Until the Sun Falls (62 page)

“Oh, no,” Tshant roared. “My father owes me two herds of mares.”

Psin let go of him and backed off, glaring. “Pig of a child.” The people just behind him were leaping up and down with glee.

“Well,” Mongke said. “We have another complaint registered. Psin, will you make a complaint?”

“Yes,” Psin shouted. “My son is a greedy—”

Mongke clapped his hands. “Yes. The complaint is that due to actions Psin Khan took on behalf of Tshant, he suffered injuries, namely saddlesores and—”

The people screamed. Psin called, “I’ve never been saddlesore in my life.”

“And stiffness in his string fingers. Since it is most grievous for a son to cause his father the slightest injury, let Tshant pay Psin Khan—”

“Two herds,” the people yelled. “Young mares. With spring foals.”

“Let it be so,” Mongke called. “By the acclamation of the people. This judgment is over.” He jumped down from the platform. His red sleeves billowed around his arms, The crowd parted, and he walked through toward his yurt. On the way he passed between the beds of two banked fires. Psin looked over at Kaidu; Batu was speaking to him, in a low voice, his head bent.

“My cousin is much changed,” Kerulu said.

Tshant said, “He’s a sneaking, scheming…”

She laughed at him. The mark on her cheek grew bright and distinct. “I’m glad you’re well. You weren’t at all amusing when you were sick: you were so gentle. Let’s go find my brother.”

Tshant looked hard at Psin. “Did you teach him that? Did you tell him to do that?”

“No. I never taught you to try to ruin your old father, either. If you fight with Kaidu, I’ll thrash you.”

“Try,” Tshant snarled. But Kerulu got him by the arm and hauled him off.

Psin turned and went through the crowd toward Sabotai’s yurt. Now that the judgment was done the camp was giving itself up to eating, drinking, and playing games. A string of horses trotted by. They would be racing on the open ground west of the stream. Down where the yurts pinched in the corner of the square, two young men were putting up a puppet show. Children and dogs ran through the loosening crowd. Psin stopped before Sabotai’s threshold to watch a moment. They were taking down the platform and building a target wall for a shooting contest.

“Come inside, Psin Khan,” Mongke said, through the open door.

Psin crouched and went in. Mongke and Sabotai were drinking Hungarian wine beside the low fire. The yurt was stuffy and smelled of cooked meat. Psin sat down.

“Roll up the sides of the yurt. It’s stifling in here.”

“We can’t,” Sabotai said. “The people try to crawl in.”

“What do you think of it?” Mongke said.

“Oh, it was very clever. Especially the way you justified fining Kaidu half as much as he deserved and Tshant and me twice as much.” He reached for the ewer. “Kerulu brought some fine news from Karakorum.”

“I know,” Sabotai said. “Ogodai was sick again when she left. I’ve had dispatches. They’re keeping him away from the wine and he’s recovering.”

“Oh?” Psin drank and wiped his mustaches. The end he had chewed was soggy. “She says differently. She says this time he ought to die.”

Mongke said, “He’s not old yet.”

Sabotai only frowned. Psin said, “Why would Kerulu leave? Only if Turakina were ruling the Khanate.”

“Why haven’t we—oh.” Sabotai scratched his jaw. “I see. Turakina tells us only what she wishes us to hear, of course. And if she has control of the dispatches…” He had always hated Ogodai’s wife.

“The women,” Mongke said. “Always the women. My mother wrote to me and said that Jagatai is also not well. She says Oghul Ghaimish has been casting spells again.”

“Kerulu wouldn’t know. She left Karakorum nine months ago.”

“In the meanwhile,” Sabotai said, “Batu is courting us all. He gave Kaidu a scolding for attacking Tshant—There’s something wrong with that boy.”

“Tshant?” Mongke said.

“Kaidu.”

“He’s malicious,” Psin said. “He likes to see people hurt. Do we start raiding over the Danube soon? The Hungarians are getting bold.”

“Yes,” Sabotai said. “And I want you to start thinking about reconnaissance raids for this winter, too. Now that we’ve settled into Hungary.”

Chan said, “Put it there, Arnulf.”

“Yes, Lady.” He put the rug on the ground and turned back the corners. The air was rich as wine. Autumn air, he thought. He tried to remember how the summer had smelled—hot, of course, and dusty, sweaty. But he couldn’t actually remember. Chan sat down on the rug, arranged her robes to cover her feet, and spread out the thin Chinese parchment on the carpet before her.

Sitting to her left, he studied her. Her skin reminded him of heavy cream. She had told him about her children; he found it impossible that she could have grown sons. Chinese, he thought. How many different peoples there are in the world. How wonderful the variety of God’s creation. He crossed himself. Once he had struggled against bitterness that God should have thrust him into the hands of these people, but now he recognized the plan, the reason, or as much as any man could see of the mind of God.

She was sketching, looking up occasionally at the plain before her. He tried to see what she was seeing—exactly how the plain looked to her. Brown and gold, it flowed on farther than he could see. The horizon was faintly purple with distance. A little way from them the river ran almost dry, and horses grazed among the scant trees on either bank, with Mongols keeping watch. They had had some trouble with Hungarians sneaking in to steal Mongol horses. Why a Christian would want such shabby, scrawny little horses Arnulf couldn’t understand, except that a Mongol horse would trot until a normal horse would drop, turn around, and trot back again.

He started his afternoon prayers, watching the plain. Dmitri had said that the Mongols believed in one God, whom they called Tengri, and no other; many of them were Christians. “Quyuk, who may be the next Kha-Khan, is Christian. But his wife is a witch.” Arnulf thought of the river and how easily it could be crossed. O God, he thought. Thy Will be done.

Chan was staring at him. He smiled at her, and she said, “What are you thinking about that makes you so happy?”

“Did I look happy?”

She nodded. Her face was still, almost set, but he had come to understand that it didn’t mean she was angry. He said, “I was praying.”

“Oh. I used to pray, when I was little. To the Moon.”

She changed brushes and made small red marks on the parchment. He went around behind her to see. The river and the trees were only lines, and the horses flecks of color, yellow and brown. She had drawn a herder, and his red coat seemed to fill up the whole slice of paper.

“You see things so much differently than I,” he said.

“Of course.”

The picture was pleasing to look at. He watched it while he prayed. When he was done, she had already finished and was packing up brushes and inks. He helped her stow them in the pouches on her saddle and lifted her onto the horse. She gathered the reins, looking down at him, and said, “Stay here. Stay with us. Why go back to your own people and be conquered?”

“Lady, they are my people.”

“The Chinese were mine. I came with the Mongols.”

He brought his horse over and mounted. “They are my people. I have always… inclined toward the sin of discontent.” He smiled. “You’re happy here. I am not.”

She looked away, toward the river, and turned her eyes back to him. “He will kill you.”

His spine tingled. She had guessed; he had thought before that she was speaking of when the Khan would send him back to Rome, but she knew what he intended. He said nothing. She made a face suddenly, so violent that he laughed, and with a kick started her horse at a canter toward the camp.

Djela ran in, towing a puppy by a rope around its neck, and said, “Batu said to ask you if he could talk to you.” He flopped down on the carpet before the door, dragged the puppy into his arms, and began to wrestle with it.

Artai said, “Such courtesy from Batu?” She was combing out Psin’s hair. With each stroke of the comb his head drew back.

“Djela,” Psin said. “Go tell Batu Khan he may talk to me until they grave me.”

Djela bounded up and left. The puppy lay panting on the carpet. Artai laid the comb on Psin’s left shoulder. “Tidy your mustaches.”

“All four hairs?”

She laughed. “If you didn’t chew them they’d grow. Shall I leave when Batu comes?” She pushed the front section of his hair onto his forehead, so that it hung in his eyes.

“Do you want me to talk to a khan looking like a madman? Stay.”

Batu came in, with Djela right behind. The puppy banged its tail on the carpet. Batu sat down. “I was going to see Kadan and I thought I’d stop by and see you. It’s been a fine autumn, hasn’t it?”

“I think the winter’s always late here. Djela, fetch your cousin some kumiss. Or wine, Batu?”

“Kumiss,” Batu said. He was smiling; he’d put on weight, so that he made a square solid shape in the middle of the carpet. “I wanted to ask you if there is ill feeling between us, because of what my grandson did.”

“On your grandson’s part, maybe. Not on mine. Tshant should have been more careful.”

“Is he angry?”

“Yes. But I can handle him.”

Artai cut his hair off evenly and began to braid it. Batu said, “And I can handle Kaidu. So much for that.” He took the cup from Djela. Dmitri came through the yurt with a basket of chips for the fire on his shoulder and bowed.

“Is Kadan having any trouble?” Psin said.

“No. At least he’s not said so. But he’s been drunk since the middle of the summer. His tuman-commander is ruling for him. That’s a cunning man.”

“Huduk. Yes.”

“You know him?” Batu looked surprised.

“I’ve heard of him. He’s a Kipchak, and for a Kipchak to become a tuman-commander is interesting enough to be news.”

“Well. Kadan’s district is… almost a separate country, you know. Because of the hills. If he can rule it so well, maybe I can make him governor of the whole territory when we move on.”

Psin licked his mustache into his mouth, remembered, and spat it out. He began to see what Batu was after.

“Do you think so?” Batu said.

“I doubt Huduk should be without a Mongol to keep watch on him.”

“Ah.” Batu hadn’t touched his kumiss. Now he drank it in three gulps. “Who? Not Kadan. Would you do it?”

Artai’s fingers clenched in Psin’s hair, so that his scalp ached. His back muscles stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“Would you stay as my deputy in Hungary, when we go on west?” Batu leaned forward. “Sabotai can be talked into it. Tshant is a good general—he’s itching to take your place in the army. Let him go on. And when we hold Europe, you can rule it all, in my name.”

Psin let out his breath. “In the name of Batu Khan, or Batu Kha-Khan?”

Batu’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth slipped into a smile. “That… would be… according to the will of God.”

Artai got up and went into the back of the yurt. She called sharply to Djela, who had been listening rapt. The curtain fell between them and the two men. Batu said, “Well?”

“Let me think about it. You honor me. I’m not sure I’m worth it.”

“Who but you could do it?”

“Your brothers.”

“No. I know them better than you do.” He got up. “Tell me when you decide. Don’t be hasty. Talk to your son, if you wish.”

Psin’s head jerked up, but Batu had already turned his back to go. If Batu had mentioned this to Tshant—Psin got up and went into the back of the yurt.

“What will you do?” Artai said.

“Grandfather—”

“Be quiet. Don’t tell Tshant. Artai—Djela, will you go?”

Djela ran off. Artai said, “At least he’s not subtle, Batu. A third part of the world?”

“Well, it’s not taken yet.” He laughed.

“Will you accept it?”

“I don’t know. Do you think I should?”

She put her hand on his sleeve. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe you should.” Her eyes searched his face. “If you want to.”

“Women. Just don’t let Tshant know.”

“I won’t.”

He turned to go. Her women were pretending not to listen; their cheeks glowed. When he went out past the curtain, he heard the sudden bubble of their voices, and Artai’s, quick and sharp, quieting them. Djela came in, the puppy in his arms, and looked up at Psin.

“May I tell Ama?”

Psin hunkered before him and put his hands on Djela’s elbows. “No. Do you know why?”

“Because Ada will be angry if he knows and you do not accept.”

“That, too. Batu told me… what he told me in confidence. He wouldn’t want it around the camp. You keep quiet about it.”

“I will.”

Psin smiled at him. “I know.” Djela was so much bigger, taller, with more heft to him, than he had been only ... It had been Djela who had pulled Tshant out of Kaidu’s hands, who had sent for Psin and Batu and strangely for Mongke. Psin stood up. “If I did, it would be for your sake.”

“No,” Djela said. “I wouldn’t want it.”

He went on into the back of the yurt. Psin sank down on the floor with his back to the couch; lacing his fingers together, he set his thumbs under his jaw and stared at the far wall and thought.

The days shortened, and the cold winds flattened the grass.
Batu said nothing more, even after he came back from Kadan’s territory in the south. Tshant and Kerulu went out hunting alone and stayed away for a full day and a night. Artai was scandalized.

“They are too old to act like that.”

“They aren’t,” he said. “Unfortunately, I am. Let them alone.”

Artai pressed her lips together and glared at him.

Chan said, later, “You never took me away hunting.”

“I never thought you wanted to go.”

“I didn’t. But you never even suggested it.”

“If I had, you would have—”

“You never think of me except as something nice for your bed.”

“What are you trying—”

“Do you?”

“I think of you a lot. I do.”

“You don’t. I’m nothing but a broodmare to you. I wish I were back in China, where at least the men treated me like a woman.”