Much Fall of Blood-ARC (42 page)

He bowed and smiled. "Obviously the things that worry me, should not."

"Oh. No," she said feeling foolish. So he was not unaware. "You should be afraid. Very afraid. This is not the way a tarkhan should be treated. You should be in the encampment of the orkhan. Not here. The drinking and feasting should have already begun."

He looked troubled. "That may be my fault. I told them the first camp was not suitable."

"But it was not. It was an insult. Like this. You were placed with the new arbans. The . . . what is the word,"—she too had learned some Frankish from him, "the recruits."

"I knew something was wrong," said Erik heavily. "I had understood that there was honor in the way the Mongol treat a tarkhan. Now I have to get Manfred out of here. Somehow. We need a barge."

Since the last word was Frankish, she took a little time to work out what he wanted. And then to shake her head. Point to the wooden towers downstream and upstream of their camp. "Those have the ballista and arbalest . . . weapons for attacking cities. They practice on the . . . barges. Sink them. Throw large burning oil-vats at them. Even at night. It is full moon now."

The foreign Orkhan looked as if he had swallowed something unpleasant. "They would have to defend against river attacks I suppose."

"Yes. The Hungarians from Irongate have tried that. In my father's time."

Erik looked very thoughtfully at the towers. There was one not forty yards away. "Do you know anything about them? I mean, how they are defended?"

Her father had ordered their construction! Of course she did. But how would he know that? "Yes. I have been into one of them."

"So . . . how many guards? . . . and the door appears open. Is there a portcullis I can't see?"

It took a while to explain the portcullis. He plainly thought that it was some kind of fortification, not a siege tower. "Oh. There is no door. They are not for fighting from. They are for attack. We fight on horse. Not from behind a wall. Only the lesser people fight from behind walls."

"No door!" he said, incredulously.

"Sometimes a heavy blanket is hung to stop the wind," she conceded. "But the men would be trapped in there when there was fighting. A door would stop them reaching their horses." The horses were tethered at the base of the tower. When the grazing was finished, they'd move the tower a little.

He shook his head, incredulously. "I saw the horses. I thought they were just being . . . he searched for the word. "Bad," he settled on. It was plainly not quite what he wanted to say. "The weapons at the top. Could they be turned?"

It was her turn to look puzzled. "They do. To aim them at the river."

"I mean right around. To aim at the camp," explained Erik.

The idea had never occurred to her. It was shocking . . . and not without a savage pleasure. To drop a burning oil vessel on the Gatu Orkhan's own ger. A dream! . . . looking at his face, she saw it was not so. Not as far as he was concerned.

"I don't wish to ask you to betray your own kin," he said, mistaking the expression on her face. "But I have to at least create a distraction if we're to get out of here."

"They are no kin of mine. My Clan are to the north," she said proudly. "Not one Mingghan . . . no, not even one Arban here is from the White horde. We would have treated the tarkhan with suitable honor."

"He . . . doesn't seem unhappy. What is a Mingghan and an Arban?"

"An Arban . . ." she held up her fingers. "That many men. A Jahgun is that many Arban. A Mingghan than many Jaghun." She sniffed. "And it is not right. So: so you plan to leave the encampment? You should. You and the tarkhan are not safe."

Erik nodded. "That's been my reading of the matter. But it doesn't fit with the reputation of the Mongol."

Bortai had to admit to herself that it did not. Yes, Gatu and some of his henchmen had fallen far from the path of Ulaghchi and the Yasa code. But honor was still strong among the rank and file. Most of them would not dream of attacking the envoy, any more than they would pass a blade through a hearth-fire or pollute water. "You would find a welcome among my Clan. Especially if Kildai were restored to them. He is doing better. He and the boy from Jerusalem talk a lot."

"Heaven help us. That David is pure trouble," said Eric with wary smile.

She nodded. "But he gets Kildai to do things that I could not."

"Probably things that will lead him into the trouble he likes so much."

Bortai shrugged. "It is tradition that boys of a certain age will do such things. Some of them die. Some learn. But Kildai cannot die. I have told him so."

* * *

Erik absorbed this with an inward chuckle despite the situation they were in. He did not have a vast close experience of women, but he had observed enough from Manfred's early conquests, Francesca, and of course his own iron-willed Mama. He had a feeling that this young Mongol woman might be every bit as iron-willed as his Mamma. She might lack Francesca's finesse and skill in getting men to do what she wanted, but she probably would get there anyway. Without help. Erik felt faintly guilty. He had not compared her to Svanhild. It still hurt. And it always would. Svan had been different, she had been brave, yes, but not likely to get her own way, except that one would wish to make her happy.

Bortai interrupted his reverie. "Ion has gone out into the camp. He says they would not be looking for him here. I . . . I realize that I never knew a slave could have such courage. I knew they could be loyal, but Ion . . . he has risked his life for us. Do you have many slaves in your barbarian lands?"

Erik bit his lip. "In a manner of speaking I suppose. We have thralls. But there are few in Iceland now. They are more like family retainers, and Bishop Wulfstan got the Aetheling to pass a law that says the child of a thrall is a free-Carl. When we went to Norse Telemark the old system is still in place. But they do not . . ." he felt himself blush "cut them."

"Cut them? Oh. You mean geld them. It is not common here. Common among the Ilkhan lands, I have been told. It was a custom there before the coming of the Ilkhan. We have found it best not to meddle in these matters among the subject people. They are easier ruled if you just remove that which irks them and leave them to their own traditions."

Just when Erik thought he was getting used to her, this part slipped out. She seemed an ordinary, if strong minded young woman . . . and then the Mongol attitude would come through, making her sound like a princess. An arrogant princess, at that. Iceland was too small and thinly populated and wild for such attitudes . . . and Vinland too big. "I must go and discuss this with Von Gherens and Falkenberg," he said stiffly. "Thank you for your help."

* * *

Bortai watched him leave, feeling slightly forlorn. What had she said to offend him? He was certainly a fine Orkhan, for a foreign mercenary. She understood, a little, why the tarkhan would use such men. They were nearly as disciplined as Mongol and very . . . regimented. If Erik had been one of the people he would have been a mighty general. She still needed to ask him to arrange some kind of distraction. The encampment was guarded, of course. But if she and Kildai and Ion could get out to the north, and go
through
the camp, with a horse apiece . . . well, there would be a scout Hawk-clan scout or three hiding in the hills, watching this encampment, unless they had been so defeated and scattered as to have no organizational skills left. Back on the north bank of the great river, they could at least ride.

She sighed. They'd gained some ground, it was true. Kildai's wits appeared to be as much back in his head as they ever were with a fourteen year old boy. They had some ponies—not the quality that she would have wished for, but better than nothing. They were on the north bank of the great river. But did they have to be right in the middle of Gatu's Tumen? Gatu had spaced them two Mingghan abreast along the river—more convenient for water than a normal diamond or a circle formation with the patrol Mingghan on the inside with the orkhan's personal Khesig. Plainly Gatu did not expect an attack. Her nails bit into her palms. Oh she would love it if the White Horde surprised him. But it was obviously unlikely.

* * *

The encampment of the foreign Knights was obviously guarded, as Ion expected. But slaves went to-and-fro, doing the menial tasks slaves did. Ion joined them. He was terrified of being recognized. On the other hand . . . no one looked at slaves, and he knew just how to be one, and what to do. He kept his head down.

And was recognized.

But not by someone who knew of his fall from grace as one of Nogay's trusted slaves. "You. Here. Take this message to the ger of your master," said the commander of the guard on the foreign encampment. "It is from the Ilkhan Tarkhan, or so his man said. I am not an errand boy. If he wishes me to carry messages he must speak with me himself."

Almost fainting with fear, Ion bowed and took the roll of parchment and hurried off. He had no intention at all of arriving at the ger of Nogay. But he was not about to tell the noble lord that. So he took the message and went.

"The other way, you fool, " snapped the guard commander after him. So Ion went the other way until he was out of line of sight. He wished he could read. But at least he was away from the guard-commander. Ion was looking for two things . . . the best way across this camp, and some other slaves. Slaves liked to talk. And they always knew exactly what their masters were doing. Like Princess Bortai, he knew that something was amiss. And they would know what it was.

Of course the talk was all about the things that slaves found vital. Food. Punishment. Gossip about the sexual liaisons of their masters. There was nothing quite as pleasing as knowing something about his wife that he would not wish you to know . . . or that he did not know himself. Inevitably too, it was about the foreigners and of course, and of course he had been seen leaving their camp.

"So how do they treat their slaves? Do they beat you often?" asked a grizzled oldster. "And what are the women like?"

"I've heard the men have no balls and the slaves have to service the women for them," said a younger one, hopefully.

Ion rolled his eyes. "And they all have six breasts."

"Really?"

"Don't be stupid. They only have four," said another slave, grinning. "Anyway, we'll find out tomorrow. What's the loot like?"

"Loot?"

"You know. Well, when the masters are finished with them tomorrow are there going to be any pickings for us?"

"They are quite wealthy," said Ion, fishing. "They keep their food in the plain saddle-bags. The cloth ones."

"That's no use. Saddlebags are always taken by the masters. Can't you empty some out tonight? They won't take food when they divide up the loot."

"What about the other slaves?"

Ion did not tell them they had no slaves, or at least none with them. He would never have been believed. So he lied a little. That too was perfectly normal. You learned to cut the through the chaff of lies to gain the kernel of truth.

And the truth was that the slaves were expecting a massacre. Advising him to keep out of the way in the morning. Hoping to secure a little loot that their masters considered too irrelevant in the aftermath.

And they too could not understand how this was to be. There were several who had seen Ilkhan Tarkhan come from Kerch in years past. The emissary and the truce were sacred. Their masters knew that too, and were troubled by it all, by the sounds of it.

But they were all looking forward to tomorrow . . . when whatever it was would happen.

Ion made his way back to the encampment, avoiding the way he had come in, and the Captain of the guard, back to Princess Bortai, still with the little roll of parchment in his ragged cotte. He was a troubled man. Somehow they would have to get out of this camp, past the guards on the far side and then flee north tonight . . . for two or three days at the least, and possibly a week—his grasp of distances and places was rudimentary. He had always been told where and when to go, and when to stop.

* * *

Erik pointed at the rough map that they had prepared. "That is a kill-zone. They want us to try to flee along the river's edge. They expect us to go there."

Falkenberg nodded. "We exercised the horses along there. As if we were having a good scout around. There is a low berm between the Mongol camp and the river. The ground is marshy. Not good for a charge."

"Good place to get strung out, which is exactly what the Mongol liked, historically," said Von Gherens."

"This is all based on the assumption that we're going to have to break out of here by force," said Eberhart.

Erik looked grim. "Based on what I heard from Bortai, that is an assumption we're going to have to consider likely. We must prepare for it."

Eberhart looked like a balky mule. Erik was normally fairly tactful—by Erik's standards—with the old diplomat. "It's not a scenario that history holds likely," he said.

Manfred rubbed his jaw. "Prepare for the worst. Preparation hurts no-one. And I don't like this either."

"For goodness sake don't kill anyone during your preparations," said the old man grumpily. "That would cause more problems than I think I could ever sort out."

"We have very carefully left Kari out of our deliberations," said Erik, "for precisely that reason. Now, has bombardier Von Thiel got some spare powder? We're going to need a large scale distraction. And do we consult with Borshar? Or at least his bodyguard? We may have to take him with us . . ."

There was the sound of argument outside the felt-lined tent, including a very determined female voice, and a couple of words of Frankish interspersed with high speed Mongol.

"She can't keep away from you, Erik," said Manfred.

The knight on guard outside the tent was plainly no match for Bortai in this mood. He escorted the young woman inside. Manfred noticed that her hands were twitching into claws. If he'd been the poetic sort he'd have said that her eyes were spitting fire. The Prince of Brittany had met a few girls of that type and in that state over the years. You were wise to start running. He wondered just what Erik had managed to do. She appeared to be too angry to be co-herent. She'd picked up a handful of words of Frankish from Erik, but right now there was just a torrent of Mongol pouring out of her. She pulled a roll of parchment out of her waistband and flung it on the floor in front of Erik.