Silk Road (58 page)

Which would it be?

Let tomorrow decide.

T
HE VALLEY HAD
been washed clean and the sky was a pale blue, the blue of Tengri, Lord of the Blue Sky. In the distance the snow-flecked green of the spruce forests swooped down to a cobalt lake.

Khutelun sat astride her white mare, in long
del
and riding boots, her face wrapped in her purple scarf. She did not spare a glance for Josseran. They had given him an unappealing and irritable yellow mare with bad teeth and an ugly disposition. His long legs nearly reached the ground either side of her.

The whole village had gathered to watch the entertainment. There was a carnival atmosphere, for everyone knew the ugly barbarian was certain to lose. Perhaps this evening they would have another boiling to look forward to.

Qaidu emerged from his yurt, went to Khutelun and placed a hand on her horse’s poll. He leaned towards her. ‘You must not lose,’ he whispered.

‘I know what I have to do.’

‘Do not let your womanly feelings for this barbarian stand in the way of the interests of the clan.’

‘I have no womanly feelings for him, Father.’

‘I know this is not true. But whatever you feel, do not let me down!’

Her white mare stamped and flicked its tail in its eagerness to begin. ‘I have raced and beaten better horsemen than this,’ she said. ‘I will win.’

Josseran gritted his teeth against the pain in his shoulder. It was a blessed relief to be out of the cangue. But the arrow wound had left him with virtually no power in his left arm, and blood was still soaking his shirt. He would have to ride one-handed.

Khutelun would not meet his eye.

He felt a flicker of unease. She may be my equal on a horse, he thought, and she knows these hills better than I. But she surely understands the nature of the gamble I have taken. This contest is not a test of horsemanship, but a trial of the heart.

I hope I am right about her.

‘Whoever brings me the goat has their will,’ Qaidu shouted, and as he stepped back he slapped the rump of Khutelun’s mare. It leaped away and the race was on, leaving Josseran’s horse standing.

He galloped after her, towards the wooded hills at the foot of the ridge. The flat, hammering run of the pony sent shocks of pain through his shoulder. He ignored it. The only thing that mattered now was this race.

Khutelun’s horse suddenly veered away, towards the steepest part of the hill, the spur that the Tatars called The Place Where the Ass Was Felled by a Goat. But Josseran had already decided on his own ascent, straight up the broad shoulder of the col.

Although he trailed already by the distance of a crossbow shot, he knew he would win because in his heart he did not believe that Khutelun would let him die.

He reached the shadow of the ridge and looked over his shoulder for Khutelun. Where was she? She had taken what seemed to him the steepest and most circuitous path and he expected now to see her far below him on the trail. But there was no sign of her.

But then a shadow fell across his face and he looked up, startled, and saw her above him, at the very summit. She scooped up one of the carcasses and swung it above her head, in triumph.

He remembered again what William had said.
She is a witch and beyond redemption
.

No! He refused to believe she would trick him.

He spurred his horse up the trail. When he reached the ridge he leaned from his saddle and scooped up the other carcass and laid it across the saddle of his horse. He looked around desperately for Khutelun.

Now he saw the way she had come; there was a narrow defile that traversed the col, all but invisible from below. She was returning
down this same trail, the bloodied carcass in her left fist. He spurred his own horse down the slope after her.

He felt a thrill of fear in his belly. Perhaps this was, after all, the real Khutelun; Khutelun the Tatar, Khutelun the vixen who could not countenance defeat by any man, willing to stake his life against her own pride.

He urged his pony over the loose scree, its hooves slipping on the loose rocks. But he knew he had lost. She was a hundred feet below him, her mare picking its way swiftly down the narrow trail as it had done scores of times before. Khutelun rode upright in the stirrups. It would be impossible to close the gap on her now.

It occurred to him that he might turn his pony around and ride back over the mountain, away from Qaidu and the steppes of Fergana. Perhaps that was what Qaidu, even Khutelun also, had intended; this race was merely a diversion that provided him with a fresh horse and put him a safe distance from the camp.

That was it. Qaidu wanted him to escape, and relieve him of the responsibility for his ultimate fate. They would make a show of coming after him, of course, but the khan would ensure that they did not catch him. Khutelun would have her victory and this night they would laugh about the barbarian around their fires, while the mutton grease and koumiss shone on their chins.

He reined in his horse and watched her go. He wondered if she had loved him at all.

He saw her turn in the saddle and look back up the ridge. She raised a hand into the air. In farewell, or in triumph?

And then her horse stumbled.

H
E WAS SILHOUETTED
against the sun, a hundred feet above her. She felt a momentary stab of pain at what she had done. But this way was best. She had saved his life and also acted in the best interests of her father and the clan. As a Tatar princess it was the only choice.

She saw him turn his horse around, abandoning the chase. She twisted further around in her saddle for one last glimpse of him.

It was all that was needed to change everything.

If she had been watching the way ahead she would have seen the loose scree and guided her mare around it. Or perhaps her twisting in the saddle unsettled the pony. But moments later she felt a jolt as her mare lost her footing. Khutelun leaped clear to prevent them both sliding headlong down the slope.

It was the mare’s instincts as well as her own agility that saved them. She jumped back to her feet, grabbing for the reins while the pony scrambled to keep its footing on the crumbling shale. Khutelun felt the rocks slip away beneath her boots and she fell hard on to her back. But she held on to the trailing rein, keeping the terrified animal in check. With a final effort the mare scrambled back on to the path.

Khutelun lay there, winded by the fall. She got slowly to her feet, gasped at the pain in her ribs where she had fallen on a jagged rock.

And then he was on top of her.

She heard him galloping along the narrow trail, the fleece of the goat carcass slapping against his pony’s flanks. He was going too fast, but somehow he kept himself in the saddle.

Her hand went to her belt and the plaited leather whip appeared in her right hand. It arced through the air with a crack like a falling tree. Josseran’s pony shied and bucked and Josseran slid to the ground.

She quickly recovered her own mare and jumped into the saddle.

Josseran scrambled to his feet and watched her ride away down the trail, numb with disbelief. He looked down at his left hand, at the bloody weal left by the whip. It had even shredded the fabric of his coat. His shoulder was on fire again; he could feel fresh blood running down his arm.

His pony was skittering a few yards away, kicking its hind legs, its nerves and its temper not improved by this most recent experience. Josseran ran after him, caught the reins and tried to gentle him. It was still not too late to ride back up the trail and across the ridge. He could still get away, as he was sure they had all intended.

No, damn her.

He remounted swiftly and spurred the pony down the trail.

Khutelun looked over her shoulder yet again, hoping this time he had taken the lifeline she had thrown him. Surely he had abandoned the chase.

She could not believe her eyes.

He was still in pursuit. ‘Get away!’ she shouted at him in frustration. ‘Get away!’ Her voice echoed around the mountain, along the defile, through the forest of spruce and fir, across the deep black pool at the foot of the ridge. ‘Go back! Go back to Kashgar! Save yourself! Go back!’

He reined in his pony, was silhouetted for a moment on the ledge above her. She waited to see what he would do. Finally he turned away. As she watched him retreat she experienced a flood of relief, mingled with bitter disappointment. He was just a man like any other, after all.