“Well?” Tshant said.

Psin nodded. “I saw enough. Where is Sabotai? I didn’t see his banner, when I came through the camp.”

“He’s gone back to the Volga camp until the ice freezes. It’s been quiet. We had dispatches from Karakorum, the usual thing. Everyone is well. Apparently they hadn’t gotten Batu’s letter about Quyuk when they sent them.” Tshant spat. “He’s driving us all wild.”

Psin dismounted, groaning. He did not want to go on to the Volga camp, but if Sabotai was there… “Who, Batu or Quyuk?”

“Quyuk.”

Djela galloped up, whooping, and flung himself out of the saddle. “Grandfather. I knew you’d be back soon. How was Hungary? How do you like my new horse?”

“He looks fast.” Psin glanced at the tall black horse and back to Djela. “God’s name. Have you grown, or have I shrunk?”

Djela grinned. “I’ve grown. Ada says I’m eating him poor.”

Tshant said, “He eats twice as much as I do. Stay here awhile.”

“No. I have to find Sabotai.”

“Well, you’ll stay the night, at least. Go see Quyuk. That’s his yurt. He’ll be there.”

“Take my horses.”

Psin went to Quyuk’s yurt and called through the door. Quyuk’s voice came back, rough-edged: “Come in.”

The yurt was dim and smelled of sweet hemp. The fire cast a red glow over the gold and brocade cushions. Against the wall to the left, Kadan sat, hunched over, his eyes on his brother. Quyuk was pacing up and down the other side of the room.

“And if you will not,” Quyuk said gently to Kadan. “If you will not—Psin. How pleasant. You look disgustingly well. Sit.”

Psin sank down on his heels just inside the door. “If he will not what?”

Kadan said, “The self-proclaimed Successor wants allies against Batu.”

“Oh. Are you still at that?”

“Yes. I’ll still be at it the day before Batu dies.”

“God above. Remind me not to run foul of you. You’re like a jackal with a skullbone worrying out the brains. It must be hard work to be always angry; why don’t you try being sweet and calm, just for the change?”

Quyuk’s ears grew red, and he glared. Psin laughed.

“You might find it restful. Stop looking ugly. I’m not going to be here long enough for you to work any revenge. I hear your father’s well again. Perhaps you’d better court us, instead of bullying everybody you know.”

He got up, nodded to Kadan, and went out into the cool autumn sunlight again. He heard Kadan laugh and Quyuk swear. For a moment he wished he had let Quyuk alone. He glanced back; Kadan was coming jauntily out of the yurt. He waved, and Psin saw the flash of his teeth when he smiled. He waved back. In a way, it made him angry to see ordinary men like Kadan laughing in Quyuk’s face.

 

He spent the night in Tshant’s yurt and rode on the next morning. The clear chill was turning into the bone-deep cold of the coming winter. When he left the camp, frost lay thick over the dry grass, heavy enough that the horses left sharp prints in it. Tshant had said that the road to the Volga camp was as safe as the streets of Karakorum; Psin rode alone.

He was beginning to feel all the hard riding. His bones grated against one another, and in the cold mornings his muscles twinged. The horses trotted quickly over the frozen ground. The dun horse was hard as horn from exercise and jogged up even with the horse Psin rode. On his dark winter coat the line down his back was blurred.

Tshant had said that now they had more than enough horses to mount each tuman on its own color. Blacks, bays, duns, grays. He reined up on a ridge to let the horses blow, and the dun immediately ducked its head and snatched a mouthful of the crisp brown grass. Quyuk had gotten one of the rare spotted horses from the east; his wife Oghul Ghaimish had sent it to him for a gift. The horse was dark grey, except for the white blanket across its hips covered with big grey spots.

“Skittish,” Tshant had said. “Especially when the light’s bad.”

Psin had never seen a spotted horse that didn’t have bad eyes. Their lashes were sparse and pale. He wondered why he was lonely, out there on the steppe.

He spent the night at the new waystation, exchanged one of his remounts that had gone lame, and left before dawn. When he went back to the Dnepr from the Volga camp he would take his sable cloak. The horses trotted along around him, their round dark eyes on the eastern sky.

That there should be many Kha-Khans made no sense. There was only one God; there could be only one Kha-Khan. For a moment he was frightened; he could see order in the world, and there should be no order, because all the world did not accept the Kha-Khan. He thought, I am guilty. He thought, if I can believe that, I am safe.

Broken light spilled up over the horizon, grey, uneasy. The air turned pale. Low clouds rolled back from the east, and he heard the growl of thunder. The sun grew steadily stronger. He dismounted and paid his homage to it, and remounted. Now he could see the slopes and heights of the heaped clouds. Lightning shimmered there, green-white.

But it was noon before the storm reached him. He slid down from his saddle and stood in the midst of his horses, the reins and leadrope in his fists, while the heavy rain smashed down on him and the wind roared past. He looked up at the sky, letting the rain hammer his face, into the curling clouds. Lord God, Tengri the Eternal Sky. He remembered what the knight Arnulf had said of God’s purpose.

Why us, then? There were other tribes, thousands of them. Everywhere we go we fight a tribe that has been fighting another tribe for generations, east, west, north, south, that we shall have to fight. Each tribe had its own circle of wars, enemies, friends, land to graze, hills to hunt in, forests for hiding: each of them thought its small circle the center of God’s purpose and was surprised to find things happened, far away, beyond their knowledge, that mattered more to them than the quiet events within their own horizons. So far west, who had marked the election of Temujin Kha-Khan?

The storm passed, and he mounted and rode on. The rainwater ran off across the hard plain, pooling in the hollows. He passed a puddle and looked down, and saw reflected in it the grey-black clouds and a streamer of blue sky. Through it, the sun poured, and through it, he could see the white tops of the clouds that looked so black underneath.

The Mongols had cut across the circles, opening them up into one another like a river running from sea to sea. Temujin had said that God meant them to rule. To end the circles, to make all people Mongol. He, who had been born a Merkit, was one no longer, even though he called himself one and the Altun used it to insult him. He thought of the Emperor in the west, who had known without knowing Psin what he would say to the knight’s words.

Under the clearing skies, he rode on, unsure.

 

When he reached the Volga camp, he went first to the house where Artai and Chan stayed. The slave that took his horse looked grim. He went on into the garden and saw the fires there, tended by slaves, in front of the side door. Before each fire a lance stood tip down in the dirt. His heart contracted, and he almost ran to the main door and threw it open. The Kipchak woman was there, her hands in her lap, and she had been crying.

“Who is it?” he said.

The Kipchak shook her head. She rose and went off. Psin filled his lungs to yell at her, but before he could she reappeared with Artai.

“What’s wrong?” he said. “Is it Chan? The fires—”

“Ana,” Artai said. She put her arms around him, less ardently than usual. “She’s had the baby, and she’s dying.”

The Kipchak sank down in her chair again. One hand groped for her mending. Artai said, “She’s calling for Tshant. He didn’t come with you, did he.”

He shook his head. “He doesn’t know.”

“I sent a message when the baby was born. Six days ago, with dispatches from Karakorum. They went by an arrow messenger. He knows.” She pulled at him, and he went after her down the hall. Her shoulders looked rigid.

“He didn’t know when I left there.” But he must have.

She glanced at him; her face was locked up against him. She jabbed her chin at the door. He hesitated. If Ana died while he was in the house he would be impure for months. Artai glanced at him again, her eyes bright and cold. He went into the room.

Ana lay wrapped in furs, her face whiter than the white bearskin beneath her. Psin strained his ears, but he could hear no baby crying, anywhere. He sank down beside the couch and touched Ana’s face. The skin was rough and parched.

Her eyelids fluttered. “Is it you?” Her voice was so weak that he had to put his ear almost against her lips to hear. “Is it you?”

“Yes,” he said.

Her mouth trembled. She dragged one hand free and put it on his. “I knew you would come.”

He took hold of her hand. Her breathing was shallow, and every few breaths she would try to take in more air, but her throat would catch and sigh. He turned and saw Artai and Chan there in the doorway.

“I’ll be right back,” he said. “Don’t worry.” He put her hand back under the furs and went to the door.

Chan was watching him distantly. He thrust them both into the hall and whispered, “Get out of this house. And take all the slaves with you. Now. Do you hear me?”

Artai said, “Someone has to—”

“I will. Go. Now.”

They went off down the hall. He turned back into the room, frowning. He heard the pale girl on the couch murmur, but he couldn’t hear the words. He went over and sat down next to her.

“I knew you would come,” she said.

He smoothed the hair back from her forehead, said something reassuring, and wondered how he was going to communicate with Sabotai when he was under ban. He felt her fingers, dry as spider webs, touch his, and he held her hand. Her breathing grew fainter with each breath. He was relieved she thought he was Tshant.

“The baby,” she said. She tried to open her eyes. He bent to hear, but she said nothing more. Her lips parted slightly. He thought, I should have gotten here tomorrow. She lay still, but she wasn’t dead. He could feel the tiny wobbling beat in her wrist.

He was small and mean. She wasn’t dying to inconvenience him. He remembered how she had tended him at Susdal, a great inert sick heap she couldn’t have moved by herself, with an oozing wound and a flighty stomach, and how she had wept when Susdal burned. He started to speak to her, but before he could call up the words she was dead.

He sat still, hoping for the pulse to come back. Beside her dead cheek the fur shone glossy and rich. Finally he tucked the robes up over her and went out.

The house was empty. In the garden, the household stood, and the shaman was sitting on the bench beside the fires. Psin went out the side door, walking between the two fires, and the shaman called out, “Khan, you are unclean, from now until the ninth new moon.”

He nodded. Artai came over to him, and he stepped to one side of the fires.

“What will you do?” she said.

He shrugged. “The law says I can’t go into a chief’s camp, that’s all. I’ll have to meet Sabotai in the open air.”

“The baby is a boy. He’s healthy, for now. Tshant should have come.”

“He will, probably.”

“He will not. We’ll have a message that he is busy. He isn’t busy. What was she to him? He’ll be glad she’s out of his way.”

Psin frowned at her, but she took him by the arm; her fingers dug into his forearm muscles. “Won’t he? It will be easier to explain a baby to Kerulu than a new woman.”

Her face was tight, graven into angles like a stone head. He said, “You blame him too much.”

“Blame him? He took her. He gave her the baby. You—Did you think she thought you were he?”

“Of course she did.”

“She knew who you were. She wanted you to come, more than Tshant. She never said so, but we understood. Now you’re preening yourself because you were generous enough to risk a ban that Sabotai will surely set aside, and you sent us away because you knew that we could be with you if you were under ban, but you couldn’t have us if we were.”

“What’s wrong?” he said. “You’re shaking.”

“You’re wrong. You and Tshant. She’s better off dead. You ruined her, you and Tshant.”

“We didn’t—”

“She was happier when she was a slave. At least she could still be a Russian. Go away. I’m angry with you.”

He stared at her. Her face was full of implacable energy. He looked over her head at Chan, standing a little apart from the slaves, shivering with cold. Expressionless, she stared back. After a moment he put his hand on the back of Artai’s head and drew her gently against him, and with her face against his coat she cried.

 

After a lot of confusion and the running of slaves back and forth, Psin met Sabotai in the courtyard of Batu’s palace. Sabotai had a fur robe around him against the light cold, and a slave came after him with a chair. He looked furious.

“How did you manage to get yourself mixed up in this? Dead women—”

“Talk to Batu’s shaman. Maybe he’ll lift it.”

“I already have. He says he could not purify the Kha-Khan himself from the dead ban. If you’d spat out gift meat or defiled running water—Never mind. It’s all right. You’ll have to pitch your yurt apart from everyone else’s, in camps, but the shaman says that clean persons can come to you, if they pass between fires going away. We’ll have to hold our councils in your yurt. What did you see in Hungary?”

Psin took the King’s messages from his coat and handed them to Sabotai. “The usual. He will not return the Kipchak refugees. Kotian Khan lives in high regard just outside their capital. Rijart jabbered with him about the envoys they killed, that time, but the King said they were spies.”

“Oh. Was Rijart useful?”

“Moderately.” Psin told him about the Teutonic knight. “But that might have been for the good. What did he mean, ‘I think I know enough about birds of prey to serve as falconer to the Kha- Khan?’”

Sabotai shrugged one shoulder. “What do you think?”

“I think it was a most courteous way of telling us we could boil the Kha-Khan and eat him, for all the Emperor cares.”

“So do I. This one sounds more interesting than most of them. What else?”

“You know I talked to merchants and such before I left. All I saw confirms what they said. There are many tribes, and they’re all at each other’s throats. The way the Hungarians talk of the Germans, Rijart says, would make you wonder why there are any Germans left. And the Germans hate the Franks—”

“I thought the Franks were all the people of Europe.”

“So did I, but it seems they’re just one tribe. And the Franks hate the Englanders—Rijart’s people. The Hungarian King is kin to the noyons north of him, the Poles, and south of him—the Bohemians. And to the Moravians and a lot of others. They took us in through a pass I’m sure we can force, if we come at it properly, They’ve got the pass garrisoned. We could send men south, between the mountains and the sea, through a river basin that runs east to west. North is only marsh and plain.”

“The knights. How do they fight?”

“Like little fortresses. I would not like to face one at close quarters. But kill their horses and they’d be helpless.” He told Sabotai about the crossbows. Sabotai snorted. “I think he’s probably right,” Psin said. “Hungary is the last of the flat ground; beyond that we have forest to fight in.”

“Yes. Are their cities like the Russians’?”

“Stone walls, huge gates. The cities themselves aren’t so defensible. Their stone towers would be impossible to storm.”

Sabotai made a face. “Oh, my.”

“I doubt they would wait to be besieged. I think we can bring them out onto ground of our own choosing easily enough. They’re wild to show how well they fight. And as long as we have room to run from them we can beat them.”

“This Emperor. He’ll defend his people, won’t he?”

“No. He’s fighting their head priest. Don’t ask me how a head priest can withstand a kha-khan long enough to make it a war, but apparently this one can. The Emperor’s son is the King of the Germans, but the Hungarian King owes him homage and Rijart says the usual run of things there is to let a defiant man get beaten so he’ll have to crawl to the others for help,”

“Supplies?”

“We can winter and summer very well in Hungary. In the north they say the springs are very wet, but the foraging shouldn’t be too bad. West of Hungary…” He shrugged.

“Forests.”

“Forests, hills, rivers, more forest. And a lot of cities. I don’t know. We could have trouble. We would have to lay siege to the cities.”

“What did the river look like, when you passed Kiev?”

“It’s not frozen yet. Soon.”

Sabotai grunted and gnawed his lip. “Interesting. Interesting. We have fifteen full strength tumans, of which six are at least half heavy cavalry. The Kipchaks made splendid heavy cavalry. We gave them Russian swords. They think they’re finer than khans. How are your relations with your son?”

“Good. Since the fight.”

“He’s penitent, he thinks he almost killed you. He’ll forget, soon enough.”

“Quyuk is badgering everybody.”

“I know. Batu asked the Kha-Khan to recall him. Jagatai sent you a message. Did you hear of it?”

“No.”

“You’re no longer Quyuk’s nursemaid. He wants your opinion of Kadan.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Siremon is less than they’d hoped. The Kha-Khan is strong but he’s not long this side of the grave. Would Kadan make a good Kha-Khan?”

Psin laughed. “People might have trouble saying it.”

“I’m beginning to think Quyuk is the only one of them who can be elected.”

Psin studied his face. Sabotai cocked one eyebrow. Finally Psin nodded. “I know what you mean. He has the… way about him.”

“Well. We’ll see what happens. Are you fit? Are you tired? We’ll go west tomorrow.”

“Slowly.”

“Yes.” Sabotai laughed. “Stay in Tshant’s house tonight. They won’t have your goods purified until tomorrow anyway.” He rose and slapped Psin on the shoulder. “I’m glad you’re back. Just don’t get mixed up with any more dying women.” 

 

“Call him Tulugai,” Psin said.

Artai nodded. The slaves had brought in what they would need while they stayed here, and the little room was packed high with chests and boxes. Dmitri was carrying the child around in a sling.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” Artai said.

“You did. You were probably right, too.” He hooked his elbows over the windowsill. The odor of meat stewing drifted in from the other room, where Chan’s slaves were cooking dinner. He had written Jagatai about Kadan; he had given the shaman the gift for purifying the house.

“No,” Artai said. “She was just a silly girl who didn’t understand too many things.”

“Everything that happened to her happened to Chan,” he said. He remembered Ana’s soft voice, telling him she wanted to stay in his house.

Chan looked in the door. “What is he saying about me?”

“That you are like Ana.”

Chan’s brows drew down perfectly straight. She stared at Psin until he had to grin at her, moved inside the room, and sat down with her hands in her sleeves. “Bring me something to drink,” she said to him.

Psin called to Dmitri, in the next room. Artai said, “Tell me again that she is like Ana.”

“I never said—”

Dmitri came in with three bowls and a sack of kumiss. He had the child tucked up neatly in the crook of one arm. Psin took the baby and held it while Dmitri poured kumiss for them all. Chan picked up her bowl.

“I am not like her,” she said.

“Where are we going to sleep?” Artai said. “This house is so crowded, there are no empty couches.”

“Here,” Psin said. “What, do you need more room to stretch out?”

“Hunh,” Artai said. She picked up her bag of things to be mended, pulled out a sock, and inspected it closely. Psin took the baby into the kitchen; Dmitri followed him.

“Khan,” Dmitri said.

Psin turned. The baby squirmed in his arms, and he handed it to a woman.

Dmitri fidgeted a moment. “Ana was Christian, Khan. She should have a Christian burial.”

Psin nodded. “I’ve seen to that.”

“Oh. I…” Dmitri glanced around and switched abruptly into Russian. “May I go, when they bury her? And pray for her.”

“You were never such friends with her.”

“No. But she was Russian, like me. And…”

Psin waited for him to go on, but Dmitri only reddened, and Psin said, “What?”

“I think maybe we shared the same sin.” Dmitri thrust his hands into his belt. “We shouldn’t have submitted to you, but we did. Maybe if I pray for her, she will pray for me.”

“She’s dead.”

“If she is in Heaven, she will pray for me.”

Psin sighed. “Of course you can go.”

“Thank you. I knew you would let me.”

“You shouldn’t think it’s wrong to submit to us. It’s wrong not to.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Thank you.”

Dmitri bowed and went off. Psin chewed his mustaches. Of all the people they had conquered he would have thought Dmitri the happiest. Dmitri had become so much a part of his household that Psin had almost forgot he was Russian. But now Dmitri said he was unhappy over it. He shook his head and went back to the room where Artai and Chan sat.

 

Tshant said, “How in God’s name do you think you’re going to do anything out here?” He flung his arms wide, and his eyes blazed. Beside him, Djela looked up in awe.

“Sit down,” Psin said. “Stop yelling. By the Yasa I am not permitted to live in the camp, but there’s no law against people coming out here.”

“A day’s ride from the center of the camp,” Tshant said. “We all live in the center of the camp—Quyuk, Mongke, everybody. You could have leapt out the window, couldn’t you? Taken the damned girl out into the garden to die? “

“The Yasa says—”

“The Yasa says that anyone under the same roof when someone dies is unclean. In the garden you wouldn’t have been under any roof at all. Except the sky. And that would make us all unclean.”

“Ada—”

“Sit down. Stay out of my way.”

Djela went over to sit next to Psin, and Tshant paced up and down. “I thought perhaps I could depend on my own father to—”

“What’s going on?”

“If you were capable, I’d say that you should wait and see.” Tshant sank down on his heels. “I’m fighting Quyuk.”

“You’re fighting Quyuk.”

“Yes. I don’t know why. I don’t know when it started. Since you came through here, from Hungary.”

“How?”

Tshant shrugged. “Whenever we’re all together, he manages to set me up against him. Anything I say he denies, everything he says I have to deny. Then he chops at me, so that all the others have to admit that I’m wrong.”

Psin wondered quickly if Tshant were imagining all this. He went to the masterpole and took down the skin hanging there and poured kumiss. Djela said, “Maybe we can live out here with Grandfather.”

“Be quiet,” Tshant said.

Psin handed him one of the bowls, gave another to Djela, and sat down again with the third in his hands. “When the fighting starts again there won’t be time for—”

Tshant’s head jerked toward the door. “Horses coming.”

“Djela, go see who they are.”

Djela got up. Through the open yurt door they could hear the frantic beating of several horses’ hoofs, and somebody called out sharply—Mongke. Psin rose.

“It’s my cousins,” Djela called. He leaned out the door. “Have you been hunting? What are you doing out here?”

Quyuk, bending to get through the door, swept Djela up and set him down again to one side. “We came to see your illustrious ancestor.” He was drunk. Behind him, crowding into the yurt, Buri, Kadan, Mongke and Kaidu were all drunk as well. They bellowed and clapped Psin on the back and made remarks about people who stayed around when other people were known to be dying; Buri with a skin of wine under one arm went around filling cups for them all. Tshant sat like a rock in the middle of a rushing stream.

“In-law,” Buri cried, and embraced Tshant noisily. “Dear husband of my father’s sister, glory of our clan.” Tshant shoved him hard, and Buri tripped backward and fell.

Quyuk was smiling with one side of his mouth. He presented his cap to Psin and drank. “How can we express the joy of having you back with us, Khan? Especially since you know and will surely tell us what Sabotai means to do, after we hold Kiev. Where do we go next, hmmmm?”

“You’ll hear at the kuriltai,” Tshant said.

Kadan slumped down to sit with his back against Psin’s couch. “We are the kuriltai, we here.” He held out his cup to Buri to refill.

“With the exception of Sabotai, Batu, Batu’s brothers, and the tuman commanders,” Psin said, “you are the kuriltai.”

“We.” Quyuk draped one arm across Psin’s shoulders and squeezed. His hand flopped beside Psin’s cheek. “We. You are part of us, Psin. Altun Uruk.”

Kadan cheered, and the rest joined in. Djela said, “So am I. So am I.”

“Right,” Kadan said, and dragged the boy into his lap. Tshant stiffened.

“So,” Quyuk said. He breathed in Psin’s face. “Tell us what will be said at the kuriltai.”

Psin looked past Buri, toward the door. Mongke was rolling his cup gently between his palms. For once he was not smiling. He looked steadily at Psin; Psin cocked his eyebrows. Mongke said nothing, did nothing, only stared back.

“No,” Psin said.

“No?” Quyuk squeezed the arm that lay around Psin’s neck. “No what?”

“I will not tell you what Sabotai will say at the kuriltai.”

“Ooooh.”

Buri and Kadan growled and made faces. Psin thought them so drunk they didn’t understand anything said. Quyuk’s arm was tight around his neck.

“Tshant,” Quyuk said. “Tell him to tell us.”

“No,” Tshant said.

“What a family this is. They all say no. Kadan.”

Kadan was rocking back and forth, sightless, murmuring to himself. His arms lay loose over Djela’s shoulders. Djela looked as if he were getting ready to bolt.

“Kadan. Hey. Brother. Listen to me.” 

“Uh?”

“They say no, Kadan.”

Buri roared. Behind him Mongke’s face was blank, but whenever Psin looked over, Mongke was staring straight back at him. Kaidu had said nothing. His eyes shifted from Quyuk to Psin to Tshant and back to Psin again.

Kadan had wrapped his arms around Djela and was rocking him. “They can’t say no. Not to us.”

Tshant put one hand on the ground, ready to spring up, but Psin shook his head at him. He thought Kadan didn’t know what he was doing. Djela’s face was white, and he was looking beseechingly at Tshant.

Quyuk said, “Tell us. What harm will it do?”

“No harm,” Psin said.

Kaidu’s voice rose, higher than usual. “Then tell us.”

“No.”

Djela said, “Ada, make him let me go.”

Psin spun around. “Kadan.”

Kadan’s face turned toward him, and his arms loosened. Djela slid free and ran to Tshant.

Quyuk said, “Tshant, ask if he will tell you, when we have gone.”

“He won’t,” Tshant said. He had Djela by the arm, and he made him sit down.

“Ask him.”

“No.”

“Is that all you two can say? It must be the Merkit blood. They do say that the first Merkit was a snake hatched in the dung heap of—”

Tshant leapt for him, hauled him up onto his feet, and hit Quyuk in the face. Quyuk’s head snapped back, but Tshant still held him by the front of his tunic. Tshant looked over at Psin, surprised, and with great precision hit Quyuk again. He dropped him and went back to his place and sat down.

The others were all staring, open-mouthed. Buri swung toward Psin. “Why did you let him do that?”

Quyuk sat up, rubbing his jaw. He blinked rapidly several times. Psin put one hand to his mouth to hide his grin. He watched the surprise wash over Quyuk’s face, and Quyuk wheeled toward him.

“You didn’t stop him.”

Psin laughed. “No. Why, should I have?”

“I was… expecting you to.” Quyuk glared around. “Or I would have hit him first.”

Mongke laughed. “Tell us, Quyuk. Tell us how you would have trampled him into fishbait.”

Psin said, “You were discoursing on the origins of Merkits, Quyuk Noyon. Would you care to continue?”

Quyuk’s mouth tightened. Psin expected him to walk out. Buri was already on his feet; Quyuk rose, and Buri started toward the door.

“There are no Merkits,” Quyuk said. “There are only Mongols. Buri, where are you going?”

“No place,” Buri mumbled, and sat down again.

“Yes, you are,” Psin said. “You’re leaving. Now.”

Quyuk sank down on his heels. “I think we’ll stay.”

“Get out or I’ll throw you out.”

“No. Now I say it. It’s not just a Merkit word.”

Tshant lunged; Buri shot to his feet, a dagger in his hand. Psin grabbed him by the wrist and whipped him around and jammed Buri’s wrist up between his shoulderblades. He could see the sweat start out all along Buri’s neck. Tshant was circling Quyuk, who had his own knife out. Psin started to yell to Tshant to stop, but Djela dodged in behind Quyuk and tripped him.

Quyuk sprawled backward. Tshant took a step to one side, astonished, and Kadan hooted. “The whole family’s poisonous.”

Mongke said, “I’m leaving, and so is Buri. Aren’t you?”

Psin shoved Buri out the door. Mongke and Kaidu followed him.

Quyuk, rising, looked over at Djela, and Djela brought both fists up. Quyuk laughed.

“First blood. He should be blooded. Am I bleeding anywhere?” He bounced up and started across the yurt, still laughing. Kadan staggered after him. At the door, Quyuk whirled.

“I made a mistake.” His eyes moved from Psin to Tshant. “I should never contest the strength of oxen.” He wasn’t laughing anymore. He turned and left.

Kadan, weaving, got himself stuck in the small doorway and blocked it, so that Tshant couldn’t go after Quyuk. Psin decided Kadan wasn’t as drunk as he seemed. When they finally got him straightened out, Quyuk was riding off on his spotted horse.

Tshant said, “Why didn’t you stop me?”

“You’re full grown. You’ve got to learn when to stop yourself. Besides, he wouldn’t have provoked you unless he thought I’d protect him. He knows you can beat him.”

Djela said, “Did I do well?”

Tshant said, “I’m not sure. You gave him a way to get out of it. Didn’t he?” He looked at Psin.

Psin nodded. “He’d worked himself into a trap, this time. I think he’ll be more careful with us.”

“I thought awhile ago that he was after you, but he’s not.”

“After me? You mean, to finish me?”

“Yes. But he’s not.”

“No.” Psin went back into the middle of the yurt. “He’s got reason to be after me but he’s not that kind of man.”

“What?”

“Chan.”

Tshant sank down. “Has he… gone sniffing after her?”

“Yes.”

“What is he trying to do, then?”

“I don’t know. He won’t have the leisure before we start fighting again to work out a new means of attack, anyway. Sometimes I think he’s just playing some kind of game. Shall I tell you what’s happening at the kuriltai?”

Tshant’s eyes widened. “Why?”

“Because I wouldn’t tell them.”

For a moment Tshant thought about that. Finally he nodded.

“Yes.” He grinned. “And I’ll see that they know I know, of course.”

Psin smiled. “Of course.”

 

Sabotai said, “The ice is hard. We’ll cross tomorrow night—the moon will rise early.”

Psin nodded. He went around behind Sabotai to look over his shoulder at the map on the table. Sabotai’s forefinger moved swiftly over the paper. “Here, and here. And here. By dawn we should have the city surrounded. I have burning lights to signal with.”

“It might not be clear,” Psin said. “Just because it snowed yesterday—”

“If it’s snowing we’ll have to change plans. The point is that we can expect Kiev to be ready for us. Their army will probably be waiting outside the city. How many men?”

“Up to one half our strength.”

“Hmmm. And we have to consider an attack from within the city as well. Mongke led the vanguard at Chernigov, and he did surprisingly well. He can do so again.”

“Let Quyuk lead the vanguard.”

“Quyuk? Why?”

Psin sat down on the couch. “There was a courier today from Karakorum. I heard the bells. What did he say?”

“That’s… secret.”

“That Quyuk is to return to Karakorum? As soon as any war operations he’s involved in are over?”

“Yes.” Sabotai leaned on the table.

“And you’re using three flying columns with a detached vanguard. So the vanguard will see the heaviest action.”

“God’s holy name,” Sabotai murmured. “Are you trying to get him killed?”

Psin laughed. “No. But he does well in heavy fighting. I want him to go home leaving the Altun with a good impression of him.”

“Why?”

Psin shrugged. “I like him.”

“The rumor is that he and Tshant fought, and Tshant messed him up a little.” 

“Rumor.”

“Well.” Sabotai looked down; he made a mark on the edge of the paper with his grease pencil. “Yes. You’re probably right. No one should be permitted to laugh at the Kha-Khan’s son the way Mongke and Kaidu are currently laughing at the Kha-Khan’s son.”

“Especially when he’s liable to be the next Kha-Khan.”

Sabotai shook his head. “It would be much simpler just to tell him you support him.”

There were horses coming. Psin rose. “Dmitri, go see who that is.” To Sabotai, he said, “If I support him now he’ll take it as a sign of weakness. I plan to bargain with him for my vote, when it comes to that. Dmitri?”

“It’s Mongke and Buri,” Dmitri called. He went back to the slaves’ quarter of the yurt.

Sabotai said, “What do they want?”

“Not the same thing.”

Buri came in. “Sabotai, it’s all over the camp that Quyuk has been called back to Karakorum.”

Sabotai said, “The dispatches are secret.”

“He told me himself. I want to go with him.”

Psin shut his eyes and sighed. “Back straight as a lance, he rides off into exile.”

Sabotai made a small shushing noise. “Yes. If you want to, Buri.”

Psin opened his eyes and stood up. Buri looked at him over his shoulder. “He has no friend but me.”

“And it’s all my fault. I know.”

“No,” Buri said. “He’s… changed, a lot. But he still doesn’t have any friends.” He turned back to Sabotai. “Thank you.” He went out the door. Mongke came in immediately after.

Sabotai said, “I suppose you want to go too.”

“I? Hardly.” Mongke looked around for a chair and sat. “Psin, are you going to let him fight at Kiev?”

With a snort, Sabotai rolled up the map. “I’m going. Clearly I’m not wanted for this discussion. Psin, we’ll hold the kuriltai out here tonight.”

“Bring some kumiss with you.”

“I will.” Sabotai went out the door.

Mongke said, “You can’t let him fight. He might win too much. You have to keep him where he is now.”

Psin cased the map.

“Why, where is he now, Mongke?”

Mongke got up. “Psin, listen.”

“No. You listen. The batch of you should have been drowned the day you were born. I’m sick of you. Stop entangling me and my son in your little family feuds. The next time I see a member of the Altun who isn’t related to me by blood, I may knock him down and stamp on him.”

Mongke went sheepishly to the door. “I only wanted—”

“I know. You only wanted to keep Quyuk looking silly. Get out.”

Mongke left.

 

Tshant said, “He what?”

Mongke nodded. “He told the rationers to give Quyuk’s tuman and two others grain for their horses.”

“But that means—”

“That Quyuk’s tuman is to ride vanguard.”

Tshant gnawed on the inside of his lower lip. “How did you find this out?”

“Oh, I happened to be down by the commissary when Quyuk’s men went in for their war rations.”

“Just happened. You aren’t supposed to do that.”

“No, I’m not. But I thought it wise. He wouldn’t tell me if Quyuk was to fight, and I thought if I went down there I’d find out.”

“His tuman is staying here through the fighting for Kiev. He may not be leading them.”

“His slaves took his ration for him. I know his slaves well enough to recognize them.”

“He can’t do that.”

“He is. They are, I mean. Psin and Sabotai.”

“And Batu.”

“Two hawks to your bay horse Batu had nothing to do with it.”

Tshant turned his head and called to a passing slave to get his horse ready. “Two hawks to your grandmother Sabotai had nothing to do with it.”

Mongke nodded. “Psin, of course. Where are you going?”

“To tell him not to.”

“Don’t. It won’t accomplish anything.”

“Why did you come here to tell me if you didn’t want me to go face him over it?”

“Because I thought you might know what he’s doing.”

Tshant settled back. “He’s proving that when he snaps his fingers Quyuk jumps. What else?”

“More than that.”

Tshant spat out the door. “Name it.”

“He likes Quyuk.”

“He hates Quyuk.”

“Does he? Why did he keep him from Batu, that time in the Volga camp?”

“Quyuk went asking his protection. Psin’s just. He does what he thinks fit, no matter who it is.”

“I don’t think he thought it fit. Batu was right. The justice lay with Batu, and Psin should have let him take him. I say that Psin likes Quyuk. If Psin does, I shall make it a point to like Quyuk.”

Tshant studied him. Mongke was the shrewdest of the Altun; he was probably right. “Psin would be a fool to try to brace up Quyuk now.”

“Now is the best time. Quyuk is leaving right after we take Kiev.”

“In disgrace.”

“Or with the glory of having led the vanguard that crushed the Russians. Take your choice. Psin chose.”

Tshant stood up. Mongke snatched at him. “Don’t try to talk him out of it. You’ll just get into a fight.”

“Let go of me.” Tshant backed away from him. Mongke sat down again. His mouth twisted.

“Who’s the fool? At least wait until after the kuriltai, when it’s common knowledge, or you’ll get me into trouble.”

“You should have thought of that yourself.” Tshant left the yurt.

 

Psin’s yurt stood to the east of the camp; horsetracks cut through the new snow toward it, like strings tying it into the other yurts. Tshant rode out at a canter. Dmitri was shaking out wet laundry, in the lee side of the yurt, and looked up when he heard Tshant coming. Tshant kicked his horse, but before he could get to the yurt door Dmitri had gone in.

Psin came out before Tshant had dismounted. He squinted against the sun and said, “What’s happened now?”

“What do you mean?” Tshant pulled the reins over his horse’s head.

“You look like a storm thinking about thundering.”

“I’ve heard Quyuk’s tuman got grain rations for their horses.”

“Do we have talkative quartermasters?”

“Mongke told me.”

“Just talkative Altun. Yes. What of it?”

“Is Quyuk commanding them?”

“Yes.”

“You told me yesterday that Mongke would probably command the vanguard.”

“Sabotai changed his mind.”

“Sabotai, or you?”

“Sabotai is the commander.”

“Why?”

“Mongke commanded the vanguard at Chernigov. There’s no—”

“Because Quyuk has been recalled to Karakorum? Because you don’t want him to leave here like a beaten dog?”

Psin’s eyes rested on him a moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You lie.”

“Well. I lie. What concern is it of yours, anyway?”

“If my father acts like a complete fool—”

“Who’s the fool? Mongke told you what’s happened and told you exactly how to interpret it, and you do just what Mongke wants, you run up here—”

“I didn’t—I mean, what Mongke said has nothing to do with it. He even tried to keep me from coming here.”

Psin smiled. “How hard?”

Tshant took a deep breath. He remembered what Mongke had said. “He told me he wanted to know what I thought of it, that he didn’t want to cause trouble between us.”

“Did he ask you what you thought of it?”

Tshant’s temper rose; he could feel it pressing against his ribs, his heart. He opened his mouth to speak, but Psin said, “You are so predictable, my heir, that whenever the Altun want something of me they’re too cowardly to ask or force me to do, they go to you. Mongke plays you like a pipe. Try thinking before you do things. It has a wonderful effect on the mind.”

He turned and went inside the yurt. Tshant shouted, “Stay here and—” The door shut. He stared at it awhile; Psin had painted the ox totem on it in red and yellow. Finally Tshant got up and rode back into the camp. He went hunting Mongke, but he couldn’t find him, and at last, giving up, he went by Quyuk’s yurt to play chess until the kuriltai.