Until the Sun Falls

by Cecelia Holland

  “And we’ve provided you with a marvelous new wardrobe,” Mongke said. “Roupen, the Khan’s clothes.”

  The slave bowed and left the room. Psin let another slave comb out his hair. “What kind of women?”

  “Two Kipchaks, two Russians, one Alan—Heavenly Name. They are savage, the Alans. Quyuk and I… And a girl from the west, from Poland. She’s the tamest of the lot.”

  “Poland.”

  Psin stood up in the tub. The water swirled and splashed around his knees. A slave threw a robe around his shoulders, and two more slaves rubbed him down briskly with squares of linen. His skin tingled; he hated admitting it was pleasant. Roupen came in with an armful of silk and satin. Psin opened his mouth to order him out again, but Mongke was grinning, and Psin kept quiet. The slaves dried him thoroughly, even between the toes and behind his ears, and dressed him with light, deft hands. The unfamiliar textures caressed him.

  “You’ve worn silk underwear half your life,” Mongke said. “This isn’t so different. Those mustaches are very unbecoming. Why don’t you cut them off?”

  “No!”

  The slaves draped a gold collar around his neck; Roupen smoothed out the medallions. Psin blushed. He could hear Mongke laughing under his breath. The slaves stood back, and Psin waved them away. His belt lay across the table beside Mongke’s knee. When he went to it the rustle of the silks deafened him.

  “How can you live dressed like this?”

  “It’s possible to learn. You can’t wear that belt, the buckle will wear through your tunic.”

  “Not since I started walking have I gone unarmed.” Psin took the dagger in its sheath from the old belt and rammed it through the sash on his new coat.

  “Now that you’re fit for noble company,” Mongke said, “come look over these girls. The Alan intrigues me, but I’ll need help.”

  “If you need help, you shouldn’t—Yes?”

  “Tshant Bahadur has arrived,” the messenger said, from the door. “He’s up at Quyuk Noyon’s house.”

  Mongke leapt down from the windowsill. “I’ll go—”

  “No.” Psin snatched up his sable cloak and started toward the door. “You are to go inspect your men. They need remounts. That’s a command, Mongke. If you break a command, I can order you back to Karakorum. Go on.”

  Mongke’s mouth twitched sulkily. Psin went out of the room.

  When he left the house the harsh cold struck him. Before the bath the grease had protected him against it. His horse waited, and he mounted and galloped off to Quyuk’s house. The wind was bitter. In the streets of Bulgar, conquered Bulgars worked and talked and skittered out of his way. His horse spun a rock out from underhoof and it smashed against the wall of a mud hut. He cantered through Quyuk’s gate.

  A slave rushed out to take his horse, and the sentry held the door open for him. He went through the empty room where they had dined the night before and into another, smaller room. Quyuk and Buri were talking in low voices at the far end; they looked up when Psin walked in.

  “Here he comes,” Quyuk said. “But so splendid.”

  “I don’t need comments,” Psin said. He draped his cloak over his arm. “I was told my son is here.”

  “And your grandson. I’ve summoned them.”

  Buri sat down and thrust his legs out in front of him. “We have a good reason why you can’t take us all raiding. Someone has to command in Bulgar.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  Buri’s face grew dark red. “Because—who will send out patrols? Keep the peace? Collect taxes?”

  “Your underlings will probably go on conducting your business as well without you as they do now.” Psin shook out his sleeves. “However, I doubt they’ll have to suffer through leaderless. Sabotai should be here within a few days.”

  Quyuk wandered aimless around the room, running his hand over the wall. He paused at a window. “You’re enjoying being older, wiser, and tougher than the rest of us, aren’t you, Psin?”

  “Very much. Buri, you go down and help Mongke find remounts for my troops.”

  Buri said, “I want to go drinking.”

  “I’m giving you a command.”

  Buri stared at him, turned his head to look at Quyuk, and said, “Do you have any orders for me, Quyuk?”

  Quyuk smiled. “Go help Mongke.”

  “With your permission.” Buri swept his gaze across Psin and started out.

  The door opened, and a Mongol servant came into the room. “Noyon, Tshant Bahadur is outside.”

  Quyuk turned. Psin nodded to the servant. “Send him in.” He took a chair from the wall and moved it closer to the center of the room. Quyuk frowned thoughtfully. Buri lingered by the door.

  Dressed in leather armor and sheepskin boots, his face smeared with grease against the cold, Tshant strode in, closely followed by a small boy. He bowed to Quyuk and nodded to Psin. The small boy emitted a cry of delight, ran over to Psin, and wrapped both arms around Psin’s left leg.

  “You came quickly enough,” Quyuk said. Buri was staring at Tshant.

  “I was ordered here or I wouldn’t have come at all,” Tshant said. He sat down. “Djela.”

  Djela trotted back to Tshant, who picked him up and held him in his lap. Tshant said, “Djela Noyon. Jagatai’s grandson.”

  “And mine,” Psin said. “But that’s just an accident. Buri, I thought you were leaving.”

  Buri turned and left.

  Quyuk said, “Does Mongke know you’re here?”

  “He will.” Tshant was unhooking Djela’s coat. He set the boy on the floor and peeled the coat off.

  “What have you done with my women?” Psin said.

  “They’re coming, with carts. Malekai is escorting them. Since you decided that Sidacai could rule the clan.” Tshant was straightening Djela’s clothes. “I sent Kerulu to Karakorum.”

  Quyuk scowled.

  Psin watched Djela. He had come well through the long hard trip. Freed from his father’s attentions, he wandered around the room, curious. “You should have sent Djela with her.”

  “No,” Tshant said. “Sabotai said you had orders for me.”

  “I’ve got two thousand men picked out for you. Take them and ride the steppe west. The steppe starts considerably south of here. In the west there is a river called the Dnepr. Ride it, raid, take prisoners, and come back with useful information.”

  Tshant hawked. “I’m to go off into the middle of a country I know nothing about with two thousand men I’ve never seen.”

  “Exactly. But it’s a bit of a ride to the steppe, and you’ll have time to get to know your men.”

  “I want to rest.”

  “You’ll leave either tomorrow or the day after.”

  Tshant’s face clenched. “No.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you. If you don’t want to go I’ll put Mongke in command and take you with me to Novgorod.” Psin with an effort kept from grimacing.

  “No,” Tshant said. “I’m not going to ride reconnaissance while these—” he stabbed his hand at Quyuk—”cattle sit around—”

  Quyuk lunged forward, and Tshant whirled, crouched. Djela watched with shining eyes. Psin got up and walked between Tshant and Quyuk.

  “They aren’t going to sit around. They’re coming with me. You are going to the Dnepr.” He held out a hand to Djela, and the boy ran over, beaming. Psin led him to the door. At it, he said, “Tshant, if you fight me, I’ll make you beg to be let go on long rides through hostile territory.”

  Abruptly relaxed and even mild, Tshant was sitting down again. “No need to flex your muscles. I’ll go.” He paused a moment, unsmiling. “What a pleasure to see you again, Father.”

  “Of course,” Psin said. He took Djela out.

  Tshant listened to the door shut and raised his arms over his head and stretched. Quyuk was looking out the window; he said, “Your relations with him aren’t exactly cordial, are they?”

  “We worship one another, but Father blushes so whe
n he has to be affectionate.”

  Quyuk snorted.

  “Your relations with your father aren’t ideal, I’ve heard.”

  “The Kha-Khan hates me. He’s afraid of me.” Quyuk moved back across the room. His loose houseshoes scuffed on the plank floor. “I don’t like him either.”

  “Don’t look to me for help. Jagatai and Ogodai are teaching your nephew to be Khan. I’m committed to that.”

  “He’s a handsome boy, your son.”

  “My father says he looks like your grandfather. You know I’m feuding with Mongke.”

  Quyuk nodded.

  “I don’t want fights with all my wife’s cousins. While I’m with this army, I’ll support you against my father if you keep the others out of my quarrel with Mongke.”

  Quyuk’s eyes rested on him. He crossed his arms over his chest; one hand moved nervously up and down the other arm. His right wrist wore a bandage. He said, “You’re blunt.”

  Tshant nodded.

  “Very well. I’ll agree to it. But you might not kill Mongke, you know.”

  “I won’t.” Tshant smiled. “I only mean to hurt him a little.”

  Quyuk’s mouth twisted. “You remind me of your father.”

  “Oh?” Tshant looked at the bandage, and Quyuk nodded.

  Tshant rose; he thought of what he would have to do before he could leave on his raid. “Where has my father taken my son?”

  “He’s living in the city. Take the street before the gate here, ride down three streets, and turn north. Fifth house from the end. Mongke is there, too.”

  “How convenient.” Tshant gathered up Djela’s things and went to the door.

  Quyuk said, “Tshant. From what I just saw, against your father you’ll be very little help.”

  Tshant smiled. “That’s right.” He opened the door and went out.

  Psin found Mongke still in the house, only half-dressed, and eating fruit steeped in wine. He put Djela to one side and said, “I told you to go to the camp.”

  “I know. But my horses are all lame. A pity.”

  “Take one of mine.”

  “Oh, well.” Mongke got up and strolled leisurely around, dressing. “You don’t mind if I—”

  “Yes. I do. Move.”

  Mongke drew his dagger and looked at the blade. Djela said, “Is that the man my father hates?”

  “I am,” Mongke said. He put up the dagger and went to the door, just fast enough so that Psin could not shout at him. Psin’s palms were sweating. He wanted to throw Mongke out bodily. He sent a slave to saddle a horse; Mongke pretended to have lost a boot and poked around looking for it.

  “Djela,” Psin said. “Go down the corridor to the room at the end. Ask for Dmitri. He’ll take you around the city.”

  “But I want to stay here. I want to tell you about our ride. It was snowy and we found—”

  “Later.” Psin ruffled the boy’s hair. “I have to talk to your father. We’ll have plenty of talking later. I have some things to tell you, too.”

  “Good.”

  “Say the name again.”

  “Dmitri. I remember.” Djela ran out.

  Mongke looked disconsolate; he was fully dressed and there had been no sound of a horse in the courtyard. He picked up his bow and left. Psin sat down, rubbing his chin. A slave girl came in with red wine and poured it for him.

  A horse clattered in the courtyard. Psin bounded up, but it was only Mongke leaving. He turned away from the window, surprised that he was so tense. The girl smiled at him, and he gestured to her to leave.

  Through the window he could see all but one corner of the courtyard. The snow, swept off by slaves, lay in a dirty heap against the southern wall. Dmitri and Djela came out of a door down the wall and walked toward the stable; Djela was talking, his bright face lifted toward the slave’s. Psin heard something about snow and frozen men.

  Tshant rode through the gate, dismounted, and gave Djela his coat. Djela tried to push it away; he said it was warm, too warm for a coat, he would run to keep warm, did he have to wear it? He had to wear it. Tshant said something to Dmitri, who bowed, and gave his reins to another slave. Psin pushed away from the window. He could feel the tension growing in his back and shoulders, the resistance and the strength to fight Tshant. Tshant, like them all, would have him down and beaten if he stopped shoving long enough for them to draw a free breath. He settled himself in a chair, his wine cup on the floor beside him.

  Tshant came in. “Good morning, Father. We had a lovely trip out from the Lake.”

  “Was the snow bad?”

  “Terrible.”

  “I suppose everyone’s all right, or you would have told me. I wish you’d brought my dun horse with you.”

  “Malekai will bring him. He would have slowed me down.” Tshant stripped off coat, gloves, hat, belt. “Tell me about Russia.”

  “I wish I knew. I’m here to do reconnaissance. All I know is that the steppe runs west at least as far as the river I told you about. The steppe begins a day’s ride south of here, and the forest stretches on way north of where we’ll be going.”

  “Where is Mongke?”

  “He’s not here. You can fight with him when I’m done with you.”

  “Who are our enemies? Cities or tribes?”

  “Cities. I suppose many of them are like Bulgar. Did you look at the Volga camp? Batu built it on a Russian plan, in part.”

  “I spent the night, no more.”

  “You came faster than we did. I think Sabotai has had more trouble with the Altun than with enemies.”

  “But you love making men do what they don’t want,” Tshant said softly. “I told Quyuk I’d support him against you if he stays out of my fight with Mongke.”

  “Your loyalty makes me weep with pride.”

  “What use am I against you?”

  “None. How is Artai?”

  “Very well. Happy. She’s glad you sent for her.”

  “And Chan?”

  “Furious. She’s done nothing but complain about the whole trip. Now that she’s sure nothing she says will change things.”

  Psin grunted. He could hear Chan’s voice in his mind, light and pure as porcelain, full of careless reproach. He shifted in the chair; even thinking about her kindled him.

  “She’ll cause you trouble,” Tshant said. “My cousins like women, I’m told.”

  “I’ll tend to Chan.”

  Tshant scratched his nose, smiling. “I’m sure you will.”

  “Your men are camped in the point of land where the rivers meet. You’ll have trouble finding remounts.”

  “I’ll need a Russian-speaking slave.”

  “Your thousand-commanders will get you one.”

  “Good. I’m taking Djela.”

  “I think you’re a fool.”

  “Nonetheless. You took me fighting when I was his age.”

  Psin stood up. “I think I was a fool. I took Tulugai and Kinsit along with me to Khwaresm. Where are they now?”

  “They did not die in Khwaresm.”

  “Still.” Psin turned his back on Tshant. He hadn’t thought of Tulugai and Kinsit for some while. They had died in China. “They learned too young not to be afraid. Fear keeps a man alive, I think. In ways.”

  “The ways aren’t worthy of us. They were in the Kha-Khan’s service. They could expect to die.”

  Psin clenched his teeth. Heat in waves flowed over him. He kept still, staring, waiting for Tshant to say one thing more. It occurred to him that he mightn’t be so angry if he had thought more often of his dead sons. “When you lose one, you’ll know better than that.”

  Tshant’s chair scraped against the floor. Psin could hear him stand up.

  “I lost a son and a daughter before they could draw breath,” Tshant said. His voice came from near the door. “I don’t mean to lose this one. Djela is mine, and I’ll do what I think I should with him.”

  The door slammed. Psin whirled. He was alone in the room. His blood heated,
and he took a step toward the door. Through the window he heard a horse’s hoofs pounding frantically in the courtyard.

  Tulugai and Kinsit had looked like him: big, stocky, awkward in their youth. When they had talked to him their respect had filled him up with satisfaction. They had never fought him. He turned and kicked the chair across the room.

  He kept Tshant and Mongke away from each other easily enough; their troops were camped on opposite sides of the city. Mongke reported that he would be able to leave the next morning. Tshant’s men had trouble getting horses and Psin didn’t think they would leave Bulgar before he himself did.

  Djela and Psin spent most of the afternoon with Dmitri, learning Russian. Djela was full of excited stories about his ride. He said, “And I’m going raiding with Ada, too. He said so.”

  Dmitri frowned. “You’re young, noyon.”

  “Not so young. Am I, Grandfather?”

  “Young enough.”

  “Can Dmitri go with me?”

  “No. Dmitri’s going with me to Novgorod.”

  From the tail of his eye Psin saw Dmitri’s small start and smiled. “Where are you from, Dmitri?”

  Dmitri said, “Riazan, my Khan.”

  Psin looked away from him and pretended to listen to Djela. Dmitri was from the north, somewhere, but from what city he had never said. Riazan wasn’t in the north.

  That night Mongke of his own accord ate with his troops. Djela, Tshant, Kaidu and Psin ate in Psin’s house.

  “They will know me before we reach the Dnepr,” Tshant said, when Psin asked about his men. “They’re good enough, but they need a strong hand.”

  “Take Kaidu with you,” Psin said. “You might find him useful.”

  Kaidu exhaled hard, as if his breath had been pent up. His eyes burnt. “Thank you. I want to go.”

  Djela looked tired; he leaned his head on Tshant’s chest and shut his eyes. Tshant put one arm around him. Psin thought of saying something, but Tshant’s heavy eyes looked too much as if he expected it. “You know what I want you to do,” Psin said. He signed to Dmitri, who was pouring the wine.

  “Yes,” Tshant said. “You want to know the country as well as a man born to it, and all without stepping your horse’s hoof on it yourself.” He reached for his cup. “I’ll do it. I may have trouble, with the horses in the condition they’re in.”