Until the Sun Falls (35 page)

Sabotai frowned, not understanding, and Psin plunged down toward him. Before he reached him the gate to the city burst open and the Mongols charged out, yelling, fright in their voices. The men still outside the wall faltered, whirled, and ran away.

“Plague,” Psin yelled. He dodged in next to Sabotai. “You can smell the stink—”

The army was streaming back from the walls. Russian dead hung over the rampart, all of them probably dying before the Mongols cut them down. He realized he was standing stiffly and shuffled his feet. Sabotai said, “Pleasant thing to find.”

The last of Mongke’s ranks were out of the city. Mongke himself jogged along behind, red in the face, looking as if he didn’t care at all that the city was full of plague. He swerved over and stopped beside Sabotai.

“It stinks in there. Psin, your nose has gone bad on you.”

“It’s been living too near the rest of me too long.” He laughed, shaken. “Silly end to it, isn’t it?”

“If it gets to the army,” Sabotai said, “it will be a not very silly end to everything.”

It was over. In one brief charge and flight, the whole siege was over, and Psin was still twitching because it shouldn’t be. No smoke —because there was nothing to cook, no corpses burnt because the living dared not go near the dead to drag them to the fires. He turned back to the city. The gate yawned, and through it he saw a wide street, small buildings. Empty. Dead, and full of ghosts.

“We have to get out of here,” Batu said. “Let’s march. Now. Leave sign for the others to follow us.”

Sabotai nodded.

We have to get out of here. Dead, unappeased, untended. The wind swept down from the city and the full stink made Psin turn his face away. The men were already down on the flat plain, and Mongke and Sabotai were running after them to send for the horses.

The wind hissed softly over the rocks. Nothing moved between Psin and the city; on the walls a loose shirt flapped sluggishly, as if it were sick as well. Not even the carrion birds would come to Kozelsk. The open gate with the glimpse of cobbled streets and buildings fascinated him. He was sick with it. So long sitting here, waiting for that gate to open. All he had to do was walk up there and in. It was his city. He had waited for it.

“Come along,” Sabotai shouted. “We are done here.”

Psin turned his back on the gate and went after him down the slope. The horses were coming. Most of the men were running to meet them. Psin kicked three fires to pieces, waved Sabotai on, and rummaged for a flat stone. In the space between the two basalt cliffs he laid the stone on the warm sand and scratched on it with the tip of his dagger.

South, the scratches said. He arranged sticks alongside the stone: Don’t go into the city. Follow us. He scratched the Yek Mongol totem onto the flat stone above the signs, and beneath them cut in his own clan sign, the mark of the ox.

“I’ve got your horse,” Sabotai said.

Psin rose, sheathed his dagger, and mounted. Ahead of them, the army moved off to the south; many of them were singing. The fresh wide plain lay ahead of them, and the whole long summer. He couldn’t help but smile.

PART THREE

PSIN

Temujin said, “When it is necessary to write to the rebels and to send envoys to them, do not threaten them with the strength and great size of your army, but say only: If you will submit yourselves obediently you shall find good treatment and rest, but if you resist—as for us, what do we know? The Everlasting God knows what will happen to you.”

Ana stabbed the awl into the leather and dragged it through.
The Kipchak woman said something in her own tongue, and Ana said, “If you’re talking to me, speak Mongol, will you?” She looked over at Djela, currying Psin’s dun horse in the shade of the yurt.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” the Kipchak said. “But if you want, I will. Have you told the Khan yet that you’re pregnant?”

“Now, how did you know that?” She flapped the leather out in front of her to straighten it.

The old woman grimaced, delighted. “Do you think I’m stupid?” She nudged Ana with her toe, and Ana slapped at her foot, making a face.

“If you keep me from working, I’ll see the Khan knows of it.”

The Kipchak mumbled again. Ana sighed in mock exasperation. She lifted her head to check on Djela again and to look across the camp. The size of it overwhelmed her. Psin had said that Sabotai’s couriers took a full day to ride across the camp and return. Each yurt had a great yard around it, a floor, and a shed for hay and grain to feed the horses not kept with the herds.

“Have you told him?”

“I told him once and he didn’t believe me.” She hadn’t really known it was true but that didn’t matter. “Why should I tell him? He’ll find out soon enough.”

The sun was warm on her back, warm on her strong brown arms, and she smiled for no good reason. The Khan’s wives were coming, and when they got here she and the Kipchak woman and the other slaves would have to put up another yurt, but until then they had little enough to do.

“He might think of selling you,” the Kipchak said. “He can’t, if you bear a child to his son.”

“Am I his or Tshant’s?”

Djela trotted over and sat down beside her. “Can I—”

“No,” the Kipchak said. “If you’ve finished with the horse, find something else to do.”

Djela pouted, and Ana reached out to touch him. “What do you want?” 

“Just something to eat. I—”

“Your father says you’re not to eat between meals.”

Djela leaned his head against her shoulder. “Tell me a story.”

The Kipchak cackled. “Tell him the story about how his grandfather got his face bashed in.”

“I know that,” Djela said. “It was in the war. Tell me another story.”

Ana glared at the Kipchak. “Djela, don’t bother me. I’m working.”

He snuggled up against her. She was proud that he’d chosen her to tag after instead of the Kipchak or his father or one of his Altun relations. He and she were very close. She bonked him lightly in the head with her elbow, and he giggled.

She remembered when she had first seen Psin, after the army came at last onto the steppe and made its camp; she’d seen him first in torchlight, the good side of his face toward her, and when he’d turned and she saw the chewed, scabbed wreck of his right cheek she had gasped.

“You should have seen me when it was raw,” he said, and in a high good humor had gone off with Tshant and the others to drink until they dropped.

Three little boys on foot raced around the corner of the yurt opposite theirs, screamed to Djela to join them, and tore down the crooked street. Djela leapt up and bounded away. His voice rose in the screech the Mongols made when they were winning a battle.

“Like puppies,” she said. Djela and the others vanished in a cloud of dust down the street.

“Ayuh,” the Kipchak said. “The herd of them. From the Kha- Khan on down.”

“Ssssh.” Quyuk’s yurt was to their left, and Quyuk was sleeping on a rug outside in the sun.

The baby inside her would still be no bigger than a worm. She settled her weight more carefully. Perhaps she should tell Psin.

“Horses coming,” the Kipchak said. “Look.”

Ana looked up. Three horsemen were charging down toward them; one of them was Tshant. He whipped his horse up toward them and jerked it to a halt. “Is my father here?”

“He’s inside, asleep.” 

“He’s got a hangover, you mean. Hunh.” Tshant dismounted and went to the door. “Father. Wake up, you old pig.”

The Kipchak cackled.

“I’m awake,” Psin yelled, from inside the yurt. “What’s got you out in the heat of the day?”

“Mother and Chan are almost here.”

“Unnnh?”

Something heavy hit the floor inside, and Ana with her back to the door heard Psin’s footsteps coming. She smiled at her hands holding the awl.

“How did they get so close without anyone’s telling me?”

“They’re just at the edge of the camp. With the carts they’ll be two days getting here.”

“Have you seen them?”

“Buri told me. He’d heard from Kadan.”

“Loan me some slaves. God above. Where am I going to put another yurt?”

“Have you got another yurt?”

“Yes. Somewhere. No planks for a floor. Which woman do I put in the yurt without the floor?”

Ana turned to look at him. He wore only a cloth draped inartistically around his waist. His immense chest and shoulders were sunburnt pink as a baby’s skin. He backed up to look behind this yurt. “Ana, how much space is there behind us?”

“Enough,” Ana said. She wondered what his wives would say about his half-healed face.

Quyuk had woken up next door. He hooted something across the space between the two yurts, and Psin whirled and shouted, “Just remember, while you’re consoling yourself with a slave, I’ve got my women here, and not in Karakorum doing my bribing for me.

Tshant laughed. Quyuk was making obscene gestures. Psin turned his back. To Tshant, he said, “My male slaves are both with the herds. The yurt is in the cart under the platform. Ana and the Kipchak can supervise putting it up, if you’ll give me the slaves to do it.”

“Where are you going?”

Psin ducked back into the yurt. “To get them, naturally. The carts can come later.”

Tshant grunted. He looked down at Ana. “You’d better go find a pig. My mother will eat anything, but Chan is fussy.” He lifted his head and called, “Father. Send a slave when they get here.”

“I will.”

Chan had brought cats; two of them yowled in baskets lashed to the cantle of Psin’s saddle. Ana, at the door of the yurt, saw dim shapes moving behind the bars of the baskets. The dogs across the way began to bark, and Psin swore.

“You see?” he said, to the cloaked and hooded woman on the horse beside him. “You always cause me trouble.”

The woman said nothing. In the deep summer darkness Ana couldn’t see her face. The other woman was already dismounted, and Ana rushed to help her. The Kipchak was inside keeping the food warm.

“This is Ana,” Psin said, while she helped the older woman sort out her bundles. “She’ll take care of you until your own women get here. Ana. Watch out for her. She’s old and feeble.”

“Humph.” The woman turned her face toward Ana and smiled, openly, warmly. “I am Artai, and when I am old and feeble the Khan will be bones under the earth. Do I smell pork?”

“Yes,” Ana said. “You must be tired.”

“Hungry, too, but we’ve been eating pork all winter.” Artai went to the door. Ana glanced back; Psin had lifted the cloaked woman down from her horse and was standing with one arm still around her. In the darkness she couldn’t see if he was smiling.

“Where is my son?” Artai said. She ducked in the door ahead of Ana and shed her cloak. “Hunh. My husband might have been sick, but he got his share of plunder. You Russians make lovely things. The wood is beautiful.”

“Tshant is four yurts north of us,” Ana said. “Do you want kumiss?”

“Please.” Artai sat down with a plunk. Ana poured kumiss into a cup and held it out, and when Artai took it she saw with a start how gnarled her hands were. Artai sipped. “Is the weather always this good? Sit down, girl. You make me crane my neck.” She smiled again, patted the couch beside her, and nodded when Ana sat. “We had a very pleasant ride, until my husband came and swept us off like a hawk with two rabbits in his claws.”

The other woman came through the door, advanced two steps, and let her cloak fall. Expressionless, she looked around the yurt. Ana stared; when she realized she was staring she drew her eyes away, but she kept looking back. Chan glanced over and their eyes met and held. Psin had come in behind Chan, and his hand rested on her hip. The lamplight caught in the jewel at Chan’s throat and lay softly on the white silk of her gown.

“Don’t stare,” Artai whispered. “It only puffs her up.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“Yes.” Artai patted her shoulder, her fingers light and strong.

Chan looked up at Psin and said, “Is she yours?” She pointed at Ana with her chin. Psin looked over.

“Yes. Don’t fight. Sit down, and when you’ve eaten I’ll take you over to your own yurt. It’s not as fine as this one.”

“I am only the humble second wife,” Chan said. She sank to her knees and folded herself neatly down on her legs. The tone of her voice and the look of her eyes were not humble. She turned her face toward Artai. “He says the dogs will eat my cats.”

“They ate them in Serai. Why should they lose their appetites here?”

Ana went after the plates with the pork. Tshant burst in the door, Djela in tow, and Artai leapt up. They embraced. Babbling, Djela danced around them. Chan turned her face away and drew the corners of her mouth down. Half-sitting on a chest, Psin watched her and smiled.

“I don’t know if I can bear to look at you,” Chan said sweetly to him. “You are so ugly.”

Her voice was extraordinary; it reminded Ana of gold filigree, each word distinct and precise.

“You are indeed,” Artai said. “What did you do—get dragged?”

“Yes,” Psin said.

Artai frowned and looked up at Tshant, and he blushed. Artai said, “That dun horse is a demon.” She glared at Tshant; her back stiffened.

Djela said, “Grandmother, we had the best fun. Ada, can I tell her about the snowfort?”

“When I’ve eaten,” Artai said. She cut her meat. “Here, chew on this awhile.”

Djela took the meat from her fingers and swallowed it. “Grandfather and Ada had a fight.”

Tshant jerked. Chan looked at him and tilted her face up toward Psin’s, and Ana saw her understand. Djela went on serenely, “Ada made a mistake and everybody was really angry and Grandfather said he should go back to Karakorum, but it’s all right now. Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Tshant said.

Artai was eating slowly, her eyes flitting from Psin to Tshant and back again. Her face, creased with wrinkles, looked suddenly lean and fierce, like a man’s. Ana sat down, ready to take the plate for more food if she wished it, and saw Psin look at Artai and smile; the lamplight raked his gouged face.