Until the Sun Falls (27 page)

“Then he maybe—”

“Where are they?” Sabotai said.

“With Tshant.”

Kadan said, “He may be dead already.”

“No. We would have heard.” Psin took him by the arm and made him sit down. “He’s not an old man. He’s not yet so sick he can’t recover.”

“My father ...”

Psin handed him some wine, and Kadan took it. His hands shook. Psin went around the fire and sat down. “He’s been very sick before, Kadan. And lived.”

“I know. Quyuk is drunk, you said.”

“Yes.”

“Does he know?”

“No. Jagatai sent to me to keep him here.”

“When my father falls sick they take the drink away from him and he gets well very soon. Doesn’t he.” Kadan licked his lips. “Doesn’t he?”

“He has before.”

“But the women are there. My brother’s wife and—”

“And your mother. Oghul Ghaimish may be a witch but she can’t suborn your mother.”

Kadan drank the wine. “I have to go see to my men.”

Psin nodded. Kadan paused at the door and looked out.

“I would sooner be a slave than the Kha-Khan,” Kadan said. “I would sooner be dead.”

He went out. Psin followed him to the door and watched Kadan ride off. The dusk was thickening, blotting out Tver’s walls. He felt sorry for Kadan, and he tried to think that it was stupid because Kadan was what he was by choice, but that only made him feel worse.

Mongke was riding up toward him. Psin stepped outside. The cold wind touched him. Mongke trotted up and dismounted.

“Psin. How pleasant to see you alive.”

Faced with Mongke, he could not think about Kadan. “Come inside. It’s going to rain.”

“Yes. Splendid fortifications, those. Have you been inside them?”

Psin followed him into the yurt and called to Ana for more wine. Mongke sprawled out, sighing.

“Tshant and I went in. We got about one bowshot down the wall and turned around and came back.”

“Why?”

“The walls are full of tunnels, and the Russians duck in and out and shoot at you when you aren’t looking. Tshant got an arrow in the hand.”

“Pity it missed his head. What will we do?” 

“Don’t be so eager, child. We may have to wait until the walls melt.”

“That would be too bad, because we should miss Novgorod for sure, then. Where is Quyuk?”

Mongke’s face was bland, his eyes wide with innocence. Psin watched Ana pour the wine. She looked even redder around the eyes than before.

“Quyuk is in Tshant’s camp.”

“I thought perhaps he might have gone back to the Gobi. After he and Batu had the argument. It was a display, Psin. You should have been there.”

Psin studied him. Mongke’s wife and his mother Sorghoktani lived in Karakorum, and because Mongke was a khan they would have certain power. The women always had ways of getting news out. “How much do you know?” he said.

Mongke arched his brows. “Why, less than you.”

“That’s an answer. Get out. I’m going to Tshant’s camp.”

“Someday, Psin, you’re going to have to learn how to speak to princes, you know.” Mongke got to his feet in one supple motion. “I overlook it, in view of your rough but useful qualities. Other people are not so forbearing.”

Psin put on his coat. “A man has to keep his self-respect somehow.”

“Why, how humble of you. I might be tempted to believe that, if I didn’t know you better.”

“Would you.”

He went out and pulled the reins of his horse loose from the tether pin. Mongke strolled along behind him. The wind filled the darkness, and Mongke sniffed; his face in the torchlight looked suddenly tense and watchful. His nostrils flared.

“Psin,” Mongke said. “When you need help, Psin, come to me.”

Psin rolled back in his saddle and looked down at him. “When I need the kind of help you can give me.” He kicked the dun into a trot. Behind him Mongke cursed softly.

The smell of meat cooking and the happy babble of voices followed him to the edge of his camp. Riding out between the watch-fires, he felt the first icy raindrop on his face. Rain wouldn’t help. He gave the dun its head and galloped through the dark toward the clot of fires at the edge of Tshant’s camp. The rain was streaming down, hissing into the snow, and when the wind blew a gust of it into his face he felt the sting of ice.

Before he went to Tshant’s yurt he stopped to see Quyuk. Tshant’s aides had packed themselves into another yurt, leaving Quyuk stretched in solitary abandon on the couch in the middle of the yurt. Under the grate, fire flickered, and a little pot of gruel was steaming over it, but there was nobody else there. Quyuk was snoring. He stank.

Psin sat on his heels beside him and slapped his face. Quyuk groaned, licked his lips, and was still again.

A woman came in from the back and stirred the pot. Psin said, “Does he eat?”

“Sometimes.” She knocked the spoon against the rim of the pot. “When he wakes up.”

“How often?”

“Two, three times a day.”

The yurt was clean, except for an empty jar lying next to Quyuk; a puddle of wine lay on the floor around it. The entire yurt was carpeted in cheap cloth.

“He gets sick,” the woman said. “When he does I take up the cloth and burn it.”

Psin nodded. “He gets no more wine. No kumiss. Water. Feed him meat when he wakes up.”

“He’ll beat me.”

“Tell him it’s my order.”

“The Khan wishes.”

He went outside and rode back to Tshant’s yurt. The rain was steady and ferocious. His shoulders felt each drop like a small mallet. The dun kept its head low, and all around the snow and fires hissed.

Sabotai was eating. He said, “I read them. One was from Ogodai—we have complete charge of the war, you and I and Batu. It was countersealed by everybody he could find. Ye Lui, Jagatai, Siremon, Turakina, Sorghoktani—”

“Oghul Ghaimish?”

“No. She hasn’t got her hands on that much power yet. From Jagatai: they are caring for the Kha-Khan as usual and Jagatai thinks he will recover. This time. He repeated to me his orders to you.”

“Yes. Have you summoned the Altun?”

“They’re coming here. Most of them know already.” Sabotai reached for a knife and cut a slice from the roast on the spit. “I’m glad you brought the reindeer. You recall the story about Jebe and the white-nosed horses.”

Psin pulled his mustaches, smiling. “I was unaware I’d ever shot a reindeer you were riding.”

Djela crawled out of the back of the yurt and sat down by the fire. “A story? What is it?”

Sabotai chewed and swallowed. “You’ve heard it, boy. About how Jebe Noyon won his name, and how he repaid your Ancestor for the horse he had shot with a herd of one thousand white-nosed horses.”

“Oh. I thought it was a new one.”

Tshant said, “About Tver.”

“We can’t do anything until the rain stops,” Sabotai said. “Psin, what do you think?”

“I want to see what the rings look like after the rain.”

“It’s sleet,” Tshant said.

“Maybe the weather will get warmer.”

“Oh, God.” Tshant slammed his fists on the floor. “Maybe. Maybe. The city is there. We have to take it.”

“Wait until the rain ends,” Sabotai said.

“I smell reindeer,” Baidar said. He came into the yurt. Buri followed him, looking pale; he’d been wounded in the battle on the Sit’ River. Sabotai gestured to them to eat and drew Psin to one side.

“Before Mongke gets here, I want to tell you something.” 

“Ah?”

“I sent him and Baidar in to push the Russians against the river— before we all attacked. The charge was late. Baidar will say nothing of it. I think Mongke hesitated.”

Psin put his hand on Sabotai’s shoulder and turned him so that Psin could see the door of the yurt over Sabotai’s shoulder. “I think you jump to conclusions.”

“Are you looking for me?” Mongke said, pleasantly. He walked over from the side of the yurt near Baidar. Psin stepped away from Sabotai.

“No. Quyuk.”

“Oh.” Mongke smiled. He looked at Sabotai and went off.

“He overheard,” Sabotai said.

“He has ears like a cat’s. And whenever you speak of him he appears.” He walked away.

Kadan came in the yurt door, saw Psin, and walked over to him. “I meant to thank you,” he said, in a low voice. “For telling me.”

“Jagatai says he will get well.”

“I know. I heard. Someone else might have… Never mind.” He reached for a cup of kumiss on the low table.

Psin looked around. All the Altun at Tver but Quyuk were here. Tshant leaned up against the cabinet on the far side of the yurt, watching them. He caught Psin’s eye, and Psin went over to him. Halfway there Sabotai joined him.

“What’s wrong?” Psin said to Tshant.

“Nothing.”

Sabotai said, “You should be pleased with the way he handled his command, Psin.”

Psin frowned. “I am.”

“He led the attack on Susdal. I could tell by the way he fought that he meant to have it by sundown, so that you could be cared for.”

Tshant shifted his weight. “He was dying, I thought, and he was making a mess of the cart.”

Psin looked from Sabotai to Tshant and chewed his mustaches. If Sabotai thought this kind of talk would get him Tshant’s favor he didn’t know Tshant very well. He looked back toward the center of the yurt and saw that Mongke was watching them, half-smiling.

Sabotai said, “You’ve never held an independent command before, have you, Tshant?”

That was a subject not to be opened up. Psin started off. Mongke came over to him and said, “Did you know I overheard, when you said that?”

“When I said what?”

“That Sabotai might be wrong when he said I’d faltered. In the battle.”

“I thought you probably were. I hadn’t seen you come in.”

Mongke’s stare wavered. “Oh. But he’s right. I did.”

Psin said nothing. Mongke looked much younger than usual. He looked down, over at Tshant and Sabotai again, and suddenly straight into Psin’s eyes. “Watch Sabotai. Be careful.” He turned and started away.

Quyuk walked in. Psin stiffened. Mongke stopped dead, halfway between Psin and Baidar. Quyuk, so drunk he could barely stand, moved his unsteady gaze around the yurt. The other Altun were motionless and silent. Quyuk saw Psin and came toward him. Psin made his fists unclench. The Altun all watched Quyuk. He walked like a man under a special grace; as if he sensed their fear of him he stopped and turned his head slowly to look all around the yurt. Quyuk seemed much bigger, as if he already wore the power of the Kha-Khan. He could do anything. When he brought his eyes back to him, Psin trembled. Everyone else was far away and could not help him. He set his teeth together.

Quyuk said, “Have you spoken to him yet? About Novgorod.” His voice was clear, in spite of his drunkenness.

“No,” Psin said. “I will.”

Quyuk looked around him again. There was no sound. It was so quiet in the yurt Psin could hear people talking far away.

“You see what they think of me,” Quyuk said.

“Go back and sleep it off,” Psin said. His heart hammered. He will kill me, he thought.

“My father is dying,” Quyuk said.

“Go back to your yurt and sleep.”

Quyuk’s face darkened, and he tried to focus his eyes. He swallowed. “Maybe I’m not so great as Temujin,” he said.

“I gave you an order.”

Quyuk nodded. “You did. You did.” He turned and walked toward the door, and his voice rose with each step. “You did. You did. You did.”

Psin looked at Tshant and pointed his chin after Quyuk. Tshant detached himself from the cabinet and walked swiftly toward the door. Outside, they could hear Quyuk’s voice, blurred suddenly, the words unrecognizable. Psin let his breath out with a deep sigh and sat down heavily on the chair behind him.

“What did he mean?” Sabotai said. “That he’s not so great as Temujin.”

“Nothing,” Psin said.

“He said something about Novgorod.” 

“He said I should ask you to reconsider your plans. If we don’t start for Novgorod now we’ll have trouble when the spring thaw comes. I agree with him.”

“No. We’ll have plenty of time to take it later.”

“I’m not sure we will.”

“I said no. Tell him that.”

“Why not send an expedition up there—half the army. Let—”

“No,” Sabotai said, and scowled. “Why fight so hard? You know I will not.”

“All right.” The low murmur of conversation inside the yurt had started up again. Tshant came inside.

“We should sober him up,” Sabotai said.

“I left orders at his yurt. I’m tired. I’ll sleep here the night.”

Tshant said, “I thought he was going to hit you.”

“If he did I could have handled it. Go away. I’m tired.”

Tshant stared at him a moment, turned and went off. Psin put his head back and looked at the ceiling. Quyuk had frightened him. If the others saw— He shut his eyes. They had not seen. He was sure of that. If they had, by now one of them would have said something.

Quyuk leaned his head back against the couch behind him. “God. I feel rotten.”

Tshant spooned chunks of meat into a bowl and handed it to him. Quyuk tried to push it away; Tshant set it on the floor beside him. “Eat it. You’ll need the strength.”

“To ride to Karakorum?”

“You’re not going back. You are to stay here. I saw your dispatches.”

“Which—”

“Both. Even your wife said that you were not to return yet.”

“Reading the messages of a Kha-Khan to his eldest son is a crime punishable by…” Quyuk shut his eyes. “I don’t remember.”

“A heavy fine.” Tshant watched him steadily. “I’ll pay it. Your father will pay it for me.”

“My father is sick. Maybe dead.”

“Until you hear otherwise, you are staying here.”

“Who—” He swallowed. His eyes opened but he seemed to see nothing. “I’m ... I feel terrible.”

“You shouldn’t drink so much.”

“Give me a drink.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Am I the child of a waystation slave to be treated like this?”

Tshant said nothing. He remembered how his father had stood, while all the rest of them shook like leaves, and told Quyuk so calmly to go away.

“Are you my jailer?”

“No. I’m in charge of getting you healthy to fight.”