Psin and Mongke reached Bulgar in the forenoon, three days after they left the Volga camp, and in the midafternoon Psin had all the troops camped around the city turned out for inspection. Quyuk, the Kha-Khan’s eldest living son, was in command of Bulgar; he rode beside Psin along the lines of the five tumans drawn up before the walls.

“They’re badly mounted,” Psin said. The Mongols rode native stock, smaller than Psin was used to, and very long in the back. The tumans in their rows stretched out across the plain, countless heads bobbing, countless eyes turned on him and Quyuk. Behind them the iron-blue shoulders of the hills rose against the unclouded sky.

“I think you’ll find them adequate,” Quyuk said carelessly. He pointed to three rows of horsemen grouped around a banner with a two-headed dragon. “Those served under you in Korea, I think.”

“Mongke’s honor guard. Yes.”

The wind was right in Psin’s face, cold and edged with coming snow. A horse neighed and a thousand others answered. “What kind of condition are they in?”

Quyuk shrugged one shoulder. His horse skittered sideways and he clubbed it over the ears with his fist. “They’ve done little fighting since the spring. But they race their horses, and they patrol along the river. That’s where the other two tumans are now.”

Psin glanced at him. Quyuk rode a much better horse than any of the troops’. Psin decided it was a crossbred, half native and half Mongol. He kicked up his horse and cantered along the line, returning the salutes. At the end of the line he wheeled his horse, so that when Quyuk caught up with him they were facing each other, their horses shoulder to shoulder.

“Any of the Altun who wish it may come with me,” Psin said. “When I ride to Novgorod.”

“We are all honored by the invitation, of course,” Quyuk said. He reached for the jug on his saddle.

“Perhaps I’m not making myself clear,” Psin said. “If I take it upon myself to nursemaid a pack of well-bred savages, I expect rather more than being told they are honored.”

Quyuk’s great brows flew together. “No. Perhaps you aren’t making yourself clear, Merkit.”

Psin smiled at him. “You are coming with me, Quyuk. You and your brother and your cousins. All but Batu’s brothers. Is that clear enough?”

“I don’t wish to. Is that also clear?”

“It’s irrelevant, Quyuk.”

“You can’t give me orders.”

“Oh? I think I can. I think I will.”

Quyuk’s hand darted toward his belt, but Psin, expecting it, clamped his fingers around Quyuk’s wrist. Quyuk’s face was bright red and his eyes glittered. He shot a quick glance at the watching army and twisted his arm, but Psin only squeezed harder. He didn’t think Quyuk would cry out. Looking over his shoulder, Psin saw that the men around them noticed nothing. Quyuk strained, and Psin tightened his fingers. He heard a rasp, like a bone grating on another bone, and Quyuk’s lips trembled with pain.

“Do I make myself clear, Quyuk?”

Quyuk’s eyes looked slippery. He blinked at the tears. “Let me go.”

Psin twisted his wrist. Quyuk’s mouth jerked open and he gasped.

“Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes.”

Psin let him go. “Good. I look forward to this raid.” He saluted the armies, and their arms flew up in answer, all across the plain, five tumans of arms. Reining his horse he galloped back toward the city. Temujin was probably shaking in Heaven over this treatment of his grandchildren. But while he rode through the gate he changed his mind. Temujin was probably laughing.

He rode straight to the house that Quyuk had set aside for him and Mongke, put up his horse and went inside. Mongke was in the main room, sprawled naked on a couch, red wine at his elbow and fluffy cakes in a dish on the floor beside him. Kaidu in a silk tunic painted with flowers paced up and down, talking about the fighting against the Kipchaks. Psin recognized him by his resemblance to Batu, who was Kaidu’s grandfather. Psin stopped in the doorway and listened. Kaidu hadn’t heard or seen him, but Mongke’s eyes flickered in Psin’s direction and he smiled.

“Have you met Psin yet?” Mongke asked Kaidu.

“No. But I saw him when he rode out with Quyuk. He’s fat.”

Mongke laughed. “No. Unfortunately. He’s just very big. My father told me once that Psin Khan is the worst general and the best soldier in our armies. Come inside, Psin, and have something to drink.”

Kaidu whirled. Psin went into the room and sat down with his back to the fire. “Tuli always mixed things up. I’m a terrible soldier, but I make a passable general.”

Mongke laughed genially. His eyes were bleary with malice. “How did you find the society of my dear cousin?”

“I cracked his wrist for him, I think.” Psin studied Kaidu. The boy was lanky, but he moved without awkwardness. “All the Altun are to ride out with me to Novgorod.”

“Oh?” Kaidu said. He turned his head toward Mongke. “What does Quyuk say about that?”

Psin pulled off his felt socks. “He’s overcome with joy.”

“With a cracked wrist.” Kaidu laughed. “I’d love to have seen that.”

“I heard you talking about the Kipchaks. Have you fought them recently?”

“No. And I’m sick of being caged up here. Quyuk won’t let me do any of the things the others do to pass the days.”

Psin smiled. Kaidu reminded him of himself at that age. He did like him. “They don’t have their women here, I noticed.”

Mongke shook his head. “We all left our wives in Karakorum to keep watch on Ogodai and Jagatai, and who would bring concubines out here, when there are so many ready to hand? My wife at least is better equipped to handle my uncles than I am, and I know Quyuk’s is.”

“My wife is in the Volga camp,” Kaidu said.

“You live here,” Mongke said. “How do you like that wine, Psin?”

“I’m an old man and my tastes take a while to change.” The wine was strong and sweet. “I think I can learn to enjoy it.” He finished off his third cup.

Mongke smiled. “Well, then. It comes from the land west of Kiev—Hungary. A good reason to go fighting there.” 

“Who needs reasons?” Kaidu said.

Psin laughed and got up. “You’ll excuse me—I’m learning Russian this afternoon.”

“Are you going to Quyuk’s house for dinner?” Mongke said.

“Yes.”

Mongke grinned. “Excellent.”

 

Psin spent all afternoon repeating Russian sentences. Dmitri, his slave, took great pleasure in his new employment; he was rapidly acquiring the mannerisms of the teachers Psin remembered from his childhood. When Psin couldn’t hear the difference between two sounds, Dmitri scowled and clucked his tongue, paced up and down a few strides, and with an air of great patience settled down again to repeat the words, over and over.

“The horse is in the field,” Psin said. “The horse was in the field. The horse will be in the—what is it?”

The slave at the door bowed. “The kumiss, Khan.”

“Bring it in.”

“The horse…” Dmitri said softly.

“The horse gallops on the plain.” The slave set a jug of kumiss on the table. Psin pointed to Dmitri and to the jug, and Dmitri took a cup from a shelf and poured the kumiss. “The horse galloped on the plain. The horse will gallop on the—” Psin took the cup and drained it. “Plain.”

Dmitri muttered something in Russian, and Psin said, “What?”

“I said, Heaven help the Christians before a man who learns so fast.”

“Christians.”

“Yes.” Dmitri put the word through its paces. Psin repeated it after him. Dmitri growled the r in his throat, insistently, and Psin growled back.

“All Merkits talk that way,” Psin said. He rattled off the various forms of the word again, forcing out the r’s. “I have to go. Make yourself useful. Quyuk should have provided me with more slaves. Tomorrow maybe we can talk about something other than horses?”

Dmitri bowed. “The Khan wishes.”

 

The dinner in Quyuk’s house began with a crash; Quyuk’s brother Kadan walked in so blind drunk that he tripped over a chair and fell into a table loaded with hot meat. When they had covered his burns with grease and slapped him almost sober, and two slaves had mopped up the mess on the floor, they all sat down at the great round table and gorged themselves. Quyuk began to bait Kadan, who could barely focus his eyes on his plate. Mongke, sitting beside Kadan, laughed softly with each new jibe, until Kadan in his bear-like rage swung back and forth between them, his mouth working.

Quyuk was keeping his right arm in his lap. Psin lifted his head and called, “Quyuk, does your wrist hurt?”

Mongke howled gaily. “He says he’s sprained it—show them all your strapped wrist, cousin.”

Quyuk used his knife deftly with his left hand. “I’ve tied it to my belt. Now, listen to me, all of you, before you get too drunk. Psin Khan, the Great Merkit, says that we are all to go raiding with him to Novgorod.”

“I’m staying here,” Buri shouted. “Who wants to gallop around in the snow?”

“According to Psin, you do,” Mongke said. “And you’re going to enjoy it just tremendously.” He leered at Psin.

Buri drew one arm back and smashed the elbow into Mongke’s chest. “Be quiet, rat’s meat.” He wheeled on Psin. “Take all the others, but I stay here.”

Mongke was gasping for breath. He reached toward his dagger where it lay on the table. Baidar, who had said nothing at all since coming in, put his hand lightly on Mongke’s shoulder and restrained him.

Kadan struggled his head up. “I’m n-not going either.”

Quyuk’s eyes narrowed. “If I have to go, brother, you go with me.”

Buri looked startled. “You’re going?”

“Yes,” Quyuk said. “Listen to me, all of you.”

They were all snarling at each other; they ignored him. Quyuk leapt up.

“Be quiet when your next Kha-Khan speaks.”

Psin busied himself with bread and gravy. The rising murmur of voices had stopped; nobody said anything, until Kaidu in his high voice began, “They say my grandfather may—”

“Your grandfather is in the Volga camp,” Quyuk said. “My mother is in Karakorum. When my father dies, which please God may be soon—”

Psin said, “Don’t talk so much, Quyuk.”

Kadan and Baidar murmured under their breath. Psin took an apple from the bowl in the middle of the table; he turned slightly, three-quartered away from Quyuk, and cut the apple in half.

“To speak of the death of a Kha-Khan,” Psin said gently, “this is a crime you could die for.”

“What does the Yasa say about men who attack their betters?”

Psin smiled down at the apple and halved one of the pieces in his hand. “A question with some fine points to it.”

“The blood of the Altun may not be spilled,” Baidar said, raising his voice above the mumble of comment around the table. “So says the Yasa.”

“Oh,” Psin said. “I never spilled his blood.” He put a piece of apple in his mouth. The sweetness flowed over his tongue. “The Yasa says that any who disobeys his commander shall die. Is that not so?”

Quyuk said, “You are not our commander.”

“Am I not?”

The muttering had died out. Psin did not look at Quyuk. He could feel the uncertainty around him. Baidar said, “What were the Kha-Khan’s orders to you?”

Psin peeled one of the pieces of his apple. “That I am to fight rebels. All rebels. I am the Kha-Khan’s servant, not a piece of silk to stroke your hands with.” He looked up.

Their faces were all turned toward him. Quyuk and Buri were furious, Mongke sleekly amused, Kaidu and Baidar uneasy; Kadan had passed out. Baidar, leaning his forearms on the table, looked a moment at Quyuk and swung back to Psin.

“You shame us. I’ll go to Novgorod with you.”

“And I,” Kaidu said.

A smile slipped across Mongke’s face, like a cloud over the moon.

Buri shrugged and settled back. Psin watched him from the tail of his eye. Jagatai’s grandson, Buri had by rumor inherited Jagatai’s temper. But Buri was watching Quyuk, expectantly.

Quyuk said, “And if I still refuse?”

Psin shrugged. “I’ll deal with you however I have to.”

Quyuk looked at Buri. Buri hunched his shoulders and looked down at his hands in his lap. Psin stood up and put his dagger on the table. Still looking at Buri, Quyuk grimaced. He said, “Have I any choice? I’ll go with you, Merkit.”

Psin bowed. “You honor me, noyon.”

Quyuk sat down. His flat stare held Psin’s a moment, before he smiled. “Baidar is right. You shame us. I really think you are honored.”

Mongke laughed. “You’ll never learn, Quyuk.”

“Mongke, shut up,” Psin said.

Kaidu was watching him with awe on his face, his mouth half-open. Psin snorted at him. “Eat something, boy. You’ll blow away in the steppe wind if you don’t.”

Buri was slapping Kadan and shaking him, trying to wake him up. Mongke leaned forward. “Throw water over his head. Burn his feet. Hurry up, or we’ll have no good fighting.”

Psin sat down again, and Mongke wheeled toward him. “We wrestle, after dinner. It helps settle the blood.”

“You don’t wrestle,” Psin said.

Mongke grinned. “I watch.”

Buri swore and swung away from Kadan. “He’s out. Psin, do you wrestle?”

“I’m an old man, Buri.”

Mongke, Kaidu and Buri all booed him. Quyuk beamed, delighted. “Still, they say you’re in good condition.”

“I’d make very poor sport. I’m a bad wrestler. Why don’t you shoot?”

“Shoot?” Quyuk looked around. “Where?”

“Out in the compound yard. In the horse pens.”

“But it’s dark out,” Kaidu said.

Psin shrugged one shoulder. “So it is. Haven’t you ever fought in the dark?”

“No.” 

“You will. As long as Kadan can’t wrestle—”

“Yes,” Quyuk said, smoothly. “Let’s shoot. Buri, go have some of the slaves put up targets. Use the horse pens. Psin is right. We’ve been neglecting our education.” Quyuk grinned. “Of course, Psin, you’ll shoot with us.”

“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.

“They aren’t going to sit around. They’re coming with me. You are going to the Dnepr.” He held out a hand to Djela, and the boy ran over, beaming. Psin led him to the door. At it, he said, “Tshant, if you fight me, I’ll make you beg to be let go on long rides through hostile territory.”

Abruptly relaxed and even mild, Tshant was sitting down again. “No need to flex your muscles. I’ll go.” He paused a moment, unsmiling. “What a pleasure to see you again, Father.”

“Of course,” Psin said. He took Djela out.

Tshant listened to the door shut and raised his arms over his head and stretched. Quyuk was looking out the window; he said, “Your relations with him aren’t exactly cordial, are they?”

“We worship one another, but Father blushes so when he has to be affectionate.”

Quyuk snorted.

“Your relations with your father aren’t ideal, I’ve heard.”

“The Kha-Khan hates me. He’s afraid of me.” Quyuk moved back across the room. His loose houseshoes scuffed on the plank floor. “I don’t like him either.”

“Don’t look to me for help. Jagatai and Ogodai are teaching your nephew to be Khan. I’m committed to that.”

“He’s a handsome boy, your son.”

“My father says he looks like your grandfather. You know I’m feuding with Mongke.”

Quyuk nodded.

“I don’t want fights with all my wife’s cousins. While I’m with this army, I’ll support you against my father if you keep the others out of my quarrel with Mongke.”

Quyuk’s eyes rested on him. He crossed his arms over his chest; one hand moved nervously up and down the other arm. His right wrist wore a bandage. He said, “You’re blunt.”

Tshant nodded.

“Very well. I’ll agree to it. But you might not kill Mongke, you know.”

“I won’t.” Tshant smiled. “I only mean to hurt him a little.”

Quyuk’s mouth twisted. “You remind me of your father.”

“Oh?” Tshant looked at the bandage, and Quyuk nodded.

Tshant rose; he thought of what he would have to do before he could leave on his raid. “Where has my father taken my son?”

“He’s living in the city. Take the street before the gate here, ride down three streets, and turn north. Fifth house from the end. Mongke is there, too.”

“How convenient.” Tshant gathered up Djela’s things and went to the door.

Quyuk said, “Tshant. From what I just saw, against your father you’ll be very little help.”

Tshant smiled. “That’s right.” He opened the door and went out.

 

Psin found Mongke still in the house, only half-dressed, and eating fruit steeped in wine. He put Djela to one side and said, “I told you to go to the camp.”

“I know. But my horses are all lame. A pity.”

“Take one of mine.”

“Oh, well.” Mongke got up and strolled leisurely around, dressing. “You don’t mind if I—”

“Yes. I do. Move.”

Mongke drew his dagger and looked at the blade. Djela said, “Is that the man my father hates?”

“I am,” Mongke said. He put up the dagger and went to the door, just fast enough so that Psin could not shout at him. Psin’s palms were sweating. He wanted to throw Mongke out bodily. He sent a slave to saddle a horse; Mongke pretended to have lost a boot and poked around looking for it.

“Djela,” Psin said. “Go down the corridor to the room at the end. Ask for Dmitri. He’ll take you around the city.”

“But I want to stay here. I want to tell you about our ride. It was snowy and we found—”

“Later.” Psin ruffled the boy’s hair. “I have to talk to your father. We’ll have plenty of talking later. I have some things to tell you, too.”

“Good.”

“Say the name again.”

“Dmitri. I remember.” Djela ran out.

Mongke looked disconsolate; he was fully dressed and there had been no sound of a horse in the courtyard. He picked up his bow and left. Psin sat down, rubbing his chin. A slave girl came in with red wine and poured it for him.

A horse clattered in the courtyard. Psin bounded up, but it was only Mongke leaving. He turned away from the window, surprised that he was so tense. The girl smiled at him, and he gestured to her to leave.

Through the window he could see all but one corner of the courtyard. The snow, swept off by slaves, lay in a dirty heap against the southern wall. Dmitri and Djela came out of a door down the wall and walked toward the stable; Djela was talking, his bright face lifted toward the slave’s. Psin heard something about snow and frozen men.

Tshant rode through the gate, dismounted, and gave Djela his coat. Djela tried to push it away; he said it was warm, too warm for a coat, he would run to keep warm, did he have to wear it? He had to wear it. Tshant said something to Dmitri, who bowed, and gave his reins to another slave. Psin pushed away from the window. He could feel the tension growing in his back and shoulders, the resistance and the strength to fight Tshant. Tshant, like them all, would have him down and beaten if he stopped shoving long enough for them to draw a free breath. He settled himself in a chair, his wine cup on the floor beside him.

Tshant came in. “Good morning, Father. We had a lovely trip out from the Lake.”

“Was the snow bad?”

“Terrible.”

“I suppose everyone’s all right, or you would have told me. I wish you’d brought my dun horse with you.”

“Malekai will bring him. He would have slowed me down.” Tshant stripped off coat, gloves, hat, belt. “Tell me about Russia.”

“I wish I knew. I’m here to do reconnaissance. All I know is that the steppe runs west at least as far as the river I told you about. The steppe begins a day’s ride south of here, and the forest stretches on way north of where we’ll be going.”

“Where is Mongke?”

“He’s not here. You can fight with him when I’m done with you.”

“Who are our enemies? Cities or tribes?”

“Cities. I suppose many of them are like Bulgar. Did you look at the Volga camp? Batu built it on a Russian plan, in part.”

“I spent the night, no more.”

“You came faster than we did. I think Sabotai has had more trouble with the Altun than with enemies.”

“But you love making men do what they don’t want,” Tshant said softly. “I told Quyuk I’d support him against you if he stays out of my fight with Mongke.”

“Your loyalty makes me weep with pride.”

“What use am I against you?”

“None. How is Artai?”

“Very well. Happy. She’s glad you sent for her.”

“And Chan?”

“Furious. She’s done nothing but complain about the whole trip. Now that she’s sure nothing she says will change things.”

Psin grunted. He could hear Chan’s voice in his mind, light and pure as porcelain, full of careless reproach. He shifted in the chair; even thinking about her kindled him.

“She’ll cause you trouble,” Tshant said. “My cousins like women, I’m told.”

“I’ll tend to Chan.”

Tshant scratched his nose, smiling. “I’m sure you will.”

“Your men are camped in the point of land where the rivers meet. You’ll have trouble finding remounts.”

“I’ll need a Russian-speaking slave.”

“Your thousand-commanders will get you one.”

“Good. I’m taking Djela.”

“I think you’re a fool.”

“Nonetheless. You took me fighting when I was his age.”

Psin stood up. “I think I was a fool. I took Tulugai and Kinsit along with me to Khwaresm. Where are they now?”

“They did not die in Khwaresm.”

“Still.” Psin turned his back on Tshant. He hadn’t thought of Tulugai and Kinsit for some while. They had died in China. “They learned too young not to be afraid. Fear keeps a man alive, I think. In ways.”

“The ways aren’t worthy of us. They were in the Kha-Khan’s service. They could expect to die.”

Psin clenched his teeth. Heat in waves flowed over him. He kept still, staring, waiting for Tshant to say one thing more. It occurred to him that he mightn’t be so angry if he had thought more often of his dead sons. “When you lose one, you’ll know better than that.”

Tshant’s chair scraped against the floor. Psin could hear him stand up.

“I lost a son and a daughter before they could draw breath,” Tshant said. His voice came from near the door. “I don’t mean to lose this one. Djela is mine, and I’ll do what I think I should with him.”

The door slammed. Psin whirled. He was alone in the room. His blood heated, and he took a step toward the door. Through the window he heard a horse’s hoofs pounding frantically in the courtyard.

Tulugai and Kinsit had looked like him: big, stocky, awkward in their youth. When they had talked to him their respect had filled him up with satisfaction. They had never fought him. He turned and kicked the chair across the room.

 

He kept Tshant and Mongke away from each other easily enough; their troops were camped on opposite sides of the city. Mongke reported that he would be able to leave the next morning. Tshant’s men had trouble getting horses and Psin didn’t think they would leave Bulgar before he himself did.

Djela and Psin spent most of the afternoon with Dmitri, learning Russian. Djela was full of excited stories about his ride. He said, “And I’m going raiding with Ada, too. He said so.”

Dmitri frowned. “You’re young, noyon.”

“Not so young. Am I, Grandfather?”

“Young enough.”

“Can Dmitri go with me?”

“No. Dmitri’s going with me to Novgorod.”

From the tail of his eye Psin saw Dmitri’s small start and smiled. “Where are you from, Dmitri?”

Dmitri said, “Riazan, my Khan.”

Psin looked away from him and pretended to listen to Djela. Dmitri was from the north, somewhere, but from what city he had never said. Riazan wasn’t in the north.

That night Mongke of his own accord ate with his troops. Djela, Tshant, Kaidu and Psin ate in Psin’s house.

“They will know me before we reach the Dnepr,” Tshant said, when Psin asked about his men. “They’re good enough, but they need a strong hand.”

“Take Kaidu with you,” Psin said. “You might find him useful.”

Kaidu exhaled hard, as if his breath had been pent up. His eyes burnt. “Thank you. I want to go.”

Djela looked tired; he leaned his head on Tshant’s chest and shut his eyes. Tshant put one arm around him. Psin thought of saying something, but Tshant’s heavy eyes looked too much as if he expected it. “You know what I want you to do,” Psin said. He signed to Dmitri, who was pouring the wine.

“Yes,” Tshant said. “You want to know the country as well as a man born to it, and all without stepping your horse’s hoof on it yourself.” He reached for his cup. “I’ll do it. I may have trouble, with the horses in the condition they’re in.”

“Are they unsound, or just—”

Tshant snorted. “Unsound? A horse we’d slaughter for meat would look good next to these. Foundered. Windbroken. Bad backs. I saw one horse out in the remount herd urinate pure blood —bad kidneys. Mange. I could have pulled the winter coat off one of those nags with my hands. Bowed tendons, active splints, running sores. Half of them are so underweight I’d give them two years on pasture before I tried to ride one.”

Psin chewed his mustaches. Of all the armies, Tshant’s had the farthest to ride. “The Altun have private herds, off near the hills. Take them. They’re crossbreds and they’re bigger than these.”

Kaidu said, “But those are our horses.”

“They’ll carry your men. Tshant, take them.”

“Quyuk won’t like it.”

Tshant laughed. “Quyuk hasn’t liked anything much for the past few days, I understand.” He dragged Djela into his lap, and the child murmured in his sleep. “I’ll take his horses first.”

 

Psin had intended the Altun herds for his own remounts. The next day, after Mongke left Bulgar with a great thundering of drums, he rode out and told his thousand-commanders to see that each of the men he would take to Novgorod had at least one sound horse to ride. Both thousand-commanders looked skeptical.

“We’ll steal others on the way, if we can,” Psin said. “Have you seen Quyuk Noyon? “

One of them grinned. “The word is that he’s drunk. Kadan Noyon is over across the camp.”

“Ah?” Psin turned his horse and rode over east.

Kadan was talking to the commander of his personal tuman. When Psin rode up they both rose. Psin dismounted. He could hardly believe that Kadan was sober; he’d never seen him less than stumbling drunk. Kadan said, “What do you think of our camp, Khan?”

“Don’t remind me.” The camp was filthy and ill-kept. “We’re leaving tomorrow, you know.”

“I know.”

Psin looked around, at the camp. “When Sabotai gets here he’ll tend to this. He’ll probably burn it and start out fresh.”

“It was bad when we got here, Khan.” Kadan smiled apologetically.

“You should have cleaned it up, instead of letting it get worse.”

“Quyuk said it was too much trouble.”

“Quyuk had better learn that taking trouble is easier than taking Sabotai or me.” Psin sat down and pulled off his hat. Meat was cooking in a covered pot, and his mouth watered at the scent.

“Aren’t you going to remark that I’m sober?” Kadan said.

“It’s the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen. Why?”

Kadan grinned. “Because I’m not as clever as Quyuk. For me, it’s easier to do things properly the first time. I’ll be no hindrance to you, Khan. In fact, I intend to enjoy seeing my brother take orders for once.”

“I don’t need help from you.”

Kadan huffed; it was a way of laughing without opening his mouth. “You’ll get none. I’m like Mongke. I’ll sit back and watch and in the end… well. Quyuk has a long unsettled debt with me.

Psin spat and turned to his horse. Kadan was staring into the cookfire, smiling. Psin put one foot in his stirrup and swung up. “Kadan.”

Kadan looked up.

“While I command, nobody quarrels. If you fight Quyuk, you fight me. Understand?”

He turned his horse and cantered off without an answer.