Until the Sun Falls (6 page)

The horse reared, whirling, trying to bolt. Djela wrestled with it, sawed on the reins, and the horse backed up in a rush. Tshant caught the rein. “Mordvins. We must be near the Volga camp.” He led the horse through the lumps of frozen men, mounted up behind Djela, and kicked the horse into a trot. 

Psin and Mongke reached Bulgar in the forenoon
, three days after they left the Volga camp, and in the midafternoon Psin had all the troops camped around the city turned out for inspection. Quyuk, the Kha-Khan’s eldest living son, was in command of Bulgar; he rode beside Psin along the lines of the five tumans drawn up before the walls.

“They’re badly mounted,” Psin said. The Mongols rode native stock, smaller than Psin was used to, and very long in the back. The tumans in their rows stretched out across the plain, countless heads bobbing, countless eyes turned on him and Quyuk. Behind them the iron-blue shoulders of the hills rose against the unclouded sky.

“I think you’ll find them adequate,” Quyuk said carelessly. He pointed to three rows of horsemen grouped around a banner with a two-headed dragon. “Those served under you in Korea, I think.”

“Mongke’s honor guard. Yes.”

The wind was right in Psin’s face, cold and edged with coming snow. A horse neighed and a thousand others answered. “What kind of condition are they in?”

Quyuk shrugged one shoulder. His horse skittered sideways and he clubbed it over the ears with his fist. “They’ve done little fighting since the spring. But they race their horses, and they patrol along the river. That’s where the other two tumans are now.”

Psin glanced at him. Quyuk rode a much better horse than any of the troops’. Psin decided it was a crossbred, half native and half Mongol. He kicked up his horse and cantered along the line, returning the salutes. At the end of the line he wheeled his horse, so that when Quyuk caught up with him they were facing each other, their horses shoulder to shoulder.

“Any of the Altun who wish it may come with me,” Psin said. “When I ride to Novgorod.”

“We are all honored by the invitation, of course,” Quyuk said. He reached for the jug on his saddle.

“Perhaps I’m not making myself clear,” Psin said. “If I take it upon myself to nursemaid a pack of well-bred savages, I expect rather more than being told they are honored.”

Quyuk’s great brows flew together. “No. Perhaps you aren’t making yourself clear, Merkit.”

Psin smiled at him. “You are coming with me, Quyuk. You and your brother and your cousins. All but Batu’s brothers. Is that clear enough?”

“I don’t wish to. Is that also clear?”

“It’s irrelevant, Quyuk.”

“You can’t give me orders.”

“Oh? I think I can. I think I will.”

Quyuk’s hand darted toward his belt, but Psin, expecting it, clamped his fingers around Quyuk’s wrist. Quyuk’s face was bright red and his eyes glittered. He shot a quick glance at the watching army and twisted his arm, but Psin only squeezed harder. He didn’t think Quyuk would cry out. Looking over his shoulder, Psin saw that the men around them noticed nothing. Quyuk strained, and Psin tightened his fingers. He heard a rasp, like a bone grating on another bone, and Quyuk’s lips trembled with pain.

“Do I make myself clear, Quyuk?”

Quyuk’s eyes looked slippery. He blinked at the tears. “Let me go.”

Psin twisted his wrist. Quyuk’s mouth jerked open and he gasped.

“Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes.”

Psin let him go. “Good. I look forward to this raid.” He saluted the armies, and their arms flew up in answer, all across the plain, five tumans of arms. Reining his horse he galloped back toward the city. Temujin was probably shaking in Heaven over this treatment of his grandchildren. But while he rode through the gate he changed his mind. Temujin was probably laughing.

He rode straight to the house that Quyuk had set aside for him and Mongke, put up his horse and went inside. Mongke was in the main room, sprawled naked on a couch, red wine at his elbow and fluffy cakes in a dish on the floor beside him. Kaidu in a silk tunic painted with flowers paced up and down, talking about the fighting against the Kipchaks. Psin recognized him by his resemblance to Batu, who was Kaidu’s grandfather. Psin stopped in the doorway and listened. Kaidu hadn’t heard or seen him, but Mongke’s eyes flickered in Psin’s direction and he smiled.

“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.

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.”