Until the Sun Falls (8 page)

“They aren’t going to sit around. They’re coming with me. You are going to the Dnepr.” He held out a hand to Djela, and the boy ran over, beaming. Psin led him to the door. At it, he said, “Tshant, if you fight me, I’ll make you beg to be let go on long rides through hostile territory.”

Abruptly relaxed and even mild, Tshant was sitting down again. “No need to flex your muscles. I’ll go.” He paused a moment, unsmiling. “What a pleasure to see you again, Father.”

“Of course,” Psin said. He took Djela out.

Tshant listened to the door shut and raised his arms over his head and stretched. Quyuk was looking out the window; he said, “Your relations with him aren’t exactly cordial, are they?”

“We worship one another, but Father blushes so when he has to be affectionate.”

Quyuk snorted.

“Your relations with your father aren’t ideal, I’ve heard.”

“The Kha-Khan hates me. He’s afraid of me.” Quyuk moved back across the room. His loose houseshoes scuffed on the plank floor. “I don’t like him either.”

“Don’t look to me for help. Jagatai and Ogodai are teaching your nephew to be Khan. I’m committed to that.”

“He’s a handsome boy, your son.”

“My father says he looks like your grandfather. You know I’m feuding with Mongke.”

Quyuk nodded.

“I don’t want fights with all my wife’s cousins. While I’m with this army, I’ll support you against my father if you keep the others out of my quarrel with Mongke.”

Quyuk’s eyes rested on him. He crossed his arms over his chest; one hand moved nervously up and down the other arm. His right wrist wore a bandage. He said, “You’re blunt.”

Tshant nodded.

“Very well. I’ll agree to it. But you might not kill Mongke, you know.”

“I won’t.” Tshant smiled. “I only mean to hurt him a little.”

Quyuk’s mouth twisted. “You remind me of your father.”

“Oh?” Tshant looked at the bandage, and Quyuk nodded.

Tshant rose; he thought of what he would have to do before he could leave on his raid. “Where has my father taken my son?”

“He’s living in the city. Take the street before the gate here, ride down three streets, and turn north. Fifth house from the end. Mongke is there, too.”

“How convenient.” Tshant gathered up Djela’s things and went to the door.

Quyuk said, “Tshant. From what I just saw, against your father you’ll be very little help.”

Tshant smiled. “That’s right.” He opened the door and went out.

Psin found Mongke still in the house, only half-dressed, and eating fruit steeped in wine. He put Djela to one side and said, “I told you to go to the camp.”

“I know. But my horses are all lame. A pity.”

“Take one of mine.”

“Oh, well.” Mongke got up and strolled leisurely around, dressing. “You don’t mind if I—”

“Yes. I do. Move.”

Mongke drew his dagger and looked at the blade. Djela said, “Is that the man my father hates?”

“I am,” Mongke said. He put up the dagger and went to the door, just fast enough so that Psin could not shout at him. Psin’s palms were sweating. He wanted to throw Mongke out bodily. He sent a slave to saddle a horse; Mongke pretended to have lost a boot and poked around looking for it.

“Djela,” Psin said. “Go down the corridor to the room at the end. Ask for Dmitri. He’ll take you around the city.”

“But I want to stay here. I want to tell you about our ride. It was snowy and we found—”

“Later.” Psin ruffled the boy’s hair. “I have to talk to your father. We’ll have plenty of talking later. I have some things to tell you, too.”

“Good.”

“Say the name again.”

“Dmitri. I remember.” Djela ran out.

Mongke looked disconsolate; he was fully dressed and there had been no sound of a horse in the courtyard. He picked up his bow and left. Psin sat down, rubbing his chin. A slave girl came in with red wine and poured it for him.

A horse clattered in the courtyard. Psin bounded up, but it was only Mongke leaving. He turned away from the window, surprised that he was so tense. The girl smiled at him, and he gestured to her to leave.

Through the window he could see all but one corner of the courtyard. The snow, swept off by slaves, lay in a dirty heap against the southern wall. Dmitri and Djela came out of a door down the wall and walked toward the stable; Djela was talking, his bright face lifted toward the slave’s. Psin heard something about snow and frozen men.

Tshant rode through the gate, dismounted, and gave Djela his coat. Djela tried to push it away; he said it was warm, too warm for a coat, he would run to keep warm, did he have to wear it? He had to wear it. Tshant said something to Dmitri, who bowed, and gave his reins to another slave. Psin pushed away from the window. He could feel the tension growing in his back and shoulders, the resistance and the strength to fight Tshant. Tshant, like them all, would have him down and beaten if he stopped shoving long enough for them to draw a free breath. He settled himself in a chair, his wine cup on the floor beside him.

Tshant came in. “Good morning, Father. We had a lovely trip out from the Lake.”

“Was the snow bad?”

“Terrible.”

“I suppose everyone’s all right, or you would have told me. I wish you’d brought my dun horse with you.”

“Malekai will bring him. He would have slowed me down.” Tshant stripped off coat, gloves, hat, belt. “Tell me about Russia.”

“I wish I knew. I’m here to do reconnaissance. All I know is that the steppe runs west at least as far as the river I told you about. The steppe begins a day’s ride south of here, and the forest stretches on way north of where we’ll be going.”

“Where is Mongke?”

“He’s not here. You can fight with him when I’m done with you.”

“Who are our enemies? Cities or tribes?”

“Cities. I suppose many of them are like Bulgar. Did you look at the Volga camp? Batu built it on a Russian plan, in part.”

“I spent the night, no more.”

“You came faster than we did. I think Sabotai has had more trouble with the Altun than with enemies.”

“But you love making men do what they don’t want,” Tshant said softly. “I told Quyuk I’d support him against you if he stays out of my fight with Mongke.”

“Your loyalty makes me weep with pride.”

“What use am I against you?”

“None. How is Artai?”

“Very well. Happy. She’s glad you sent for her.”

“And Chan?”

“Furious. She’s done nothing but complain about the whole trip. Now that she’s sure nothing she says will change things.”

Psin grunted. He could hear Chan’s voice in his mind, light and pure as porcelain, full of careless reproach. He shifted in the chair; even thinking about her kindled him.

“She’ll cause you trouble,” Tshant said. “My cousins like women, I’m told.”

“I’ll tend to Chan.”

Tshant scratched his nose, smiling. “I’m sure you will.”

“Your men are camped in the point of land where the rivers meet. You’ll have trouble finding remounts.”

“I’ll need a Russian-speaking slave.”

“Your thousand-commanders will get you one.”

“Good. I’m taking Djela.”

“I think you’re a fool.”

“Nonetheless. You took me fighting when I was his age.”

Psin stood up. “I think I was a fool. I took Tulugai and Kinsit along with me to Khwaresm. Where are they now?”

“They did not die in Khwaresm.”

“Still.” Psin turned his back on Tshant. He hadn’t thought of Tulugai and Kinsit for some while. They had died in China. “They learned too young not to be afraid. Fear keeps a man alive, I think. In ways.”

“The ways aren’t worthy of us. They were in the Kha-Khan’s service. They could expect to die.”

Psin clenched his teeth. Heat in waves flowed over him. He kept still, staring, waiting for Tshant to say one thing more. It occurred to him that he mightn’t be so angry if he had thought more often of his dead sons. “When you lose one, you’ll know better than that.”

Tshant’s chair scraped against the floor. Psin could hear him stand up.

“I lost a son and a daughter before they could draw breath,” Tshant said. His voice came from near the door. “I don’t mean to lose this one. Djela is mine, and I’ll do what I think I should with him.”

The door slammed. Psin whirled. He was alone in the room. His blood heated, and he took a step toward the door. Through the window he heard a horse’s hoofs pounding frantically in the courtyard.

Tulugai and Kinsit had looked like him: big, stocky, awkward in their youth. When they had talked to him their respect had filled him up with satisfaction. They had never fought him. He turned and kicked the chair across the room.

He kept Tshant and Mongke away from each other easily enough; their troops were camped on opposite sides of the city. Mongke reported that he would be able to leave the next morning. Tshant’s men had trouble getting horses and Psin didn’t think they would leave Bulgar before he himself did.

Djela and Psin spent most of the afternoon with Dmitri, learning Russian. Djela was full of excited stories about his ride. He said, “And I’m going raiding with Ada, too. He said so.”

Dmitri frowned. “You’re young, noyon.”

“Not so young. Am I, Grandfather?”

“Young enough.”

“Can Dmitri go with me?”

“No. Dmitri’s going with me to Novgorod.”

From the tail of his eye Psin saw Dmitri’s small start and smiled. “Where are you from, Dmitri?”

Dmitri said, “Riazan, my Khan.”

Psin looked away from him and pretended to listen to Djela. Dmitri was from the north, somewhere, but from what city he had never said. Riazan wasn’t in the north.

That night Mongke of his own accord ate with his troops. Djela, Tshant, Kaidu and Psin ate in Psin’s house.

“They will know me before we reach the Dnepr,” Tshant said, when Psin asked about his men. “They’re good enough, but they need a strong hand.”

“Take Kaidu with you,” Psin said. “You might find him useful.”

Kaidu exhaled hard, as if his breath had been pent up. His eyes burnt. “Thank you. I want to go.”

Djela looked tired; he leaned his head on Tshant’s chest and shut his eyes. Tshant put one arm around him. Psin thought of saying something, but Tshant’s heavy eyes looked too much as if he expected it. “You know what I want you to do,” Psin said. He signed to Dmitri, who was pouring the wine.

“Yes,” Tshant said. “You want to know the country as well as a man born to it, and all without stepping your horse’s hoof on it yourself.” He reached for his cup. “I’ll do it. I may have trouble, with the horses in the condition they’re in.”

“Are they unsound, or just—”

Tshant snorted. “Unsound? A horse we’d slaughter for meat would look good next to these. Foundered. Windbroken. Bad backs. I saw one horse out in the remount herd urinate pure blood —bad kidneys. Mange. I could have pulled the winter coat off one of those nags with my hands. Bowed tendons, active splints, running sores. Half of them are so underweight I’d give them two years on pasture before I tried to ride one.”

Psin chewed his mustaches. Of all the armies, Tshant’s had the farthest to ride. “The Altun have private herds, off near the hills. Take them. They’re crossbreds and they’re bigger than these.”

Kaidu said, “But those are our horses.”

“They’ll carry your men. Tshant, take them.”

“Quyuk won’t like it.”

Tshant laughed. “Quyuk hasn’t liked anything much for the past few days, I understand.” He dragged Djela into his lap, and the child murmured in his sleep. “I’ll take his horses first.”

Psin had intended the Altun herds for his own remounts. The next day, after Mongke left Bulgar with a great thundering of drums, he rode out and told his thousand-commanders to see that each of the men he would take to Novgorod had at least one sound horse to ride. Both thousand-commanders looked skeptical.

“We’ll steal others on the way, if we can,” Psin said. “Have you seen Quyuk Noyon? “

One of them grinned. “The word is that he’s drunk. Kadan Noyon is over across the camp.”

“Ah?” Psin turned his horse and rode over east.

Kadan was talking to the commander of his personal tuman. When Psin rode up they both rose. Psin dismounted. He could hardly believe that Kadan was sober; he’d never seen him less than stumbling drunk. Kadan said, “What do you think of our camp, Khan?”

“Don’t remind me.” The camp was filthy and ill-kept. “We’re leaving tomorrow, you know.”

“I know.”

Psin looked around, at the camp. “When Sabotai gets here he’ll tend to this. He’ll probably burn it and start out fresh.”

“It was bad when we got here, Khan.” Kadan smiled apologetically.

“You should have cleaned it up, instead of letting it get worse.”

“Quyuk said it was too much trouble.”

“Quyuk had better learn that taking trouble is easier than taking Sabotai or me.” Psin sat down and pulled off his hat. Meat was cooking in a covered pot, and his mouth watered at the scent.

“Aren’t you going to remark that I’m sober?” Kadan said.

“It’s the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen. Why?”

Kadan grinned. “Because I’m not as clever as Quyuk. For me, it’s easier to do things properly the first time. I’ll be no hindrance to you, Khan. In fact, I intend to enjoy seeing my brother take orders for once.”

“I don’t need help from you.”

Kadan huffed; it was a way of laughing without opening his mouth. “You’ll get none. I’m like Mongke. I’ll sit back and watch and in the end… well. Quyuk has a long unsettled debt with me.

Psin spat and turned to his horse. Kadan was staring into the cookfire, smiling. Psin put one foot in his stirrup and swung up. “Kadan.”

Kadan looked up.

“While I command, nobody quarrels. If you fight Quyuk, you fight me. Understand?”

He turned his horse and cantered off without an answer. 

“They won’t come to us, not so many of us,”
Baidar said.

“The Mordvins are natural cowards.” He stood in his stirrups to ease his back. Quyuk, beside him, was paring his nails, his rein on his horse’s neck. Psin looked all around; the snowfields stretched on a little way before they met the black forest. Behind him two thousand men rested their horses.