Volk Volkovich shook his head, just once. “It was the death of one man, not an entire city, so that makes you the winner. And notice has been taken, I think. There’ll be no dynasty of Romanov Tsars. Not this year, at least.”
CHAPTER SIX
The Independent Tsardom of Khorlov;
July, 1243 A.D.
Mar’ya Morevna was sponging at her husband’s head again when Amragan tarkhan came over to them. She glanced at the Turk but paid him no further heed since the black crust of dried blood chose that moment to come away from Ivan’s ear and he yelped like a trodden puppy.
“If you’d let me take care of this mess at once, I could have saved the earlobe straight away,” she said severely. “But no, this needs work, and all because you had to be a hero. Look at you.”
The response that it was difficult without a mirror wasn’t something she wanted to hear, so instead Ivan gave her a wretched look and a sort of crooked smile that moved only the undamaged part of his face. “There are some things that can’t wait,” he said. “You’ve ruled your own domain. You should know that.”
“And you fought well,” said Amragan tarkhan. He took being ignored by Mar’ya Morevna as something expected from any woman, Princess or otherwise, with a husband dripping fresh blood on her fingers and part of his ear on the table beside her. “In my defence, no matter what your people thought of it. I shall say so when I make my report to the Ilkhan Batu.”
“Report that the Tsar of Khorlov executed a criminal. That’s enough.”
“It is more than enough. But I remind you again, you are not Tsar —”
“Amragan tarkhan, at least ten days and maybe two weeks of hard riding lie between Khorlov and Sarai, even for one of the Khan’s chapar couriers with a change of horses every twenty miles and a bandoleer of bells to clear his path. For all I know I may be Tsar indeed, no matter what you tell me, or I might not even be a Prince. If the Khan of the Golden Horde has changed his mind, you wouldn’t know. But until I stand before him and he says otherwise, if I call myself Tsar a correction isn’t needed every time.”
The tarkhan studied Ivan for several seconds, his angular face cold and considering. “You are a strange one,” he said at last. “You submit to the Khan without question, regardless of the wishes of your High Council – oh yes, I heard that too – to save your city; you fight and kill one of your own bogatyr warriors to save your honour before a guest and again, to save your city and its people; then you seem willing to put your neck under the axe by arguing about what title you should bear.”
“Personal matters and policy matters are two different things,” said Ivan. Then the significance of what Amragan tarkhan had just said struck through the ache and sting of Mar’ya Morevna’s nursing. “So Khorlov will come to no harm because of that young fool?” He frowned, and not this time just because of what Mar’ya Morevna was doing to his mutilated ear, but at his own choice of words. He had said ‘young’ automatically even though their ages had been so close, but Aleksey Romanov’s behaviour was that of a man with a lot of growing up still to do, and now he never would. Did that mean Ivan himself was growing older than his years? And did it matter now? He didn’t know.
His eyes shifted past the Turk to where three of Captain Akimov’s guards were busy in what remained of the dispersing circle of people. For all that the fight had taken place because of an ostensible breach of hospitality, the Cossack Guard-Captain had formed his own opinion about the real reason behind it, an opinion and a reason confirmed by Ivan’s not issuing any alternate orders to those that Akimov had loudly given his men. Two of them were wrapping the bogatyr’s corpse in a cloak, and the third was working hard to clean any remaining stubborn smears from Ivan’s sword. He had already used that same sword to lop Aleksey’s head from his shoulders, as befitted the death of a traitor. It needed little effort. Ivan had made sure of that.
Amragan tarkhan followed his gaze, then swung back to focus briefly and pointedly on Ivan’s ripped ear and the long cut across his cheek. “No harm,” he echoed. “You took the offence on yourself, and I have already forgotten it.”
Have you really? thought Ivan. He could see the same cynical disbelief flick like the beat of a bird’s wing across Mar’ya Morevna’s face. I think not. Or at least, only for as long as it suits you. He kept the thought closed away as Amragan tarkhan should have done earlier, having concluded how to play the same game. Appear to take everything, every word, every gesture, at its face value while accepting none of it. Ivan was well aware that the Khan’s envoy might still be able to spring some surprises on him, but there was a pride in the Turk that made him waste his shots on ill-advised gestures and posturing. That remark about Ivan and his High Council disagreeing over the issue of surrender and submission was just such a waste. There had been no need for anyone to know it, except that the tarkhan wanted to impress; and what he had done instead was to warn Ivan, Mar’ya Morevna, Volk Volkovich, and anyone else how little could be regarded as secret. Ilkhan Batu of the Golden Horde might have been better advised to employ renegade Chin of Kithai as his ambassadors; on the few occasions Ivan had met them, dealers in jade and silk and spices for the most part, their words had said little and their impassive faces still less.
“I thank you for that,” he said, and bowed courteously from his seat so that Mar’ya Morevna smacked him irritably on the back of the head and ordered him to sit still and stop wriggling, in a tone of voice he’d more often heard her use on the children. They were about somewhere, though whether either of them had seen the fight and especially the end of it, he’d been too busy at the time to notice.
Half his mind hoped not, that they’d been taken away and fed sweets, that they hadn’t seen their father forced to nail a man of an age to be his own twin brother to the ground so as to stifle the dissent of other men old enough to know better. The other half was less sure about the wisdom of insulating a Tsar’s children, or anybody’s children if it came to that, from the reality of sudden, violent death that was all too common in Russia since the Tatars came. They’d seen him cut, that much he knew already, because he had heard Natasha’s voice crying. Nikolai had sounded more as if he was yelling with rage. Or it might have been the other way around. It was hard to tell now, hard to remember what he’d heard through the noises in his own head all that time ago…
“Do you want me to try to put this earlobe back where it belongs?” said Mar’ya Morevna, exasperated, “or will I forget all about it and let you wear the earring clipped to the other side instead?”
Ivan looked at the pathetic little gobbet of flesh resting on her palm. “If you can, then do it,” he said.
“It’s going to hurt.”
That might have been a note of regret in her voice, but it sounded more like gloomy satisfaction. As Mar’ya Morevna brought the chilly severed lobe back into contact with Ivan’s sticky overheated ear and began muttering under her breath, he hoped not. No matter how fashionable the wearing of a dramatic single earring had become among the gentlemen of Khorlov’s court, he’d managed to avoid the appropriate piercing because he’d seen no reason for unnecessary pain. Mar’ya Morevna, of course, had both ears pierced, and ornamented the scars with everything from simple pellets of polished gold, which Ivan thought looked uncomfortable, to long pendants of precious-metal filigree ornamented with enough gemstones to buy a reasonably-sized principality and which Ivan thought looked downright excruciating.
“Are you trying to make me believe it’s not hurting now?”
He knew it sounded stupid, but with the Turk standing by, Ivan was determined to at least try to be brave and funny. What he really wanted to do was grind his teeth and bang his fists on the table as throb became ache and ache became a jangling white-hot needle of anguish. Just when he could take no more, when he absolutely had to jump up and down and scream, the intolerable pain became a sudden spreading warmth as comfortable as a spiced cup of hot sbiten honey-drink on a cold winter night. Rather than yell, Ivan r
eleased a long-drawn-out sigh and sagged sideways to lean his head against Mar’ya Morevna’s breast. He managed to hide the embarrassed grin trying to plaster itself all over his face, because what with that surging uncontrollable peak and then the warmth and the pleasant weariness afterwards, it felt as if they had just made love in public. Except that public or private, what had just happened hurt too much for him to want to make a habit of it.
He glanced surreptitiously at Amragan tarkhan, wondering what the Turk had seen, what he thought of it – and if he’d found it funny. Ivan had no worries on that score at least; the man had taken several steps back, and he looked frightened. The expression looked strange on that harsh face, and for just an instant Ivan couldn’t understand why. Then he realized: it was sorcery again.
The shamans who had accompanied Amragan tarkhan to Khorlov were physicians, besides much else. But whether they employed wizardcraft as a part of their medicine was another matter altogether, and even if they did, it was unlikely to be anything so direct as Mar’ya Morevna’s casual, powerful use of the Art Magic. The reminder was timely, a warning of Khorlov’s skill with the Art and yet not one so blatant that it might be taken the wrong way, for what was she doing except healing a hurt taken by her husband in the tarkhan’s own defence?
But timely reminders about one thing sometimes lead to a recollection of others, and so it was with Amragan tarkhan. The Khan’s emissary recovered himself well, enough at least that Ivan saw no advantage in teasing the man, however gently. If sorcery and the wariness of sorcery was one of the reasons why Ogotai Khakhan and his great captains had left Khorlov alone when other cities went up in flames, then he would be the last to alleviate that wariness. But Amragan tarkhan had been given other instructions than simply ‘burn’ or ‘do not burn.’
“The Ilkhan Batu is waiting,” he said. “His commands are simple: it is not fitting that you should live in lands taken by conquest, claiming them for your own, and not do homage to the lord who took them. Batu Khan requires that you be brought to Sarai for that reason.” Amragan tarkhan gave them both a quick, honest, open smile that sat less than well on his lean face. “Also he desires to meet with the man who slew Baba Yaga the witch and Undying Koshchey.”
“More than once for that one,” said Mar’ya Morevna drily. “The old bastard was well named.”
Ivan grinned, pleased enough in a wry sort of way. It was all news to him; not that the Khan had heard of his various exploits, since they were common enough knowledge, but that a Mongol descended in direct line from Chinghis-Khan’s Golden Clan and thus one of the Powers in the wide white world, should make it a reason why he should attend the court at Sarai. It was flattering, more or less. “Is that all?”
“Hardly. As you know already, if it pleases him, he may grant – or restore, if you prefer – dominion of Khorlov to the Rus lord whose wisdom is proved superior to those who call themselves his equals. You.”
“And if not, he’ll give my throne, my crown and my realm to whoever does please him. Yes?”
“It is not my place to say.” The Turk shrugged, to show how little he was concerned in the doings of his lord and master. “But the Khan of the Golden Horde has other, er, requirements, which knowing his wisdom should not surprise you overmuch. First, that your children come with you to Sarai —”
Ivan felt the convulsion of anger jolt like a thunderbolt through Mar’ya Morevna so that her fingers and his clamped spasmodically together; then he felt it just as quickly subside. To fear for one’s children was a natural reaction, and to diplomatically restrain that reaction was typical of a ruler trained by the wily Byzantine Greeks. Because of that training, Mar’ya Morevna had always been able to control herself better than he could, and Ivan was glad of it. He swore bitterly under his breath, furious that he’d failed to foresee such a stipulation in the Khan’s commands, never dreaming until now that there might be more forms of submission than just no armed resistance.
Not that he could complain, if he weren’t the father of those same children. Batu’s requirement was only sensible and what Ivan would have done if the positions were reversed. A Tsar’s son and heir could be a more dangerous focus of unrest and dissension than the Tsar himself, even though the lad was only seven years old. No; especially when the lad was only seven years old, because then there would have to be adults to act as regents and ‘advise’ the child Tsar on what to do until he reached his majority.
If he ever did.
He and Mar’ya Morevna would have to do as they were told, or there would be no point to any of the rest and Amragan tarkhan would flatten Khorlov after all. Even so, there was a great temptation to push the tarkhan’s amiably-spoken words back down his throat on the point of a sword. Suicidal, of course, and any second thoughts would come too late; too late for the Turk, but also too late for Ivan, his family, his people, for Khorlov and for everything else he was trying to protect. But there were other ways to ensure their safety, ways to get them out of Sarai far faster than even the swiftest pursuer.
There was only one problem: those ways depended rather on Amragan and his Khan not knowing about them already, and the tarkhan was speaking now in a tone of voice that cut through Ivan’s plotting and focused all of his attention back on the Turk.
“… Being aware of this,” Amragan was saying, “the Ilkhan Batu also commands that you and your entourage ride only, ah, ordinary horses when you come with me to Sarai.”
“I …” Ivan bit down on anything else he might have said, and closed his eyes briefly to concentrate instead on his newly-healed ear. It no longer hurt, but still felt hot and annoying, like a nettle-sting. Annoying or not, stinging or not, it was a more acceptable irritant than what Amragan tarkhan had just said. His mood wasn’t sweetened by the awareness that again, he should have expected something of the sort. Black Sivka was hardly a state secret, and nor was Chyornyy. The two stallions, with their speed that paid no heed to the distances across Moist-Mother-Earth, and their intelligence that was more than that of some people Ivan could name, were a source of gossip, appreciation and some considerable envy throughout the Rus lands.
That Batu Khan would have known nothing about them or knowing, make no provision based on that knowledge when issuing his orders to Amragan tarkhan, was baseless optimism, and he’d given way to indulging in it like the laziest day-dreamer. No ruler with any wit, and though Ivan hated to admit it Batu seemed both well-advised and wise in himself, would allow any subject Prince to come calling on a steed which could make nonsense of the whole concept of hostages.
Knowing that added no honey to the sourness of the Khan’s command. If the horses stayed behind, and there seemed no way at present to avoid it, then Ivan and his family could never leave Sarai fast enough that the Khan’s relay-riders wouldn’t overhaul them within a day unless Mar’ya Morevna was willing to use a Gate. Looking at her now, Ivan guessed that even asking would be a waste of breath. The Gate-spells worked in much the same way as that more natural ability of the two black horses, granting the ability to take – what did the old philosophers say? – the shortest distance between two points. Their drawback, as simple and as deadly as the risk of jumping across a chasm rather than climbing down one side and up the other, was that anyone using a Gate had to know exactly where they were going, the exact location of the Opening-Gate at the other side, and whether there was anything there. Anything, or nothing.
Like deep water, or open air over a sheer drop, or a solid wall. Any one of those things, being there already, had rights and priorities in the scheme of things and all were fatal; some more unpleasantly so than others. To share space with height or depth was unpleasant enough, even though it was something that might come all too naturally to sailors or swimmers or climbers or the careless, but to share space with the stones and mortar of a fortress tower, however briefly, was a particularly horrid way to die. Some months after the Battle on the Ice, Ivan heard a second-hand description of what had happened to the Teutonic knight Diete
r Balke: he’d seen him go into the Gate, but mercifully hadn’t been there to witness him come out.
It was just as well. Buried alive didn’t begin to describe it.
Anyone with more than the smallest education in the Art Magic knew of the theoretical existence of such spells, but that person would also know that Gates had never been used successfully, and thus were of no practical use, and… and many other excuses of the same sort. Mar’ya Morevna and her father Koldun the Enchanter were the only sorcerers in all Russia to have used the Gating-spells and lived to talk about it; but not even Mar’ya Morevna used them more than she needed. Because the spells were so dangerous, and so seldom used, they were also seldom spoken of. That helped to keep them a secret from inquisitive ears and eyes and now, when those doing the prying were Tatars afraid not just of what they might find out, but of the whole subject of sorcery, maintaining that secret was easier than ever before.
Assuming, of course, that Batu Khan didn’t know about them as well. Ivan was growing very cautious over letting assumptions about the Tatars sway his plans. Fear of sorcery was one thing, but he was beginning to suspect that the Khan of the Golden Horde was even more afraid – well, reluctant anyway – of being left in ignorance of any matter at all that might give his subject peoples an advantage. That feeling had grown so strong that it was almost a surprise when Amragan tarkhan made no mention of the Gates.
“Are you all right again, Papa?” asked Tsarevich Nikolai.
At the sudden question right by his elbow Ivan jumped and swore, then grinned weakly as Mar’ya Morevna glowered at him and Nikolai stored the new words away for future use. Probably at the most socially inconvenient time, if previous experience was anything to go by. “Yes I am. But Kolya,” Ivan’s voice grew disapproving, “honest gentlemen don’t sneak around and creep up on people.”
The Golden Horde Page 18
