Until the Sun Falls Page 5
“Have you met Psin yet?” Mongke asked Kaidu.
“No. But I saw him when he rode out with Quyuk. He’s fat.”
Mongke laughed. “No. Unfortunately. He’s just very big. My father told me once that Psin Khan is the worst general and the best soldier in our armies. Come inside, Psin, and have something to drink.”
Kaidu whirled. Psin went into the room and sat down with his back to the fire. “Tuli always mixed things up. I’m a terrible soldier, but I make a passable general.”
Mongke laughed genially. His eyes were bleary with malice. “How did you find the society of my dear cousin?”
“I cracked his wrist for him, I think.” Psin studied Kaidu. The boy was lanky, but he moved without awkwardness. “All the Altun are to ride out with me to Novgorod.”
“Oh?” Kaidu said. He turned his head toward Mongke. “What does Quyuk say about that?”
Psin pulled off his felt socks. “He’s overcome with joy.”
“With a cracked wrist.” Kaidu laughed. “I’d love to have seen that.”
“I heard you talking about the Kipchaks. Have you fought them recently?”
“No. And I’m sick of being caged up here. Quyuk won’t let me do any of the things the others do to pass the days.”
Psin smiled. Kaidu reminded him of himself at that age. He did like him. “They don’t have their women here, I noticed.”
Mongke shook his head. “We all left our wives in Karakorum to keep watch on Ogodai and Jagatai, and who would bring concubines out here, when there are so many ready to hand? My wife at least is better equipped to handle my uncles than I am, and I know Quyuk’s is.”
“My wife is in the Volga camp,” Kaidu said.
“You live here,” Mongke said. “How do you like that wine, Psin?”
“I’m an old man and my tastes take a while to change.” The wine was strong and sweet. “I think I can learn to enjoy it.” He finished off his third cup.
Mongke smiled. “Well, then. It comes from the land west of Kiev—Hungary. A good reason to go fighting there.”
“Who needs reasons?” Kaidu said.
Psin laughed and got up. “You’ll excuse me—I’m learning Russian this afternoon.”
“Are you going to Quyuk’s house for dinner?” Mongke said.
“Yes.”
Mongke grinned. “Excellent.”
Psin spent all afternoon repeating Russian sentences. Dmitri, his slave, took great pleasure in his new employment; he was rapidly acquiring the mannerisms of the teachers Psin remembered from his childhood. When Psin couldn’t hear the difference between two sounds, Dmitri scowled and clucked his tongue, paced up and down a few strides, and with an air of great patience settled down again to repeat the words, over and over.
“The horse is in the field,” Psin said. “The horse was in the field. The horse will be in the—what is it?”
The slave at the door bowed. “The kumiss, Khan.”
“Bring it in.”
“The horse…” Dmitri said softly.
“The horse gallops on the plain.” The slave set a jug of kumiss on the table. Psin pointed to Dmitri and to the jug, and Dmitri took a cup from a shelf and poured the kumiss. “The horse galloped on the plain. The horse will gallop on the—” Psin took the cup and drained it. “Plain.”
Dmitri muttered something in Russian, and Psin said, “What?”
“I said, Heaven help the Christians before a man who learns so fast.”
“Christians.”
“Yes.” Dmitri put the word through its paces. Psin repeated it after him. Dmitri growled the r in his throat, insistently, and Psin growled back.
“All Merkits talk that way,” Psin said. He rattled off the various forms of the word again, forcing out the r’s. “I have to go. Make yourself useful. Quyuk should have provided me with more slaves. Tomorrow maybe we can talk about something other than horses?”
Dmitri bowed. “The Khan wishes.”
The dinner in Quyuk’s house began with a crash; Quyuk’s brother Kadan walked in so blind drunk that he tripped over a chair and fell into a table loaded with hot meat. When they had covered his burns with grease and slapped him almost sober, and two slaves had mopped up the mess on the floor, they all sat down at the great round table and gorged themselves. Quyuk began to bait Kadan, who could barely focus his eyes on his plate. Mongke, sitting beside Kadan, laughed softly with each new jibe, until Kadan in his bear-like rage swung back and forth between them, his mouth working.
Quyuk was keeping his right arm in his lap. Psin lifted his head and called, “Quyuk, does your wrist hurt?”
Mongke howled gaily. “He says he’s sprained it—show them all your strapped wrist, cousin.”
Quyuk used his knife deftly with his left hand. “I’ve tied it to my belt. Now, listen to me, all of you, before you get too drunk. Psin Khan, the Great Merkit, says that we are all to go raiding with him to Novgorod.”
“I’m staying here,” Buri shouted. “Who wants to gallop around in the snow?”
“According to Psin, you do,” Mongke said. “And you’re going to enjoy it just tremendously.” He leered at Psin.
Buri drew one arm back and smashed the elbow into Mongke’s chest. “Be quiet, rat’s meat.” He wheeled on Psin. “Take all the others, but I stay here.”
Mongke was gasping for breath. He reached toward his dagger where it lay on the table. Baidar, who had said nothing at all since coming in, put his hand lightly on Mongke’s shoulder and restrained him.
Kadan struggled his head up. “I’m n-not going either.”
Quyuk’s eyes narrowed. “If I have to go, brother, you go with me.”
Buri looked startled. “You’re going?”
“Yes,” Quyuk said. “Listen to me, all of you.”
They were all snarling at each other; they ignored him. Quyuk leapt up.
“Be quiet when your next Kha-Khan speaks.”
Psin busied himself with bread and gravy. The rising murmur of voices had stopped; nobody said anything, until Kaidu in his high voice began, “They say my grandfather may—”
“Your grandfather is in the Volga camp,” Quyuk said. “My mother is in Karakorum. When my father dies, which please God may be soon—”
Psin said, “Don’t talk so much, Quyuk.”
Kadan and Baidar murmured under their breath. Psin took an apple from the bowl in the middle of the table; he turned slightly, three-quartered away from Quyuk, and cut the apple in half.
“To speak of the death of a Kha-Khan,” Psin said gently, “this is a crime you could die for.”
“What does the Yasa say about men who attack their betters?”
Psin smiled down at the apple and halved one of the pieces in his hand. “A question with some fine points to it.”
“The blood of the Altun may not be spilled,” Baidar said, raising his voice above the mumble of comment around the table. “So says the Yasa.”
“Oh,” Psin said. “I never spilled his blood.” He put a piece of apple in his mouth. The sweetness flowed over his tongue. “The Yasa says that any who disobeys his commander shall die. Is that not so?”
Quyuk said, “You are not our commander.”
“Am I not?”
The muttering had died out. Psin did not look at Quyuk. He could feel the uncertainty around him. Baidar said, “What were the Kha-Khan’s orders to you?”
Psin peeled one of the pieces of his apple. “That I am to fight rebels. All rebels. I am the Kha-Khan’s servant, not a piece of silk to stroke your hands with.” He looked up.
Their faces were all turned toward him. Quyuk and Buri were furious, Mongke sleekly amused, Kaidu and Baidar uneasy; Kadan had passed out. Baidar, leaning his forearms on the table, looked a moment at Quyuk and swung back to Psin.
“You shame us. I’ll go to Novgorod with you.”
“And I,” Kaidu said.
A smile slipped across Mongke’s face, like a cloud over the moon.
&nbs
p; Buri shrugged and settled back. Psin watched him from the tail of his eye. Jagatai’s grandson, Buri had by rumor inherited Jagatai’s temper. But Buri was watching Quyuk, expectantly.
Quyuk said, “And if I still refuse?”
Psin shrugged. “I’ll deal with you however I have to.”
Quyuk looked at Buri. Buri hunched his shoulders and looked down at his hands in his lap. Psin stood up and put his dagger on the table. Still looking at Buri, Quyuk grimaced. He said, “Have I any choice? I’ll go with you, Merkit.”
Psin bowed. “You honor me, noyon.”
Quyuk sat down. His flat stare held Psin’s a moment, before he smiled. “Baidar is right. You shame us. I really think you are honored.”
Mongke laughed. “You’ll never learn, Quyuk.”
“Mongke, shut up,” Psin said.
Kaidu was watching him with awe on his face, his mouth half-open. Psin snorted at him. “Eat something, boy. You’ll blow away in the steppe wind if you don’t.”
Buri was slapping Kadan and shaking him, trying to wake him up. Mongke leaned forward. “Throw water over his head. Burn his feet. Hurry up, or we’ll have no good fighting.”
Psin sat down again, and Mongke wheeled toward him. “We wrestle, after dinner. It helps settle the blood.”
“You don’t wrestle,” Psin said.
Mongke grinned. “I watch.”
Buri swore and swung away from Kadan. “He’s out. Psin, do you wrestle?”
“I’m an old man, Buri.”
Mongke, Kaidu and Buri all booed him. Quyuk beamed, delighted. “Still, they say you’re in good condition.”
“I’d make very poor sport. I’m a bad wrestler. Why don’t you shoot?”
“Shoot?” Quyuk looked around. “Where?”
“Out in the compound yard. In the horse pens.”
“But it’s dark out,” Kaidu said.
Psin shrugged one shoulder. “So it is. Haven’t you ever fought in the dark?”
“No.”
“You will. As long as Kadan can’t wrestle—”
“Yes,” Quyuk said, smoothly. “Let’s shoot. Buri, go have some of the slaves put up targets. Use the horse pens. Psin is right. We’ve been neglecting our education.” Quyuk grinned. “Of course, Psin, you’ll shoot with us.”
“Of course.”
Psin had sent a slave into the city to bring him his bow. While they waited for the targets to be set up, Mongke came over to him and said, “Quyuk doesn’t give up.”
“I didn’t think he had.” Psin glanced around. Slaves were tying torches to the walls and lighting them; at the far end of the horse pen the targets showed dimly. “Would he shoot me in the back?”
“No. Why?”
“He was… very happy when I suggested this.”
“No. But Quyuk is the best shot of the Altun.” Mongke seated himself neatly on a fence rail. “He probably thinks he can beat you.”
Psin took his bow from a panting slave and strung it.
“He’s never seen you shoot,” Mongke said. “I have.”
Kaidu was dragging the tip of an arrow along the ground, to make a shooting line. Buri drifted over, stared at Psin’s bow, and held out his hands. “May I see it?”
Psin gave it to him. Buri brought it under the torchlight. “This is one of Arghun’s.”
“The next to last he made. I have six of his.”
“My grandfather has fifty-two.” Buri set his fingers to the empty string.
“Your grandfather is Jagatai and can afford them.”
“By the Name.” Buri flexed the bow; his hand on the grip wobbled. “I can barely—hey, Quyuk.”
Psin took back the bow. Buri looked at it again, frowning. Mongke laughed and kicked Buri gently in the side. “He’s a Black Merkit; he’s an ox. Let’s go.”
“Kaidu first,” Quyuk shouted. “He’s the youngest and weakest.”
Kaidu blushed, grabbed his bow, and stepped to the line. The targets were staggered, some farther away than others; the farthest was at the limit of accurate range. Kaidu drew and shot, and down by the targets a slave called out, “White in the third.”
Baidar slapped Kaidu on the back, but Quyuk and Buri jeered. Buri shouted, “Which were you trying for? We should make him specify his target.”
“You try it,” Kaidu said. “The light’s terrible.”
“What light?” Baidar stepped up to the line. “I can’t see the target.”
But he shot well enough; the slave called, “Gold in the fifth.”
“No sport,” Quyuk said. “If Baidar can hit the farthest target—make another line, Buri. Twenty paces. Maybe we should take down a few of the torches.”
“Can you hit something you can’t see?” Mongke said, in Psin’s ear. “Quyuk can.”
Buri paced off to the new line, marked it, and took his bow. Psin glanced at Mongke. In the weak light Mongke’s eyes were only shadows, but the curve of his wide smiling mouth showed.
“Shoot,” Quyuk said.
Buri shot. Psin could hear the arrow and see it for most of its flight. The slave shouted, “Red in the fourth.”
Kaidu laughed, and Buri shoved him angrily away. “You try it, Psin. You’ve got the strongest bow.”
“Take down the last four torches,” Psin said. He stood at the line, picked out the last target, and frowned. Slaves ran off to douse the torches around the targets.
Quyuk said, “That’s my trick, Psin.” He sounded amused.
“Give me an arrow.”
With the torches out the targets were only blurs. Psin glanced at Quyuk. There was no sense in it if he couldn’t beat Quyuk. He took the arrow from Mongke and said, “Go down and put out another four torches and move that target.”
Buri said, “Put its back to him, Mongke.” He laughed.
“You have to see it at least once,” Quyuk said. “Or shall we give you three arrows?”
Mongke was already gone. Psin looked at the arrow in his hand, nocked it, and shot it at the ground by his feet. The string shattered the arrow in half lengthwise. “My quiver is over there. Get me one of my own.” He kicked the ruined arrow away. “Your arrows lack spline, Buri.”
“It wasn’t mine. Mongke gave it to you.”
“Who gave it to Mongke?” Buri knew how strong Psin’s bow was. “Mongke, are you ready?”
Far down the shooting range, full of amusement, Mongke’s voice called, “Ready, Khan.”
Buri handed Psin one of his own arrows, and Psin nocked it. “Throw a torch.”
Something hurtled through the air and hit the ground. Mongke had figured out what Psin wanted. Psin bawled, “A lit torch, Mongke.”
Mongke laughed. A light showed on the sidelines, and the torch hurtled through the air over the targets. Before it fell and a slave covered it, Psin saw the switched target. Mongke had moved it up and turned it sideways. It was no wider than a man’s hand.
“Damn him,” Quyuk said. “He’s too full of tricks.”
Psin shot. He heard the arrow hit something; he hoped it was Mongke, but he knew it was the target. Immediately torches bloomed. Mongke himself ran over, looked, and wheeled.
“Solid hit.”
Kaidu crowed, and Baidar grinned almost triumphantly. Quyuk pursed his lips. “Now. A good shot. I’ll try it. Mongke, move the target again.”
Psin stepped back. It was cold, and he had proved nothing. A slave came over to him with a bowl of kumiss.
“Throw the torch, Mongke.”
Quyuk’s shout echoed off the high wall. The torch swung up, lighting the shooting range, and Buri swore under his breath. Mongke had set the target back where it had been, face forward. There was no problem to it. Quyuk shot twice, swiftly; the first arrow hit the target, and the second went off to the side. Mongke came darting up into their midst.
“Quyuk, you missed me.” Mongke hitched himself back up on the fence rail.
“You’ll insult me once too often,” Quyuk said. “By God, I’ll—”
“When do we start on these great raids?” Mongke said. “Incidentally, Quyuk’s sent us a present.”
Psin watched the slaves pouring hot water into his tub. His head throbbed, and it irritated him that Mongke was apparently suffering nothing from the kumiss and wine and overeating of the night before. “When Tshant gets here.”
“Oh. Well.” Mongke hitched himself up onto a window ledge. The cold air seeped through the shutters, and Psin shivered. “Don’t you want to know about the present?”
The slaves stood back respectfully. Psin climbed up onto the stool and stepped cautiously into the water. He yelped. The hot water cut through layers of grease and dirt; the surface of the water turned scummy. He settled into it, wincing. One slave held out soap.
“Six slave girls,” Mongke said. He sounded miffed. “All rather enchanting.”
“Enjoy them while you’re here,” Psin said. He felt parboiled. He was sure his face was bright red. The soap lacerated his arms and chest. He ducked his head under the water and re-emerged, water streaming into his eyes.
“That must be why you’re such a great fighter,” Mongke said. He crossed his legs. “You divert all your sexual energies into fighting and giving orders. Unless of course you have no sexual energies?”
Psin sputtered at him. Mongke cocked his head.
“I’ve heard old men grow tired of girls. After all, you haven’t paid any attention at all to any of the slaves here.”
Psin scrubbed vigorously. He hated bathing. Quyuk and Mongke last night had forced him into a bet; if he couldn’t make a certain shot he had to bathe. “You stink,” Quyuk had said. “Honest Mongol dirt, I’m sure. We need some honest Mongol dirt here—what a shame if you were to carry it all back with you to the Gobi.” Psin had not made the shot.