Until the Sun Falls (38 page)

“Are you angry?” she said.

“Livid.”

He stopped in front of the door, tried the latch, and swore. He used exactly the same words she had, and she laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“You.”

He snorted, climbed through the window, and unbolted the door from the inside. The noise apparently woke a sentry, who called out, and Psin said something to him. He opened the door and Chan went in, walking very straight.

“What was the dream about?”

“You.”

He said nothing. She tried to think of something to say if he asked why she had come running to him when she’d had a nightmare about him, but he never asked. They passed the same sentry, who flattened himself against the wall once more, and all three of her women woke up when they entered her antechamber.

Psin ignored them. He pushed Chan into her room, scooped her up, dumped her on the bed, and said, “Stay here.” He turned on his heel and walked out. Chan pulled the covers over her, glared at the door, and shut her eyes, furious.

The noyon of Novgorod said, “I have come to ask the terms of our submission.”

Psin glanced up at him and went back to eating the orange. Batu on the table behind him said in his formal voice, “The terms are those we offered your uncle, the Grand Duke Yuri. One quarter of your goods now, one tenth of your young men to train for our army. A yearly tithe thereafter in the name of the Kha-Khan.”

The prince looked tired. His eyes never left Batu’s face, and his voice was almost bored. “These terms are unacceptable to us.”

Psin looked down the table. Kadan was not there, being too drunk to look pretty before Russians; Mongke and Baidar and Buri sat ignoring the noyon. On the dais, at Batu’s table, Quyuk slouched with his head on the back of his chair. Batu said calmly, “I think you’ll find them acceptable enough.”

“We are of Novgorod the Unconquered,” the noyon said.

“Would you care to test it? Did we destroy all that lay between the inland seas and your little lake to bend before your pride? We offer you much, boy.”

Psin looked quickly at the noyon, but he didn’t react at all to the insult. The men behind him in their ceremonial robes frowned a little. The noyon said, “You offer us only slavery.”

“If such is slavery,” Batu said, “then we all are slaves. The Kha-Khan’s will is the will of God. Defy us, and you defy God. Submit, and we throw the shield of our protection over you. In our peace you will prosper without such distractions as foreign or domestic war.”

Tshant came in behind the Russian delegation, circled them and bent to talk to Psin, one hand on the back of Psin’s chair. “Messages from Sabotai.”

Psin nodded. He turned to catch Batu’s eye; Batu was saying, “The alternative is, of course, the same your uncle chose, noyon. We looked among the dead beside the Sit’ River, but we couldn’t find his body to send it to you for proper burial.”

He glanced at Psin and nodded, and Psin rose. Following Tshant to the door, he heard Batu’s deep voice rolling on, describing in detail how Novgorod would benefit from the protection of the Mongols.

Tshant said, “Was that Yuri’s nephew?”

“Yes. Alexander Something-or-other-evitch.”

“He’s not like these Southern Russians.”

Psin smiled faintly. They went down the corridor to a small room where the messenger waited, and while Tshant took the rolls of messages and dismissed the courier Psin brought in a chair from the next room and sat down. Tshant was reading quickly through the first roll.

“He’ll be here before sundown. He wants to talk to you about the new campaign. Before he sees Batu. Reconnaissance, envoys, the usual. He asks is Rijart here.” He looked over, his brows arched.

“One of the Kha-Khan’s Europeans. We sent for him in the spring.”

“He says he has trained Kipchaks until he’s sick for the sight of a Mongol face. The horses have come in from the south. He wants to attack Kiev this coming fall.”

“That I know.” Psin rose. “Go back and take my place at the audience. Quyuk looks in a bad temper.”

“What am I to do with him?”

“Nothing.”

“When are you going to talk to Ana?”

“I’ll go now. She’ll understand. You didn’t explain it right, that’s all.”

“I hope so. She’s big as a mare already.”

“She’ll be in your house tomorrow. What are you going to do about Kerulu?”

“I’ll handle my own household. You were leaving?”

Psin laughed and went out.

In her antechamber, in the midst of her women, Artai was making felt. She beamed at Psin when he looked through the door. The women rose and moved discreetly off into the next room, and Psin shut the door after them.

“Ana told Tshant she won’t go with him,” he said. He sat down on the floor, just behind Artai’s shoulder, so that he could see her quick hands kneading.

“She told me. She wants to stay here.”

“Do you think…”

“You take too much trouble over slaves.”

“She’s not a slave.”

“Let them alone. Let her come to it herself.” She measured out size and mixed it into the hair. “Are you fighting again next winter?”

“Yes.”

“Take me with you.”

“No.”

“You have women in the baggage trains. Take me.”

“We have slaves with the baggage. It’s too dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” She turned her head toward him. “When we were first married, the Yek Mongols were hunting Merkits like birds from tree to tree. Whenever we made a camp your father had us tethering the horses to our wrists while we slept.”

Psin frowned. “My father was overexcited.”

“Ah? There used to be fifty clans of the Merkits. How many are there now?”

“We are Mongols now.”

“Two.” She thrust the felt away from her. “Your beloved Temujin. I want to go with you. How can it be so dangerous?”

“Do you think I would take my women in a baggage train?”

“Better than languishing here, like—”

“No. If I took you I would have to take Chan.”

“She would go.”

“She’s too fragile.”

“She’s as fragile as a yak. Didn’t she keep you pinned down in a river for—”

He felt the heat rising across his face, and Artai grinned. “Oh, yes. We heard about that. The Khan’s favorite bit of thigh—”

“Did she tell you?”

“No.”

“I’ll beat her.”

“No, don’t. She didn’t mean to. I just asked how you’d gotten so wet.”

“She could have lied.”

“Don’t hurt her. You’ll be sorry if you do.”

“You sound like Djela.” He got up and went out of the room.

He sent a slave to bring Ana into the small room opposite Chan’s; if he left the door open he would see her when she came in from the market. His blood ached in his ears. He could picture Chan telling Artai the story, laughing, adding small touches out of her imagination, and the serving women giggling in the background. In his rage he hardly noticed Ana come in.

She said, “Khan.”

He swung around. “Oh. My son told me that you refuse to go to his house.”

“I want to stay here.”

“You can’t.” He sat down on a chest. “There is no place for you here.”

She was twisting her hands together. “Please let me stay.”

“Every day you stay here is a mark against me and Tshant. Pack up your clothes. You’ll move there before sundown.”

She flinched as if he had struck her. He stood up again and went over to her. He tried to make his voice gentle. “You’re a Mongol now. You have to do things the way Mongols do them.”

Her face was turned up toward his. He hadn’t noticed how she had filled out—her cheeks were rounder, her eyes brighter. She said, “I’m not a Mongol. I’m a Russian.”

“Not any more. Don’t make me lose my temper. I’m angry with Chan and I’m in a bad mood. Go pack. You’ll be happier with Tshant.” He put his hand against her cheek. “That’s my grandchild you carry. Be careful.”

She put her hand over his. “I will.”

“Good.” He turned and walked toward the window, his hands behind his back.

“Do you ... do you remember when I said Mongols were ugly?”

“Very well.”

“You aren’t,” she said, softly. When he turned to look she was gone. He sat down again, watching the door, willing Chan to come back.

A horse clattered into the garden. He leapt up and threw the window open. It was Quyuk. He dismounted, let his reins trail, and stamped toward the main door into the house. Psin leaned out the window.

“Quyuk.”

Quyuk spun. He stared at Psin, jerked his eyes around toward the gate into the garden, and strode over to the door next to Psin’s window. The front of his blue tunic was wet. He let himself in and slammed the door behind him.

A slave caught Quyuk’s horse; Psin turned away from the window, leaving the shutter open. Quyuk came into the room, took two steps forward, and said, “Batu is an old woman and I’ll see him bastinadoed.”

“Really? What is it now?”

Quyuk pitched himself into a chair, crossed his legs, uncrossed them, and leapt up again. “He drank before me. He’s been careful before this. We’ve always drunk together. But he drank the first cup. Before me. I am the son of the Kha-Khan—what is he but the son of a bastard?”

“The eldest of the Altun,” Psin said.

“Depending on whether you believe Juji was Temujin’s son.”

“Don’t be a fool.”

“My honor is in this.” Quyuk walked swiftly around the room, his hands tugging aimlessly at his belt. “You see?”

Psin nodded.

Quyuk reached out for the shutter and drew it closed. “Before the rest of the Altun and the Russians from Novgorod. I won’t let him get away with it. Before—”

He sat down again. “Before you came I could have overthrown him there. In his own palace. They would have supported me. Baidar and Mongke. They were afraid of me before you came. It’s your fault I had to run.” 

“Buri didn’t—”

“Buri. What is he but a loudmouth?”

Psin sat down on the chest, his hands between his knees. Quyuk’s face was working.

“They all stand in my way. My father puts up Siremon like a wooden doll and won’t give me my due. They block me, everywhere I go they are blocking me. Psin, I am the Successor. Not Siremon. No one but me has the right to be my father’s heir.”

Psin said nothing.

“Whether I am good or bad does not matter. Only the blood matters.”

“And the will of Heaven.”

“Psin, I am the Successor.”

Quyuk’s eyes blazed, and under the steady strong glare Psin grew uncomfortable. The eyes were Temujin’s eyes. He turned his face away.

“Let me stay here,” Quyuk said. “Batu will throw me into prison if he can get hold of me. You owe me this, Psin.”

“I do not.”

Quyuk’s eyes half-closed. Before he could speak, other horses galloped into the garden. Psin went quickly out of the room and through the door just beyond it. Mongke and Tshant were there, sliding down from their saddles, and behind them, just outside the gate, rode Batu’s personal guards.

Tshant said, “Has Quyuk come here?”

“He has.”

“Did he tell you—”

“He told me. He stays here, under my protection.”

Tshant came three steps forward. “He cursed Batu to his face. In his own ulus Batu is supreme, and Batu has ordered him taken.”

“I will not permit it.”

Mongke called, “Buri is in Baidar’s custody. Let Batu say that Quyuk is in yours.”

“Quyuk comes and goes as he pleases,” Psin said. “He is a guest under my roof and he has my word for his safety, but he is not my prisoner and never will be.”

Tshant came up beside him. His eyes darted toward the house. Swiftly, he said, “Batu has sent a messenger to Karakorum. Let me tell him that you hold Quyuk for him. Quyuk doesn’t have to know. Batu forgets easily—it will all be mended before the autumn.”

“Tell him Quyuk is my guest.” Psin backed up a little. “Tell him what I told you.”

Tshant frowned. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Who are you to question me? Go on.”

Mongke shouted something, and Tshant turned and jogged back to his horse. The guards in a mob backed away from the gate. Tshant and Mongke rode through. Psin heard a high, questioning call, and the horses galloped off.

Quyuk was in the room where Psin had left him; the window was open. He said, “I will cause you no trouble.”

“That’s very kind of you. Stay away from my women and don’t mistreat my slaves, and you’ll keep my good will.”

Quyuk nodded. “You’ll enjoy this, I’m sure.”

“I’ll try,” Psin said.

Chan came back, and he tried to work up his anger at her, but he could not. She stood in the midst of her purchases and listened to him yell and smiled and without a word went into her room. The night before he had spent with Artai, so he consoled himself he would take some revenge on Chan when they went to bed.

But Sabotai arrived shortly before the sun went down, right after he had taken Ana to Tshant’s house, and they spent the evening arguing about Quyuk and the night talking over Kiev. When Psin finally went to bed the light spilled blue over the windowsill and he was too tired to do anything but lie next to Chan and wish that sleep were not so long in coming.

“My father is ruining us all,” Tshant said.

“What has he done now?” Ana poured wine for him, and he took it, absently.

“You know that he has Quyuk under his roof. Batu is furious. He says that Psin of all men should know Quyuk is treacherous.”

“Is he?”

“Quyuk? No, of course not. Batu doesn’t care what he calls his enemies, so long as it’s bad. But we’re fighting again soon, and Batu could decide to interfere with everything my father says or does.”

“Fighting? Am I going with you?”

“No. You’ll stay here. God. I hope—”

He broke off and stared, and she waited for him to go on. He was sprawled across the couch; lying down he looked as long as a whip.

“What?”

“Nothing. Go on, go do something.”

She got up and left the room. In this strange house she found herself by habit turning left to go to her room—she had turned left in Psin’s house—but the room was to the right. She passed Qo’a on the stairs, Tshant’s Alan girl, and Qo’a sent her for some oil. She knew she shouldn’t go after it; Qo’a was only a slave. But it was easier to obey, more familiar, and she was almost glad to do it.