Benito drained his glass and stood up. "Drink up," he said. "Let's go down to the ship and meet your Mongol envoy. As acting governor, it falls within the realms of my duty to offer him and the knights of the Holy Trinity the hospitality of the citadel."
"Excellent." Manfred rubbed his hands. "That means they'll be accommodated and drinking at your expense."
Erik laughed. "You know, I don't think the Godar Hohenstauffen realized just what a great thing he was doing for Manfred's education when he insisted to the abbot of the order that Manfred should be suitably accompanied—and then gave Manfred a fixed budget."
"And gave me a minder," said Manfred sourly, "to make sure that I didn't settle accounts in the traditional knightly fashion."
They went down to where the knights were disembarking their mounts off the vessels, and giving the animals some much-needed exercise. Benito was cheered by the enthusiastic greeting he got from the knights. He was also soon being overwhelmed with advice on how to capture a vast wealthy city.
"The biggest weakness of the Byzantine Empire is that it is heavily dependent on mercenaries. Buying the emperor Alexis is an expensive waste of time," said Von Gherens. "Buy his army out from under him."
That was an idea that had not even occurred to Benito. Of course, some of the emperor's troops would be torn from levies from within the eastern Roman empire. Very possibly, he would have a mercenary but intensely loyal personal guard. Petro would know all of these details, but it was an avenue that was still worth following up.
The discussion centered on the weaknesses and strengths of Constantinople and the Bosphorus and Dardanelles. Siegecraft was something the knights were expert in, and, as they had taken to Benito during the siege of Corfu, they were all to willing to teach him as much about it as they could. A number of them had been to Constantinople and had looked on it with very professional eyes.
Eventually, Benito was able to make his escape and be introduced to the tarkhan Borshar. The man was reclining on some satin cushions under a makeshift awning on the deck, while one of his servitors fanned him. Several of the Mongols lounged about. The air was full of the scent of some form of burning herbage. Perhaps the tarkhan found the odor pleasant. To Benito, it smelled like a weedy field being burnt off.
Borshar rose slowly to his feet, when one of his honor guard announced their presence. He wore his hair in the Mongol fashion, shaved except for long forelock, but that was where the similarity with the Mongol guard ended. Borshar had a bony and slightly hooked nose, a long face, and heavy eyebrows like two straight bars that sloped slightly downward towards his large ears. His eyes were deep set, brown, and, it appeared to Benito, a little out of focus.
The tarkhan bowed, a mere inclination of the head. "Prince Manfred, how can I assist you?"
"The boot hopefully is on the other foot, Tarkhan," said Manfred. "Let me introduce you to his Excellency, Milor' Benito Valdosta. He is the acting governor and military commander of this charming island. He has, we hope, a way in which you may fulfill your mission."
Benito bowed politely. He could see how the man had gotten under Manfred's skin. Still, perhaps it was just a foreign culture. The way things were done among the Mongol. "I am honored to meet you," he said, in his best attempt at the tongue-mangle that Erik had taught him on their way down to the ship.
This did get a reaction. It drew an incredulous smile from the Mongol warrior who had announced them, and it made the envoy's mouth drop open for an instant. He closed it, but looked considerably more alert now. "I am afraid," said Benito, holding up a hand to stem a flood of incomprehensibilities, "that is all of your language that I speak."
"Your greeting," said the tarkhan, "is surprising. So . . . Why did you tell me that my mother was a tortoise?" His eyes narrowed.
The Mongol guard seemed to find the situation utterly hilarious. He had dropped his spear and was clutching his knees, doubled up with laughter. It did not seem that the tarkhan found it quite as funny. On the other hand, neither did Erik or, right then, Benito. Several of the other Mongols had stood up, and the joke was repeated when the Mongol guard had enough spare breath. It was apparent by the reaction of the others, that however affronted the envoy himself might be, his entourage thought it a capital joke.
"I do apologize," said Benito. "I was told that it meant that I was honored to meet you." Inwardly he wondered furiously how the hell he could get out of this situation. Had he started a major diplomatic incident? Was the man going to try and kill him? Manfred was laughing as hard as the Mongols by now, and would be scant use in any defense. Erik looked ready to kill someone—which also was not what they needed right now. "It would seem that I was gravely misinformed."
"And your informant is going to wish that he was never born," grated Erik.
The tarkhan tugged his moustache. It was short, black and bristly, unlike his companions' luxuriant affairs. Then he smiled. It did not extend to his eyes, but at least he smiled. "Perhaps we should confine ourselves to speaking in Frankish."
"I think so," said Benito with relief. "Anyway, other than that . . . um . . . useful phrase, I don't know any Mongol. It's not a phrase that I think I will have the opportunity to use again. What I had come to say is that we have concluded an agreement with our neighbors across on the mainland. I believe we can arrange for you to travel across Illyria, to the lands of the Golden Horde. Would that be an acceptable solution for you? You could arrive within weeks. If you wait for a sea passage, it could be many months."
The envoy stood impassively, not even blinking, for a few long moments. Benito decided that it would be very dangerous to gamble with this man. It was almost impossible to tell what he was thinking. Then the tarkhan said, "I will have to consider this. You will allow me time to think. You are proposing a somewhat different route and method than the one which I was instructed to follow."
"Certainly," said Benito. "I will need to establish that you can be granted safe passage. That will take me a few days. We will meet again formally and officially soon, hopefully without any more such interesting incidents. In the meanwhile, can we possibly sit and have a glass of wine together? I'm sure that we have much to discuss of mutual interest to the Ilkhan Mongol and the people of Venice." Benito gave the tarkhan the benefit of his most winning smile. "It is sometimes easier to discuss these things informally over a few glasses than to deal with them in the full light of protocol."
"I have not been given the authority to reach agreements with the Republic of Venice," said the tarkhan disinterestedly. "And I do not drink alcohol. I will let you know what decision I reach as to the possibilities of traveling across land to the Khanate of the Golden Horde." He waved as dismissively as any emperor, and they were left with little choice but to bow and leave.
Chapter 16
"In the 58th year since the Khagan Temujin, the Princess Khutulun wrestled with Khan Ulaghchi. As was the custom, one hundred horses were bet upon the outcome," sang Bortai, softly, as she gathered berries. "But the great khan bet a thousand horses."
She faltered briefly. A thousand horses! She traced her lineage directly to Khan Ulaghchi, the greatest and most powerful of the khans of the Golden Horde, whose dominion had extended across all the Cuman Khanates, the Volga Bulgars, the Bashkir lands—from the Carpathians in the west to the Alatau Mountains in the east, and across the limitless steppe between. He had drawn tribute from the Kievan Rus princes and been visited by delegations from across the world. He had had a thousand horses to gamble. But he too had barely survived fleeing his uncle Berke, with no one but his warrior bride beside him.
Ulaghchi had survived. Had then conquered. But had he ever had only one horse? There was no doubt that that period of hardship had shaped Ulaghchi and his loyal Khutulun. That was what had made him determined to keep the Mongol people true to their traditions, no matter what other tribes they assimilated. Ulaghchi's rule had lasted for over half a century, and his influence was still felt now, hundreds of years later. He had set o
ut the rules of conduct that still governed the noble houses, enforcing Chinggis's rules on drunkenness, drawing back to the shamanistic roots of their faith. Taoism, Buddhism, Christianity and Islam were tolerated, but they were for non-Mongols. The Mongols were above these things, true only to the everlasting blue sky, guided by the spirits.
Ulaghchi's was a great dream to follow. But with only one horse, and an unconscious brother, the clan scattered and possibly destroyed, it also seemed a very far-off dream. As much of a dream as getting Kildai to Kaltegg Shaman, whom Parki Shaman had recommended before he was killed.
Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a movement in the shrubbery on the far side of the little stream. She tensed, staying absolutely still herself. Then, after waiting far too many heartbeats, she slowly turned her head, making no sudden movements. There was a roe-deer doe there, barely thirty paces away. A big step from any other game she'd seen so far. There had been a rabbit that she'd bagged yesterday. She had chopped it finely, cooked it into a broth with some millet and salt and herbs. But that deer would be enough food for days . . . If she could get a clear shot at it. What an idiot she was. A few moments ago she'd been singing, quietly, it was true, but still behaving as if she were safe in clan-lands and not on the run from their enemies.
She strung the bow and selected an arrow, being careful not to make any sudden movements. She took careful aim. She was not as good a shot as her little brother was, or even as her older brother had been. And missing was not an option. That was enough food to see that they could stay hidden all day for a while, and only move at night.
She gave thanks both to the spirits of the wood and the deer. And then swore, as the deer crashed forward. She shot anyway, and fought her way forward through the blackberries, knowing that she was tearing her deel, but too angry to care. Now she might lose an arrow as well. And then she stopped dead.
For there, not forty paces away was someone else, doing exactly the same thing. He had caught sight of her and froze, just like a deer that hopes you have not seen it. Just as she was doing.
His clothes were more ragged than hers—and that thing could hardly be called a bow. And he was tow-headed, and plainly terrified.
What was a slave doing here, with a weapon? That was something a slave would be killed for, even now. Realistically, everyone knew that slaves did a little poaching, trapping small game, using a shepherd's bow or spears that were little more than sharpened sticks. But this slave—with that bow, and having slain a deer . . .
He had to be a runaway. No wonder he was so scared. Bortai had instinctively put another arrow to her bowstring, after launching the first. He was going to break and run any moment now. She could see the way his eyes darted, looking for cover, looking for the best way out.
"Stand," she said.
He didn't. He fell to his knees instead, his eyes wide and wild. A week ago she would hardly have noticed. But now . . . she could hardly help but be aware of some fellow feeling, if not sympathy. The Vlachs was young and gaunt to the edge of starvation. It was a pity he'd cost her a clean shot at the doe, but perhaps he could be of some use. There was, to be honest, much that a slave would know that she as a Mongol princess did not. Things which would be useful in helping both her and Kildai to survive.
"Spare me, noble lady," he said tremulously. "I was just so hungry."
"So was I," she said crossly, "and now you have cost us both our dinner. I suppose the beast is a good league off by now."
He shook his head and pointed with a shaking hand. "No, lady. You dropped it."
Well, that put a very different complexion on the matter. She felt almost inclined to let him run, as a reward. But she could ill afford him being caught and telling someone about her.
The best thing would be just to kill him, but she couldn't quite bring herself to do it. "Well, then, you'd better come and carry it back to the cart."
He blinked. Then a lifetime of obedience took over. "Thank you, lady." He set down his crudely made bow down and began walking into the thicket. For a moment, Bortai wondered if he would bolt. She would have as soon as she had cover. But then, she had not been a slave all her life. The Vlachs seemed to accept that he was back in servitude. Oddly, his face, so terrified a few minutes before, had eased into an expression of relief.
That made sense, in a way. Slaves did not make decisions. Slaves simply did what they were told. They were fed, and housed, perhaps no better than a dog, but that was the owner's problem and prerogative. The runaway might have lost his freedom, but he had also been freed from responsibility that he had no idea how to deal with.
And she might as well be killed for stealing a slave as far stealing a horse. She'd taken the horse in fair combat, but she doubted if the orkhan would accept that.
The doe had managed to stagger on a little way before it fell, but had not gone too far. Looking at it, honesty forced Bortai to admit that it was the slave's heavy crude arrow that had pierced its eye and killed the beast. Her arrow was merely lodged in the hind flank.
"Where did you learn to shoot like that?" she asked suspiciously.
He looked at her with frightened eyes. "I think I was just lucky, lady." He hesitated. "I did shoot . . . when I was a little boy. Before . . ." his voice trickled off.
That did explain it, partially. Those born into slavery were more docile than those taken on raids. Raiding deep into the mountains did yield some new slaves. It was not something her clan had had much part in. Ancient law forbade the holding of Mongol slaves, or even those of part Mongol blood. With their territory being in the north, the Hawk clan had mostly clashed with other clans further north, those now under the sway of minor khans who owed allegiance to the Grand Duke of Lithuania.
Other clans might hold the law in scant regard. But the Hawk clan was rigid about such things. That made them respected, certainly. But Bortai suspected they were also regarded as thinking themselves a little too good for everyone else.
The slave could be lying about the luck. Slaves did lie. Honor did not have to be their path. Either way, they would need to pick up that bow of his. She might need him to use it again, no matter whether he was supposed to or not.
It was a good-sized mature doe. "Take the hindquarters," she said, "we'll clean it back at the cart." The carcass would draw flies, but she wanted to be close to Kildai, just in case he woke.
They carried the doe back to where she had hidden the cart, pausing to collect his makeshift bow. She had to shake her head at the thing. It was just a yew bough with a string, made, by the looks of it, from flax. What could he be able to do with a real composite bow?
They hung the carcass in a tree to flense it. Then, abruptly, the slave sat down. He tried to stand up again, but failed.
"When last did you eat?" asked Bortai, looking at him, sitting and swaying.
"Not for some days, lady," said the man, trying to rise again.
"Sit," she said firmly. "I have one unconscious man on my hands. I do not need a second." She dug in the captargac. Mixed up some of the grut and ground millet with some water in the bark bowl she had contrived. "Here," she said. "Eat that."
He took it, confusion and gratitude vying for space on his face. He had plainly had the kind of master who would never have given food to his slaves with his own hands. There were some like that. "Thank you, lady," he said. "I thought you would beat me."
"For falling down from hunger? No wonder you ran away."
He looked at her with very frightened eyes. So he might, since the penalty for running away was death. But that was likely to be her own reward if Gatu or Nogay and his men caught up with them. Of course they would probably amuse themselves with her first. Try, at least. She would have to see how many of them she could kill. It was more honorable to die in combat.
"You will not send me back? Please, lady." His voice was shaking.
"With whom?" She pointed at the cart. "With my brother?" She knew in a way that she was being foolish, telling him that she was alone
. But he was so afraid, and so weak. She took out her knife, and began to cut open the doe's belly. He staggered to his feet, and began to help to haul the intestines out. "If I am caught . . ." he said quietly.
She interrupted. "They will kill you. Do you think they would treat me any differently?"
"Oh." He was silent as this sank in. He hauled the liver out. "Can I set this aside, lady?"
She nodded.
"It does not keep very well," he explained. "We can dry some of the meat, but we must eat the organ-meats soon."
It appeared that the runaway slave had thrown his lot in with her. In a way, a small way, that was comforting. "I know that much. What is your name?"
He looked startled anew. "Ion, lady."
She had never introduced herself to a slave before. They all just knew who she was. Presumably they found out from other slaves.
But she saw no reason to go into detail. What he did not know, he could not betray. "I am Bortai." It was a common enough name.
He bowed awkwardly, plainly as unfamiliar with this situation as she was. "I know. Princess Bortai of Hawk clan."
So much for keeping her identity a secret. "And how do you know so much?"
He looked warily at her again, as if afraid that she would hit him. "It was my task," he said. "I was supposed to follow you. To tell my master where you went."
She looked at him. He was just such an ordinary looking slave. Of course they weren't supposed to bring spies to the kurultai. But many people did. Would she have noticed anyone following her? Anyone as unobtrusive as this? Now that she thought about it, she could see where slaves would make excellent spies, if they were capable and bold enough. That was a lesson to be remembered.
"Who was your master?"
His terror returned full force. "You will not send me back? I will be a good slave to you." His eyes were as wild as when she had first encountered him.
"Don't be more foolish than you have to be," she said tersely. "I just want to know by whom and when you were ordered to follow me."
Much Fall of Blood-ARC Page 12
