The Lost Prophecies (11 page)

The howl of the wind outside the shack stirs the heavy cloth covering the door, causing a series of sharp cracks. It makes the flames of the fire flare up and brings me back to the present. The little band of Tartars now sits stony-faced across the fire from me. The Tartars are a moon-visaged breed at the best of times, with a sparse sprinkling of hair on their chins. Their narrowed eyes give the impression that they are always gazing in suspicion at whatever they see. And at this very moment they are staring suspiciously at me. I am a stranger, and therefore at the forefront of suspicion of the murder. I need to say something to ease the tension, but I don’t know what. Drink is passed, and I am reminded of earlier that fateful night, before the murder took place.

It was just my luck that the weather changed for the worse soon after I set out for the riverside cave of Father Kyrill. By the time I got to the Dnieper, a blizzard was raging, and the river had frozen over. I later learned that even the Ghelan Sea had frozen for three leagues from its shoreline. Father Kyrill was not in his cave, which was lucky for him. If he had been, he would have been a slab of frozen meat by then. As I would be if I didn’t find shelter. Even wrapped in furs as I was, the Russian winter is so intensely cold that a traveller can die in minutes if he remains in the open. That is why rich magnates had built stove-houses along major highways to act as refuges for themselves and other travellers. These square houses were made of great beams of wood that fit so snugly that no wind or cold could penetrate. The only openings were a small door to enter by, and a vent-hole for the smoke of the fire. Struggling through the biting wind that drove the snow into my face, I was lucky to spot one just before I froze. It stood out as a dark patch in an unrelenting vista of white. And someone else had beaten me to it. A thin plume of smoke was sucked from the vent-hole before it was whipped away by the blizzard. I pushed hard on the door and stumbled into the warmth. The fire was the only thing in the gloomy room that exuded any heat.

Seated in a bunch on one side of the central hearth was a gang of hard-faced slant-eyed men I knew immediately were Tartars. And on the opposite side of the fire, completely on his own, squatted a hairy-faced Russian whose fur hat merged as one with the lank, black, greasy locks of his head and beard. When he realized the newcomer was one of his own breed, a grin broke through the forest of hair, exposing yellowed, broken teeth. He spoke a few words in Russian, which I roughly understood from my days carousing with his countrymen in Sudak. I responded in kind.

‘Kak dyela, stary durak.’

I could see he was a holy man from his black garb, so to ask how the old fool was doing was a sort of compliment. They liked being considered simpletons for God. He thrust out a grimy fist.

‘I could be worse, young man. I could be frozen meat. So sharing the warmth with these hounds from hell—’ he cocked a thumb at the silent and suspicious Tartars ‘—is at least preferable to freezing in my cave. My name is Kyrill.’

I have long given up marvelling at the strange ways of coincidence in my life. I prefer to call it luck. A commodity my life had been short of for a long while. So I merely took the presence in this sanctuary of the very man I had sought as a sign that my luck had changed. I squeezed his hand vigorously and immediately wished I hadn’t. His fist was as filthy and as greasy as his locks. After I had recovered my hand, I surreptitiously wiped it clean on my furs. I noted that he wiped his own on his long, grey and greasy beard. I proffered him my name and jerked a thumb at our enforced companions.

‘I’m Nick Zuliani. Trader. Who are they?’

‘The devil’s brood,’ he grumbled.

As he settled back on his haunches, a stone jar slipped from the stinking folds of his clothes. He grabbed it before it shattered on the floor and, leaning across to the upper shelf of the stove, carefully placed the jar on it. I fancied something lurked in the jar, for it rocked slightly even after he had set it down. But then, it could have just been my fertile imagination. He wiped his beard and continued his story.

‘Though the old boy’s not so bad. His name’s Sartakh, and he says they have been escorting Prince Alexander back to Kiev. They were returning to Sarai when the blizzard caught them out. That’s all I’ve got out of them so far.’

I had heard of this Russian prince, Alexander Nevsky. He alone in Russia had dealt with the Tartar overlords, rather than try to fight them. And so he had saved his lands from devastation for years, where other princes and their subjects had fought and gone under. His pragmatism would have made him a good trader. So these Tartars were from Sarai and had been ensuring the prince’s safe return to poor old Kiev. An old city ruined in the Tartar invasion years back, and not much restored now. My luck had definitely turned. They might now be my passport to the heart of Sarai, and Berke Khan, the boss of the Golden Horde. I slid my hand inside my furs and stroked the smooth leather binding of the Black Book of Brân. Maybe I wouldn’t have to bribe Kyrill with it after all. I put on my best business manner and turned to face the Tartars. My smile was met with frosty suspicion, and my offered hand ignored. I saw I would have to work hard here.

I reckoned the only way to break the ice – no pun intended – with this bunch was to draw them into a little game of chance. All soldiers liked to gamble, and who knows? Maybe I’d even live long enough to spend my winnings. I reached slowly into my furs to ensure they didn’t think I was producing a knife and pulled out a couple of dice. I shook them with an inviting rattle and tried the Tartars with a little crude Turkish.

‘Gentlemen, the game is Hazard. As the caster, I will call a number between five and nine and put a stake on the table. You will cover that, and if I throw my number – my main – I have nicked it and win the bets. If not . . .’

They may not have understood a word I had said, but my intentions were clear enough. I had the complete attention of the little gang of round-faced men, agog at the two dice rolling around in my fist. The Russian priest disdained to play the game, naturally. But then he’d probably got no money anyway. Having gone over the rules again with a lot of waving of hands and holding up of fingers, I threw the dice. Of course, to draw the rubes in, I played it straight for openers. One of the younger Tartars got on a winning streak, and the pile of winnings moved his way. Then I started tapping the dice on the ground before each throw, as though in exasperation at losing. Soon the pile of coins shifted its location and grew on the rug in front of me. The session began to draw out long into the night, and they started to teach me Tartar words as we gamed.

When Eldegai arrived, he came like a demon out of the wilderness. We were still playing at dice. The leader of our band, the wizen-faced old man Kyrill had named Sartakh, suddenly pricked up his ears.

‘Wait.’

Our game stopped abruptly. I mimed an enquiry to one of the Tartars, who explained. Now I am a quick study when it comes to tongues, but at first I thought I had misunderstood what he had said. But he repeated it more slowly for me.

‘Sartakh was born in a distant country where the females are of human shape and the men of a dog’s. He can hear the slightest sound before anyone else.’

His companions sniggered, but the object of their humour stopped them with an abruptly upraised hand. He grunted in his guttural tongue.

‘Someone approaches.’

His companions tensed, reaching for their swords. I belched and grinned inanely at the old man. A harmless fool lives longer than a curious meddler, and I didn’t yet know what was afoot. Soon enough, though, we all could hear the sound of a horse being ridden hard, muffled though the hooves were by the snow. It was coming towards our encampment. The youngest of our escort – Ulan by name – muttered fearfully. My understanding of what they said was now being stretched, and I moved to sit beside Father Kyrill, who interpreted for me.

‘Ulan said that it’s a demon.’

Sartakh rose and stood by the door of the stove-house, opening it to let the firelight spill briefly into the darkness. It risked a loss of heat but, that way, whoever it was would know we were aware of him, and he would be aware of us. This way there would be no surprise reaction on either side. A surprise that might result in a fatal misunderstanding. The sound of hooves ceased, and there was a heart-stopping moment while whoever it was stabled his horse. Then a bundled-up figure appeared in the outer circle of light. Ulan hissed and stood towards the back of the hut. The figure spoke.

‘I am Eldegai, a traveller.’

‘Still on the road at night?’

The question was Ulan’s.

‘I saw the traces of your horses in the snow, and I decided to catch you up rather than camp alone. It’s too cold to camp out anyway.’

‘You followed our tracks in drifting snow? Don’t take me for a fool, demon,’ muttered the young Tartar.

The stranger gave him a puzzled look but did not question what the boy meant. The moment passed, but from that time Ulan continued to keep the closest eye on him, apparently unsure if the stranger were man or beast. Sartakh broke the impasse.

‘Quick. Come in, or we will all freeze.’

The newest arrival to the stove-house stepped inside the room and naturally moved over to the left. That is where male visitors go in a Tartar tent, I later learned, the right side being reserved for the women. I recalled that Father Kyrill was sprawled on the floor on the right of the room. Which might have explained something of the disdain in which the Tartars currently held him. They saw him as no better than a woman. Our visitor, being of their breed, knew better how to behave.

Sartakh moved to the back of the room as if the stove-house were his home, and he the host. He invited the new arrival to approach the fire. The bundled figure hunkered down, loosening his outer fur coat for comfort. By the light of the flames I could now examine his features. He was very ordinary-looking for a demon. He pulled the heavy cap off his head, revealing a head shaved in the traditional way of the Tartar with long braids at the sides. His face was that of a middle-aged man, rounded and red-cheeked in the way of the race. But trackways of lines ran from the corners of his eyes, giving him a severe mien. His mouth was a thin gash, lined on top with a curving moustache. The mouth opened, and he spoke his name again.

‘Eldegai. A poor traveller.’

At least, that is what I believed he said. His accent was somewhat different from those I had got to know while taking their money. It was harder to understand. Maybe it was because he came from some other remote region of the Tartar Empire. I opined that it made him a sort of provincial hick, in a way, and gleefully invited him to play at dice with us. I liked a dead cert and relished parting a fool from his possessions. Eldegai suddenly grinned and moved into the circle of gamblers.

It was soon afterwards that Karakuchuk introduced us to Sic Bo. I had been aware of this quiet old man sitting at the periphery of the group, and careful with his bets. He had been examining my dexterous hand movements, and his face had been more screwed up than usual. As if he was trying to work something out. I knew the look – all con artists know it – the look of a mark who was aware there was a fix on but couldn’t figure out what or how. I knew I would have to deal very carefully with him.

Now, as Eldegai sat down with us, Karakuchuk uncharacteristically took centre stage.

‘There is a game I learned on campaign in Cathay. It is called Sic Bo. Unfortunately, it requires three dice, not two. And a cup.’

He gave me a hard stare through his narrowed eyes. He thought by suggesting a game I didn’t know, he would nullify any cheating that might be going on. And prevent me from using my hands by having the dice rolled in a cup. Smiling, I dug into the pocket of my fleecy jacket and produced a new set of dice. The other dice I ferreted away in the same pocket. They were tappers anyway, and would be no good in a cup. At their core was a hollow partially filled with wax and a stone. By warming the wax in my hands, and tapping them on the ground as I had done after playing honestly for a while, the stone shifted and weighted the dice on whatever side was at the bottom. Karakuchuk’s game would require a different sort of dice if they were to be thrown from a cup. Dice such as I had now produced, some of which were shaved down one side. These I would palm in at the right moment. Sleight of hand was a particular skill that had stood me in good stead for some time. Remind me to tell you about the little matter of the purloined ruby some time.

I had played dice games with a cup before. But Sic Bo was unusual in that the dice were not thrown out of it. Karakuchuk explained slowly for me.

‘After shaking, the cup is upended, hiding the dice. Bets are laid on what might lie below the cup. The simplest bet is with straight odds on the total being high or low – more than ten or less than ten. Understand?’

Now they do say that great gamblers can hear the side that the dice fall on. But I didn’t need to worry about having ears as sharp as Sartakh’s. I knew how they would fall, once I palmed in the shaved dice. I nodded.

‘I understand. It is a risky game.’

Someone produced a simple wooden drinking cup, and we began. I let the unaltered dice roll as they wished to start with. And, of course, I won some bets and lost others. I could see the look of triumph in Karakuchuk’s eyes. But more important, I saw the greed in our new companion’s – Eldegai was suckered. Out of a sense of malice, I then arranged it so that he won several times from Karakuchuk, who was not best pleased. But it gave me a particular delight.

Soon, though, with the shaved dice, I was winning hand over fist from the newcomer. I won a rather nice dagger with a jewel embedded in the hilt, that fine fur hat he had worn on arrival, and some other trinkets he drew from inside his coat as he ran through his losing streak. I suppose I should have stopped, but I got carried away with his desperate eagerness to lose everything he had. And I had spotted a small gold tablet tucked in the folds of his coat. I wanted it, but it seemed he was not far enough gone to wager it. He did lose a spare pair of boots, though. But then, suddenly, he rose from the floor, where the little circle of gamers squatted, and stomped angrily to the darker corner of the room. Sartakh shook his head slowly.