Until the Sun Falls (42 page)

They stood around and ate and drank until the dark drove the King to order torches lit. Finally they were led off to rooms. Rijart was given his own chambers but the four Mongols were thrown together into two small rooms. Their saddles lay tangled on the floor waiting for them. Psin sank down onto a bench, sighing when the weight left his legs, and said, “Straighten up the gear. Vortai, tomorrow we hunt. You and I will shoot. Mago and Kobol, leave your bows here.”

“Why?” they asked, together.

“Because we can’t risk a miss, and neither of you is good at long shots. Vortai. We shoot as deep as we can. Can you draw my spare bow?”

“Yes,” Vortai said. “But I’d rather use my own. The pull’s not so heavy, but I’m good with it at maximum range.”

“I know.” Psin drew his bowcase out of the tangle, pulled the bow out, strung it, and drew it a couple of times. “We’ll keep a sentry posted until we’re sure of them. Mago, you first. Kobol second, Vortai third, and I’ll go last. Stay inside the door, though.”

Rijart talked with the King in the morning, but he said that they spoke of nothing but the weather and the possibility of sending envoys directly from Hungary to Karakorum. They did not mention the Kipchak. In the afternoon, they went to the King’s park, where beaters drove the game right to them. Psin and Vortai took turns killing the few deer they saw long before they came within range of the Hungarians’ stubby little bows. The Hungarians swore, murmured, and shrugged as if it were a trick to shoot so far.

A deer waded out into the tall grass at the edge of the wood, saw the line of archers, and turned to dive back. Psin raised his bow and shot. The arrow struck the deer just behind the shoulder, and it leapt and fell dead.

“Good shot,” a man said behind Psin. He spoke Latin. Psin looked over at Rijart, and Rijart translated.

Psin looked back at the man who had spoken; he was a knight, brawny in his mail. He wore a white cloak with a black cross sewn onto the left front.

“Perhaps you would like to try one of our bows,” the knight said. He smiled pleasantly, and Rijart translated.

Psin nodded. The knight reached over and with a soft word took one of the odd little bows from the man beside him. The bow had a horn box built into it, from the grip across to the nocking point of the drawn string. The knight said, “Turn the handle, here,” and Psin, taking the bow, just remembered to wait for Rijart’s translation. He stopped listening to the knight’s Latin. The harsh, deep voice so close to his ear bothered him. He cranked, and the string wound back to the nocking point.

“The bolt goes here.” The knight slipped in the short arrow. “Aim. No, that’s too far. Try that tree.” He guided the bow. The tree loomed up before him. Psin moved his shoulder until the butt of the bow fit better. “Sight through those prongs. Mary Mother, this one’s quick. Now. Pull the trigger. This.”

Psin pulled, and the bow shot itself. He swore. The bolt traveled faster and flatter than the Mongol arrows. “Ask him if that’s the full range.”

Rijart did so, and the knight smiled and nodded and went away. Psin gave the bow back to its owner and whirled to watch the knight walk back toward the tethered horses.

“What did that mean?” Rijart said. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know.” The knight had come here, to the park, to the hunting, for this one purpose. He was already riding away. Psin chewed his mustaches. He picked up his own bow, nocked an arrow, and drew the bow as full as he could. The game wasn’t running any more, and the others on the line turned to watch. He lifted the arrow until the point lay against the sun and let the string fly. The arrow whistled straight up toward the sun. At the top of its trajectory, it stood like a hawk in the air; against the sun’s brightness he could see it turn and fall. The Hungarians sighed. The arrow had fallen out of sight, in the wood. Psin looked at Rijart, but Rijart only shrugged and turned away.

The court at Pesth quickly grew boring. They were not permitted to ride by themselves in the town; the King said that the people would do them some harm. The days drifted by, full of meaningless chatter and overcooked food and the thick red wine, while Rijart and the King discussed minor points of courtesy and the people of the court stared, muttered, probed and laughed at the Mongols. Mago chased a woman into the garden one night, and only Rijart’s frantic explanations kept the knights from killing him. He hadn’t touched the woman. She retired from the court, sick, they said, of the awful shock. Psin listened to the Latin and remembered words he hadn’t heard before and asked Rijart what they meant, when Rijart came in the evenings to tell him what had gone on between him and the King in their private sessions.

“Nothing,” Rijart said. “Nothing. Today, at least, we reached the question of the Kipchaks who fled here. He says that they were given refuge as an act of common mercy. I say they are fugitives from the Kha-Khan and must be returned. He says he can’t. I say he can. He says he will not. I say the Kha-Khan will be angry. He says that’s too bad.”

He raked his fingers through his hair. Psin said, “Did you tell him what comes of people who anger the Kha-Khan?”

“He said that the Hungarians were steppe people until nine generations ago, and that they still fight like steppe people. He says when we come they’ll serve us better than they do now.”

Vortai said, “When will we fight here? This place is rich enough to keep us all in booty for the rest of our lives.”

Mago nodded. “And I’d like to pay that girl back for the trick in the garden.”

“Be quiet,” Psin said.

Rijart sat down on the one cushioned chair and put his feet up on the little table before him. “This is useless. I hope you’re learning what you came here to find out.”

“I am. Did you ask him why they put us up in this sty?” Psin kicked at the wooden bench. “They treat us like servants.”

“They think you are. They have no slaves here, and they think you must be my servants. To them these are good quarters for servants. Their own live like beggars. I couldn’t have questioned it without telling them you hold rank.”

“Hunh.”

“How is your Latin?”

“Good. I understand almost everything. I can’t speak it because I’ve had no practice.”

“You learn fast. Soon now we’ll go home. He’s almost done talking, this King.”

But they stayed. The summer was slipping past, and Mago and Kobol began to fight like two dogs in the cramped little room. Psin understood; he felt the walls packing him in and the air growing stale, and he dreamt at night of horses galloping wild over a plain that did not end. The rhythm of galloping horses filled his mind even when he was awake. When Mago and Kobol fought he whipped them with his belt and kicked them until they stopped.

“Are we going to die here?” Kobol said. “In this pen, like somebody’s menagerie?”

“Just a while longer.”

That day, in the hall where they were eating, Psin saw the tall knight in the white cloak again. The man lifted his head and smiled, across the rows of the seated court. Psin frowned. The knight was unlike the Hungarians—too tall, too fair, too deliberate in his walk. Psin distrusted him.

“I want you to speak to your father for me,” Quyuk said.

“About what?”

Quyuk looked back toward the camp, strung out a day’s ride over the plain. Tshant followed his eyes. The late sunlight blurred everything; it was hazy, golden, the way everything was in the Russian autumn. A train of carts was straggling up to the eastern edge, and the dogs there began to bark. Djela was riding toward him and Quyuk.

“I want him to support me for the Khanate,” Quyuk said finally. “I think he will, if I can only… get to him. Before Batu has me carted back to Karakorum.”

“Don’t get me to talk to him for you. If I say anything he’ll take the other side. By habit.”

“I thought you were friendly again, after Kozelsk.” Quyuk kicked apart a mushroom. “Breast to breast, I thought.”

“It never lasts.”

“You shouldn’t fight with him. He’ll only beat you.”

Tshant glanced around at Djela, who was still far down the rise from them. “My son doesn’t know about the fight. And I beat him, at Kozelsk. God, he bled—”

“So I heard. He still runs your life, doesn’t he?”

Tshant caught himself before he could get angry. There was something wrong in the way Quyuk was approaching this.

“I have nothing but awe and respect for our gallant Psin,” Quyuk said. “So much that I think I’ll have an easier time at the electing kuriltai if he supports me. Tell him, Tshant, that you will not support me.”

“That’s the truth.”

Quyuk moved deeper into the shade of the tree, toward their tethered horses. “I know. I’ve been working hard, Tshant. I have Baidar back again, you know. And Sabotai is coming to me. Mongke goes with Psin, like a matched team.” He laughed harshly. “Badly matched. Good afternoon, noyon.”

Djela reined up. “Hello, noyon.” He looked curiously at Tshant.

Quyuk drew his reins over his horse’s head, gathered them at the withers, and mounted. His horse turned in a quick circle before he got his other foot into the stirrup. “Your father and I have been talking, noyon. Who will be the next Kha-Khan, do you think?”

Djela’s mouth had been slightly open, as usual, but now he pressed his lips together. Tshant went over and took hold of his horse’s rein, near the bit. Djela said, “Ogodai is the Kha-Khan.”

Quyuk’s brows twitched. “But who will be the—”

“Ogodai is the Kha-Khan,” Djela said. His voice was so neutral Tshant almost did not recognize it.

Quyuk snorted. He whipped his horse into a gallop and plunged down toward the camp.

“What’s the matter?” Djela said. “Why were you here?”

“I came up to get out of the camp,” Tshant said. “He followed me. That was a good answer.”

“I couldn’t—I mean, there was nothing else to say.”

Tshant nodded. He remembered telling Ana that Quyuk was not treacherous. “Of course not,” he had said. But Psin had given Quyuk shelter and protection and it sounded as if Quyuk meant to start them fighting again, him and Psin. He couldn’t think of any other reason for what Quyuk had said—the way he had said it.

“Have you seen Baidar with him lately?”

Djela shrugged. “They’re always together, aren’t they? All of them. Ada, come on, let’s go hunting. I brought my new bow.”

Tshant nodded. He patted Djela’s horse and went to his own. They rode away from the camp, down toward the river where the marshes began in the broad curve of the bank. When they were almost there, Tshant heard the hoarse call of geese over his head and looked up. A great flock was sailing overhead, in a V pointing south. Djela was staring at them with bright eyes.

“Do you remember when we hunted the geese, that time by the Lake?” Tshant said. “With your grandfather.”

“Yes.”

The geese were already only flecks in the vast sky. Their cries were dim in his ears. Djela said, “When is Grandfather coming back?”

“Before the snow falls.” Tshant kicked his horse up. Beyond, in the marshes, a heron stood on the margin of the water; at the sound of the horses coming, it flapped its wings, took two awkward steps on its stick-legs, and rose softly into the air. It had been nearly this time last year when he had left the Lake. Only a year ... he thought of Kerulu with a fierce, fresh longing.

Rijart said, “It’s over. I have six packets of messages to take back, none of which says more than I’ve already told you. The news came today that we took Pereislav and Chernigov, and they say that we come smiling to talk about peace and friendship while we burn and loot and destroy in the background.”

“Hunh.” Psin stretched out his legs. “We’ve told him often enough peace and friendship come only when he submits to the Kha-Khan. He was just—”

Somebody knocked on the door. Psin leapt up. Rijart raised his brows, and Psin nodded. He went to sit on the wooden bench against the blind wall.

Rijart called out, and the door swung inward. The knight in the white cloak came in. He smiled quickly at Rijart, glanced around, and went to stand behind the cushioned chair. Rijart stood in the center of the room, frowning.

“My name is Arnulf,” the knight said. “I am a knight of the Teutonic Order of Saint Mary of Jerusalem, and I am here as the agent of the Emperor Frederick. King Bela knows nothing of this visit. I have messages to give you, to be relayed by word of mouth to whoever commands the Mongol armies in Russia, and through him to the Kha-Khan. The King is to remain ignorant.”

Psin leaned back against the wall. The knight was speaking slowly, so that a novice at Latin could understand, but he would know that Rijart was no novice. The other three Mongols watched curiously from across the room. The knight sat down, and Rijart perched on the bench across from him.

“You trespass on the King’s courtesy,” Rijart said.

“So do you. We have information that a certain Mongol general has crossed the Carpathians. We suspect that he is among your retinue, traveling discreetly as a servant. Spying, in short.”

“I know nothing of it,” Rijart said.

“Our information is good. We know, for example, that the Mongol is named Psin. And that he is one of the men who planned the attack on Russia. And that he speaks Arabic and fought in your campaigns against the Turks and Syrians.”

“You insult me.” Rijart’s neck was red.

“Oh? Why should we talk to an underling when we could treat directly with a Mongol khan?”

Rijart’s shoulders quivered. Psin drew one knee up and rested his arm on it. He wondered who the Emperor’s spies were. They even knew about the ambiguous command in Russia. Rijart’s voice croaked, “I have never heard—”

“Outside this room,” the knight said, “are four crossbowmen. Presently I shall call them in. We will shoot your retinue, one man at a time. I don’t think you will allow your general to die when one word could save him. We shall start with the young man over by the window.”

Psin did not look at Vortai. He saw Rijart tense; Rijart turned his head, looking desperately to Psin for help. The knight leaned back, smiling.

“You fool,” Psin said.