter 87: What Urgench Became

The low ground came first.

The tumen was still a full hour’s march from the city when the terrain dropped and the character of the earth changed. What had been worked agricultural land gave way to something different, the soil darker and more compacted, the grass shorter and sparse in the places it grew at all.

The waterworks that crossed the approach here were not for farming. They were older, running in the patterns of a city’s infrastructure, serving nothing now.

The ground between them was periodically inundated and the flooding showed in the sediment lines across the stones and in the way the lower vegetation grew in dense horizontal rings rather than evenly.

The foundations were visible in places.

The freeze and thaw cycle and more than a decade of the river doing what the river had been told to do had reduced them to low irregular rises in the earth, pale against the darker surrounding ground, the kind of feature that didn’t read as anything to someone who didn’t know the history.

Batu knew them for what they were.

He did not say anything to Torghul, who was riding beside him. Torghul knew what happened to Urgench in the same way all the senior riders knew it, the same way they knew what happened to every city that resisted.

He did not need it explained.

The question Batu was running while he looked at the low ground was about the cities further west. About what decisions he should make if they resisted his expansion.

He carried the question and kept moving.

The new city sat on elevated ground to the south and east of the flood plain, visible from the approach as a line of walls and the tops of larger structures above them.

It was smaller than the walls suggested it should be. A city rebuilding from its own ruins used the original perimeter for protection but filled only part of the interior.

The outer markets and workshops were running on the western district, the sound and smell of them reaching the column before the gate did.

The Khar Kheshig repositioned as the formation entered the outer market area.

The steppe half read the terrain change automatically, their spacing tightening for an urban approach.

The norse half took an extra beat to find their intervals. Men calibrating to a density of people and structures they had last encountered in very different contexts.

Gunnar was riding in the center of his men with a felt pad still across his knee.

He had been working on the horn call mapping since the marsh country and he had not stopped on the march since.

He put the pad inside his coat when the market district reached them and watched the street, reading the density of traffic for what moved beneath it.

The provisioning station was at the outer district, a walled compound with a Karakorum official’s insignia above its gate.

A subordinate of the darughachi met them there. He was a Persian, middle-aged, his Mongolian correct and formal.

He told them the allocation had been prepared.

That was all he said.

It took most of an hour.

The subordinate consulted inside the compound. Someone else went out and came back. The documentation was reviewed against whatever the station kept.

The wolf’s track seal produced a pause each time someone encountered it for the first time. The system had no assigned place for it.

The allocation came out.

The provisioning work began.

Nayan came personally to the meeting.

He was in his mid-forties, a Mongol administrator with the build of a man who had spent his early years on horseback and his later years behind a table and had not fully resolved the transition.

He moved efficiently.

His eyes were reading Batu’s formation from the moment he came through the gate, counting the Khar Kheshig’s two halves, registering the norse faces, filing whatever he made of it.

He introduced himself without ceremony and sat across from Batu at the station’s outer table.

"The seal isn’t in our records," he said.

A professional observation, delivered to a Chinggisid prince as procedure, nothing personal in it.

"The Karakorum administrative register carries the central stamp and recognized subordinate marks. Yours is neither."

"It’s the Jochid administrative mark," Batu said.

He received that.

"The delay was standard. We used your political standing to authorize the release. The allocation is complete."

"Good."

Batu looked at him across the table.

"You’ve been here for years."

"Since the resettlement reached a functional level." His voice was even.

"The reconstruction of the irrigation network," Batu said. "Who administered it."

The answer came without hesitation.

The hydraulic work had been managed by a Persian engineer named Ahmad, who had come south from the Khurasan appointments and had spent two years here restoring the waterway systems south of the low ground.

He had left for Bukhara approximately three months ago.

The work was complete enough to run without him. The darughachi had let him go because Bukhara’s reconstruction was further behind and Ahmad had been useful here and would be useful there.

"What was his specific knowledge," Batu said.

"Flood management. Diversion systems. How to design for the annual cycle, working with it."

He paused.

"He understood what the Amu Darya does in spring and how to build infrastructure that works with it."

That was what Batu needed from the conversation on that subject.

He let it close.

"The raiders in the delta," he said. "The ones operating in that delta country. We had contact with them on the march south."

He looked at Batu steadily.

"How significant."

"Minimal. We fought them away."

The expression across the table did not change, but something confirmed in it. A man receiving information he had been expecting to receive for some time.

"They’ve been a problem since the early years of the resettlement. Displaced Kipchak clans who never submitted. Some organized groups among them, former Khwarezm military, not many. They operate between your northern authority and ours here, and neither one has found the operation worth the resources to clear them."

He paused.

"They know the reeds. We’ve tried twice to push garrison riders in. We lost men and they moved east and came back."

"Their positions."

"Two primary groups. Both in the reeds south of where you encountered them."

He named the approximate territories with precision. The administrator had been filing the information for years without any use for it.

"The eastern group is larger. The southern group is more mobile."

Batu noted both.

"One more thing," he said.

He said it in the manner of a man holding something back until the rest of the conversation determined whether it was worth raising.

"Eight days ago a rider passed through the courier relay at the outer post. He was using the relay to change horses in a fast pace. There was a private seal on his documents, none that I recognized."

He kept his eyes on Batu.

"He came from the northwest. From the direction of the Jochid territories. He was heading east."

The table sustained the silence for a moment.

"You read the seal."

"Briefly. It was a small mark. A circle with a character inside it."

The exactness of it said he had been precise at the time.

"He didn’t stop. He had the relay authorization to change horses and he used it and he went."

Eight days ahead of them.

On a relay horse at courier pace.

The southern route was no secret to anyone watching from the camp. Someone had put a rider on the road before the tumen cleared the delta.

Batu thanked him for both and stood.

The rider’s stamp was unknown to the darughachi’s files. The mark belonged to neither register. A private stamp on a dispatch running ahead at courier pace from the direction of Batu’s territory, eight days out.

Bukhara was the next stop. 𝕗𝗿𝕖𝐞𝐰𝗲𝕓𝐧𝕠𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝐨𝚖

Whoever was on the road ahead of him had already passed through it.