Until the Sun Falls

by Cecelia Holland

  “You’re lucky,” Mongke said. “You could have died.”

  “Oh, no.” Quyuk drew up one knee and rested his good arm on it. “Let me fall, and my nurse-jailer is there to cushion my back from the stones of the earth.”

  Mongke said rapidly, “Nursemaid to the Altun Uruk is a title that might become hereditary to the Khans of the Black Merkits.”

  “Not likely,” Psin said. He looked at Tshant, who was leaning against the far wall of the yurt.

  “Whose fault was it?” Baidar said.

  “Mine,” Quyuk said. “I ordered them up the wall.”

  Kadan was behind them, and Buri came toward them through the packed yurt. Sabotai on his short legs walked to the middle of the room. The noise settled and drifted away. Sabotai put his back to Tshant and said, “Tver has fallen. We have lost many men and we won little to pay us back for the blood. It was a difficult fight, complicated, and the defense was clever, but still we ought not to have lost fifteen thousand men.”

  Psin caught his breath. To say a tuman and a half was one thing, but fifteen thousand bodies meant something else. He chewed one of his mustaches.

  “Whose fault was it, that we lost so many? And that more than three-quarters of the casualties came last night and this morning?” Sabotai looked all around. Mongke, beside Psin, lifted his eyes toward Tshant.

  “Psin, what happened?” Sabotai said.

  Psin stood up. “We entered the rings and went through the tunnels into the second ring. They did not expect us. We started to build the roof. Sentries on the wall warned us that the city was active, and we took cover—”

  “Why?” Sabotai said. “If there were no Russians near you.”

  “I expected that they had trained their catapults into range on that ring. I thought they might shoot fireballs.”

  “They did not.”

  “No. Stones. Just as effective. Kadan kept the roof from collapsing. We were to take only that ring, if you remember. But I thought perhaps they would have boulders that would smash our roof. So we went on—I thought we had to take the city before they could reorganize their defenses.”

  “You sent to me for confirmation, very properly. Does anyone question the efficacy of the Khan’s decision?”

  No one spoke. Sabotai nodded to Psin, who had sat down again.

  “When we went into the last ring, the Russians were waiting for us. But the sentries on the roofed-over rings used their bows and held the Russians off until enough of us could get into the ring.”

  “Wait. Who commanded there?”

  For a moment there was silence. Finally a thousand-commander said, “Sabotai, we were told to stay there until the reinforcements came up. Mongke’s order.”

  “Mongke was not in the force that first entered the rings,” Sabotai said.

  “I waited at the gap,” Mongke said. “When I heard the stones fall I went in.”

  Sabotai looked surprised. “Very good.”

  Buri, hunched on the floor at Quyuk’s feet, said loudly, “Mongke told me to command the bowmen on the roof. He went on in to the fighting.”

  Psin slapped Mongke lightly on the boot. “Good work.”

  “Ah, Psin Khan. For love of you.” Mongke laughed.

  “Psin, what happened inside the last ring?” Sabotai said.

  “You know how the ring was shaped, like a crescent, stopped at either end by the river. I went in at the middle, near the main gate. At no time did we know what was happening at either end. We spent almost half the night chasing Russians up and down that section. Quyuk organized all the men he could and cleared the area around the main gate. He ordered the advance line to climb the wall. Tshant was with them. They tore open the gate, but Quyuk didn’t enter the city. He and his men had enough trouble keeping the Russians broken up and on the run. Long before dawn he was wounded and carried back to the camp.”

  Sabotai nodded curtly to Quyuk. “My compliments.” Quyuk swore at him in a pleasant voice.

  “After Quyuk was gone, I took over and with Tshant’s help from the city wall cleaned up the Russians in that area. At noon I left, when I found out the battle was almost over. That’s all I know.”

  “Who fought on the western end of the ring?” Sabotai said.

  Kadan lifted his head. “Mongke and I. There’s a snow barricade there, and we were pinned up against it. We never got off it until daylight. We couldn’t catch enough horses, and the Russians had the advantage of the terrain.”

  “I saw the battlefield,” Sabotai said. “You couldn’t have done anything else.”

  “We had control of enough tunnels to keep reinforcements coming in,” Mongke said. “We lost a lot of men, though. Mostly to defenders on the city wall. Women and large children, with rocks.”

  “But we held the wall,” Sabotai said.

  “Not that section.”

  “Baidar?”

  Baidar shifted his feet. “I was on the eastern side, and I did about what Kadan and Mongke did. Buri kept a good covering fire up and that helped me. I never had enough men to launch an offensive, but we kept a lot of Russians very busy.”

  “Very good. Quyuk, do you have anything to add?” Behind Sabotai Tshant’s face was dark with anger. Psin waited patiently to catch his eye, but Tshant would not look at him. Quyuk said, “I do. Psin Khan is the world’s greatest flatterer. Almost all the credit he gave me belongs to him.”

  Psin snorted. “He’s trying to curry my favor. Ignore him.”

  Quyuk socked him in the back with his good fist, and most of the Altun laughed. Sabotai said, “Tshant, what happened that you saw?”

  “I went over the wall,” Tshant said.

  Sabotai waited. When Tshant said nothing, he swung to face him. “What did you do?”

  Tshant crossed his arms. “After a while, I got men up on the wall to help some of Quyuk’s men, the ones Psin Khan led.”

  “After a while. What did you do before?”

  Tshant cocked his head. “I sat on the ground and made tea, like a Chinese.”

  Sabotai’s eyes jerked up. “Don’t use that tone of voice to me.”

  A hand fell on Psin’s shoulder; looking up, he saw Baidar. Mongke said sweetly, “I doubt that will be necessary, cousin.”

  A thousand-commander stepped through the pack. “Sabotai, I was inside the city with Tshant. We had trouble with the women—”

  Everybody roared. “Women?” Quyuk shouted. “Women gave you trouble? That’s where the tea came from, Sabotai.”

  The thousand-commander flushed. “They attacked us.”

  “Who opened the gate?” Sabotai said.

  “I did,” Tshant said.

  “But you made no attempt to gather up the men there and use them on the wall to help the others.”

  “I didn’t think of it.” Tshant’s voice was steady and almost amused.

  “It’s your duty to think of such things.”

  “Psin Khan does the thinking in our family. I’m out of practice.”

  Sabotai whirled away from him. Over his shoulder, he shouted, “We lost fifteen thousand men, because you didn’t think. Quyuk was nearly killed, because you didn’t think. Baidar spent most of the battle tucked off in a corner, because you didn’t think. Kadan and Mongke couldn’t organize an offensive, because you did not think. Did you have good friends in Tver?”

  “I am the whole world’s friend.”

  Sabotai was fuming. His eyes raked Psin. “What shall we do with him, Khan?”

  “Sabotai—”

  “Answer me.”

  “Send him back to Karakorum. He’s worthless to us, now.”

  Tshant pushed himself away from the wall; his smile vanished. “For the love of God, you cannot—” The blood drained from his face, and the tendons in his neck stood out. His gaze flew to Psin.

  “Well,” Sabotai said smoothly. “Yes. We might do that. Send him home like a badly trained horse. But I don’t think we will. I think the threat will be enough.”

  Psin�
�s eyes and Tshant’s locked. Tshant’s face was white with shame. He shoved himself into the midst of the mob and charged the door. The crowd before it parted to let him through. When he was close to Psin, he jerked his face toward him and said, “I should have let you die in Vladimir.”

  Psin’s jaw clenched. “I wish you had.”

  Tshant bolted out the door. Sabotai said, “I think he’s punished enough, don’t you?”

  “Ah, you—” Psin sank down.

  “He wasn’t responding to a straightforward tongue-lashing, was he?”

  Psin leaned back against the couch. He could sense the confusion and tension in the Altun around him, and he made himself relax. “Sabotai, of course not. He never has. He’s never responded to anything less than a beating. If you think you can talk him humble, you don’t know him.”

  Mongke whispered, “He knows him. Watch.”

  Sabotai said, “He’s a little old and strong for a beating.”

  “Didn’t someone say that once of Temujin?”

  The Altun stiffened even more. Quyuk said, “Do you dare compare your wretched offspring to the Ancestor?”

  “I did, didn’t I? And if you want to press the matter, Quyuk, come look for me when your shoulder heals.”

  Buri said, “It was a mistake any of us could have made. Tshant did organize the men on the wall eventually. Perhaps Quyuk himself was overeager—storming the wall before he had adequate reinforcements.”

  Before he’d stopped talking everybody else was muttering. The crowd stirred restlessly. In the general mumble, Baidar said, “Buri. Who put the ice in your heart, nephew?”

  Buri laughed. Quyuk said, “Perhaps some of the fault is mine. My timing may have been off. But I say so because it may be true, and not because of Psin.”

  Kadan whooped. “Trot that past again, brother. I didn’t catch it the first time.”

  Mongke got up and went off, tapping Psin on the shoulder. Psin followed him. Mongke took a wineskin from the masterpole and poured red wine into two cups. He held one out to Psin.

  “You were sent to shepherd Altun,” Mongke said softly. “You seem to be having more trouble with Tshant than any of us, though.”

  Psin shut out the rest of the room with his shoulders. “Mongke. How clever you are, to notice it.”

  “If you think I’m going to blush you’re wrong. He can beat you in a fight, you know.”

  The back of Psin’s neck prickled up. “It won’t come to that.”

  “Oh? The way things are going, it will. Soon, too.” Mongke glanced away. Psin followed his gaze and saw Sabotai. Mongke’s voice sounded in his ear.

  “Tshant and I. Tshant and Buri. Tshant and you. You and Quyuk. Quyuk and Batu. Every man finds his master. If he won’t go hunting him on his own, Sabotai introduces them.”

  Psin brought his eyes back to Mongke. “Sabotai is my friend. What are you trying to say?”

  “That Sabotai is out to win wars, not keep friends. Do you know how Tshant and I came to meet in Quyuk’s room, that pretty day in Bulgar? Sabotai ordered him there and sent me after him.”

  The muscle under Psin’s eye twitched painfully. He glanced over at Sabotai, now talking to Quyuk. The torchlight behind Sabotai limned his head.

  “However,” Psin said, “a man who liked to manipulate people might have a pleasant time splitting up the high command, mightn’t he?”

  Mongke nodded. “He might. I thought you’d say that. I take no offense. You’ll know, soon enough. Ask Quyuk. Ask Buri. Ask yourself, Psin. What worries you most? That someone might be better than you?” Mongke smiled. “Or that Tshant might be better than you?”

  Psin brought his fist up. Mongke’s small hand dropped across his knuckles; Mongke stopped smiling. The skin of Psin’s face felt too tight for the bones. He felt queasy, and he fought against it, but the warning tingle in his mind would not go away.

  “Sabotai is making a mistake,” Mongke said. He forced Psin’s fist down and open. “Don’t make one yourself.” He went off; his satin sleeve grazed Psin’s. Psin’s mouth was dry. He took a gulp of the wine, tasted it, and lifted the cup and drained it in one draught.

  “What do you want?” Tshant said.

  “May I talk to you?”

  Tshant was lying on his back on the couch; he stretched his arms over his head and snorted. “Father. The humility rasps.”

  Djela called out from the corner, and Psin said, “Go to sleep, noyon.”

  “Talk,” Tshant said. “Tell me what a bad bad man I am.”

  Psin put his hands on his belt. In the darkness he could see only the outline of Tshant’s body. “I don’t mean to tell you how bad you are. You’re not bad.”

  “Only worthless.”

  “I meant that you were worthless because Sabotai had torn you down in front of the whole staff. You made a mistake. So did I. I should have… done something other than—”

  “Shut up. You sound like a woman. Kowtowing to Quyuk has given you a mouth like a fat eunuch. Get out of here and leave me alone.”

  Psin grabbed him by the knee and shoulder and dumped him on the floor. “The next time you talk to me like that, I’ll kick your brains out.”

  Tshant darted swiftly out of his way. In the corner Djela whimpered.

  “That’s better,” Tshant said. “That’s more like you. Get out. It’s hard enough to endure you in the normal run of things. I’m not going to put up with you unless I have to.”

  Psin started toward him, and Tshant coiled up. A long knife glittered in his hand.

  “Stay away from me.”

  Straightening, Psin shook his muscles loose. He took a sliding step to one side, and Djela flung himself on him.

  “No, don’t. Please don’t. Grandfather, please.”

  Tshant relaxed and the knife’s tip dropped. Psin put his hand on Djela’s head. The child clung to him.

  “All right,” Psin said. “I suppose it’s better, anyway.”

  He turned and started toward the door. Djela still hung on to him. Psin paused and said, “Stay here.”

  “Grandfather. Let me go with you. I want to—”

  “Stay here.”

  “No.”

  Psin picked him up, held him at eye level, and shook him. “You brat. I said you were to stay. Don’t bother me. I’m not your father.” Tshant was on his feet, and Psin tossed Djela to him. Tshant had to drop the knife to catch him. Psin stared at him a moment, hawked, and tramped outside to spit into the snow.

  Two days later, leaving Quyuk in command of the garrison near Tver, they started out for Novgorod. The horses were gaunt from winter feeding, and the snow was deep and wet, hard to plow through. After four days of it, Psin told Sabotai that he doubted they would reach Novgorod before the thaw.

  “We’ve covered less than half as much ground in four days as we did when I rode reconnaissance here. Look at the sky, look at the sun—spring’s coming. I saw some hay from Novgorod; it was half weeds. Their springs are wet. The army is tired.”

  Sabotai looked out through the trees toward the west. That wing of the army stretched out across the slopes, sagging in their saddles. Already the trees were growing more thickly, and the hills were treacherously steep under the snow. He said, “We’ll keep going.”

  They pushed on. Batu’s outflung western flank made contact with them two days later. When Sabotai asked for supplies the scouts only smiled.

  “We were hoping you’d bring us some.”

  “No matter. Tell Batu to hold this line.”

  The only advantage to this, Psin thought, was that the riding was so hard and the food so scanty that neither he nor Tshant had the strength to fight. They seldom met. Tshant rode in the eastern wing and Psin stayed near Sabotai in the center.

  He had thought at first it would be difficult riding with Sabotai; he was sure that Mongke was right about the fighting between the Altun. But it didn’t seem to make any difference between them. He and Sabotai were old friends, and he discovered that the long
patterns of association between them held up easily enough even now.

  Once Sabotai said, “You’ve fought with Tshant, haven’t you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there no way to reconcile you?”

  “Oh, there probably is.” Their horses jogged side by side over a little meadow. “But there’s no sense in it. We don’t like each other. It’s better if we don’t force it.”

  Sabotai looked sharply at him, but the horses were on the upward slope and they both had to concentrate on riding.

  The forest closed in on them, and the going was twice as hard as before. The horses gnawed the bark from the trees and still neighed from hunger. At night the men crouched over their fires and made thin gruel from their grain, protecting the pots and the fires from the dripping trees all around them. The wet cold crept inside their coats and cloaks. Psin’s teeth chattered all night long, and his lips chapped and bled.

  On the eighth day of the ride north they woke up in the rain. It came without wind and fell like the stones of Tver. The snow, already soggy, turned to slop. Psin bundled himself into his cloak and swore.

  “Don’t open your mouth, you’ll drown,” Kadan said cheerfully. “Here. Eat.”

  Psin looked at the diluted gruel. “That might drown me sooner.”

  “How close are we?”

  “A day’s ride in dry weather on the flat steppe.”

  “Three days’ ride, like this.”

  Psin threw down the empty bowl. “Thank you. Where is Sabotai?”

  “Here,” Sabotai said. “I’m catching cold.”

  “I hope you sneeze yourself back to the Volga camp.” Psin threw his saddle onto his dun horse and yanked up the girths. “The trail from here to Novgorod is due north. It goes up a steep hill and down a steep hill and through what is by now undoubtedly a marsh deep enough to lose a horse in. Shall I lead off?”

  Sabotai laughed, coughed, and wiped his nose.

  Psin, riding, caught a glimpse of Tshant, a good distance away. He had left Djela behind, in Quyuk’s camp, with Ana and Dmitri to look after him.

  Ana had said, “What’s wrong? Are you two fighting?”

  “Woman, we are always fighting.”