The Golden Horde (35 page)

The Turk gazed at Ivan for a few seconds in silence, then slowly clapped his hands together in applause less ironic that it seemed. “I see,” he said, “where your son learned his wisdom, Ivan Aleksandrovich. Of the many lords and would-be lords of the Rus that I have seen enter the Court of the Golden Horde, few of them unbend their pride enough to ask what might be required of them.”

“Does it make any difference in the long run?”

“That is entirely up to you. It depends on whether you heed, or merely hear.”

“As I say. What must we do?”

Amragan studied the dozen or so faces like a tutor ensuring that his class was more or less awake. He seemed to be noting those who would pay attention and those who would not, but Ivan had no need to look at them to know where any trouble lay. Count Danyil Fedorovich was much in his mind, the only man among all of them who could do something wrong from deliberate malice rather than blind stupidity. Khan Batu might excuse the one, but the other, never.

“Two fires burn beyond the threshold of the Golden Pavilion. You will pass between these fires to be purified, to negate any harmful magics against the Khan, and to drive away the chill of the world outside before you enter the hospitable warmth inside. Refusal to do this is forbidden, and will not be excused.”

Ivan nodded sagely. He was expecting something of the sort. “I know. The fire-spirits will do all this. We of the Tsar’s line of Khorlov,” and the smile that curved his lips was nasty, “are familiar with creatures of fire. As you saw.”

The Turk cleared his throat with sudden vigour, obviously not wanting to be reminded of the Firebird more than necessary. “Yes.” He coughed again, and Anastasya Ivanovna made a little noise of sympathy for the poor man’s sore throat that came from a source that was too young to be sarcastic. “You will not,” Amragan continued, “step on the threshold between the cold outside and the warm inside. This is forbidden, and will not be excused.”

Ivan released a gusty sigh that might have been impatience. “Amragan
tarkhan
, I know that much already. It’s an insult to tread on the threshold of any
yurtu
, and make a bridge for the cold to intrude. It’s an insult to whistle inside like the wind outside. It’s an insult to bring a whip for beasts into the dwelling-place of men, and suggest the men inside are no better than the beasts outside. So much and so many and so on and so forth.” Then he grinned quickly to take the sting out of his words. “The Tatar rider who gave over his own
yurtu
for myself and Mar’ya Morevna told us all those things, and more. When he wasn’t grousing about having to eat
grut
again for dinner.”

“He did not tell me this,” said Amragan in a tone of voice that suggested the Tatar soldier would have some explaining to do about such an embarrassing oversight.

“He was probably busy, and forgot,” Ivan suggested generously. “Certainly you were. What else is forbidden, or compulsory, and will not be excused?”

“You should guard your tongue more closely, Rus. It is sharp enough that one day it might cut your throat.”

“Truth cuts both ways, Amragan
tarkhan
. The Khan might appreciate honesty more than flattery once in a while.”

“I will let the
Sain
Khan judge that for himself,” said the Turk, and the menace in his voice was tinged just a little with admiration. “Just remember this if you wish to live long enough for him to hear your honest flattery: bow to the East in honour of the Khakhan yet unchosen, who is above the Ilkhan Batu as he is above mere vassals; and before you speak at all, bow to Batu Khan, the lord and master of these lands and all who dwell within their borders.”

“Thank you, Amragan
tarkhan
,” said Mar’ya Morevna, her voice silky. “Especially for troubling to explain the reasons behind so many rituals foreign to us. I won’t even wonder why you failed most signally to tell us the manner of bow which Batu Khan will be expecting, but will presume no more than forgetfulness through being busy, just like your soldier.” The Turk coloured slightly. “That bow should be in the Tatar manner, yes? Hat on the ground, belt laid about the shoulders, and an inclination of the head… three times for an Ilkhan, I should think. Six for the Khan of all Khans, and nine for Tengri of the Everlasting Blue Sky. Yes?”

“Yes.” He snapped the word.

“And how low should one bow?”

Amragan
tarkhan
glowered at her, as close to real rage as Ivan had seen since Aleksey Romanov had tried to kill him. “Noble Mar’ya Morevna,” he said though clenched teeth, “if your bow is not low enough, the Khan’s guards will instruct you with their spears. Be assured, I will make certain of that …”

*

At first sight Batu Khan’s Golden Pavilion was just a bigger version of a Tatar
yurtu
tent, hunched and low and dome-shaped, its door facing south, and everywhere wrapped criss-cross with cords to keep the sheets of felt that were its walls and roof tight against the latticed wooden frame beneath. The felt, necessary for warmth no matter how rich the occupant might be, was usually black or white, but in this instance the fabric, slightly shiny from the pounding that had matted it together, was a distinctive yellow. The colour and the dull sheen were both good enough reasons for the title ‘Golden.’ It was only as they walked closer that Ivan and the others saw that its yellow tint didn’t come from any dyed felt, but from great hangings of cloth-of-gold draped over the entire tent and held in place by broad, braided straps woven of solid gold thread. Even the wooden poles supporting the awning in front of the doorway were covered with gold leaf.

That was awesome enough, but sitting as it was in a cleared space at the very centre of Sarai, there was nothing close by to give an indication of its true scale. Six ordinary tents could have been raised under the Golden Pavilion’s roof, with room to spare for the occupants of those six tents to walk freely to and fro.

A group of men in the clothing of Rus noblemen were standing on the far side of the huge tent, apparently warming themselves at the two great iron braziers that flanked the doorway. With a little thrill of shock, Ivan recognized at least one face.

Prince Aleksandr Yaroslavich Nevskiy had changed very little in the years since the Battle on the Ice. His golden beard had tarnished to silver to either side of his thin, mobile mouth, and the lines in his face were a little deeper, but otherwise he was still the same arrogant bastard that Ivan remembered all too well. When his idly roving gaze fell on Ivan and Mar’ya Morevna, his eyes widened and his brows shot up for an instant, and then he was back in full control of himself again. The bow he gave them both was deep, leisurely, elegant, and a masterpiece of understated insult, and when he straightened up again he was smiling in a way that set Ivan’s teeth on edge.

“Tsar Ivan Aleksandrovich!” he exclaimed loudly, so that other heads turned, then just as loudly corrected himself. “Of course if you’re here, that title no longer applies, does it?”

“I understand that’s for the Khan to decide, Nevskiy. Not you.” Ivan laid two fingers on the pommel of his
shashka
sabre to make certain it was settled firmly in its sheath. For all his annoyance, he returned the bow and then, gratified that they hadn’t done so without his bidding, signalled his councillors and attendants to do the same.

“I’d have thought,” said Aleksandr Nevskiy, “that a great hero such as yourself would have given the Golden Horde your defiance. Obviously not.”

“‘
Your
face
is
dirty
,
said
the pot
to
the
kettle
,’” snapped Mar’ya Morevna, deliberately pushing in front of Ivan as he began to advance on Nevskiy. This time his fingers were on the grip and not the pommel of the sabre, and a handspan of its blade was already gleaming in the dull daylight. “You two should have been brought up in the same kremlin, then maybe you’d have knocked this nonsense out of each other. For two grown men you act in a way that would shame these children!”

“Children fight, noble lady,” said Nevskiy, his own sword halfway drawn. “Why should we not?”

Mar’ya Morevna shot him a contemptuous glance. “If you still need to after you’ve spoken with the Khan, Aleksandr Yaroslavich, then I’ll stand aside. But right now there are more important matters to concern the surviving lords of the Rus people. Like maybe keeping those people alive?”

Ivan stared at Aleksandr Nevskiy for what felt like an age; then nodded in response to the sort of sense only a mother could speak. The sound of two blades slamming back into their scabbards were like two sticks broken across a bent knee, the sounds so close together that one seemed a continuation of the other. “Later,” he said, “if we have to.”

“Later,” said Nevskiy, “I’ll be glad to.”

“Children indeed.” Mar’ya Morevna glared at them both, but mostly at her husband. “You at least,” she said quietly, “should know better than to charge like a bull at the first red flag.”

“Papa, wait! Let me fight him! No! Let me!” The small voices came from about waist level, each as shrill and angry as the other, and Ivan looked down and then at Mar’ya Morevna.

“Children indeed,” he echoed. Natasha and Kolya were both grabbing alternately at his and their mother’s coat-tails, jumping up and down, and generally behaving in Ivan’s opinion like a pair of street guttersnipes. Aleksandr Nevskiy’s smile just at that minute would have persuaded a sanctified Roman Pope to set fire to all the world and leave God Himself to sift through the ashes, and Ivan was no saint, never mind a Pope. Right now he wasn’t even a Tsar, just a man with a sword on his hip facing another who had given him offence.

“Defended by a wolf the last time we met,” said Nevskiy. “Defended by a woman now, and supported by children. But not a warrior or a
druzhinya
or an army in sight. Why not just hang up your sword, Ivan of Khorlov? For all the good it does you, it might as well not be here at all.”

Ivan swore venomously and laid hand to his sword again, then remembered a custom of Captain Akimov’s Cossack people. He drew the razor edge no more than half an inch and deliberately let it nick his finger, a quick stab of pain to distract him from Nevskiy’s insult. The red glare faded from his eyes almost as if it was leaking away through the tiny cut.

“So what if I do put my sword aside, Aleksandr Yaroslavich?” he said. “Unwed and childless, lord through your father’s brother but not your father. If we were alone, or I less courteous of the ears of the woman and children you make mock of, I could tell you what weapon you should put away from lack of use …”

Blood might have been shed then, had Amragan
tarkhan
not laughed aloud. The sound of his laughter was like a bucket of cold water flung on two aggressive drunks. It didn’t completely cool their ardour, but at least gave them something else to think about.

“Enough,” said Ivan, glowering at the Turk with all the heat of redirected hatred. “I won’t fight a fellow Russian.” He folded his arms across his chest so tightly that the tips of his fingers went pale as the blood was crushed out of them, and stared at Aleksandr Nevskiy to see what he would do.

The Prince eyed him thoughtfully; then he too glanced at Amragan
tarkhan
and did something very strange. He unhooked the straps that secured his sword to his waist-belt, wrapped them around the scabbarded weapon, and handed straps and sword together not to Mar’ya Morevna but to Anastasya Ivanovna, staring at Ivan all the while. “The child may be your daughter, Ivan Aleksandrovich,” he said, “but I hope she’s too young for treachery.” Then Aleksandr Nevskiy’s wary expression stretched momentarily into another of his unpleasant smiles. “Although one can never be too sure with a Khorlovskiy. If the need for one arises, I can always find another sword.”

“You can claim that one back just as soon as you think you need it,” said Ivan. He made no move to take the sabre from his own belt. “But here and now, before the Khan, I think you’re too sensible to entertain the thought that any sword might help you. And what brings you to Sarai anyway? The last I heard, the town of Vladimir was a smoking ruin for lack of anybody to defend it, and your uncle Yuriy’s own men had hacked his head off in disgust at how he ran away.”

Though his face darkened with anger at such crude phrasing of what was nothing but the truth, Aleksandr Nevskiy didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, and even though the sound rang false, he laughed. “I thought Khorlov lived in a little world of its own, and that proves it. Know this: my late uncle gave defiance to the Tatars without my late father’s authority, it was his own decision to leave the city undefended, and what his soldiers did to him merely pre-empted the punishment he would have suffered anyway.”

“Meaning you’re here to ask Khan Batu if he’ll let you rebuild Vladimir and be its Prince, because everything that happened was nothing to do with you. How very… pragmatic of you.”

“And how very out of date you are, Ivan Aleksandrovich. By the Khan’s generosity, I
am
Great Prince of Vladimir, and the city is already nine-tenths rebuilt.” Ivan caught his breath at that, and Nevskiy smirked. “Yes. I thought that might be a pleasant surprise.” He made a little half-bow and extended one hand in the direction of the Golden Pavilion, ushering Ivan and his party towards the doorway. “Shall we enter the Presence and see what the Khan might be persuaded to do for —”