The Golden Horde (23 page)

*

Despite the presence of Amragan
tarkhan
and his merry men, a presence increasingly merry and hard to ignore as the jugs and flagons went round, it was a good old-fashioned Russian feast. Everyone, not just the Tatars, merrily ate and drank too much. As the drink went down and the singing and dancing began, inevitably one or two fights also broke out among the peasants for this reason or for that, but they were settled amicably with fists or meat-bones rather than more deadly weapons, and prompted a few amused wagers between the
boyaryy
at the kremlin tables.

Seated in the guest’s place at Ivan’s right hand, Amragan
tarkhan
leaned forward. There was a brimming wooden beaker of something or other in his hand – in fact Ivan couldn’t remember when there had
not
been one – and the Turk was grinning. “I begin to understand,” he said, “more of why you laughed when I spoke of the Ilkhan Batu’s intention to maintain peace in the Rus domains.”

The Tsar watched one of Khorlov’s blacksmiths lift someone else above his head and fling him bodily into the piled fodder for the Tatar horses. That at least was more of a wrestling move than an attempt to do real harm. The truly pugnacious had already had their fights and were sleeping off the effects under trestle tables somewhere. “My people are a sturdy lot,
tarkhan
,” he said. “Enslaving them would break their spirit; turn them into nothing more than serfs, pieces of property. I’d rather not live to see that happen.”

“And now I should say something ominous like, ‘
I
can
arrange
that
,’” said Amragan
tarkhan
. “Yes?”

“If you feel a need to state the obvious, feel free.”

“Then I shall save my breath. But the Ilkhan Batu has no need to make slaves of the Rus peasants. Their lords do that work quite well enough, and Ilkhan Batu has dominion over them. If your sturdy people ever become true slaves, serfs, you call them, it will be because a Russian, not a Tatar, found it convenient to make them so.”

Ivan toyed uneasily with a scrap of meat on his platter and said nothing. Slavery in the sense of iron fetters had been what he meant, not the invisible bondage of labour promised by contract against a loan of grain or use of land. Such an contract might be made for anything from one year to ten, but the obligation could seldom be discharged and often the work such a peasant performed was no more than payment of interest on the original loan. Amragan
tarkhan
knew a deal too much for political small-talk with him to be comfortable for very long.

“So I’ll be the slave instead?” he said at last.

“As there is one Everlasting Sky,” said the Turk, gesturing sloppily upwards with his cup, “so on the earth there should be one ruler, and that is the Khan of all Khans. The Ilkhan Batu acts for the Great Khan, whether alive or dead. You will act for the Ilkhan Batu, as I do. This is not slavery.”

“Yet he takes away my crown, the sign of my lordship in Khorlov.”

Amragan
tarkhan
shrugged, and drank deeply. “The lordship is what is granted you by the Ilkhan of the Golden Horde, and no man will dare to question it. As for the crown, who will know? I have not yet seen you wear the Great Crown which he demands of you, only lesser things. Wear the lesser and name them great.”

“It’s not …” Ivan began to say, then fell silent.
Not
the
same
,
lacking
in
power
,
a
pulling
of
my
teeth
?
That
isn’t
your
business
.
Or
you
know
it
already
. “Never mind. What must I do to gain this grant of lordship from the Khan?”

“Come with me to Sarai and pass through the fires. Bow to the East. Bow to the Ilkhan Batu and give up your crown. Pay the head-tax. Then you will be lord of Khorlov by his command, and he will make war on any who would try to depose you without his leave.”

“And what about
with
his leave?” The Turk shrugged again, evidently deeming an explanation to that question superfluous. Ivan shook his head and made his mouth smile, then said, “Now about these fires —”

He got no further, because a shadow came between him and the westering sunlight. Aleksey Mikhailovich Romanov stood there, swaying slightly, a goblet of wine in his hand and a smile of sorts on his face. He had the look of a man who had both drunk and overheard a great deal more than was good for him.

“Equivocate, Tsar Ivan,” he said in a blurred voice. “Make him give you concessions for the loss of your crown. Of your realm. Of whatever honour the Khorlovskiy dynasty could still claim. Don’t simply do as he asks.”

“You have a place,
bogatyr
,” Ivan said softly. “Go to it.”

“My place is here,” said Aleksey Mikhailovich. “A
bogatyr
should be ready to defend his lord, even when that lord is no longer worthy of it.”

“A
bogatyr
should be ready to obey his lord’s commands, and my command to you is sit down!”

The young man shook his head and frowned, not so much in refusal of the order but as if he’d forgotten something important. He looked into the goblet as if expecting that the answer was in there with the wine, then drank deeply just in case it was.

Amragan
tarkhan
watched the performance with an expression of tolerant humour on his face, drunk enough not to take immediate offence at anything the
bogatyr
had said so far and more amused at Ivan’s embarrassed discomfiture than anything else. “Are all your warriors such wilful children?” he asked.

“I said sit down, Aleksey Mikhailovich. Must you be made to do so, like a” – Ivan hesitated, then deliberately used the Turk’s own words – “like a wilful child?”

“Not yet. There’s something still needing done.”

Ivan pushed himself back in his chair and drummed his fingers in exasperation on the table. “By me? By you? What?”

“This!”

The remnants of the
bogatyr
’s wine hit Amragan
tarkhan
full in the face, blinding him with its stinging splash for long enough to let Aleksey Mikhailovich throw down the empty goblet and rip his sword out of its scabbard. The blade came around in a long, hard swing that might have sheared the Tatar envoy’s head clean off his shoulders. It missed. Amragan
tarkhan
was still in his chair, but chair and man together were both flat on their backs where Tsar Ivan had wrenched them in the shocked instant as the sword was drawn.

But it hadn’t completely failed to draw blood. There was a small clatter as Ivan’s pearl-drop earring fell onto the table, with most of his earlobe still gripped in its steel and silver clasp. He clapped one hand to the side of his head as the ear and a long straight cut along his cheek spurted blood in the way that such wounds will, out of all proportion to their size. There was a sound inside his skull like small bells, ringing, ringing… And then he saw the guards, both Tatar and Rus, come charging in with their weapons at the ready

“No! Stand fast!”

That command brought his own men to a standstill with Aleksey Mikhailovich Romanov at the centre of a ring of steel but still alive, and the sheer volume of his shout made the Tatars hesitate at least until Amragan
tarkhan
regained his feet. The envoy was obviously undamaged, except for spills of wine and food over his fine garments; but he was just as obviously shocked sober and in a towering rage, his mouth contorting as it shaped the orders that would have stamped Khorlov from the face of the wide white world. Then he saw the blood running between Ivan’s fingers, and his orders went unspoken. For the time being.

Mar’ya Morevna came hurrying from her place as hostess at one of the other tables, pried Ivan’s reluctant hand away from his head and swore venomously at the ugly wound. He could hear his children crying somewhere in the distance beyond that clangour of bells, and a crackling sound like burning straw much closer. Ivan didn’t need to see the sparks crawl down Mar’ya Morevna’s arms to know they were there, but the Tatars gasped and drew back, which meant only that there were fewer in the queue to hack or blast or tear Aleksey
bogatyr
into dripping shreds.

Volk Volkovich the Grey Wolf was there too, and though his face was completely human, his eyes as they met Ivan’s were anything but.

“Only say the word.” It was more snarl than speech, but Ivan shook his head, heedless of the drops of blood that movement spattered over the grass like rubies sown for harvesting.

“No.” Talking hurt, since it moved the muscles in his right cheek that the sword-point had gouged. “Not you.” He gripped Mar’ya Morevna’s wrist and felt a heat in the flesh like metal left too near the fire. “Nor you, and,” Ivan turned to face Amragan
tarkhan
, “most definitely not you.”

“He tried to kill me,” said the Turk. “Because of what you did, I will forget my duty to the Ilkhan Batu, and remember only that I am
tarkhan
. If he wants my head so much, then I have the right to try for his. Like a man, not an assassin. Sword to sword.”

“I said no,” said Ivan, trying not to mumble the words. “You’re my guest. You ate my bread and salt. The treacherous son of an unwed bitch was my councillor. Any right to his head is
mine
.”

“Ivan,” said the Grey Wolf in a low voice, “be careful of this one.”

“He’s a drunken fool.”

“Fool I can’t question; but I saw him draw his sword, and he was sober enough then. I think the Tatar was never in any danger. He wants you.”

“What?”

“He know you daren’t let something so impersonal as the law deal with his attack on Amragan
tarkhan
, not if you hope to avert what the Tatar might do to Khorlov. So now he has a chance to put a sword through you in ‘fair’ fight – though I think you’re also more sober than he hoped. My friend, your drinking habits on occasions like this are too well known. They’ll be your undoing.”

“To prevent Khorlov being destroyed by the Tatars, he puts himself at risk of being killed …?” The clanging ache in Ivan’s head had surely driven out all sensible thought, for he felt certain that he was missing something obvious. “Why not just sit still instead?”

“Because his father Mikhail Romanov could make himself Tsar after you were dead, and make his own pact for peace with the Khan. He has the support to do it among the councillors and
boyaryy
who oppose your policies, your lady, your freedom with the Art Magic. You know their names well enough by now.”

“No matter what happened, Aleksey would be dead. If I didn’t kill him, Amragan
tarkhan
surely would.”

“The
bogatyr
may be a willing sacrifice for his father. Or an unwitting one. But Mikhail Romanov would be Tsar regardless.”

“And the children?” Mar’ya Morevna wadded up a soft cloth, dipped it in water mixed with tincture of poppy-seeds and began to clean the ribbons of drying blood from Ivan’s face, a business that needed her attention no matter what the subject of the conversation might be.

“Noble Lady,” said the Grey Wolf patiently, “the question is unworthy of your wisdom. If the
boyar
Mikhail is content to see his own son dead, what value will he place on another man’s wife and little ones?”

“Thank you,” said Mar’ya Morevna. “I just wanted to hear someone say it aloud.”

“Lady, you may leave Mikhail Romanov to me.” Volk Volkovich grinned, and his teeth glinted. “Unless you want him yourself?”

“All I want him is dead.”

First Minister Strel’tsin came bustling up as quickly as his aged limbs allowed, but late for all that since his dignity in public places hadn’t permitted him to run. “Majesty, you’re the Tsar of Khorlov,” he said at once, ignoring the look that his use of the forbidden title drew from Amragan
tarkhan
. “As such, you may not hazard your person —”

Ivan produced a wincing smile that included both Strel’tsin and the Tatar envoy, as well as several emotional states. The pain from his ear and face was fast dying down to a dull throb, so that both talking and thinking were easier. “I’ve heard that one before, Dmitriy Vasil’yevich,” he said. “A long time ago. But as Amragan
tarkhan
will tell you as many times as need be, in the eyes of the Ilkhan Batu and the Golden Horde, I’m no longer Tsar of anywhere. Just a Prince. And until you take the time to rewrite the appropriate statutes, there’s no law in Khorlov that forbids a Prince to defend himself and his honour. In fact, if I remember rightly …”

“Yes, Majesty. Er, Highness. You do remember rightly. The laws of trial by combat.”

“There. So make yourself useful. Even more useful. Have someone go to my chambers in the kremlin and fetch …” Ivan turned slowly and stared at Aleksey Mikhailovich Romanov. “No. Send them to the armoury. Bring me my father’s sword.”