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Authors: Cecelia Holland

Until the Sun Falls (7 page)

BOOK: Until the Sun Falls
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“Of course.”

 

Psin had sent a slave into the city to bring him his bow. While they waited for the targets to be set up, Mongke came over to him and said, “Quyuk doesn’t give up.”

“I didn’t think he had.” Psin glanced around. Slaves were tying torches to the walls and lighting them; at the far end of the horse pen the targets showed dimly. “Would he shoot me in the back?”

“No. Why?”

“He was… very happy when I suggested this.”

“No. But Quyuk is the best shot of the Altun.” Mongke seated himself neatly on a fence rail. “He probably thinks he can beat you.”

Psin took his bow from a panting slave and strung it.

“He’s never seen you shoot,” Mongke said. “I have.”

Kaidu was dragging the tip of an arrow along the ground, to make a shooting line. Buri drifted over, stared at Psin’s bow, and held out his hands. “May I see it?”

Psin gave it to him. Buri brought it under the torchlight. “This is one of Arghun’s.”

“The next to last he made. I have six of his.”

“My grandfather has fifty-two.” Buri set his fingers to the empty string.

“Your grandfather is Jagatai and can afford them.”

“By the Name.” Buri flexed the bow; his hand on the grip wobbled. “I can barely—hey, Quyuk.”

Psin took back the bow. Buri looked at it again, frowning. Mongke laughed and kicked Buri gently in the side. “He’s a Black Merkit; he’s an ox. Let’s go.”

“Kaidu first,” Quyuk shouted. “He’s the youngest and weakest.”

Kaidu blushed, grabbed his bow, and stepped to the line. The targets were staggered, some farther away than others; the farthest was at the limit of accurate range. Kaidu drew and shot, and down by the targets a slave called out, “White in the third.”

Baidar slapped Kaidu on the back, but Quyuk and Buri jeered. Buri shouted, “Which were you trying for? We should make him specify his target.”

“You try it,” Kaidu said. “The light’s terrible.”

“What light?” Baidar stepped up to the line. “I can’t see the target.”

But he shot well enough; the slave called, “Gold in the fifth.”

“No sport,” Quyuk said. “If Baidar can hit the farthest target—make another line, Buri. Twenty paces. Maybe we should take down a few of the torches.”

“Can you hit something you can’t see?” Mongke said, in Psin’s ear. “Quyuk can.”

Buri paced off to the new line, marked it, and took his bow. Psin glanced at Mongke. In the weak light Mongke’s eyes were only shadows, but the curve of his wide smiling mouth showed.

“Shoot,” Quyuk said.

Buri shot. Psin could hear the arrow and see it for most of its flight. The slave shouted, “Red in the fourth.”

Kaidu laughed, and Buri shoved him angrily away. “You try it, Psin. You’ve got the strongest bow.”

“Take down the last four torches,” Psin said. He stood at the line, picked out the last target, and frowned. Slaves ran off to douse the torches around the targets.

Quyuk said, “That’s my trick, Psin.” He sounded amused.

“Give me an arrow.”

With the torches out the targets were only blurs. Psin glanced at Quyuk. There was no sense in it if he couldn’t beat Quyuk. He took the arrow from Mongke and said, “Go down and put out another four torches and move that target.”

Buri said, “Put its back to him, Mongke.” He laughed.

“You have to see it at least once,” Quyuk said. “Or shall we give you three arrows?”

Mongke was already gone. Psin looked at the arrow in his hand, nocked it, and shot it at the ground by his feet. The string shattered the arrow in half lengthwise. “My quiver is over there. Get me one of my own.” He kicked the ruined arrow away. “Your arrows lack spline, Buri.” 

“It wasn’t mine. Mongke gave it to you.”

“Who gave it to Mongke?” Buri knew how strong Psin’s bow was. “Mongke, are you ready?”

Far down the shooting range, full of amusement, Mongke’s voice called, “Ready, Khan.”

Buri handed Psin one of his own arrows, and Psin nocked it. “Throw a torch.”

Something hurtled through the air and hit the ground. Mongke had figured out what Psin wanted. Psin bawled, “A lit torch, Mongke.”

Mongke laughed. A light showed on the sidelines, and the torch hurtled through the air over the targets. Before it fell and a slave covered it, Psin saw the switched target. Mongke had moved it up and turned it sideways. It was no wider than a man’s hand.

“Damn him,” Quyuk said. “He’s too full of tricks.”

Psin shot. He heard the arrow hit something; he hoped it was Mongke, but he knew it was the target. Immediately torches bloomed. Mongke himself ran over, looked, and wheeled.

“Solid hit.”

Kaidu crowed, and Baidar grinned almost triumphantly. Quyuk pursed his lips. “Now. A good shot. I’ll try it. Mongke, move the target again.”

Psin stepped back. It was cold, and he had proved nothing. A slave came over to him with a bowl of kumiss.

“Throw the torch, Mongke.”

Quyuk’s shout echoed off the high wall. The torch swung up, lighting the shooting range, and Buri swore under his breath. Mongke had set the target back where it had been, face forward. There was no problem to it. Quyuk shot twice, swiftly; the first arrow hit the target, and the second went off to the side. Mongke came darting up into their midst.

“Quyuk, you missed me.” Mongke hitched himself back up on the fence rail.

“You’ll insult me once too often,” Quyuk said. “By God, I’ll—”

“Let him alone,” Psin said. “He’s jealous; he can’t shoot.” He gave the kumiss back to the slave. “Now let’s put up the torches again and do this properly.”

 

“When do we start on these great raids?” Mongke said. “Incidentally, Quyuk’s sent us a present.”

Psin watched the slaves pouring hot water into his tub. His head throbbed, and it irritated him that Mongke was apparently suffering nothing from the kumiss and wine and overeating of the night before. “When Tshant gets here.”

“Oh. Well.” Mongke hitched himself up onto a window ledge. The cold air seeped through the shutters, and Psin shivered. “Don’t you want to know about the present?”

The slaves stood back respectfully. Psin climbed up onto the stool and stepped cautiously into the water. He yelped. The hot water cut through layers of grease and dirt; the surface of the water turned scummy. He settled into it, wincing. One slave held out soap.

“Six slave girls,” Mongke said. He sounded miffed. “All rather enchanting.”

“Enjoy them while you’re here,” Psin said. He felt parboiled. He was sure his face was bright red. The soap lacerated his arms and chest. He ducked his head under the water and re-emerged, water streaming into his eyes.

“That must be why you’re such a great fighter,” Mongke said. He crossed his legs. “You divert all your sexual energies into fighting and giving orders. Unless of course you have no sexual energies?”

Psin sputtered at him. Mongke cocked his head.

“I’ve heard old men grow tired of girls. After all, you haven’t paid any attention at all to any of the slaves here.”

Psin scrubbed vigorously. He hated bathing. Quyuk and Mongke last night had forced him into a bet; if he couldn’t make a certain shot he had to bathe. “You stink,” Quyuk had said. “Honest Mongol dirt, I’m sure. We need some honest Mongol dirt here—what a shame if you were to carry it all back with you to the Gobi.” Psin had not made the shot.

“And we’ve provided you with a marvelous new wardrobe,” Mongke said. “Roupen, the Khan’s clothes.”

The slave bowed and left the room. Psin let another slave comb out his hair. “What kind of women?”

“Two Kipchaks, two Russians, one Alan—Heavenly Name. They are savage, the Alans. Quyuk and I… And a girl from the west, from Poland. She’s the tamest of the lot.”

“Poland.”

Psin stood up in the tub. The water swirled and splashed around his knees. A slave threw a robe around his shoulders, and two more slaves rubbed him down briskly with squares of linen. His skin tingled; he hated admitting it was pleasant. Roupen came in with an armful of silk and satin. Psin opened his mouth to order him out again, but Mongke was grinning, and Psin kept quiet. The slaves dried him thoroughly, even between the toes and behind his ears, and dressed him with light, deft hands. The unfamiliar textures caressed him.

“You’ve worn silk underwear half your life,” Mongke said. “This isn’t so different. Those mustaches are very unbecoming. Why don’t you cut them off?”

“No!”

The slaves draped a gold collar around his neck; Roupen smoothed out the medallions. Psin blushed. He could hear Mongke laughing under his breath. The slaves stood back, and Psin waved them away. His belt lay across the table beside Mongke’s knee. When he went to it the rustle of the silks deafened him.

“How can you live dressed like this?”

“It’s possible to learn. You can’t wear that belt, the buckle will wear through your tunic.”

“Not since I started walking have I gone unarmed.” Psin took the dagger in its sheath from the old belt and rammed it through the sash on his new coat.

“Now that you’re fit for noble company,” Mongke said, “come look over these girls. The Alan intrigues me, but I’ll need help.”

“If you need help, you shouldn’t—Yes?”

“Tshant Bahadur has arrived,” the messenger said, from the door. “He’s up at Quyuk Noyon’s house.”

Mongke leapt down from the windowsill. “I’ll go—”

“No.” Psin snatched up his sable cloak and started toward the door. “You are to go inspect your men. They need remounts. That’s a command, Mongke. If you break a command, I can order you back to Karakorum. Go on.”

Mongke’s mouth twitched sulkily. Psin went out of the room.

When he left the house the harsh cold struck him. Before the bath the grease had protected him against it. His horse waited, and he mounted and galloped off to Quyuk’s house. The wind was bitter. In the streets of Bulgar, conquered Bulgars worked and talked and skittered out of his way. His horse spun a rock out from underhoof and it smashed against the wall of a mud hut. He cantered through Quyuk’s gate.

A slave rushed out to take his horse, and the sentry held the door open for him. He went through the empty room where they had dined the night before and into another, smaller room. Quyuk and Buri were talking in low voices at the far end; they looked up when Psin walked in.

“Here he comes,” Quyuk said. “But so splendid.”

“I don’t need comments,” Psin said. He draped his cloak over his arm. “I was told my son is here.”

“And your grandson. I’ve summoned them.”

Buri sat down and thrust his legs out in front of him. “We have a good reason why you can’t take us all raiding. Someone has to command in Bulgar.”

“Oh? Why?”

Buri’s face grew dark red. “Because—who will send out patrols? Keep the peace? Collect taxes?”

“Your underlings will probably go on conducting your business as well without you as they do now.” Psin shook out his sleeves. “However, I doubt they’ll have to suffer through leaderless. Sabotai should be here within a few days.”

Quyuk wandered aimless around the room, running his hand over the wall. He paused at a window. “You’re enjoying being older, wiser, and tougher than the rest of us, aren’t you, Psin?”

“Very much. Buri, you go down and help Mongke find remounts for my troops.”

Buri said, “I want to go drinking.”

“I’m giving you a command.”

Buri stared at him, turned his head to look at Quyuk, and said, “Do you have any orders for me, Quyuk?”

Quyuk smiled. “Go help Mongke.”

“With your permission.” Buri swept his gaze across Psin and started out.

The door opened, and a Mongol servant came into the room. “Noyon, Tshant Bahadur is outside.”

Quyuk turned. Psin nodded to the servant. “Send him in.” He took a chair from the wall and moved it closer to the center of the room. Quyuk frowned thoughtfully. Buri lingered by the door.

Dressed in leather armor and sheepskin boots, his face smeared with grease against the cold, Tshant strode in, closely followed by a small boy. He bowed to Quyuk and nodded to Psin. The small boy emitted a cry of delight, ran over to Psin, and wrapped both arms around Psin’s left leg.

“You came quickly enough,” Quyuk said. Buri was staring at Tshant.

“I was ordered here or I wouldn’t have come at all,” Tshant said. He sat down. “Djela.”

Djela trotted back to Tshant, who picked him up and held him in his lap. Tshant said, “Djela Noyon. Jagatai’s grandson.”

“And mine,” Psin said. “But that’s just an accident. Buri, I thought you were leaving.”

Buri turned and left.

Quyuk said, “Does Mongke know you’re here?”

“He will.” Tshant was unhooking Djela’s coat. He set the boy on the floor and peeled the coat off.

“What have you done with my women?” Psin said.

“They’re coming, with carts. Malekai is escorting them. Since you decided that Sidacai could rule the clan.” Tshant was straightening Djela’s clothes. “I sent Kerulu to Karakorum.”

Quyuk scowled.

Psin watched Djela. He had come well through the long hard trip. Freed from his father’s attentions, he wandered around the room, curious. “You should have sent Djela with her.”

“No,” Tshant said. “Sabotai said you had orders for me.”

“I’ve got two thousand men picked out for you. Take them and ride the steppe west. The steppe starts considerably south of here. In the west there is a river called the Dnepr. Ride it, raid, take prisoners, and come back with useful information.”

Tshant hawked. “I’m to go off into the middle of a country I know nothing about with two thousand men I’ve never seen.”

“Exactly. But it’s a bit of a ride to the steppe, and you’ll have time to get to know your men.”

“I want to rest.”

“You’ll leave either tomorrow or the day after.”

Tshant’s face clenched. “No.”

“I’m not going to argue with you. If you don’t want to go I’ll put Mongke in command and take you with me to Novgorod.” Psin with an effort kept from grimacing.

“No,” Tshant said. “I’m not going to ride reconnaissance while these—” he stabbed his hand at Quyuk—”cattle sit around—”

Quyuk lunged forward, and Tshant whirled, crouched. Djela watched with shining eyes. Psin got up and walked between Tshant and Quyuk.

BOOK: Until the Sun Falls
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