The Liu Sha
at the edge of the Gobi, where life was gleaned from hardship. He was a man of the yurts, or tents, a nomad who ranged from the mosques of Bokhara to the outskirts of China. Somewhere, perhaps, Mirai Khan had an aul, with a flock of sheep, a dog, and even a wife and children.
The Kirghiz glanced at him keenly and shook his head.
"I have heard the name," he responded. "It was spoken by my father. But Sungan I have never seen."
"It is a city a week's ride beyond Ansichow," persisted Gray, "in the Desert of Gobi."
"That is in the sands," Mirai Khan reflected. "No game is found there, Excellency. Why should a man go to such a place?"
"Have you been there?"
"Does a horse go into a quicksand?"
"Have you known others who went there?"
"Aye, it may be."
"What had they to say of the desert?"
"It is an evil place."
The Kirghiz nodded sleepily. Having eaten heavily, he was ready for his blanket.
"Why did they call it an evil place?"
"How should I know—who have not been there?"
Mirai Khan yawned and stretched his stocky arms and legs, as a dog stretches. "It is because of the pale sickness, they say."
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