No one knew then how unfortunate those words were to prove. Murder was merely hours away, and the victim’s only epitaph was Taulubeg’s uncharitable next words, as he looked over at Eldegai, the outsider, sitting on his own.
‘Saved by us, but still avoiding the common herd.’
‘Enough.’
Sartakh’s reprimand was sharp and abrupt. He had a look of concern in his eyes. The arrival of Eldegai in our midst had soured the mood of the little band of Tartars, but he was still Sartakh’s responsibility. In his impromptu role as host, it was he who had welcomed Eldegai to his fireside. But the man had made himself unpopular with everyone, and a sullen hesitancy gripped the camp. It was Karakuchuk who broke the awkward silence.
‘Sartakh is right. We are stuck here until this storm decides to release us. Let’s make the best of it. After all, we have another skin of kumiss to get through yet.’
He tossed a skin from his own saddlebags into the centre of the floor, where it wobbled enticingly, announcing its fullness. The old-timer himself tipped the dregs of the previous skin down his receptive throat, gargling on the milky brew. The new skin began its rounds of our eager hands, and my perception of the evening became as hazy as one of those winter peasoupers that fog out Venice so much you can’t even see the other side of the Grand Canal. Did I say evening? With no windows in this damned hut, there was no way of even knowing what time of day it was outside. And I didn’t know how long we had been cooped up together. We were suspended in a fog of timelessness. We drank.
Suddenly something caused me to wake up. A voice, a gurgling sound – I don’t know what it was that roused me from my drunken stupor. But something woke me, and I threw the goatskins back that I had pulled around me. The cold air struck me hard, like a blow in the pit of my stomach, and I wrapped my fur jacket around me tightly. The room was dark, and I realized there was no rosy glow from the stove. No one had attended to the fire recently, and it was nearly out. I pushed myself up from the floor, keen to keep the embers in the stove going. It would take a great effort to relight it, if it died. My belly was suddenly eager to throw back up the kumiss I had drunk last night. I swallowed hard against the stale, sour taste, quelling the queasiness, and longed for a good red wine. Belching acidly, I laced up the front of my new, thick leather boots. They were the Tartar pair I had won off Eldegai last night. If indeed this was now morning. My old boots had been worn quite through, as I had bought them years ago from the little cobbler in the San Silvestro district of Venice. Old times, good times.
I stood on legs as wobbly as that fresh skin of kumiss had been last night before we had all emptied it down our throats. Why did my head ache more than it had a right to? Sudak had turned me into a seasoned drinker of rot-gut, but this brew seemed to have had a strong effect on me. And looking around, an even worse effect on everyone else. All I could see in the darkness were bodies, scattered over the floor like the aftermath of a battle. But unlike a scene from a military disaster where not a breath passed dead lips, here stertorous snores emerged from several mouths in a tuneless counterpoint of noise. I began stepping over bodies. One I recognized as Kyrill from the tangle of his beard – the Tartars were mostly hairless on their chins. I went to step over another recumbent figure face down on the ground and tripped on the fur-trimmed edge of his robe. As I fell, my hand went out to save me, and it encountered something wet and sticky on the hard-packed earth that formed the stove-house floor. I prayed it wasn’t the man’s regurgitated horsemeat stew from dinner. It wasn’t, it was worse than that.
When I cautiously sniffed my besmirched hand, I smelled a familiar odour. Metallic, coppery. It was blood. I knelt beside the body I had stumbled over and turned it over. It was Eldegai. I could see that his elegantly decorated outer jacket was matted with black blood. His normally ruddy face was pallid and wax-like, his bloodless lips curled back in a fixed scream of horror. But more shocking were the eyes. They were gone, apparently gouged from their sockets.
I heard someone gasp behind me.
‘Demon.’ It was Ulan, who had just seen what I had observed of the damage to Eldegai’s face. ‘Only a demon would do such a thing.’
I groaned at the Tartars’ fierce superstitions. First off, Eldegai himself had been dubbed a demon by Ulan. Now he was saying Eldegai had been killed by a demon. Maybe he thought that demon was me. Ulan’s cries seemed to rouse the rest of the sleepers, who voiced their horror at what they saw. For a moment the room was a turmoil of groans and guttural sounds. Then it died away, and I looked up to find the Tartars all staring at me with suspicion. But then, what would I expect them to think? Here I was kneeling over Eldegai’s mutilated body with his blood all over my hands. This didn’t look good for me. The tension in the air was palpable, and Taulubeg spat out something unintelligible. Father Kyrill quietly crossed himself and muttered a prayer. I had been in worse fixes and survived. But not much worse. My brain started racing. I pointed to Eldegai’s chest.
‘Look. He has been cut open – gutted with a sharp knife. I do not have such a weapon on me.’
It was true. I had travelled into Russia with a hefty belaying pin from a broken-down boat as my only defence. My sword and dagger had been bartered for some cheap wine a long time ago.
It was Taulubeg who recalled that I had won Eldegai’s own dagger from him at dice.
‘You killed him with his own weapon.’
‘No. I gave it back to him. Look. It is tucked in his belt.’
My command of Tartar was suddenly improving, as my position became more precarious. Still, I was relying more on hand signals than on words. I pulled his ornate jacket open and revealed the dagger. I bent over to pull it from its sheath and show it free of blood. Then I suddenly thought that maybe it had been the murder weapon after all, and I would be sealing my own fate. I began praying it had no blood on it. The Tartars tensed at my potentially hostile move, and Sartakh stepped forward to grasp my wrist. I moved back, and the old man leaned over the body himself, hiding what he did as he felt inside the jacket. He fumbled a little longer than I thought necessary, but then drew the jewelled dagger from its sheath. It was innocent of blood, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
Then the rising wind distracted everyone’s attention from me. A great gust caused the stove-house to shudder, and mutterings about demons were cast around again. Sartakh told Tetuak and Ulan to wrap the body up and take it outside. We didn’t want the corpse rotting in the warmth of the stove-house, after all. They moved to follow his command, and a gust of chill air blew in the opened door. I shuddered. Even then, after the evidence was out of sight, I still felt my companions’ eyes hardly leave me. And they muttered suspiciously amongst themselves. It seemed I was not convincing them of my innocence. Even Sartakh – impartial Sartakh – was cooler than usual in his attitude towards me. I grabbed a goatskin bag and sucked the dregs of kumiss in it.
So here I am – prime suspect in a murder case. I recall in the words spoken by Taulubeg something like a name he has thrown at me at the beginning of this nightmare. I ask Sartakh what his comrade-in-arms was referring to. He ducks his head down towards where I sit sprawling on the ground and repeats it, this time more clearly.
‘Zhong Kui – it’s the name of a demon.’
It takes me a long moment to realize that the old Tartar has spoken to me in English. It is astonishing. I am half-English and have learned the tongue from my mother. It has been our secret language in the house of my Venetian father. But what is this Eastern barbarian doing speaking the language? He grins at me, full of pleasure at my shock, and pride at his own skill.
‘I have waited long to meet someone who knows the tongue, and thought I would try it on you. I see you can speak it.’
‘Yes. But how . . . ?’
It turns out that he has learned it from a renegade Englishman – some say a Templar – who ran with Chinghis Khan’s army when it invaded Hungary. I have heard of him, because the Englishman was later captured by his own peop
le and killed for his misdeeds. Sartakh has done more than merely hear of him – he has actually met him. It occurs to me that, just like with my mother, I have a secret language I can share with the old Tartar as I strive to prove my innocence. And someone else’s guilt. Because now Sartakh is suggesting that I find out who did kill Eldegai.
‘Proving another’s guilt is the best way to prove your own innocence, after all. And the story of Zhong Kui is not inappropriate.’
I nod. ‘Then tell me of this Zhong Kui.’
He explains in a low and guarded tone, not wanting to stir up his companions. Apparently, it is an old story from Cathay.
‘The emperor’s jade flute goes missing, and then his concubine’s embroidered perfume bag disappears too. It’s the work of a small demon that no one can catch. Until a larger demon traps it, plucks out its eyes and eats it. The emperor questions the big demon and learns he was once a man called Zhong Kui who killed himself by dashing his head against the palace steps on finding he had failed the palace entrance examinations. In gratitude for the demon’s services, the emperor bestows posthumous honours on Zhong Kui, who continues to serve him, ridding the world of mischievous demons.’
It looks as though I am cast as the big demon, and Eldegai’s murderer as my little prey. Ordinarily, I would have found the story amusing. I mean, why didn’t Zhong Kui, while still alive, merely buy his qualifications like all self-respecting bureaucrats? Then he wouldn’t have cause to bash his brains out. Still, I think the application of the epithet to me is almost flattering. But Sartakh’s face shows that it is not intended as a compliment. A demon is still a demon, and I am still suspect number one in the murder. He leans forward, his eyes cold and impassive.
‘Do everything you can to find the murderer soon, or I will be forced to kill you myself. My men will expect no less of me.’
I try to calm my nerves and return to applying common sense. Apart from seeking a motive, I have to assess who, amongst the Tartars, has had the best opportunity to kill Eldegai. I try to recall where everyone was sitting when the kumiss drinking bout progressed to its conclusion. But I soon realize that the task is almost hopeless. And pointless. Once everyone else had fallen into a drunken stupor, the murderer could have trampled right over the recumbent bodies and not disturbed anyone. I rack my brains to recall if anyone had passed on the kumiss sack a little more often than was reasonable. I immediately eliminate Kyrill. He had been like a pig at a swill trough with the brew, tipping it down his gullet and dribbling the excess down his greasy beard. Later, his stentorian snores had preceded my own descent into the blessed oblivion fed by alcohol. Besides, he had not known any of the Tartars before our forced incarceration and had done nothing to create any ill feeling. I strike him from my list. I am left with the original band of Tartars. The two older men, Sartakh and Karakuchuk, have certainly been restrained in their drinking. But then older, wiser heads often wish to keep their brains clear, where others fall into temptation. Maybe one day I will be able to say the same for myself. Taulubeg, the shortest and stockiest of the group, which is saying something in a band of Tartars, has drunk with a ferocity commensurate with his fiery temper. Perhaps he could hold his liquor better than the others – who knows? The two youngest men, Tetuak and Ulan, appeared to drink their share – Tetuak because it fitted his boastful nature to be seen to carry the booze. However, I recall at least once seeing Ulan tip the sack up to his lips but not swallow. As if he didn’t want to appear weak, but also didn’t want to drink too much. Was that a deliberate act to keep him sober for a later evil deed? My mind buzzes with the aftereffects of the booze, and I can’t get things into focus.
Then something happens that distracted my attention completely. Ulan, as if to confound my previous thought, brusquely demands the kumiss, which lies near to Sartakh’s left hand. The old man leans over and grasps the leather sack. As he bends forward to push the kumiss sack to Ulan, I notice something gleaming inside the folds of Sartakh’s fur jacket. He doesn’t see my shocked look, but as he sits back upright he pulls his jacket tighter around his middle, once more hiding what I saw. However, it is too late. I have seen the golden tablet that had been Eldegai’s and which I had coveted while gaming at Sic Bo. Now it is in Sartakh’s possession. He has stolen the gold, and maybe killed Eldegai for it. I know then I will have to add the only Tartar I considered an ally to my list of suspects. My head is swimming. If I can’t even trust Sartakh, my confidant and translator, can I ever escape from being accused and punished for the murder myself?
As I bend forward to pick up the kumiss sack, something digs into my ribs. I finally recall the Black Book of Brân that was to have been my passport to Sarai, and the prediction that I found in it. The one that jumped out at me, as if it wanted to be read. Doesn’t it say something about demons and Tartars? I slide the book from the folds of my jacket. The cover is dark and shiny in the firelight, and it feels warm and alive in my grasp. Flipping through the pages of prophecies, I find the quatrain in question:
Tartarus’ hordes irrupt through Alexander’s gate.
Six Christian kingdoms crumble in a breath.
Though Latin traders use long spoons to eat,
It won’t protect them from a demon’s death.
I once joked about these prophecies and denied their significance. Now, in the straits I find myself, this particular one isn’t so ridiculous. Its import doesn’t seem to bode well for me. The first two lines are now clear enough. The West’s first sight of the Tartars has been when they surged through the Pass of Derbend between the Caucasus and the Caspian Sea – the so-called Iron Gates of Alexander. And there must have been at least six dukes, princes and other assorted nobles who died in the Battle of Liegnitz alone. As for the last two lines, any other reader could take them as a general warning about consorting with the devilish Tartars. Usually, these prophecy books addressed the grand affairs of kings and nobles, their issues of state and world-shattering events. Not the meddlings of little men like me and you. But these lines are uncannily accurate. If I am the Latin trader, then this old monk Brân is saying I will be involved in a demon’s death – Ulan has called Eldegai a demon, after all. On the other hand, he may be suggesting I myself, in the guise of Zhong Kui, would die a ‘demon’s death’.
I shudder, even though until now I reckoned I didn’t believe in mad prophecies. This stuff all seems too accurate to be scorned as nonsense now, however. Anxiously, I flip the handful of pages over, but none of the other prophecies makes sense. I look at the last quatrain, perhaps in the vain hope that there is a happy ending. I notice there is a gap between the last two verses, bigger than that between all the others throughout the book. This final set of verses, written in the same hand, seems different somehow. It is expressed in a more modern style, though still in Latin. It seems to me as though whoever has copied the original verses has had a yearning to sneak his own predictions in with the older ones. But was not bold enough to include them fully with the original predictions. These lines are smaller and more discreet:
Though portents dire do fill with dread
And great significance implanted here,
Take care to always use your head,
Seek out the lie, for then your way is clear.
I peer closely at them, and smile. I grab the sack of kumiss and drain the slimy dregs. The words of the anonymous scribe have just given me an idea. And all this talk of demons means that a plan is beginning to form in my mind.
For its climax, I will need the services of the Russian priest. Any con artist needs a good accomplice – a ‘shill’, we call them – and the more trustworthy he is, the better. Well, who could be more trusted than a priest? Normally, the shill purports to be a complete stranger, who just happens to be passing by, when the con man is sucking in the victim. This chance stranger confirms what is being said by the con man and apparently goes on his way. That wouldn’t entirely work in the circumstances, but Kyrill arrived at the stove-house before me, and the Tartars
know we are strangers therefore. What greater confirmation could the sting’s victim have of the con man’s tale than from the mouth of a priest? Kyrill has already innocently affirmed his credentials as a man of God. Now I will have to risk bringing him into my confidence. In the meantime I will play it by ear, setting the mood. I turn to the group of sullen Tartars and smile confidently.
‘Do you remember when Eldegai first arrived? Ulan, there, thought he was a demon. Then later Tetuak spoke of the sirens of the Great Desert of Lop. That they sometimes seize the horse and leave the rider. But sometimes they also rip the bowels out of the rider and leave the body on the horse. Of course, it wasn’t a demon riding in – it was only Eldegai. Just another traveller, like us. And he wasn’t dead. Then.’
Sartakh mutters a clearer translation of my poor mixture of Turkic and Tartar to his compatriots. Their eyes widen, and Ulan throws a sharp comment back. Sartakh translates for me.
‘He says, then do you think Eldegai was killed by a demon?’
I’m not sure if Ulan is entirely serious, but all the Tartars appear to be hanging on my response. The storm wind rises, spattering a swirl of hail on the outside of the shelter. It sounds as if something intangible is scratching at the walls, seeking to enter. The young Tartar named Tetuak draws a sharp breath and glances nervously over his shoulder. All this talk of demons is getting to him. I’m glad – that is what I am playing for. I want the Tartars to be fearful and open to suggestion. Kyrill casts a look of godly disapproval my way, which I ignore, and press on.
‘I cannot say, but all this talk of demons reminds me of a story I once heard of creatures at the furthest edge of the world who have no neck or head. Their faces are in the middle of their chests. I would not like to come across them on a night like this. Maybe then I would be convinced. Of demons. Have any of you ever come across such monsters in your travels?’
The Lost Prophecies Page 10