The Golden Horde

by Peter Morwood

  “Instead of a single big one.”

  “Very droll.” Mar’ya Morevna went back to the table and picked up her vodka, obviously torn between drinking it and throwing it. Ivan could see her running through a mental catalogue of her activities in this room during the past four days, recalling all the things she would prefer not to have done in front of an audience. He knew, because his thoughts had travelled down exactly the same path, and thanks to that and the way her face suddenly blushed deep scarlet, he was able to step forward and snatch the half-full cup out of her hand just before she flung it at the wall.

  “What’s past is past,” Ivan said, and if he sounded calm it was only because he’d rehearsed this same speech half a dozen times. “At least they don’t know we’ve spotted them, so let’s not advertise the fact with red stains on an unblemished white wall.”

  Mar’ya Morevna glared at him, at the wall, and at the world in general, but was practical enough to admit the sense of that. “All right. All right.” She took another few deep breaths until the angry flush began to fade from her cheeks, but her eyes stayed hot and bright. “Agreed. No stains. No needles pushed through the holes the first time I see one of them open. Now. How did you spot this? And when?”

  “The when is easy. This morning —”

  “God damn them …!”

  “— When someone opened it to take a peek at me. They couldn’t have realized I had the lamp over there,” Ivan pointed at one of the room’s two oil-lamps, set on a low clothes-chest by the wall, “and that its light was reflected on the gilding when it moved. Otherwise I still wouldn’t know.”

  “So why the play-acting?”

  “To give them something to report. Something derogatory, to make them maybe just a little careless. They think we’re dangerous, Mar’yushka, and that scares me. The Grey Wolf overheard it on the march and he told us both, but …” Ivan hesitated a second. “But you weren’t listening to that source. What with the Art Magic and our past reputation, Amragan tarkhan was expecting trouble at Khorlov. He didn’t get it, and was grateful for that much. But some of his men have been wondering what we’re plotting, when it’s going to happen, why we did nothing before we got to Sarai and what we’re going to do now we’re here.”

  “The Firebird didn’t help.”

  “Like using oil to put a fire out. So what I was doing was showing a failing they might use against us. If they think I’m like all the Rus or the old Khakhan and drink too much, they’ll be off guard when they find out otherwise. It’s like the children. Or like the Grey Wolf. Like anything they don’t know, or only think they know. It’s all useful, and hides a dagger in our boot.” Ivan ran the tip of one finger along Mar’ya Morevna’s jawline from ear to mouth, and tapped lightly against her lips. “Remember those words, loved. Because they’re all yours.”

  “Indeed.” The edge in her voice was sharp enough that Ivan hastily moved his finger back, because Mar’ya Morevna looked as if she might bite it. “So are these. Remember them as well. From tonight, before we go to bed, the lamps go out …”

  *

  The summons came two days later, brought by none other than Amragan tarkhan himself. The envoy’s appearance had changed somewhat from that of the man who had kept them company on the three-week trek from Khorlov. He was more richly dressed than even at the banquet outside the city, and had shaved his head in the old Turki style. His three long braids and the fuzz of black bristles between them were gone, and only a single long scalp-lock remained so that he looked strangely like old portraits of Great Prince Svyatoslav of Kiev.

  Another bloody-handed reaver, thought Ivan. But a Rus for all that. The Turk might have been paying his well-behaved hostages a compliment of sorts, but Ivan was less certain about the scroll of authority the tarkhan carried. It looked ominously like the warrants drawn up by First Minister Strel’tsin while his father was still Tsar in Khorlov, vaguely dangerous documents until certain specifics were added at the Tsar’s pleasure. Then they became lethal.

  This scroll had that same look, a sleepy menace like a coiled snake, its serpentine image only increased by the writhing letters of the three languages in which it was written: Arabic, Uigur and Kithan. Amragan tarkhan didn’t trouble himself with reading all of it, but the opening words alone would have sounded foolishly grandiose to anyone unfamiliar with the Tatars. Such a person, if there were any still alive in the wide white world, would see only slit-eyed nomads wrapped in furs and stolen finery, with bowed legs from a lifetime in the saddle. They wouldn’t see what such consummate horsemen had achieved and what they thought of themselves as a result, so the salutation of the Khan’s letter would have been no more than the posturing of noisy children.

  They would have carried their mistaken impression to the grave, and gone there with shocking speed.

  Tengri in Heaven, the Sky above the Earth, it read, On Earth Ogotai, Khan by the Power of Tengri, Khan of all Khans of the Mongols, Ruler of Men. By this Batu, Ilkhan of the Golden Horde, commands… And then it got down to those specifics that could put a cutting edge on a sheet of parchment. Testing their sharpness was a suicidal waste of time, and in any case, after six days of kicking their heels in enforced idleness, Ivan and the rest of his party were more than willing to meet the Khan. He suspected, and Mar’ya Morevna agreed, that willingness generated through nervous boredom was as much a reason for the delay as any ‘waiting for the others’, even though the ‘others’ were in Sarai by now. The blare of welcoming trumpets had sounded enough times that the entire High Council of Khorlov might have been somewhere in the city and neither Ivan nor Mar’ya Morevna nor anyone else would have known it.

  Keeping an eye open for strange or familiar faces had been first an interesting challenge, and latterly a waste of time. The Tatars assigned to guard and escort them from place to place had done their work so well that the occupants of one house often didn’t even see the people in the houses to either side of them from one day to the next, never mind setting eyes on other parties held in different quarters of the city.

  Ivan hadn’t set eyes on the Grey Wolf, either. There were times when he wondered just how seriously Volk Volkovich had taken offence, and whether he would ever return at all. Then there were the other occasions when good sense prevailed and he realized how little good the shapeshifter would be to anyone, caught with the rest of them inside the walls of Sarai like a…

  Like a wolf in a trap.

  *

  “You may bow to the Ilkhan Batu in the manner of the Rus if it pleases you,” Amragan tarkhan cautioned all the Russians when they had assembled in the courtyard of Ivan’s house. “But you will also do him honour in the proper fashion, and failure to do this will not be excused.”

  “Noble Amragan, are the proper words not ‘Bow down before the Khan, or be destroyed,’” Nikolai Ivanovich piped up. There was a ripple of nervous laughter from servants and councillors, but not from Ivan, not from Mar’ya Morevna and most definitely not from Amragan tarkhan. The Turk stroked his drooping moustaches as he stared down at the small boy who stared back, Ivan was pleased to see, with all the bravado of a child who didn’t know any better. That might have been something to do with the way he was manfully ignoring how his sister was poking him in the ribs for butting into a grown-up conversation.

  “Your son,” said Amragan thoughtfully after a few moments’ consideration, “has been listening to wise advice.”

  That might have been another veiled threat aimed at everyone present, but here in the very tiger’s den, Ivan was growing tired of anything hidden behind oblique observation. When one had already knelt before the block, comments about how one’s head might be at risk were already superfluous. He gave the tarkhan a thin, resigned smile that disarmed the warning. “Both my children listen to everything, whether I want them to hear or not. Wait until you hear them swear.”

  There was more uneasy laughter from the Russians, though this time it was because some of them weren’t entirely whether their Tsar
was making a joke or being deadly serious. Ivan glanced back at them and raised one hand for silence. “Let all of us listen to wise advice, Amragan tarkhan. We’re required to do honour in the proper fashion. So then. What fashion is it?”

  The Turk gazed at Ivan for a few seconds in silence, then slowly clapped his hands together in applause less ironic that it seemed. “I see,” he said, “where your son learned his wisdom, Ivan Aleksandrovich. Of the many lords and would-be lords of the Rus that I have seen enter the Court of the Golden Horde, few of them unbend their pride enough to ask what might be required of them.”

  “Does it make any difference in the long run?”

  “That is entirely up to you. It depends on whether you heed, or merely hear.”

  “As I say. What must we do?”

  Amragan studied the dozen or so faces like a tutor ensuring that his class was more or less awake. He seemed to be noting those who would pay attention and those who would not, but Ivan had no need to look at them to know where any trouble lay. Count Danyil Fedorovich was much in his mind, the only man among all of them who could do something wrong from deliberate malice rather than blind stupidity. Khan Batu might excuse the one, but the other, never.

  “Two fires burn beyond the threshold of the Golden Pavilion. You will pass between these fires to be purified, to negate any harmful magics against the Khan, and to drive away the chill of the world outside before you enter the hospitable warmth inside. Refusal to do this is forbidden, and will not be excused.”

  Ivan nodded sagely. He was expecting something of the sort. “I know. The fire-spirits will do all this. We of the Tsar’s line of Khorlov,” and the smile that curved his lips was nasty, “are familiar with creatures of fire. As you saw.”

  The Turk cleared his throat with sudden vigour, obviously not wanting to be reminded of the Firebird more than necessary. “Yes.” He coughed again, and Anastasya Ivanovna made a little noise of sympathy for the poor man’s sore throat that came from a source that was too young to be sarcastic. “You will not,” Amragan continued, “step on the threshold between the cold outside and the warm inside. This is forbidden, and will not be excused.”

  Ivan released a gusty sigh that might have been impatience. “Amragan tarkhan, I know that much already. It’s an insult to tread on the threshold of any yurtu, and make a bridge for the cold to intrude. It’s an insult to whistle inside like the wind outside. It’s an insult to bring a whip for beasts into the dwelling-place of men, and suggest the men inside are no better than the beasts outside. So much and so many and so on and so forth.” Then he grinned quickly to take the sting out of his words. “The Tatar rider who gave over his own yurtu for myself and Mar’ya Morevna told us all those things, and more. When he wasn’t grousing about having to eat grut again for dinner.”

  “He did not tell me this,” said Amragan in a tone of voice that suggested the Tatar soldier would have some explaining to do about such an embarrassing oversight.

  “He was probably busy, and forgot,” Ivan suggested generously. “Certainly you were. What else is forbidden, or compulsory, and will not be excused?”

  “You should guard your tongue more closely, Rus. It is sharp enough that one day it might cut your throat.”

  “Truth cuts both ways, Amragan tarkhan. The Khan might appreciate honesty more than flattery once in a while.”

  “I will let the Sain Khan judge that for himself,” said the Turk, and the menace in his voice was tinged just a little with admiration. “Just remember this if you wish to live long enough for him to hear your honest flattery: bow to the East in honour of the Khakhan yet unchosen, who is above the Ilkhan Batu as he is above mere vassals; and before you speak at all, bow to Batu Khan, the lord and master of these lands and all who dwell within their borders.”

  “Thank you, Amragan tarkhan,” said Mar’ya Morevna, her voice silky. “Especially for troubling to explain the reasons behind so many rituals foreign to us. I won’t even wonder why you failed most signally to tell us the manner of bow which Batu Khan will be expecting, but will presume no more than forgetfulness through being busy, just like your soldier.” The Turk coloured slightly. “That bow should be in the Tatar manner, yes? Hat on the ground, belt laid about the shoulders, and an inclination of the head… three times for an Ilkhan, I should think. Six for the Khan of all Khans, and nine for Tengri of the Everlasting Blue Sky. Yes?”

  “Yes.” He snapped the word.

  “And how low should one bow?”

  Amragan tarkhan glowered at her, as close to real rage as Ivan had seen since Aleksey Romanov had tried to kill him. “Noble Mar’ya Morevna,” he said though clenched teeth, “if your bow is not low enough, the Khan’s guards will instruct you with their spears. Be assured, I will make certain of that …”

  *

  At first sight Batu Khan’s Golden Pavilion was just a bigger version of a Tatar yurtu tent, hunched and low and dome-shaped, its door facing south, and everywhere wrapped criss-cross with cords to keep the sheets of felt that were its walls and roof tight against the latticed wooden frame beneath. The felt, necessary for warmth no matter how rich the occupant might be, was usually black or white, but in this instance the fabric, slightly shiny from the pounding that had matted it together, was a distinctive yellow. The colour and the dull sheen were both good enough reasons for the title ‘Golden.’ It was only as they walked closer that Ivan and the others saw that its yellow tint didn’t come from any dyed felt, but from great hangings of cloth-of-gold draped over the entire tent and held in place by broad, braided straps woven of solid gold thread. Even the wooden poles supporting the awning in front of the doorway were covered with gold leaf.

  That was awesome enough, but sitting as it was in a cleared space at the very centre of Sarai, there was nothing close by to give an indication of its true scale. Six ordinary tents could have been raised under the Golden Pavilion’s roof, with room to spare for the occupants of those six tents to walk freely to and fro.

  A group of men in the clothing of Rus noblemen were standing on the far side of the huge tent, apparently warming themselves at the two great iron braziers that flanked the doorway. With a little thrill of shock, Ivan recognized at least one face.

  Prince Aleksandr Yaroslavich Nevskiy had changed very little in the years since the Battle on the Ice. His golden beard had tarnished to silver to either side of his thin, mobile mouth, and the lines in his face were a little deeper, but otherwise he was still the same arrogant bastard that Ivan remembered all too well. When his idly roving gaze fell on Ivan and Mar’ya Morevna, his eyes widened and his brows shot up for an instant, and then he was back in full control of himself again. The bow he gave them both was deep, leisurely, elegant, and a masterpiece of understated insult, and when he straightened up again he was smiling in a way that set Ivan’s teeth on edge.

  “Tsar Ivan Aleksandrovich!” he exclaimed loudly, so that other heads turned, then just as loudly corrected himself. “Of course if you’re here, that title no longer applies, does it?”

  “I understand that’s for the Khan to decide, Nevskiy. Not you.” Ivan laid two fingers on the pommel of his shashka sabre to make certain it was settled firmly in its sheath. For all his annoyance, he returned the bow and then, gratified that they hadn’t done so without his bidding, signalled his councillors and attendants to do the same.

  “I’d have thought,” said Aleksandr Nevskiy, “that a great hero such as yourself would have given the Golden Horde your defiance. Obviously not.”

  “‘Your face is dirty, said the pot to the kettle,’” snapped Mar’ya Morevna, deliberately pushing in front of Ivan as he began to advance on Nevskiy. This time his fingers were on the grip and not the pommel of the sabre, and a handspan of its blade was already gleaming in the dull daylight. “You two should have been brought up in the same kremlin, then maybe you’d have knocked this nonsense out of each other. For two grown men you act in a way that would shame these children!”

  “Child
ren fight, noble lady,” said Nevskiy, his own sword halfway drawn. “Why should we not?”

  Mar’ya Morevna shot him a contemptuous glance. “If you still need to after you’ve spoken with the Khan, Aleksandr Yaroslavich, then I’ll stand aside. But right now there are more important matters to concern the surviving lords of the Rus people. Like maybe keeping those people alive?”

  Ivan stared at Aleksandr Nevskiy for what felt like an age; then nodded in response to the sort of sense only a mother could speak. The sound of two blades slamming back into their scabbards were like two sticks broken across a bent knee, the sounds so close together that one seemed a continuation of the other. “Later,” he said, “if we have to.”

  “Later,” said Nevskiy, “I’ll be glad to.”

  “Children indeed.” Mar’ya Morevna glared at them both, but mostly at her husband. “You at least,” she said quietly, “should know better than to charge like a bull at the first red flag.”

  “Papa, wait! Let me fight him! No! Let me!” The small voices came from about waist level, each as shrill and angry as the other, and Ivan looked down and then at Mar’ya Morevna.

  “Children indeed,” he echoed. Natasha and Kolya were both grabbing alternately at his and their mother’s coat-tails, jumping up and down, and generally behaving in Ivan’s opinion like a pair of street guttersnipes. Aleksandr Nevskiy’s smile just at that minute would have persuaded a sanctified Roman Pope to set fire to all the world and leave God Himself to sift through the ashes, and Ivan was no saint, never mind a Pope. Right now he wasn’t even a Tsar, just a man with a sword on his hip facing another who had given him offence.

  “Defended by a wolf the last time we met,” said Nevskiy. “Defended by a woman now, and supported by children. But not a warrior or a druzhinya or an army in sight. Why not just hang up your sword, Ivan of Khorlov? For all the good it does you, it might as well not be here at all.”

  Ivan swore venomously and laid hand to his sword again, then remembered a custom of Captain Akimov’s Cossack people. He drew the razor edge no more than half an inch and deliberately let it nick his finger, a quick stab of pain to distract him from Nevskiy’s insult. The red glare faded from his eyes almost as if it was leaking away through the tiny cut.