“If my father were alive—”
Psin turned suddenly. The fork’s two tines flashed right under Mongke’s nose. Mongke bounded back. He looked from the fork to Psin and back to the fork. Psin held it by the throat, watching Mongke.
“Your father’s dead, boy. Is there something you want of me?”
Mongke said nothing. He didn’t seem to be angry, only waiting. One of his small lean hands rested against his dagger’s sheath. Psin laughed. He tossed the fork into the hay pile, walked over to stand next to Mongke, and looked down at Mongke over his shoulder. Mongke swore and backed up quickly. Psin laughed again. He went to the door and let himself out and slammed the door shut behind him.
The next morning, Psin rode out to look at the Volga camp. The storm had passed over and the sun burnt down on glittering snow. All the roofs were covered with it. Children bounded screaming through the street, hurling snowballs at one another. Swathed to the ears in heavy clothes, they looked like bundles of old fur.
The city was laid out on a grid pattern. Psin, used to the concentric circles of Karakorum and the great ordus, got lost twice before he realized what was wrong. Outside the Khan’s compound there were only a few wooden houses; the streets were lined with yurts. Across the low round roofs he could see a spire, like a Christian church. Riding back, he saw two of the wooden houses burnt to shells. The stench of smoke hung in the air and made him cough. The sunlight was warm, and when he finally returned to the compound his cloak lay before him across the withers of his horse.
A slave ran out to meet him and said that Sabotai and Batu had been hunting him all morning.
“Where are they?”
“In the council room, Khan.”
“Where is Mongke?”
“In his house in the city, I suspect, Khan.”
“The others—Quyuk, Kadan?”
“In Bulgar, Khan.”
“Oh. That’s right.” Psin went inside. Bulgar was the great city in the north, where the Kama River met the Volga; when Batu conquered the Bulgars he had left their city standing.
Batu was sitting in a carved chair, one leg across the arm of it, the foot idly swinging. Psin bowed and Batu said, “Psin Khan. I’ve not seen you since the kuriltai.”
“Nine years. I hear you’ve found some good game up here.”
“I have to make something of my patrimony.” Batu jabbed one hand at a table loaded with hot and cold meat and jugs. “Eat. Where have you been all morning?”
“Looking at your city.” Psin went to the table. He could smell meat pies all the way across the room. The pies were under a linen napkin in a dish, and he tucked the napkin back, sat down on the floor beside the table, and began to devour pies.
Sabotai uncorked a jug and poured himself kumiss. Batu said, “What do you think, Psin? The Russians take generations to build churches. We built one in a single summer. It took a lot of slaves, and we had to bring the wood down from the north. That’s why I like being near the river.”
Psin finished his fourth pie. “Why in God’s name did you make all the streets straight?”
“To confuse good Mongols.” Batu helped himself to a piece of fruit. “If an enemy ever gets inside my walls, he’ll have to charge down streets so wide and straight I can riddle him with arrows without leaving my palace.”
“Clever,” Sabotai said. He stretched. He wore clean, neat clothes, and he had bathed; Psin could smell soap on him. “Are your brothers in Bulgar?”
“All but Siban,” Batu said. “He and Sinkur are off harrying Mordvins.” Batu rolled an apple in his palms. To Psin, he said, “The Mordvins live between Bulgar and the Russian cities. I want them frightened before we ride.”
“When do the rivers freeze?” Psin said.
“Within the month. I have scouts out, and they’re to report it.”
Sabotai frowned. He looked over at Psin. “When will Tshant get here?”
Psin wiped up the crumbs on the pie platter. All the pies were eaten. “If he comes with my women, in the spring. I think he’ll come on ahead.”
“If he does, when will he arrive?”
“Within ten days.”
“You’re bringing your women?” Batu said, one eyebrow cocked.
Psin nodded. He poured out kumiss into a silver cup. “I enjoy being waited on.”
Batu glanced at Sabotai and back to Psin. “Your Chinese wife as well?”
“I’ll kill any man who looks at her, Batu. With my own aged hands.” Psin drank and wiped his upper lip on his sleeve.
“Oh, my interest is purely aesthetic.” Batu turned to Sabotai. “Have you seen her? She is magnificent.”
“Sometimes I think only the Muslims dress their women properly,” Psin said.
“You don’t trust us,” Batu said.
“You’re very astute. How many tumans do you have?”
“Fifteen, full strength. Plus an engineer corps and a fair supply of baggage wagons. Each of my illustrious kin brought his own tuman. Some of them are overstrength. Quyuk’s, for example.”
“I saw Mongke last night.”
“He came down when he heard you were here. He doesn’t like you.”
“I need half a tuman for reconnaissance,” Psin said. “Give me an apple.”
“God above,” Batu said. He threw an apple, left-handed but still accurately. “I can see that we’re going to do this properly. Half a tuman? The best of the troops are in Bulgar. We’ll start all campaigns from there in any case.”
Psin took a bite of the apple. The taut skin broke under his teeth and juice filled his mouth. “If I were you, Batu, I would keep Mongke and Tshant posted in different places.”
“I want Tshant with me. He’s the only man of you who plays intelligent chess.”
“Do you want a Russian slave?” Sabotai said.
Psin nodded. “A man, my age if possible, and fairly intelligent. And co-operative.”
“Why not a woman?” Batu said. “They’re comforting.”
“I don’t want comfort, I want to learn Russian.”
Batu’s face furrowed. “I thought you already spoke it. I thought you spoke all the languages in the world.” He laughed. “Legends grow, so far from home.”
“And I’ll need a good horse,” Psin said. “That brute I’m riding now is too small for me. A string of good horses.”
“Look through my barns.”
Sabotai rose. “Psin, come with me, and I’ll explain what the country’s like, west of here.”
Batu said, “When are you going to Bulgar, Psin?”
“Tomorrow.”
“That should be pleasant. My kin are going wild up there. If we don’t fight soon they’ll be uncontrollable.”
“We’ll fight,” Sabotai said. He looked at Psin and smiled maliciously. “And if they aren’t in condition to fight, they’ll have very little leisure to worry about it in, if I have anything to say.”
They all dined that night in Batu’s chambers. Batu kept half a dozen small housecats, and Mongke ate with one on his lap. Nobody said anything until the food was gone and the slaves were removing dishes and wiping off the table. Sinkur, Batu’s second-in-command, and Batu’s brother Siban had come in unexpectedly from the Mordvins’ country, but they left the room at once to play chess. Mongke put one foot up on the table and stroked the grey cat’s long soft fur.
“Have you spoken with the Russian slave yet?” Sabotai said.
Psin nodded. “I spent the afternoon with him. He’ll serve. Mongke, if you want sport until the winter, I’d be honored if you’d join me raiding.”
Mongke’s fingers burrowed into the cat’s fur. “What help could I give to the great Psin?”
Psin spat. “Don’t bother.”
Sabotai leaned forward. “What will you do?”
“I was going to let Mongke raid through the cities between the Volga and the Oka—you said you want to take them this winter. If Tshant gets here soon enough, he’ll raid across the steppe to that river you told
me about—” He snapped his fingers. “The Dnepr. I’ll ride through whatever lies north of the Oka to Novgorod.”
Batu said, “I’ve had spies and sympathizers in the cities between the two rivers for months now.”
“Who besides Mongke can raid there?”
Mongke said, abruptly, “I’ll go, Psin.”
“Good.” Psin heard the cat drop to the floor, and Mongke stood up. Mongke’s arm shot into Psin’s sight, caught up bowls and pieces of fruit, and arranged them on the table top. “Riazan is here. Yaroslav, Tver, Vladimir, Susdal. Moskva, Kolomna—”
“You know it well,” Psin said, surprised.
Mongke nodded. “I’m the best man you could send.”
“Do you speak Russian?”
Mongke laughed, settled back into his chair, and gathered up the cat again. “Russian? Why should I speak Russian? I have Russian slaves.”
Psin grimaced. “Don’t trust them. Half a tuman. You take one thousand. Scout the roads, the cities, the estates, the herds, the fields. Tshant will take two thousand to the Dnepr. I’ll take the rest.”
Sabotai glanced at Batu, who beamed and leaned forward. “Psin. If you wouldn’t mind—”
“Take the Altun with you,” Sabotai said. “They need the exercise.”
“They won’t want to go,” Mongke said. “They’re having too good a time in Bulgar.”
Softly, Sabotai murmured, “Psin shall make them go.”
Psin met his eyes. Sabotai slouched back into his chair and nodded three times, slowly and purposefully. Psin couldn’t help grinning. He looked at Mongke, who was puzzled, and back to Sabotai.
“Oh. Shall I. Well, now.”
“I had a bad dream,” Djela said. He pulled Tshant’s arm around his waist. He rode in front of Tshant on the post-horse; the cloak was belted around them both.
“I heard you,” Tshant said. He veered the horse around a snow-covered clump of shrubs and let it pick its own way down the slope. With one arm he held his son. “What kind of dream?”
“I dreamt we rode down a long road with cliffs on both sides. The cliffs made shadows on the road. And in front of us ran black dogs, black bulls and black horses, in and out of the places where the sun was bright.”
Tshant pressed his arm against Djela. “It was only a dream.” The horse wallowed through a drift and started up the other side of this little ravine. Its hoofs skidded on rock or ice, and it stumbled. Tshant reined in.
“But they were ghosts, Ada. The black dogs and horses and bulls.”
Tshant unwrapped the sash around the cloak. “You were only dreaming. I have to clear this rat-eaten nag’s hoofs out again.”
Djela wiggled out from under the cloak, and Tshant dismounted. The slopes and the low shrubs were covered with snow, blinding white under the sky so blue it hurt Tshant’s eyes. Djela’s green coat made a great patch in the midst of it. The boy slid down from the horse and began to leap through the drifts, splashing the snow with his hands and shouting. Tshant picked up one of the horse’s forefeet. The ice had balled up in the hoof so that the horse stood not on its own feet but on a pad of rock-hard snow.
“Ada, can you see me?”
Tshant glanced around. “No. Where are you?”
“In the snow.”
Tshant dug out the ice with his knife. “Come back.”
“I’m here.”
“Don’t run around like that. If you sweat you’ll freeze.”
“I know. But I’m tired of riding.”
“We’ll be there soon.” Tshant tended to the horse’s hind hoofs and straightened up. He picked up Djela and set him in the saddle, mounted behind him, and draped his cloak around them again. Djela snatched up the reins. “Let me do it.”
“Good. I’ll sleep.”
He put his arms around the boy and shut his eyes. The glare of the sun on the snow made his eyelids red-gold. They bumped up the slope and along a level stretch. The waystation captain had said that they were within a day’s ride of the Volga camp, if the snow didn’t slow them down too much.
“There are no more stations,” the man had called after them. “Take another horse.”
Tshant dozed. The vigorous warmth of the child pressed against his chest. He dreamt of the winter pasture by the Lake, of Kerulu murmuring in the twilight; he saw Djela riding a black bull down a wide sunlit road.
The horse lurched, and Tshant jerked awake. Djela said, “He stumbled again.”
Tshant looked around. They were on a plain that stretched limitless to the sky. Here and there a low shrub had thrown off the snow and stood stark against it. The wind stirred, and long streamers of snow rose from the ground and marched across their track. Behind them their trail was already filling. The snow rose into the sky and the blue vanished behind a thin mist. The sun shrank to a silver disk.
“It’s going to storm.”
“I’m hungry.”
Tshant took dried meat from the pouch under the pommel of his saddle and gave it to him. Djela gnawed at it, growling. He had taken up pretending he was a dog before they left the Lake. They lumbered on, the horse’s breath like smoke.
“Will we be there tonight?”
“I don’t know.” Tshant frowned. The plain up ahead, where it dipped, was covered with irregular lumps. He reined in.
“Is it a camp?” Djela said. “Are they men sleeping?”
“It looks like that,” Tshant said. But men would not lie so, covered with snow, not in the middle of the day. He reached behind him and took his bow from the case. “Hold the horse.”
Djela bounced a little, eagerly. Tshant strung his bow and pulled the top off his quiver. “Now, slowly, ride in among them.”
The horse started forward willingly enough but when they were close stopped and would not go farther. Tshant muttered. He dismounted, holding his bow with an arrow nocked, and walked to the nearest lump. The snow was crusted over it. He kicked it, and the snow burst, and the frozen body of a man tumbled over the snow. Djela yelled, surprised.
The horse reared, whirling, trying to bolt. Djela wrestled with it, sawed on the reins, and the horse backed up in a rush. Tshant caught the rein. “Mordvins. We must be near the Volga camp.” He led the horse through the lumps of frozen men, mounted up behind Djela, and kicked the horse into a trot.
Psin and Mongke reached Bulgar in the forenoon, three days after they left the Volga camp, and in the midafternoon Psin had all the troops camped around the city turned out for inspection. Quyuk, the Kha-Khan’s eldest living son, was in command of Bulgar; he rode beside Psin along the lines of the five tumans drawn up before the walls.
“They’re badly mounted,” Psin said. The Mongols rode native stock, smaller than Psin was used to, and very long in the back. The tumans in their rows stretched out across the plain, countless heads bobbing, countless eyes turned on him and Quyuk. Behind them the iron-blue shoulders of the hills rose against the unclouded sky.
“I think you’ll find them adequate,” Quyuk said carelessly. He pointed to three rows of horsemen grouped around a banner with a two-headed dragon. “Those served under you in Korea, I think.”
“Mongke’s honor guard. Yes.”
The wind was right in Psin’s face, cold and edged with coming snow. A horse neighed and a thousand others answered. “What kind of condition are they in?”
Quyuk shrugged one shoulder. His horse skittered sideways and he clubbed it over the ears with his fist. “They’ve done little fighting since the spring. But they race their horses, and they patrol along the river. That’s where the other two tumans are now.”
Psin glanced at him. Quyuk rode a much better horse than any of the troops’. Psin decided it was a crossbred, half native and half Mongol. He kicked up his horse and cantered along the line, returning the salutes. At the end of the line he wheeled his horse, so that when Quyuk caught up with him they were facing each other, their horses shoulder to shoulder.
“Any of the Altun who wish it may come with me,” Psin sa
id. “When I ride to Novgorod.”
“We are all honored by the invitation, of course,” Quyuk said. He reached for the jug on his saddle.
“Perhaps I’m not making myself clear,” Psin said. “If I take it upon myself to nursemaid a pack of well-bred savages, I expect rather more than being told they are honored.”
Quyuk’s great brows flew together. “No. Perhaps you aren’t making yourself clear, Merkit.”
Psin smiled at him. “You are coming with me, Quyuk. You and your brother and your cousins. All but Batu’s brothers. Is that clear enough?”
“I don’t wish to. Is that also clear?”
“It’s irrelevant, Quyuk.”
“You can’t give me orders.”
“Oh? I think I can. I think I will.”
Quyuk’s hand darted toward his belt, but Psin, expecting it, clamped his fingers around Quyuk’s wrist. Quyuk’s face was bright red and his eyes glittered. He shot a quick glance at the watching army and twisted his arm, but Psin only squeezed harder. He didn’t think Quyuk would cry out. Looking over his shoulder, Psin saw that the men around them noticed nothing. Quyuk strained, and Psin tightened his fingers. He heard a rasp, like a bone grating on another bone, and Quyuk’s lips trembled with pain.
“Do I make myself clear, Quyuk?”
Quyuk’s eyes looked slippery. He blinked at the tears. “Let me go.”
Psin twisted his wrist. Quyuk’s mouth jerked open and he gasped.
“Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes.”
Psin let him go. “Good. I look forward to this raid.” He saluted the armies, and their arms flew up in answer, all across the plain, five tumans of arms. Reining his horse he galloped back toward the city. Temujin was probably shaking in Heaven over this treatment of his grandchildren. But while he rode through the gate he changed his mind. Temujin was probably laughing.
He rode straight to the house that Quyuk had set aside for him and Mongke, put up his horse and went inside. Mongke was in the main room, sprawled naked on a couch, red wine at his elbow and fluffy cakes in a dish on the floor beside him. Kaidu in a silk tunic painted with flowers paced up and down, talking about the fighting against the Kipchaks. Psin recognized him by his resemblance to Batu, who was Kaidu’s grandfather. Psin stopped in the doorway and listened. Kaidu hadn’t heard or seen him, but Mongke’s eyes flickered in Psin’s direction and he smiled.
Until the Sun Falls Page 4
