Until the Sun Falls

by Cecelia Holland

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 t
he 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.”

  “So it’s your ox of a father. No, don’t. Your great glorious most excellent—to fight. Where?”

  “Here. Tver. We attack the rings tomorrow.”

  “Whose…” He gulped again. “I’m going to throw up.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Whose order?”

  “Mine.”

  “To attack the city?”

  “No. Sabotai’s.”

  “He’s mad.”

  “Possibly.”

  “We can’t take it.”

  “Psin and Mongke say we can.”

  “Mongke is a coward. He—”

  He lurched to his feet, stumbled across the yurt to the door, and sprawled over the threshold. Tshant followed him. He stood in the door, watching Quyuk on his elbows crawl across the ground to the deep snow and be sick. The bright sunlight shone fiercely over the camp. In the street before the yurt people turned and watched, and Buri cantered up, his face flushed.

  “Get him inside,” he called to Tshant. “Will you let everyone see?”

  “Yes,” Tshant said.

  Buri’s eyes blazed. Tshant shifted his weight, so that he stood on widespread feet, and lifted his fists. Buri looked at Quyuk again.

  “He’s done. Take him inside. He’s weeping.”

  Tshant went to Quyuk and dragged him back into the yurt. Buri galloped away. His whip rose and fell across his horse’s lathered shoulders.

  Quyuk said, “Give me something to drink.”

  “No.”

  “Tshant. I shall die.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Were they laughing at me?”

  “No.”

  “Buri was there. Where is he?”

  “He went off.”

  Quyuk crept to the couch and knelt beside it, his head buried in the rucked covers, his breathing ragged. Tshant sat down by the fire. Quyuk seemed to sleep; his shoulders trembled a little, not constantly, but often. In a while he would start to talk again. The meat in the bowl by his knee was cold, and Tshant got it and poured it back into the pot and sat back down again, aware of his own patience, to wait for Quyuk’s waking.

  Psin paced back and forth in front of the tower, watching the gap into the rings. The clang and shrill yelling of the battle had died long before, but no messenger had come, and the rings kept him from seeing what went on inside.

  “Sabotai,” he shouted.

  “I can see nothing. Control yourself.” Sabotai was pacing back and forth on the platform on top of the tower. “They should hold the outermost ring by now.”

  Psin cursed him. The snow, trampled black, slurped under his feet, and the shadow of the banner on the staff above the tower rippled over the ground before him. A cluster of women muttered and watched from the space between the yurts nearby. He glanced over and saw Ana, her lips moving.

  “Damned woman.” He paced three strides.

  The women shrieked, and he wheeled around. A horseman was galloping up from the crowd around the gap into the rings. It was Buri, his face filthy with blood and sweat, his coat half ripped off. Sabotai shouted something, but Psin refused to hear. He ran to meet the galloping horse.

  Buri reined in hard. “We hold the outer ring. They are shooting at us from the walls. It’s slow, building the roof.”

  Psin caught the horse’s rein before Buri could wheel and said, “Losses?”

  “Few. It’s just—” Buri grimaced. “So slow.”

  “Go back.” Psin stepped aside and turned to relay the news to Sabotai.

  “Good. Good.” Sabotai grinned. He was sitting cross-legged on the platform, very near the edge. “Listen.”

  A great roar had gone up from the rings. The women howled and called the names of their men into the bitter air. Sabotai’s voice lifted over the shouting, over the rising clang of swords and shields: “The Russians are on the steps. They are trying to beat us down—”

  Psin swore, ran two steps to the tower, and leapt. His hands caught the second crossbar on the tower’s side and he climbed awkwardly up. The tower swayed and tipped under his weight. Sabotai roared at him, and he scrambled up onto the platform just before the tower would have fallen. Sabotai and the aide with the banners stood on the far side, balancing.

  “Grandfather,” Djela called, from the ground. “Can I—”

  “No.” Psin shaded his eyes and looked in the direction of the city.

  The great rings throbbed with running men. Mongols filled the outermost, a river of warriors, their shields raised over their heads against arrows. He could see arrows pelting down onto the shields, but he saw no Russians on the wall and he guessed that they were shooting from the floor of the inner ring into the air, pitching their arrows to drop across the intervening wall.

  On the steps the Russians were massed. They held great long wooden shields against their shoulders, and they were all armed with swords. The Mongols inside the ring were shooting at them. Psin could see almost to the bottom step, and there the Mongols were fighting the Russians hand to hand.

  “Slow,” Sabotai murmured.

  “We’re gaining ground.”

  The Mongol shields like a ceiling filled the outermost ring, and more Mongols poured in through the gap under the shield cover.

  The shouting dimmed for an instant, as if everyone paused at once to take a breath, and Psin could hear the sound of mallets. A cart lumbered away empty from the gap, and another, full of timber, took its place. A whip curled across the backs of the oxen, and they lowed.

  “Grandfather—”

  “Ssssh.”

  A great yowl went up from the area around the steps. Psin tensed; he took a deep breath. The Russians dashed backward up the steps. Mongols charged after them. The swords flashed like the ice rings, and a cloud of lances streaked into the pack of Russians. Bodies slipped down off the wall.

  “White banner,” Sabotai said. “Psin, look.”

  “I see.”

  Russians were running nimbly along the wall toward the steps, coming from the west, and while Psin watched several leapt down onto the ceiling of shields. They bounced up and down on it, testing its strength. Arrows thumped the shields all around them. Some of the Russians had torches.

  The Mongols on the steps knelt to shoot, but the Russians paid no attention. A single file stood on the shield ceiling. Buckets passed swiftly along it. The arrows slit into the line and here and there Russians fell, but the buckets em
ptied over the ceiling, and the torches fell onto the soaked shields, and flames sprang up. Djela murmured something; he had crawled up onto the platform and stood watching, one hand clutching Psin’s coat.

  Sabotai spoke to the aide with the banners, and Psin patted Djela on the head. “This we foresaw, noyon.”

  Three banners stood out from the staff. Carts lurched hastily away from the gap, and Mongols streamed out, four abreast. The ceiling remained standing behind them, shored up from underneath and braced with timbers. The fires burning on it drove the Russians back as well as the Mongols, and the men on the steps were swiftly rigging their own shelter of shields.

  Outside the wall, the Mongols leaned pine trunks up against the snowbank and scampered up with buckets to douse the flames. Arrows met them, and they ducked, but the flames rose like a wall between them and the Russians. Psin could see both sides—the Russians feeding the fires, the Mongols drenching them. The flight of the Mongols from beneath the burning ceiling continued unslackened. On either side of the steps stood a shield wall, and Psin could see the men sitting safe in it, far from the fires, relaxed and talking. Their bows lay on their knees.

  Buri, Quyuk and Kadan were circling around near the gap; their banners dipped suddenly. Psin said, “They’re asking for orders.”

  “Yes. Bring them in.”

  To the aide with the banners, Psin said, “Raise the gold.” He turned back, frowning, to look at the rings. The fires were dying slowly. Most of the Russians were gone.

  The yellow flag ran up the staff, and the Mongols around the gap turned and jogged on foot back into the camp for dinner. Djela tugged at Psin’s sleeve. “Is Ada coming back?”

  “No. He’s in command of the steps.”

  “But he’s hungry.”

  “He’s got food with him.”

  Buri was riding up, no cleaner than before. Sabotai said, “We’ll have to go down and hear his report. When do you want to go in?”

  “Are you going in there?” Djela’s mouth described an O.

  Psin nodded. “Let’s get onto firm ground.”

  Several men were stationed at each corner of the tower to hold it steady. Sabotai lowered himself cautiously from crossbar to crossbar, his feet groping beneath him. Djela said softly, “Grandfather, maybe—”

  “Ssssh.”

  He started down; Djela maneuvered around the tower’s side just above him, nonchalantly clinging to the crossbars with one hand. “Can I—”