“Boy, Batu’s ulus is richer and stronger than any to the east. You will come to it, probably. Why yearn after the Khanate?”
Kaidu said nothing. Psin shook him roughly.
“There are things not to be longed after. Learn that. And don’t remind people of that story.”
He went back to the chess table. Djela said, “And then I would move—”
Tshant said, “I don’t like him.”
Psin looked over his shoulder; Kaidu had gone out. “Why not?”
“He’s like all Juji’s kind. He isn’t like us.”
“Maybe.”
“Temujin was right. Juji wasn’t his son.”
“I think it was a lie.”
“Can you prove it?”
“No. It was Temujin’s lie. And it’s come to the best, like everything Temujin did.” He moved a pawn, and Tshant’s archer flew down and whisked an elephant off the board.
“Check.”
“And mate. Let’s go outside. It’s stuffy in here.”
PART FOUR
THE MONGOL GENERALS
Temujin said, “My descendants will go clothed in gold; they will dine on the choicest meats, they will ride superb horses and enjoy the most beautiful young women. And they will have forgotten to whom they owe all that…
Djela squirmed, swallowed a yawn, and started to fiddle with the laces of his coat. Tshant slapped his hand. “Sit still.”
“I’m—”
“Sit still.”
Djela thrust out his lower lip. The bench he was sitting on was hard; his rump itched. Across the half-circle, Sabotai looked almost asleep, and Kadan beside him was weaving from side to side. Djela had pointed that out to Tshant, just before the reception started, and Tshant had said, “He’s drunk.”
The two Russians in their fur cloaks droned on. For days, since Kiev fell, the Russian noyons had been riding in to pledge their submission to the Kha-Khan, and Djela didn’t understand why he had to be here. “You are the great-grandson of the Ancestor,” Tshant had said. So he had to wear the coat with the gold hooks and the gold lace around the collar, which jabbed him if he moved.
Tshant said, “What are they saying now?”
Djela listened. “That they will grow grain for us and send us all we need. They say their land is rich enough to feed us all and feed them and still fill the warehouses full.”
Mongke, on Tshant’s other side, murmured something under his breath. He smelled richly of flowers. Tshant had been wrinkling his nose all through the reception. He said softly, “Mongke. You smell like my stepmother.”
“Oh?” Mongke lifted one arm and sniffed the sleeve. “I like it.”
“Ssssh,” Baidar said. He leaned past Mongke to nudge Tshant.
The two Russians knelt and touched their foreheads to the ground in front of Batu. Batu’s two interpreters began to speak, telling the Russians how fortunate they were to be the servants of the only God-sent Khan and describing the benefits the Russians would receive under Batu’s rule. Djela leaned against Tshant, put his head down, and dozed.
After a while, Tshant shook him awake again. “What are they saying?”
Djela straightened up. “They’re talking about the—the Russians who ran away when we attacked. They say they couldn’t stop them.” He frowned, trying to follow the Russians’ quick voices. “They went west, to Hungary.”
Tshant nodded.
Baidar had been with the southern wing of the army at the Dniester. Tshant said that now that he was back they would talk about going on west. Djela scratched his neck where the stiff lace had roughened his skin.
Batu’s interpreter said something, briefly, about the refugees. The Russians bowed. Batu lifted one hand and made a sign that showed he took them under his protection. “Stand up,” Tshant said. “They are leaving.”
Djela slid off the bench onto his feet. The Russians bowed to each of the Altun in turn. None of the Altun bowed back. The Russians turned to Tshant and Djela and their heads bobbed. Djela looked up at Tshant. “Now can I—”
“Ssssh!”
They stood until the Russians had backed out of the semi-circle. As soon as the reception was over, Tshant sat down and undid Djela’s coat.
“He’s old enough to take care of himself, don’t you think?” Baidar said.
“The first thing he’ll do is get the coat dirty so that he won’t have to sit at any more receptions.” Tshant pulled the coat off. “He didn’t inherit that from my side of the family. Go play.”
Djela ran off, headed for the horse lines. After the city had fallen, all but two of the tumans had gone off and pitched their camps farther south along the river, so that the horse herds were much thinner than before. He caught his horse and bridled it and climbed up.
The Russians were riding off, and he wheeled to gallop along beside them, a short bowshot away. One of them pointed to him, and he saw the man’s mouth open, but he couldn’t hear the words. With a yell he spun the horse and raced back up the slope toward Psin’s yurt.
Psin hadn’t come to the reception because of the ban. Usually he spent the afternoon talking to men from the west, but sometimes he was alone. Djela slid down and knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” Psin called.
“Grandfather, it’s me. May I come in?”
“If you keep quiet.”
The door opened, but through it he saw strangers, dressed in the clothes of merchants. He backed away.
“I sat down all day until now,” he said. “Can I come tomorrow?”
“Any time you wish, noyon.”
The door shut. Djela put one foot on his horse’s knee and scrambled up onto the bare back.
There was nothing to do. Batu had told Tshant to come to his yurt after the reception ended, Psin was busy, and the few boys Djela’s age in the camp were all slaves. He jogged up and down the road beneath the ruined gate, wondered if he dared go bother Mongke. Sometimes Mongke would tease him and play with him, but when he was in a bad temper he threw rocks. He was probably in a bad temper today, after sitting through the reception. Kaidu and the others were too serious to be fun.
He turned the horse and galloped across the slope, screaming the Mongol warcry. If anybody even heard him in Psin’s yurt, no one came out to see what was happening. The horse carried him on around the slope and down to the hollow between the bluff and the plain. He sighed.
In the end he rode along the river, singing songs Ana had taught him in Russian. Most of them were sad and full of low notes, which he thought he sang rather well. His father roared when he sang, but everybody knew Tshant and Psin didn’t understand music.
He remembered the times they had hunted along the rivers, in the summer past, and the heron that had lived just east of Chernigov. He couldn’t remember if there were herons in the rivers around Lake Baikal. That reminded him of his mother and his throat filled up. She wouldn’t know him when he got back, he had grown so big.
“Have fun, and obey your father, and when you come back we’ll have long stories to tell each other, won’t we?” He could remember exactly how she had stood when she said it, how her hair had shone in the light, how soft her cheeks had seemed. When he tried to remember what she looked like, he had to think of special times, or he couldn’t summon up her face.
The horse snorted, and he looked around. A hare was bounding off into the brush beside the river. It was almost dark. He tightened up his reins. If he got back after dark Tshant would yell and threaten to beat him. He galloped back along the riverbank, hanging onto the mane.
The snow muffled the sound of the horse’s hoofs. In the trees he passed he heard the high calls of birds nesting for the night. Low clouds were thrusting up from the west. He sniffed the wind, wondering if it would snow.
He hadn’t realized how far down the river he’d ridden. The bluff where Kiev stood was still a long way off. The dark slid in from the east and stars began to shine. He was too late. The rule was that he had to be home before the fir
st star shone. If the clouds had come earlier, so that the stars were blotted out, he could have argued the point.
When he reached the pass by Kiev’s bluff it was full dark. There wasn’t any sense in hurrying now. He let the horse pick its way through the tangle of trees and brush at the foot of the bluff. They had come out higher up than Djela had meant to, on the flat ground midway between the camp and the dead city.
He could go hide with Psin. He rode up to the isolated yurt, keeping it between him and the camp in case Tshant was looking for him. There were no horses tethered next to Psin’s yurt. Djela frowned. He slid down and knocked on the door; Dmitri answered. Psin had gone off somewhere and Tshant was looking for Djela. “You had better go home.”
“Let me in.”
Dmitri shook his head. “Go home.”
“I am a noyon of the Altun Uruk. Let me in.”
Dmitri grinned. “You’re a little boy who is afraid his father will beat him for staying out late. Go home. I’m the one who’ll be beaten if you hide here.”
“Oh.”
Dmitri shut the door. Djela looked down toward the camp, glowing with banked cooking fires. Everyone would have eaten by now. His stomach pinched him. And he was cold. If he went down and crawled in through the back of the yurt, under the felt, he might be able to convince Tshant he had been in the back all the whole. Except that Tshant knew about that trick and usually searched the yurt before he went out looking.
No matter what I do I’m going to get yelled at.
There was one other chance: if he didn’t come back until morning. If he stayed out all night, Tshant was usually so worried he forgot to yell, he just hugged him and fussed over him, glad he’d gotten back at all. He turned the horse and trotted up the road toward the city. He could hide all night there, go home tomorrow, and meanwhile think of a good story. The Russians had captured him and he’d had to escape and ride home. That was good. Even Psin would admire him for escaping from Russians. He dismounted and led the horse into the city, through the wreckage of the gate and the rotting shields.
It was colder in the city than outside. He stood still, thinking. His stomach growled.
Maybe I should go back.
But he looked up at the sky; it was deep black, the stars were gone, and the wind howled through it. It was too late to go back. Maybe he could have escaped from the Russians right after they’d caught him. But the Russians would still have been in the camp, and he couldn’t imagine Russians stealing him in the middle of Batu’s camp.
He mounted up and rode deeper into the city, looking for a place where he could make a fire and be warm. They had started burning Kiev a few days ago, but the snow had put the fire out before more than half the city had gone down. The horse fretted, and he whipped it on.
The horse’s hoofbeats were awesomely loud. In the camp below they had to have heard them. Hoofbeats sounded behind him, and he whirled. The street was empty.
The horse tugged at the bit and walked on. Djela sat stiffly listening. He could hear other hoofbeats behind him, clear and strong. He whirled around, nearly falling off, and saw nobody.
His skin crawled. He reined the horse down a little crooked side-street, to see who was following him, but the horse took two steps and refused to go farther. The air here stank of charred wood, and the buildings on both sides were only shells. He turned the horse around, and it bolted.
The clatter of hoofs swelled up like drumbeats. He wrenched at the reins, dragging the horse to a halt. Even the horse was afraid.
He looked behind him, saw nothing, and bit his lip to keep his teeth from chattering.
On his right was a huge old building, hollowed out by fire. Only two walls stood. Through the windows he could see the black sky. The windows were like eyes. He eased up on the reins and the horse started forward quickly.
Inside the burnt building, something rustled, snarled, and fled scuttling. A timber crashed down. The horse shied, and Djela clung with hands and knees. His heart was just behind his tongue. The horse wheeled to face the building, and its ears pinned flat back and its forelegs braced. Djela looked until his eyes ached.
His back prickled. Something was looking at him. Wicked, mean eyes were staring at him. He had a swift vision of slavering fangs and blood dripping from a narrow ribbon of a tongue. He was afraid to look back. He turned the horse—slowly, slowly—and started down the street toward the gate.
In a sidestreet, something screeched. The horse half-reared, neighed, and galloped on. He could feel it quivering between his knees. The reins slid through his fingers, and the horse stretched out. The gate was far away, and he bent over the horse’s withers.
Abruptly the horse leapt to one side, twisting, and Djela went off. He landed hard on the stones of the street, clutching the reins. The horse dragged him along the rough ground. He contorted, trying to avoid the hoofs, trying to get to his feet. At last the horse stopped and he leapt up, bounded onto its back, and charged straight for the gate.
Behind him every foul thing under the sky was watching. Dead cities. People had died here and not been… The walls loomed, sweeping toward him. He shut his eyes. Noise billowed out of the streets around him. The horse skidded to a stop, and he opened his eyes, cold with what he might see. But the horse was only trying to find a way through the rubble around the gate. He clung, praying, while the horse stepped over fallen timbers and circled a mass of broken stone. They would never get through, something horrible would leap on him before they got through. His clothes stuck to him, drenched with sweat.
The horse leapt the last line of trash and galloped down the road. Cool, free air swept over him. He dared not look back; he aimed the horse like an arrow at Psin’s yurt. The horse slowed to go around it, and Djela jumped off. The door popped open and Psin looked out.
“Where have you been? Wait until your father—”
Djela flung his arms around Psin and wept. Psin hugged him. The great strong arms surrounded him and held him safe.
“It’s not so bad,” Psin said. “He won’t hurt you. What’s—” Psin dragged him into the light. “You’re bloody. What happened? Djela, come out of it. Dmitri, get me some water and a cloth. And grease. And—never mind about Tshant, the horse will bring him. Djela.”
“Don’t let me go. Please don’t let me go.” Djela burrowed his face into Psin’s chest. He hung on as tight as he could to Psin’s belt.
“It’s all right. You’re all right here.” Psin pried his fingers loose. “Tell me what happened.”
“I went into the city. It’s full of monsters.” Djela wailed, remembering. “Don’t let them get me.”
Dmitri was back again, with a bowl of water. Psin sat Djela down on the couch and wiped his face with a wet cloth. “How did you get scraped up?”
“My horse dragged me.” Djela sniffled. “There were monsters. With wings and claws.”
“You shouldn’t go into a dead city. And you were riding without a saddle again. Weren’t you.”
“Yes.”
Psin put his fingers under Djela’s chin and tipped his head to one side. “If you don’t watch out, you’ll be a scarface, like me. Why did you go into the city?”
“I was going to hide. Until morning.”
“Oho.” Psin threw a robe around Djela’s shoulders. “Dmitri, bring him something to eat. You’re a fool, Djela. You should have come back and taken the scolding.”
Djela curled up under the robe. “He said he’d beat me if I did it again.”
“He wouldn’t have. You know he wouldn’t have.”
“He keeps saying—”
A horse was coming at full gallop. Psin took the bowl of stewed meat from Dmitri and shoved it into Djela’s hands. “Here he comes. Don’t lie, either.”
The aroma of cooked meat was delicious. Djela stuffed his mouth. “I won’t lie. I’m almost grown up now.”
Psin stared a moment, trying to understand what Djela had said through the mouthful, and suddenly laughed. “Grownups lie.
”
The door flew open, and Tshant said, “I knew he’d be here. His horse came down and I knew he’d be here. Djela—”
He looked furious. Djela cringed. “I didn’t mean—”
“You never mean to.” Tshant took the bowl away from him and stood him up on the couch. “The next time you do this, I’ll make you wish—God’s name. What happened to you?” He looked at Psin. “What happened to him?”
Psin said, “He went up to the city to hide, and he fell off the horse and was dragged.”
Tshant shut his eyes. “He went into the city. He was riding bareback, or he’d never have fallen off. And he stayed out after dark.” His voice rose to a howl. “Do you ever do anything right?”
Djela burst into tears. “I can’t help it. I try, but it just comes out wrong.”
Tshant cuffed him. “Go outside and wait. Beside my horse. On the ground. Both feet on the ground, both arms at your sides, head up. Understand?”
Djela nodded, sobbing.
“Stop crying. Go.”
Djela stumbled down from the couch and went to the door. He stopped crying. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and glared at Tshant. “I hate you.”
“Go outside before I—”
Djela dodged his slap and ducked out the door.
Sabotai looked around at each of the Altun, frowned until they stopped talking, and cleared his throat. Mongke and Kadan, who were drunk, imitated him, and Sabotai flushed. “Don’t anger me.”
“Sabotai,” Mongke said. “We dread your anger. Would we incur it voluntarily?”
Psin put his hand up to his mouth to hide his grin. Batu leapt up.
“This is a kuriltai,” he said. “You came into this yurt between two fires. Don’t make a joke out of your elders.”
Mongke opened his mouth, and Psin, guessing what he would say, shouted, “And keep in mind that this is my yurt and you are all my guests.”
The Altun laughed, and Sabotai said, “Why shout?”
“To keep you from hearing what he said,” Psin said. He pointed to Mongke with his chin.
“What did you say?” Batu said.
Until the Sun Falls Page 39