Until the Sun Falls (16 page)

“Where is he?”

“Baidar gave him to me but he got away and ran.”

Psin started down the corridor. “He’s probably gone back to our house.” He went past the dispersing crowd, around a corner, and through the high main door into the courtyard.

The sentry there saluted. Psin looked around, saw no sign of Djela, and said, “Did my grandson come through here?”

“He went toward the stables, Khan.”

Psin trotted down the steps and strode across the yard, headed for the low barn. Sabotai was probably right to let them fight everything out. His arms hurt where they had held him. He swung open the stable door and called, “Djela?”

There was no answer, and the stable was almost empty. His dun horse stood munching hay at one of the ricks; he’d broken the rope that tied him to the pole. Psin went over to him and led him back to the saddle racks, feeding him hay with each step to keep him quiet. He tied him fast with new rope and started saddling him.

“Grandfather?”

“Oh. There you are.”

Djela crawled out from under the hayrick. Straw covered his coat and his face was filthy with tears and dust. “I was talking to Dekko.”

“To—oh.” Dekko was a little boy who showed up in Djela’s conversations sometimes. “What did he have to say?”

“He said—” Djela burst into tears. “Is my father dead?”

Psin scooped him up. “No. Your father’s fine. He tipped a cabinet over on Mongke. I don’t think he hurt him, but a man can hope. Stop crying.”

“I thought he was dead. Mongke cut him. I saw him cut him.”

Psin hugged him. “It’s all right. Everything’s fine. I wouldn’t have let Mongke hurt him badly.”

“Baidar and Sabotai were holding you. I saw them. They wanted him to get killed.”

Psin laid his cheek against the boy’s hair. Djela’s arms around his neck almost choked him. “No, they don’t. They just wanted to teach him not to fight with Mongke.”

“They wanted him to die.”

“You remember when I told you not to pat Malekai’s dog, don’t you? And you did.”

Djela sobbed. His chin jabbed Psin in the shoulder.

“The dog bit you, didn’t he?”

The chin jabbed him again.

“And you didn’t pat him anymore, did you?” 

“No.”

“Why? Because I told you not to, or because he bit you?”

“I want to go home.”

“We will. Right now.”

“I mean back to the Lake. I want to go back to the Lake.”

“We can’t, Djela. Not for a long time.”

“I want to go home. I want my mother.”

The child began crying again, more softly but more terribly as well. Psin rocked him. The dun horse looked toward them, his ears pricked up. Psin sat down with Djela in his lap and listened to him cry. He thought, This is all the fault of Temujin. Like everything else in the world.

Artai said, “Be careful.”

“I will”

“Watch out for Djela, when he reaches you.”

“I will.”

“Watch out for Tshant.”

“Tshant’s big enough to watch out for himself. You make sure he stays on his back until he heals. He’ll try to ride out after us when he wakes up.”

She looked back into the house, thoughtfully, and said, “He won’t wake up for a while. Mongke stuffed him full of bhang last night.”

“Mongke?”

“Oh.” She threw one hand up. “The two of them sat in there cursing at each other so loudly none of us could sleep. When they heard you ride in, Mongke went upstairs. I would have told you but you needed sleep.”

“Unh.” Psin turned to the dun and mounted. Mongke had gone earlier. The first light crept into the courtyard. The dun pawed the stones, and Psin’s three remounts shifted nervously away from him. Artai moved back out of the wind.

“Come back,” she said.

Psin lifted his hand to her and started toward the gate. He turned, just outside it, and looked back; at the side door, not the one Artai stood in, he saw something move. Dead leaves skittered across the paving stones. It was going to snow. He waved to Artai again, smiled at Chan hiding in the other doorway, and galloped his horses down the street toward the main gate.

The storm struck them when they crossed the Volga.
Psin, riding beside Sabotai, pulled up the collar of his cloak and rammed his hat down over his ears. Before he could get his gloves back on, the snow had blotted out everything. Sabotai threw up one arm and pulled his horse down to a walk.

“Mongke.”

Mongke galloped up out of the army behind them.

“Can you guide us to Moskva in this weather?”

Psin dug a length of wool out of his saddlepouch and wrapped it around his face. Mongke was thinking. He glanced at Psin and said, “I think so.”

“Choose your scouts.”

Mongke trotted off again. Sabotai wheeled around and called to Baidar to get colored lanterns out of the baggage train. He said something to Psin, and Psin shook his head.

“I can’t hear you.”

The wind was screaming past him toward Sabotai. Sabotai nudged his horse closer to Psin’s, leaned out, and shouted, “Look behind you.”

Psin twisted around to look at the army. Aside from himself, Sabotai, and his and Sabotai’s remounts, he could see three other riders. The rest of the five tumans behind them were lost in the driving snow.

He could hear noises—horses neighing, the clank of metal—even above the wind. He could see nothing but a dark grey cloud, full of whirling snow, and the dim shapes of the other three horsemen. They were roping themselves together. Slowly they faded out entirely.

Sabotai cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed for Baidar. There was no answer. Psin’s horses all wheeled at once to put their tails to the wind. Sabotai roared again.

Through the noisy twilight lights moved: red, blue, yellow and green. They bobbed toward them, at first only hazy splotches. The wind swung around, hurling snow into Psin’s face, and he heard the plopping of a galloping horse’s hoofs. Baidar with lanterns hung from his saddle cantered up to them.

“Every hundred-commander is to see that his men are roped together,” Sabotai said. “And he is to carry a lantern on his saddle— yellow. Hang all four of those on a staff so that we can carry it high.”

Mongke trotted up. He came so suddenly Psin reached for his bow. “All my scouts carry red lanterns. I’ll drop back whenever I can to make sure you’re following me.”

Sabotai nodded, and Mongke whipped his horse into a gallop and vanished into the storm. Psin squinted, trying to see him. Abruptly a red light glowed ahead, so faint he could barely pick it out: Mongke had unshuttered his lantern. The red light bounced a little and disappeared.

“Do you have a rope?” Sabotai called to Psin.

Psin took rope from his saddle and threw the coiled end to Sabotai. Batu charged up and roped himself to Sabotai’s horse on the other side. Baidar with the lanterns mounted on a staff rode directly in front of them, and with Sabotai slightly ahead they started off again.

The dun horse hated moving into anything wet and kept his head down around his knees. Snow drifted across the pommel of Psin’s saddle. After every few strides he scraped packed snow off the saddle and his shoulders. Sabotai was slouched down, his face working thoughtfully, and Psin swerved the dun over to him.

They leaned together, standing in their inside stirrups, and shouted in each other’s ears to be heard. Psin said, “Do you think we’ll be able to signal in this light?”

“If the hundred-commanders pay attention.”

“This storm is luck for us.”

“How?”

“No Russian will expect us in this weather.”

Sabotai laughed. Psin settled back into his saddle and cleared out the snow. His remounts were jogging along directly behind the dun, letting him break the snow for them. When the wind veered or dropped, he could hear men calling and horses trotting behind him, but he knew if he turned he would see nothing.

He thought of the Kipchaks behind them, who made up half of two separate tumans, and of how they must feel going to fight under Mongol commanders sworn to kill them if they hesitated one step, surrounded by Mongols whose attitudes toward the snow and the Kipchaks would be similar. He decided he would not like to be a Kipchak.

Ahead, a red light grew steadily from a rosy haze to a lantern, and Mongke developed out of the flying snow. He lifted one arm and waved it violently north.

“Baidar,” Sabotai said. “Shutter all lanterns but the green.”

Baidar swayed down the staff, latched the shutters, and swung them up again. Sabotai held up one hand. He meant that they should move west until the hundred-commanders had a chance to see and interpret the change. Psin could see him counting to himself, marking off strides. His hand fell, and Psin reined the dun around. A tree loomed before him and he circled it.

The wind dropped, and he could hear the yells and whistles of the thousand-commanders directing their columns. He looked over his shoulder; he could see not a man, not a horse, only the flicker of a yellow lantern. The snow slapped him in the face and the wind blew his hat off. He caught it by the string and put it on again.

When he turned forward again he saw Mongke’s red lantern wobbling away in the snow. Mongke had come back to make sure they had all turned. Psin glanced at Sabotai and nodded.

Sabotai opened his mouth but said nothing, waiting for the wind to lull. When it did, he howled, “How long will this last?”

Psin shrugged and held up one finger, closed his fist, and held up four fingers. He shrugged again. Sabotai looked annoyed, and his lips moved steadily. Psin let his weight slump into the saddle. He trusted Mongke: he went to sleep.

The storm was still raging when he woke up. He thought it was evening. The grey was much darker, and the wind was rising from a scream to a deafening roar. He was sitting in a block of snow, and it was so cold the snow hadn’t melted at all. He smashed it with his fist and brushed the chunks off his saddle. The dun’s mane hung down in icicles.

Sabotai tugged on the rope that tied them together, and Psin rode over there. Sabotai shouted, “Batu says we should camp.”

Psin looked up at the sky; snowflakes pounded his face. His mustaches crackled.

“Here comes Mongke,” Batu screamed.

Mongke cantered up, dragging his remounts behind him. “Camp,” he shouted. “Up ahead. Good foraging.”

Psin nodded. Sabotai called signals to Baidar. He was solid white, the snow clinging in shelves to his shoulders. When Mongke signaled that they could camp, Psin could see Sabotai counting off strides. They began to turn, and they kept turning, swinging steadily around to trample out a camp among the trees. When they turned straight into the wind it nearly tore Psin out of his saddle. The rope between him and Sabotai was stiff with ice. At last they caught up with the tail end of the army. Sabotai waved toward the center, and he, Psin and Batu galloped into the middle of the great circle. Passing the Kipchaks, Psin caught a glimpse of faces dulled from cold and misery.

Sabotai said, “How far did we come?”

“Far enough.” Psin dismounted and flexed his legs. His knees hurt.

“My toes are frozen,” Sabotai said. “My rump is asleep.”

Batu snorted and slid down, to beat at his sides with his arms. His eyes darted cheerfully around them and he smiled.

“Where’s that baggage train?” Sabotai said.

“Coming.” Baidar trotted into their midst. “Mongke’s found a meadow up ahead where the horses can graze.”

Sabotai nodded. The baggage train lumbered into the camp. Slaves dropped off while it rolled and ran to find their masters. One of Sabotai’s, swathed in fur, stripped the saddles from their mounts, linked them together with lead ropes, and jumped up on Baidar’s horse to pony them over to the pasture.

With the horses gone the cold was suddenly penetrating. Sabotai crawled into the nearest cart. The baggage masters were breaking up the train, sending carts here and there; inside the one Sabotai huddled in, Dmitri and two of Psin’s women slaves were already cooking gruel and warming kumiss. Psin leaned against the tailgate and blew on his mustaches to thaw them out.

“Half a day’s ride in good weather?” Sabotai said.

Psin shook his head. “Less. Enough. If the Russians have sentries posted along the river, they won’t have seen us. If this snow keeps up we’ll be under their walls before they know we’re coming.”

Dmitri handed Sabotai kumiss and he gulped it down. Dmitri took the bowl to fill it up again. Sabotai said, “If this snow keeps up you’ll be carting a frozen general back home with you.”

Batu had collected his brothers and was talking to them. All but Batu himself looked exhausted. Batu was trying to talk them into playing chess with him. His cart pulled up alongside Sabotai’s and Psin’s, and Batu’s brothers all lunged for it, scrabbling at the tailgate with their frozen hands.

“Is Batu never tired?” Sabotai said.

“Batu is an old woman.” Quyuk hitched himself up into the cart beside Sabotai. “My brother has thrown me out into the snow.” 

“Why?”

“I tipped the pot into the fire.”

“Are you drunk?” Psin sniffed.

“Very.” Quyuk flopped back and lay still.

“They’re probably all drunk,” Sabotai said. “Except Kadan. Kadan never drinks on campaign.”

Dmitri brought Psin a dry tunic and helped him put it on. Psin crawled into the corner opposite Sabotai’s. Kaidu was trying to get into Batu’s cart; Batu and Berke were shoving him back. “Sleep in the snow,” Batu shouted. “Be good for you. Toughen you up.”

“Let me in,” Kaidu wailed. “I’m cold.”

Psin drank his third bowl of kumiss. Quyuk was snoring. Two slaves heaved their saddles into the cart, and Psin’s bowcase narrowly missed Quyuk’s head.

“Eat,” Sabotai said. He thrust a bowl of gruel into Psin’s hands.

They ate as much as they wanted; Moskva wasn’t so far away they had to worry about food. Mongke had said the city could be stormed. Finished, Sabotai crawled back past Quyuk and curled up under a mountain of fur robes. “Come in and put the tailgate up.”

Psin climbed up and pulled the gate after him. The camp was quiet, and the snow was drifting up already over the wheels of the carts. He dragged his sable cloak over his shoulders and lay down, suddenly tired.