Until the Sun Falls

by Cecelia Holland

  “Yes. But you’re not commanding either branch. I’ll let Batu enjoy himself. We’ll divide after we take Moskva. How is your relationship with Quyuk?”

  “He hates me like a father.”

  “I thought he would. You brought them all back in one piece, though, and from what I’ve seen of your men they’re in better shape than mine.”

  “They should be. I had them working.”

  “Do they obey you?”

  “Sabotai, you’re offensive. They’ll fight anything I point them at.”

  “I meant no offense. Quyuk is sometimes… Anyway. When your women get here, enjoy them. You are going to ride vanguard for me when we move out.”

  Psin groaned. “How kind you are.”

  Sabotai grinned.

  To accommodate Psin’s wives and slaves, Sabotai had provided him with a larger house near the north gate of Bulgar. Mongke had moved all their gear into it before Psin came back. The house had two storeys and an enclosed garden. Mongke took over the second storey for himself and a growing retinue of slaves, free servants, women and some friends from his new command; Psin discovered shortly after moving in himself that Mongke’s entourage consisted mostly of the women.

  “What a joy to have you back,” Mongke said, sliding into a chair. He draped one leg across the table in front of him. Psin, hanging up his coat and baldric, noticed a new scar on Mongke’s face and more muscle on his slender body. “We had such fun while you were gone,” Mongke said. “I’m rather proud of my reconnaissance.”

  “So am I.” Mongke had reported to him in full the day previous, before Psin went to see Sabotai. “Did you fight against Riazan?”

  “No. How was Novgorod?”

  “Worth seeing.”

  “None but you saw it, Quyuk tells me. What did you do to him? He hates you even worse than when you left.”

  “Unfortunately, I was around when he got sick.”

  Mongke’s head jerked up. “The headache.”

  “Yes. Does he get them often?”

  “Not… often. Did he let you near him? He killed a slave who tried to help him once, when he couldn’t see because of it.”

  “Your father used to get headaches like that.”

  “He drank too much.”

  “So does Quyuk.”

  “That’s so.” Mongke rose. “Well, I’m going into the city. About Quyuk, watch Buri. Buri shows what Quyuk’s thinking.”

  “Thank you. I’ve already noticed that.”

  “You would have.”

  “Mongke, wait.”

  Mongke paused in the doorway. Psin chewed on his mustaches, spat them out, and said, “When my son comes back, don’t fight with him. Put him off any way you care to. I’ll deal with him.”

  “No.”

  Psin’s teeth clicked together. The new weight in Mongke’s voice unsettled him. “I don’t want either of you killed.”

  “I never started this,” Mongke said. “He did. I won’t push it to him, but when he comes at me, Khan, I’ll do all I can to kill him.”

  Tshant fresh from a long raid would be hard to kill. “Don’t push. I can’t ask for much more than that.”

  “Ask.” Mongke smiled. “That’s a pleasant word to hear from you, Khan.” He turned and went out the door.

  Psin snorted. He heard a slave call out, and the gate into the courtyard boomed open. A woman’s voice, upstairs, said something questioningly. He shut his eyes, enjoying the emptiness of the day before him. Cartwheels rolled over the paving stones in the courtyard, and a drover’s whip cracked.

  “Psin.”

  His eyes flew open. Artai stood in the doorway, swathed in a great cloak, her gloves in her hand. He rose and held out his hands, and she rushed into his arms. He hugged her, his cheek against her hair, and sighed, overcome.

  “Did you grow wings? How did you get here so quickly?” The smell of her hair stirred every memory in him.

  “Oh, we brought carts.” She stood back and smiled at him. “Are you glad to see me?”

  “Yes.” He pulled her close again. She was warm and gentle in his arms, and the familiar touch of her hands was like balm. “How is the clan? Did you have any trouble getting here?”

  “Everyone’s fine. Oh, Psin.”

  He shut his eyes. She always made him feel safe; wherever she was the ground seemed steadier to walk on. “Ask the question.”

  “You man. Did you miss me?”

  “No.” He laughed into the collar of her cloak. “But if you hadn’t come I’d have died of loneliness.”

  “You always say that same thing.”

  “It’s always true. I didn’t have the leisure to miss you. You’re so light. Didn’t you eat, coming out?”

  “The food they cook at the waystations isn’t fit. We ate. You’re just stronger. You look well.” She pushed herself away from him. “You look better than when you left us.”

  “I’ve been riding. Reconnaissance. Did you bring my dun horse?”

  “Did we bring your dun horse?” She sat down. “Khan, if we’d had to drag that beast another day I think Malekai would have stabbed himself. He kicked. He bit. He bolted. He reared—” She lifted one hand and let it drop to her knee again. “I’ve never seen an animal so ill-behaved. When are you going to ask about Chan?”

  He sat on his heels beside her. “I thought you’d mention her soon enough.”

  “She says the wind and the dryness have ruined her skin. She brought a chest full of cream and perfume and such things, though. I’m glad we gave her something new to complain about. She’d been fading for lack of variety.”

  Psin picked up her hand. “Ssssh. She’s not like us. You’d be unhappy if you had to live in China.”

  “I’d be miserable. She’s not. She’s wild to see you.” Her slow smile deepened the creases at the corners of her mouth. “You look so well. Where is Tshant?”

  “Raiding. He’ll be back soon.”

  “He took Djela, of course.”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew he meant to. You might tell him, sometime, that the way you raised him isn’t the only way.” She tugged her hand free and stood up. “Where are we to sleep?”

  “How many slaves did you bring?”

  “Sixteen,” she said, and started toward the door.

  Psin stood rooted. “Sixteen? In God’s name, woman—”

  “Well, you really didn’t expect us to come unattended all the way out here, did you? I brought two women to cook, three to do campwork, four men to drive carts, and seven to keep guard.”

  “Sixteen slaves? I’ve already got five here.”

  “Good. We shall be carefully looked after. Are you going to show me where to put my things or not?”

  He scowled at her, and she smiled. Her eyes shone. He tried to look furious, could not, and with a laugh led her by the hand into the corridor.

  To Artai he gave the two small rooms in the southwest corner of the bottom floor; he sent Dmitri to take Chan’s people to the big room on the northeast corner. Artai’s male slaves packed in chests and bundles. The women began to arrange furniture and air out clothing. A warm scent of women filled the rooms. Psin sat down on the couch in the sleeping room and watched Artai direct the slaves.

  “Where did you raid?” she said, and when he told her, listened as if she knew what he was talking about. Psin knew well enough that she didn’t. “How are the supplies here? We had some bad meat in the Volga camp. I’m going to need cloth for winter trousers. Mine are falling apart.”

  “You’ll find everything you need in the market.”

  “Who is here besides you and Sabotai?”

  “The Altun, in force. Mongke lives upstairs. Quyuk and Kadan are in the center of the city. Buri—”

  “Who is Buri?”

  “Jagatai’s grandson—Kerulu’s nephew.” That she did know. Psin slouched back on one elbow, amused. She was trying to keep him here, away from Chan. “Baidar also—Jagatai’s son. And Kaidu, who is Batu’s grandson. H
e’s out with Tshant.”

  “Do they ever come here?”

  “Some of them,” He shifted his feet as if he meant to get up.

  “Hold this a moment.” She dropped a heap of linen on his lap and turned to call to a slave. “Eya, that’s not where I want those.”

  She reached into a chest and got a pile of little wooden boxes out and moved briskly across the room to stack them somewhere else. “Vortai, will you please come here and take out this chest?”

  Psin watched her bustle around; she looked so furiously busy that he knew she wasn’t busy at ail. She came back, her cheeks ruddy, and plopped down beside him. “When does the fighting begin?”

  “It has.” Psin ran his thumb along the edge of the linen stacked up on his thighs. “Do you think perhaps I could get out from under this?”

  “Oh. I forgot. Could you put it up there? On top of that cabinet? What kind of wood is this?”

  “Maple. The Russians are good workers in wood.”

  “Look how the grain goes.”

  “Yes, I see it.” He turned toward the door.

  “What will you want for your dinner?” she said, sliding nimbly in front of him to block his way out.

  “Anything you wish.” He picked her up bodily and moved her, ducked the reach of her arms, and went to the door.

  “But you will be eating here.”

  “Yes. I will.” He patted her cheek and left. The dim calm of the corridor muted the racket inside the room. He shook his head and went across the house to Chan’s rooms.

  Here there was only silence. Two slaves he recognized from Artai’s yurt by Lake Baikal padded by, their heads bowed and eyes averted. He opened a door and went into a large room hung with tapestries and smelling of lilies. The floor had been bare wood before, but now a Bokhara carpet covered it, each fringe splayed carefully over the dark wood. He crossed it to the little side door.

  In the tiny room Chan sat with her back to him, combing her long black hair. On the wall in front of her hung a sheet of gold polished into a mirror. She wore a dark blue robe—silk—never sturdy Mongol trousers. She heard him come in; he saw her eyes in the mirror looking at him. But she didn’t stop combing her hair.

  He paused just behind her and sat down on his heels. In the mirror their eyes met, his face looking over her shoulder. He could smell regal lilies as if they blossomed in the room; he could smell the scent of her long hair. Her cheek made the silk look rough.

  She drew the comb once more through her hair and put it down and laid her hands in her lap. He could read nothing in her eyes. Her image in the mirror seemed cast around with a net of beaten gold. He put one arm around her waist and dragged her against him. She stiffened, as if to resist him, and in the mirror he saw her look away. Her hands touched his, cool, like raindrops. He buried his face in her hair.

  But that night he ate and slept with Artai. To disturb the order of such things would only wreck the peace of his house.

  Tshant left his army in the fields across the river from Bulgar and with Djela and Kaidu rode into the city. Djela carried their standard, glowing. On their way back from the Dnepr they had met an army of Russian knights and harried them into a bloody ruin. Heads decorated the standard.

  “Sabotai must be getting ready to leave again,” Kaidu said. “Look.” He pointed to carts, heaped with sacks of grain, rumbling across the marketplace. Beside each cart rode four armed men, and the sides of the carts carried the mark for army goods. “Psin’s back; there’s Quyuk.”

  Tshant swung around, saw Quyuk jogging down a sidestreet, and bellowed. Quyuk spun his horse and cantered over. Kaidu said happily, “We finished off a herd of Russians, and we’ve been to the Dnepr and back—how was your raiding?”

  “Instructive,” Quyuk said. “I heard the horns blowing when you came into sight. Where are you camped?”

  “Across the river.” Tshant lifted his reins. He wanted to get to the palace and report to Sabotai before he had to face Psin. He had lost over five hundred men. “Djela, come back here.”

  Kaidu had let his reins fall and was gesturing broadly with both hands. “The city is on a tremendous bluff right over the river, on the western bank. I hear you took Riazan.”

  “Not us. Sabotai. They stormed it.” Quyuk moved his horse to block Tshant’s. “You don’t seem to want to talk, Tshant.”

  “We have to go,” Tshant said. “I—”

  He caught sight of a bright blue litter swaying into the marketplace and stared at it, standing up in his stirrups. A slave held the curtain so that the woman inside could step down. Tshant caught a glimpse of her face.

  Quyuk drew in his breath harshly. “Ah, now. There’s a sweet little thing for a man to get into.”

  Tshant glanced at him. Quyuk was watching Chan with bright eyes. “Don’t try. That’s my father’s second wife.”

  Kaidu muttered something. Quyuk swore. “Oh. Damn him. Everything good I see, I find, belongs to Psin Khan. Where did he get her?”

  “At the sack of Kinsai.” Tshant edged his horse away.

  Quyuk was staring after Chan again. She was buying cloth; her hand stroked a bolt of red wool. One of her slaves carried a parasol to shade her from the sun. Her head turned and she gave Quyuk back a stare as cold as solid rock.

  “Stay away from her, Quyuk,” Tshant said. Quyuk’s hand was clenched around his rein.

  “Grandfather,” Djela called.

  Tshant whipped around. Psin on his big dun horse was jogging through the crowded street behind them. The dun looked meaner than usual. Foam flecked his shoulders and neck and splashed down from his mouth, and he gnawed on the bit. Psin kicked him up between Tshant’s horse and Kaidu’s.

  “I heard the horns,” he said softly, “and I saw your camp. You seem to have mislaid some of your men.”

  “We met trouble,” Tshant said. He glared at Kaidu to keep him quiet.

  “Oh? Nothing you could have run from? Your information had better be very good to be worth five hundred Mongols.”

  “If we counted the Russians we killed, I think you’d say they came cheaply enough.”

  “You weren’t sent to kill Russians,” Psin said. “You were sent to—”

  He looked past Tshant and Quyuk and his mouth twitched. “That woman.”

  “If you don’t want her, Khan,” Quyuk said, “I might take her in.”

  The dun horse started to fight, and Psin jerked him in the mouth. “You’d regret it, Quyuk.” Tshant saw him measure Quyuk from the tail of his eye. To Tshant he said, “Go up to the palace. I’ll hear your report there.”

  “Grandfather,” Djela said. “I almost got killed.”

  Psin leaned out to ruffle the boy’s hair. “You look alive, though. Your grandmothers are here. Artai will want to talk to you.”

  He forced the dun away from the other horses; his whip lashed down on the dun’s barrel. The horse bolted, and Psin caught him up on the bit and fought him over to Chan. He said something to her and galloped off. The dun’s neck curved like a round of stone, and his ears pressed flat back into the flying black mane. Chan looked after him expressionlessly.

  “That’s my grandfather’s best horse,” Djela told Kaidu.

  “He might have broken him a little better.”

  “Come on,” Tshant said. “We’d better get up to the palace. Quyuk, are you coming?”

  “No. I know where your father lives. I’ll take your son there.”

  Quyuk was still watching Chan. Tshant said, “Stay away from her. I’ve seen him go wild twice in my life, and both times it was over her. You don’t know what he’s like when he’s wild.”

  “I can guess.” Quyuk relaxed suddenly. “There are thousands of beautiful women in the world.”

  Tshant smirked at him and started off. It amused him to think that even Quyuk was afraid of Psin.

  “When do we move?” Tshant said.

  Sabotai opened one eye to look at him and closed it again. “In five days,” Psin said. Tshant had
just finished reporting, and Psin had decided not to fight with him over the high losses he’d sustained. “Moskva goes first.”

  “Go away,” Sabotai said. “I’m thinking. Or else keep quiet.”

  Tshant’s mouth twisted. Psin got up and went into the next room, and Tshant followed him. “What’s wrong with Sabotai?”

  “He’s planning a campaign, that’s all. He’s like that when he thinks.”

  “I thought you had the campaign all worked out.”

  “Yes, but now he’s attacking Kiev—that city you mentioned.” Psin collected his hat and cloak.

  “Am I staying with you?”

  “Unless you don’t want to.” He thought of the house packed with people. “We have slaves until they run after you begging for something to do. Your mother—”

  He broke off, remembering. “Did Quyuk say anything about Chan?”

  “He was taken with her.”

  “I’ll kill him if he touches her.”

  “I told him so. He looked as if he believed me.” Tshant looked as if he were thinking of laughing. “Come on. I’m hungry.”

  They went out toward the courtyard. “Djela said something about nearly being killed.”

  “He wasn’t. I thought he had been for a while.”

  “You got separated ?”

  “Yes.” Tshant glanced over at Psin, and Psin grinned.

  “Now you see what I mean. Actually, the problem’s not with losing the child, it’s dying of anxiety before you find him again.”

  “So I found out.” They stopped at the door, and a sentry opened it. “Was the ice solid on the rivers you crossed?”

  “Down to the stones. Why?”

  “I was fighting on a frozen stream and it broke, and I went in.”

  Psin’s chest tightened. The sunlight was strong, out on the step, but he felt cold. “You were lucky.”

  “Very. I came up under the ice.”

  The pit of Psin’s stomach contracted. They walked on a few strides, Tshant looking straight ahead. When they were at the foot of the steps into the courtyard Tshant said, “God. I was scared.”

  “You were lucky.”