by J A Deriu
There were shouts of approval and more of the growl-like war cry. An older Mongol, wearing a traditional bright-blue deel with a golden sash, stood. The noise silenced. “That is historic news, Khan. But what of the Kurultai?”
“The Kurultai, Father, this is it,” Khan Krum answered.
“Ah,” the old man said. “I thought this was a party. And the boy there, the Russian, he has never been to the soil he is expected to conquer. Is this true?”
“I do not know,” the khan replied. “It does not matter. He defeated the Ottomans.”
“It is said that it was the Templars, not him. Does he say anything?”
“He only speaks the language of the old Englishmen. He is the first son of the tsar. We speak through the count.”
“And the count, who is he?”
“The count, Father, is Count Anton. He is here, he speaks our language, he can talk for himself. He is a commander for the rebellion of the Russian people.”
The heads turned to the Russian. He looked uncomfortable. He understood what was being said. He turned to his female companion. “I can speak for us, Khan,” she said. “I am Countess Regina, and my speaking of the Mongol language is superior to that of my husband.”
“Very well, Countess, speak,” said the khan. “We have many women that speak at the Kurultai. Do not think that we are backward in that area. My own daughter will speak for hours with vigor and no inhibitions. Thankfully, she is hunting this month.”
Countess Regina bowed to the khan and stood, standing erect as if she were a trained classic dancer. “Thank you, Khan. I am honored to talk at the Kurultai. I am the Countess Regina and this is my husband, Count Anton. We are from the land of the Russians. Our people are alike to the Mongols in that we once had an empire in our own name also, before the Ottomans. Now, from the ice of the north to the mountains and green fields of the south, we are under the yoke of the Ottomans. We have not been able to maintain a skerrick of independence throughout these vast lands, as you have been able to achieve. But our people have never been subservient. Sometimes it has looked like this, but this in reality is patience. We have waited for our time. And this has come. The prince showed that the fabled armies of the Ottomans cannot only be defeated – they can be humiliated to surrender en masse. The signs of the weakness of the empire are everywhere. Your omens have spoken. So have ours.”
Her Mongolian was good, and the Mongolians listened with interest. “Yes, over the vast channels of history, our empires have clashed, but they have also allied as well. It is the latter we are seeking to do. The Russian prince has been escorted safely by the khan himself from the dangers of the Qing Kingdom.” She flourished her hands toward the prince, who did not understand a word and was holding out his beer mug for a server to fill. “He will accompany us back to our lands. I am thankful for the blessing of the khan. Our people are ready. We know that the time has come. The prince will inspire his people. The Ottomans will be rid from our lands, and with their armies retreating to Tsargrad, the way will be open for your hordes to conquer to Cumania in the west, where they have ruled before.”
Khan Krum stood. “And will rule again,” he yelled, splashing his mug of beer. He made the warlike sound, and the other Mongols followed.
The khan’s father did not join in the howls. Instead he stood slowly and raised a finger. “And, dear Countess, how do we know your people will rebel? What if we have given away this wonderful prince, who would be worth so much to the Ottomans, for nothing?”
The countess stood with her mouth open.
“Ah, Father, you worry too much,” the khan interrupted. “Did she not say that the prince will inspire them, and that they have been waiting? And the omens … do not forget the omens.”
“The boy prince only seems to inspire himself to drunkenness. And let me ask another obvious question. She said that you can conquer to Cumania. What if you decide to go farther? Is it forgotten that the Mongols once ruled the land of the Russians?”
“That is not correct. The Russian Empire withstood Khan Batu,” Countess Regina answered.
“That is odd,” the old man said. “I seem to recall that Moscow, Kyiv, and Vladimir were all destroyed.”
“And rebuilt.” The dark-flamed hair of the countess tossed as she rebutted.
“Enough, enough,” Khan Krum called out. “The course is set, Father. Your questions are reducing our drinking and eating time. We are to do nothing until the Russians have set the Ottomans aflame. They will show their commitment in blood. And the boy prince, well, I like him. He has spirit. He is a Russian. Who are we to deprive him of his own lands? Now let us have some entertainment.” He gestured animatedly to the musicians and dancers, and they jumped into action. The sound of the frenetic music filled the hall, and the space in front of the khan clashed with moving bodies. The khan settled onto his throne, picked up his mug, and looked over trays of food. He glanced at the Russians, who moved uncomfortably with the music, and the prince, who slumped back and held out his mug to be filled again. The khan’s father remained standing, and looked at his son with the unsettled look of a parent. Zoe nestled into her position. She concluded that her opportunity would require patience.
The palace finally slept. The first light of morning came through the skylights and grayed what she could see as she moved through the halls. She had noted which direction the participants had moved in when the khan had finally ended the night. He had been in the midst of one of his energetic dances, grabbing whoever strayed into his way and twirling them, when he had thrown his mug into the air, thrust his hands forward as if to say “enough,” and strolled out of the room. The music had continued for some time, waiting to see if he would come back. After there was no sign of him, the exhausted Mongols hobbled away, and the room was empty except for those drunkards asleep where they had collapsed. The Russians and the prince slunk through one of the passageways. Zoe had stalked along this passageway. She stopped at each room, pushing the flap ajar to see who was inside. The palace was warrenlike. She heard talking coming from one of the rooms. She crouched and approached without noise. It was the Russians. She could see them through a crack in the door flap. A candle lit their faces. They were curled up in animal furs. Their faces wore the looks of conspirators talking, so she angled her ear to listen.
“I dread what we will face,” the man said.
They were speaking Russian, a language Zoe understood well.
“This is not our worry,” the woman answered. “We bring him, and our debts are quashed.” Her finger caressed the chin of the man.
“If it were that simple. When they discover what a delinquent he is, they will come after us with pitchforks.”
“We are not responsible for the quality of the product, only the delivery. And he is of the holy blood. That is all that is cared for.”
The man kissed her finger. “Yes, you are right, but there is something about this thing. He will not last a day. He will be yanked apart by the factions. If he survives that, the Ottomans will hunt him like a rabbit and do to him what they have done to anyone else that has had that name. A grisly end. Brutal and public.”
“Again, not our concern. Damn that horseshit. Our debts will be paid. We will be free, and still in love, right?” She kissed him.
He groaned, unsatisfied. “There is something wrong.”
Zoe sneaked on. She could be seen if someone came along the passage. His room would be next. She was certain of it. They would be kept close together. She stopped at the door flap. His heavy, drunken sleep could be heard, muffled by the thick animal-skin walls but loud to her extra sharp hearing. She hesitated. Her mind was not clear. This was unusual. There was the code of her profession that was above everything, especially good and evil. She lifted the flap open. The room was dark. Her eyes adjusted. He lay on the animal skins wearing his clothes. A spilled bottle of beer had wet his side and lay next to him. Sh
e entered the room without making a sound.
She lowered herself so that she was stalking toward him. There was the faintest light coming from a skylight. Her shadow covered him. She hovered over him, so close that she could feel his breathing. He had the sleep of the stupefied. She slapped him to wake him and then held his mouth. He opened his eyes. Her fingers pressed on his lips so that he could make no noise. She had her face next to his, close so that their skin was almost touching. “Listen to me,” she said in Russian. His eyes were blank. She repeated in English. “Listen to me.” His eyes sparkled with recognition. “I was paid to kill you, but I will not kill you. If you are who you are prophesized to be. The god of the light will defeat the god of the dark. I have an age-old enmity with the sultan, and you will lead the rebellion. I will be your dagger in the night.” She let him go and disappeared into the dark.
Chapter Fourteen
The work was mind-numbingly boring. Pierre sat at an undersized desk. His knees grated against the raw wood. He considered if work in the ship scrap-yard would have been worse. At least he would have sunshine on his face. He was trapped in a dank light. The sounds of dripping water came from the corners of the decaying room. His desk was one of six in a line with another six in another column that filled the room. In front of him was a stack of thick papers, each one scribbled over. They were bills of sale, tattered and dirty, marked and signed when goods were exchanged on the docks. His piece of work was to decipher them and convert the currency, of which he had encountered nine different types.
On a chalkboard were listed the latest conversion rates. It was basic work that reminded him of his apprenticeship as a banker. His fingers hurt and were deathly gray from working the pencil over the papers to make sure his numbers added. The urgency of the work was enforced by one of the House of Kamondo’s orange-clad guards and his flexible cane. There was a set time from the time the batch of papers were placed on the desk to a time when they were picked up by a servant boy. The time was not always consistent. If a worker had not finished the pile, it was a swift swish of the cane across the back, and double if the pile was well short. Then the enforcer took his own time checking the pile by sitting at his desk at the top of the room, wetting his finger, randomly pulling out a paper, eying it suspiciously, and meticulously redoing the calculation. If it was wrong, it was a high-speed grab of the cane, which had sat balanced on the desk, and a sprint to the offending clerk, who would thrust up a hand in defense and claim that there was no mistake. But the defense would not work, and the cane would land with a crack against whatever part of the body was most convenient.
Pierre had no fear of this. He had not made a mistake with his calculations, even though the numbers on the chalkboard were sometimes difficult to decipher – perhaps deliberately, Pierre suspected. It was nonetheless an impressive operation, not in terms of the squalid room but the volume of paper being processed across the desks. Alex Kamondo was sitting atop a huge trading house.
He looked out of the open window, where thick trees shaded the view, to try and gauge the time. No sunlight flickered through the leaves, so he guessed that the daily ordeal was ending. His best idea was that he had been only a week in this new world, maybe a few days more, maybe a few less. He understood that he had been purchased as a servant and not as a slave. Yet it was explained to him that he would be paid only after the debt to purchase him was paid off. And that would be years.
The orange guardsman looked at his watch. He signaled the end of the day by storing the cane. The workers filed out of the room and to the cookhouse and dormitory, which was next door in an equally run down building. The chief difference was that this room instead of the desks had mats along the floor. The workers were all men, mostly Filipinos. They all had their stories, Pierre suspected, of how they ended up in this place. There was one who spoke some English. His name was Hondo, and he told Pierre that he was there by choice. “In five years, I will have paid my debt, and I will make my own wealth, as a young man.”
Pierre whistled. “That is a long wait.”
“The House of Kamondo will make me a man. I will rise with it.”
Shrunken, shiny-scaled lizards came into the room with impunity. They were shooed away but stared back with indignation. The light was from smoky torches. The workers ate rice cooked in a large pot. Pierre longed for the dried meat introduced to him by the Nippon mercenary.
“You’re here by choice. I’m not. How do I get out?” Pierre asked Hondo as they looked at each other over their rice bowls with sticky rice clinging to their fingers. “I am a lord in my own land. There is an estate, so large gypsies come and go.”
“There is no way, lord. You are here for five years. After that time you have paid your debt, and you can save for your travel if it is possible to return to where you came from.”
“What debt? Strange debt, when I didn’t receive anything.”
“It is the way, lord. You were brought from the pirates. That is your debt. You will pay it back. It is the way, lord. There is no other way. Do not think of any other way.”
“I’m going crazy looking at those bills all day. I will break out if I have to. I will.”
“Lord, hush, don’t speak like that. You will be in trouble. There are fools that have tried to break their contract. There was a man called Paso. I talked to him as I talk to you. If you can get over the walls, the guardsmen of Alex will get you. If the guardsmen of Alex do not get you, the patrols of the city will get you. If they do not get you, the huntsmen will. Do you know what happened to Paso? They found him in the cargo hold of a ship. He thought he was free. He only had three years more. He was flogged in the prison square, and then the boss sold him to one of the ore mines.”
Pierre was distracted. He could see her through the open window walking far below in the gardens. Her head was pointed in the direction of the dormitory, as if she were wondering who was in there. He stood up. “I’m going to have my shower. You can have the rest of this.” He handed the rice bowl to Hondo.
He scrubbed himself with a horsehair brush under the trickle of cold water. He cleaned his face and brushed his hair in the cracked mirror. He walked the long path back to the dormitory. She was sitting on a stone bench under trees that reared their bulks against the dim moonlight. With her were two maids. He had learned that her name was Therma. He dropped his brush so that it would be heard rattling on the path. She turned to look across the garden. Her head did not move for moments. He raised a hand as if to wave. A maid shook a hand at him to move on. Therma turned her head back to the garden beds. The maid angrily yelled at him. A nearby guardsman turned to face Pierre. He continued on the path.
He sat glumly next to Hondo, who was reading from a book.
“Why did you leave your village?” Pierre asked.
Hondo lowered the book. “There were too many mouths to feed.”
They sat compactly with their legs folded underneath, not wanting to encroach on the space of another worker. The room was exhausted. They had been working since first daylight. It was not physical work yet was draining.
“What book are you reading?”
Pierre looked up from massaging his fingers. His question had not been answered. All the heads in the room, including that of Hondo, were looking at the doorway, where one of the orange guardsmen was looking over the room. His head moved aggressively and then abruptly stopped when pointed at Pierre. He shot a finger at Pierre and signaled for him to stand. The guardsman said something that was quickly spat words. Pierre did not understand. He looked at Hondo, who had a surprised look. “You have been invited to dinner with the honorable Alex.”
“Ah.” Pierre cautiously stood.
Hondo held out an open hand toward him. “But, lord, you cannot. You have already had dinner.”
Pierre followed the guardsman. It was a long, winding, complicated path to the estate, passing through the shadow-filled fringes of the prop
erty to the ordered, torchlit gardens leading to the steps of the mansion. Dutiful servants were numerous in the well-lit halls of the great house. He was directed into a changeroom with a marble basin, golden taps, lain-out towels, and a change of clothes hanging. He used a shaving blade to clean his face and rubbed rich-smelling ointments into his skin. There was cream for his hair, which he shaped into a Metropolitan style. The door was opened by a servant, and he was ushered up a wide flight of stairs. The clothes were cream colored and loose fitting. The white-wooden doors of the dining room were swung open by a servant on each handle.
The room was lit by thick candles, and a vase with blazing tulips was at the center of the dining table. The bulk of Alex shifted at one end of the long table. “Ah, our guest has arrived. Sit, please. Join us, my friend.” He pointed to a set place halfway along the table. At the other end of the table sat the lithe, tall figure of Therma. Her perfectly groomed black hair framed her candlelit face, and her wide, dark eyes regarded him. She had her hands leaning on the table. Golden bracelets showed at her wrists.
Pierre sat down. One of the servants stationed in the room straightened his cutlery. He nodded at Therma and then Alex. “My many thanks for the invitation.”
“Ha, you are welcome,” Alex replied. “I am a humble man, you will see, and I like to share my good fortune, and you are a man from another world, and we both like good food.” Alex waved his hand like a king, and the servants uncovered dishes. They elegantly served food onto his plate and filled a glass. There were fish, prawns, rice, beans, vegetables, all covered in spicy-smelling sauces. He started to eat without manners before checking himself on noticing the premise eating movements of Alex and Therma.