Tshant said, “Is it all done?”

“All but the plundering,” Psin answered. “You look saddle-sore.”

“I feel as if I’ve never been out of the saddle.” Tshant stretched his legs. “We had some good fighting. Those knights…”

Psin nodded. “I know all about the knights. How is Djela?”

“He’s coming. I told him to fetch your present.” Tshant’s lips spread into a smile.

“What is it?”

“You’ll see. Tell me what’s happened.” He rose and walked around the yurt, flexing the muscles of his back. When he reached the masterpole he took down the kumiss skin and drank.

“We hold all of Hungary east of the Danube River. The whole of it is broken up into sections. Mine is from Pesth to the Szajo River, where we fought the big battle. Batu’s is the stretch south of Pesth. When we’ve stripped our sections we’re to set up some kind of government—waystations, a Mongol officer in each village to collect taxes and keep order, and all the rest of it. The King wasn’t killed and Kadan will go hunting him soon. Batu has already struck some copper money.”

“Where do I go?”

“You are to stay in my section until you’re rested. Kaidu has the section just across the Szajo from me. He’s there by now. When you’re back in condition, it’s up to Sabotai where you go.”

“I’m in condition now.”

“You aren’t. You’re tired. Sabotai was very impressed with what Baidar had to say about your command in Poland. So was I.”

Tshant turned his face toward him. “I may fall on my face and weep with gratitude.”

“I didn’t mean to sound patronizing.”

“You did.” He sat down again.

Psin set his teeth together and frowned at him. “You haven’t changed, have you.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’d thought maybe you learned how to behave, in Poland.”

“I didn’t. Not a bit.” 

“That’s—”

Djela burst in the door, and Psin got up. “Grandfather.” The boy rushed over and threw his arms around Psin. “I missed you. I heard all about your battles.”

Psin held him off, smiling. “You’re stronger, you’ll crush me. Remember my encroaching senility.” He ran his eyes over Djela’s face—the strong bones and the brightness of his eyes. “Ah. It’s good to have you back.”

“I got a new bow, and I escaped from a pack of knights—oh. Here’s your present.” He turned.

A man had come in after Djela and stood beside the door. Psin straightened, frowning, surprised. “Arnulf,” he said.

The knight bowed. In slow Mongol he said, “Psin does me honor to remember me.”

Tshant said, “I took him captive at Liegnitz. He fought very well, and he’d mentioned your name.” He stood up. “I’m going. We’ll talk later. Djela, come along.”

The knight stepped aside to let them pass. Psin gestured to him to come farther into the yurt. “You’ve learned some Mongol.”

“Yes. I can’t understand much.”

“Your accent is terrible. Speak Arabic.” Psin lowered himself onto the couch. “Did the German Khan send you to help the Poles? I didn’t think he would.”

“I was there with my Order. Your army was close to German soil at the time.” He looked relieved to be speaking Arabic.

“Oh. You hold small territories here. They fought you only twenty-two days after Sandomir fell.”

“How wide are your countries?” the knight said, and smiled. “I can’t be a slave. It’s against my nature.”

“What—oh. Don’t worry. All my slaves talk back to me. Get me some kumiss—over there, on the wall. To your left. The cups are in that cabinet.”

“Your son is a great fighter.”

“My son is peculiar.”

The knight took a plain gold cup from the cabinet and looked at it. Across his face a strange look passed. “Do you know what this is?”

“It’s a cup.” Psin peeled off his socks.

“It’s a—” The knight searched for the Arabic word. He held the huge cup as if it were the skull of an ancestor. “Chalice,” he said at last.

“Fine. Maybe I have my kumiss now?”

“But this is a holy object. It’s used in ... in our religion. To hold the blood of Christ.”

Psin shut his eyes. “Put it away and get another one.”

The knight set the cup in the cabinet and bent to look. The lamplight struck the row of cups, so that a patch of gold reflection shone on his cheek. His hair gleamed. He got out a cup with a handle and filled it with kumiss and brought it over.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I forgot that you are heathen.” He laughed. “It’s odd that I should have forgotten.”

“I shouldn’t have told you that all my slaves talk back to me. Dmitri.”

Dmitri came out of the back of the yurt. He glanced at the knight and back to Psin. In Mongol, Psin said, “This man is named Arnulf. He’ll help you. Teach him Mongol.”

“The Khan wishes. Shall I take him with me to the commissary?”

“Yes. He’s been wounded, I think, so don’t burden him. Arnulf.” He dragged his mind back to Arabic. “Don’t try to escape. We kill slaves who run away. And we would certainly catch you. I’ll probably send you as a gift to your Khan before the end of the winter.”

“Why?”

“Why send you?” Psin snapped his fingers at Dmitri and pointed to his boots, and Dmitri knelt to unlace them. “I’d have to feed you if I kept you, and I’ve got slaves enough. Or will have, when my women get here. I’ll find you again, when we take Rome.”

Dmitri drew off the boots, and Psin rose, barefoot. “Go on. Dmitri, give him the bay mare.”

“The Khan wishes.”

 

All the peasants had fled into the forests and the hills. Psin released the prisoners he had taken from the sacked villages, telling them that any who submitted to the Mongols would have his land back and the protection of the khans. He moved his campgrounds from the open plain to a wood, so that they would have shade in the heat of the summer. Two stone forts held out against his attacks, and he invested them tightly and let them starve. Tshant was not taking orders, as usual; they fought over it halfway through the spring.

Djela said, “Why do you fight?”

“Because he won’t admit that I have authority over him.”

“Oh.” Djela looked at his hands. “Are my fingernails made of hair, like cows’ horns?”

“I don’t know.”

The summer came in, hot and dry. Most of the peasants returned to Psin’s section and rebuilt their villages. Psin rode around to see them all, taking Djela with him. Near each village a hundred Mongols made a camp. The village was to supply the camp with grain and hay, and the Mongols gave over a part of their hunting to the village, when they had more than they needed. Much of their plunder was in cattle and horses, which they herded.

Tshant said, “Sabotai says I am to stay here, with you.”

Psin grunted. “I’ll send him a message. He can put you with Mongke, if he wants.”

“Anywhere but here?”

“Exactly.”

Tshant leaned back on his elbows. “Suppose I don’t want to go?”

Psin’s temples throbbed. “You’ll go. I can’t take too much more of you.”

Dmitri and Arnulf were chopping up lamb’s meat in the back of the yurt, their eyes fixed on the two Mongols. Psin glanced at them and they looked quickly down. Tshant said, “But it’s so dull, Father. And fighting with Mongke hasn’t got the zest.”

“You’ve got your own yurt. Get out of mine.”

“No.”

Psin lunged at him; Tshant bounded up and to one side, his fists cocked. Psin stood up straight and tried to stare down his nose. Tshant was too tall to let the gesture work. “Get out before I call my men.”

Tshant whooped. “Gladly, gladly. Just to hear you admit that—” He dodged Psin’s kick and ducked out the door. Psin hunkered and yelled obscenities after him.

From the slaves’ quarter came a muffled gasp. He looked back and saw the knight laughing, one hand clamped over his mouth. Dmitri was horrified.

“Arnulf,” Psin shouted. “There’s nothing funny about a son’s lack of respect for his father.”

Arnulf collapsed backward, weak with laughter. Psin picked up a bowl and threw it at him. The knight got up, wiping juice from his face.

“I beg your pardon. I wasn’t laughing at you. It was what you said. Your swearing was… imaginative.”

“Oh. Don’t Europeans swear?”

“Yes. But not so well.”

Psin sat down. “Even the Chinese say we’re masters at it. Someday you should teach me your language. German. So that I can talk to your old master when I catch him.”

“He speaks Arabic.”

All the laughter had drained out of the knight’s face; he looked as grave as usual. Psin thought he was wary of being questioned. Psin said, “Tell me about him.”

“I… would rather not.”

“How can it harm him? I’m sending you back to him, aren’t I? You can tell him all about us.”

The knight nodded and smiled. “That’s right.”

“It will make no difference. There is nothing that can stop us.”

“God can stop you.”

The knight used the Mongol word, Tengri, and Psin smiled. “Or God can help us. Without God’s help, could we stand one day against you?”

“Nothing is possible without God.”

“But now we rule Hungary. And well, too. All the peasants are very happy with us, they’ve made no rebellion.”

“Serfs don’t fight. Only knights may fight. Serfs grow food.”

“Oh? You don’t think if we were unbearable masters they would fight us?”

“Perhaps.”

“Rijart, that Englander I had with me when I came to Pesth the first time, he says your Khan is irreligious.”

The knight looked down. “So they say. I don’t know. He likes to frighten people. Perhaps he only pretends. Or sees God differently than the rest of us.”

“You are a priest. How can you follow him?”

“Because I love him. He is a great man. Nothing confuses him.”

“Only God?”

The knight looked up quickly, smiling. “I doubt even God confuses Frederick. He may mislead him.”

Psin smiled. “You’ve learned the language well enough to quibble in it. Maybe Europeans are born to that. We have news from the west that all your khans and noyons are asking each other for help, should we attack them. But they haven’t attacked us. Are they afraid of us?”

“Who is not? Don’t judge them by their words. They are all good fighters. I think sometimes if we had planned our attack better, at Liegnitz, we would have beaten your son and his men.”

“He says you should have—he was taking orders from one of the Altun, you know, and the way he talks the orders must have been terrible. He lost almost all his men.”

Arnulf shrugged. “It’s done and over with. Shall I help Dmitri now?”

“Yes. Go on.”

Psin’s section contained one of the important roads from Europe to the east, and in the early summer merchants began to move along it. He questioned them carefully and gave them safe conducts throughout the dominion of the Kha-Khan, hoping that they would keep coming back with their information. What they told him didn’t please him. There was no steppe to the west, and the forests were thick. Mountains crowded up the countryside. He reported it to Sabotai, who said, “You’ll have to do thorough reconnaissance.”

“Yes. I’ll start in the late fall when the river freezes.”

“When are you going to get to that village?”

“Oh. Yes. Pretty soon.”

There was a village on an island in the Szajo River that hadn’t been plundered, mostly because no one was sure whether it was Psin’s or Kaidu’s, who held the land on the far bank. In the middle of the summer Kaidu sent to Psin that if Psin would give him some troops he would take the village and they would divide the plunder evenly.

“I want you to go,” Psin told Tshant.

“Ask me.”

“Will you go?”

Tshant’s eyes were opaque. He lifted the hand that held his reins and scratched his cheek, and his horse shifted. “Yes. I’ll take Djela and my guard.”

Djela was behind Tshant. He said, “Oh, good. I can try my new bow.”

Tshant said, “But your share of the plunder is mine, Psin.”

Psin took a short breath. “Don’t anger me.”

“I’m doing the work.”

“We’ll divide it. It’s a rich village.”

“I want it all.”

Psin swiped at him and knocked him off his horse. Tshant’s horse reared out of the way, and Djela caught the rein. Psin made his dun back up so that Tshant couldn’t reach him.

“We’ll talk about it later,” he called. “If you need help, child, Mongke and his men are half a day’s ride south of that village.”

Tshant said, “Come back here and face me.”

Psin laughed at him and rode off. He could hear Tshant’s voice, but not the words, which he decided was fortunate. When he looked back, Tshant and Djela were riding off. He would have to go; he had accepted the order. Psin rode quickly home.

The knight was tending the bake oven behind Psin’s yurt, and when Psin rode up he came over to hold the dun horse. He saw the expression on Psin’s face and looked back the way he had come.

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing. The world is full of pleasure. Have you milked the mares yet?”

“Dmitri did.”

Psin dismounted. The knight went back to the oven and made sure there was enough fuel. He wore a Mongol shirt and boots; the fair skin of his neck was red from the sun. Psin had expected him to refuse to do slave work, but the knight had done everything asked him.

Every time he thought of Tshant his chest grew tight with anger. Tshant was going to great lengths to provoke him. He thought, He wants to prove that he can beat me. Let him try. This time—

 

The village surrendered as soon as the Mongols approached. In the summer’s heat the river ran so shallow that they could ride straight over to the island. Kaidu and Tshant stayed on the bank. Kaidu said, “We’ll burn it.”

Tshant looked over at him, surprised. “Why? The Khan’s order is that they may live in their villages, as long as they have no weapons.”

“They held out against us.”

“No one came to attack them.”

Kaidu’s face darkened and he raised his hand. “I give the order to burn it.”

Tshant looked over at the village. His men packed it, while Kaidu’s, more numerous, waited half in the water. “I hold it. No. It doesn’t burn.”

“You Merkit pig—” Kaidu struck him in the face. Tshant rolled with the blow, straightened up in his saddle, and dove at Kaidu. He caught a glimpse of Djela’s face, white and amazed, a little way from them. They fell together into the dry grass along the river bank. Kaidu kicked and scratched. Tshant reared back and slugged Kaidu in the jaw, and Kaidu bucked him off. He rolled down the bank into the water. Kaidu’s voice rose in a wild shout over his head. He got up and clawed back to dry ground and grabbed Kaidu around the waist.

Djela called out. Horses were coming, and Tshant thrust Kaidu away, not wanting their men to see them fighting. Hands caught him from behind and flung him down. His blood hammered in his veins, and he sprang up, looking for the men who had laid hands on him. They were Kaidu’s, and he lunged for them. They backed off.

“Hold him,” Kaidu yelled.

Djela said, “Father. This way.”

The men around Tshant seized him. He drove his fists and his knees into them. One man whined, and he felt bone break under his knuckles, but they clutched him, they brought him down with his face pressed into a smothering coat and his arms hauled behind him. He flung himself violently to one side, got an arm loose, and wrapped it around the nearest neck. His breath rasped through his teeth. Half a dozen hands pried his arm from around the neck.

Far off, people were shouting. He got both feet under him and stood up, six men hanging on his arms and shoulders. Kaidu was standing in front of him, smiling. Tshant took an awkward step toward him, dragging them all, but a boot caught him in the back of the knee and he fell on his face. They locked his wrists up between his shoulders. He tried to roll over. Boots pressed into his back. He couldn’t move.

“Hold him,” Kaidu cried, in a voice high as a girl’s. “Stand clear.”

The weight swung off his back and he started up. A whip slashed across his shoulders. In his rage he howled at the top of his lungs. The whip laced his back. They stretched out his arms and flipped him over, and he saw Kaidu’s smiling face and the dark frightened faces all around him, and the whip coming down. He drove his heels against the ground but he couldn’t break the hold. The whip tore at his face. He squeezed his eyes shut, ashamed that Djela should see his father whipped like a slave. The whip opened up his cheek, and blood soaked his collar. He threw his weight against the hands wrapped around his arms, but it did no good. The whip caught him right across the eyebrows. He could feel the pain, in spite of his anger. He gathered up his strength and heaved against the men holding him and sagged back, exhausted.

Abruptly they let him go. He lay still, panting. There was fighting, somewhere. Hoofs beat the ground around him. Djela’s voice rose, young and sharp. Someone dragged him up and flung him facedown across a saddle. He locked his fingers around the girth, and the horse began to gallop. His fingers were cut; the horse’s sweat stung ferociously. Someone was hanging onto his belt. He could not open his eyes; he felt himself losing consciousness.

 

 

Djela said, “Is he all right? Let me see him. Arcut—”

“He’s cut up,” Arcut said. “We have to get him somewhere safe, so he can rest. Look at the blood.”

Djela put out one hand toward his father’s head. The hair was painted with blood. He looked back toward the river. They had outdistanced Kaidu’s men in the first rush, but dust spiraled up along their track; they were still being followed. Ahead was a spur of forest, and he nodded toward it.

“We’ll go into the trees.”

Arcut said, “Someone should go tell the Khan. Get us help.”

“Yes. Ugen, you go, And—Tian, go to the camp of Batu Khan and tell him what has happened.” Djela gnawed at his lip. Someone else. Someone else. “Kiak, Mongke Khan is camped down the river a little. Go find him. Tell him that I am his cousin and I beg his protection.”

The three turned their horses and galloped off. Kaidu’s men were closing in on the rest of them. Djela reined his horse around and headed for the trees at a gallop. Once inside the trees they could hold Kaidu off. His heart danced in his chest when he remembered the beating. Kaidu had enjoyed it. He had watched with a little smile on his face. Djela clenched his teeth. If he dies, he thought. What if he dies?

 

Tshant heard people talking. At first he thought they were far away, but he realized after a moment that they were only whispering. Feet stamped on a rough floor. He was lying belly-down on a couch, but he couldn’t open his eyes, and he felt weaker than he ever had before.

“Wake up, Djela,” Arcut’s voice said. “Your grandfather is here.”

Another couch sighed. “Grandfather—” Djela’s light feet ran on the floor. By what Tshant heard he knew the building wasn’t big enough for a yurt. He could smell meat simmering, and his mouth watered. He heard his father’s footsteps come into the hut.

“Djela. What happened?”

“Kaidu whipped Ada. He’s over here.” A weight plunked down beside Tshant. “Ada, are you awake?”

“I can’t open my eyes.”

Psin was swearing in a soft voice. The light cloth covering Tshant’s back lifted off. Psin’s voice seemed to come from everywhere at once; it was vast, it was terrible. He said, “The blood’s clotted his eyelids shut. Arcut. Get out of here.”

Arcut left. Psin’s voice dropped still lower. Something wet and cool touched Tshant’s face, infinitely gentle. Djela said, “Will he be all right?”

“Long before Kaidu will,” Psin said softly.

Tshant forced one eye open. Psin’s hands were trembling. He began to murmur again, speaking Tshant’s name over and over.

“Be quiet, old man. You’re saying too much.”

“Ingrate. If I didn’t honor your mother I’d say she got you from a demon.” His voice was dead flat. “How do you feel?”

“Hungry.” Tshant opened both eyes. Psin’s face was expressionless, but the eyes burnt; he tried to smile and could not, and his mouth twisted monstrously in the effort. He turned and spoke in Magyar, and a woman came over with a bowl of meat. Tshant pushed himself up onto his elbows. They were in a woodcutters’ hut, and a small Magyar family huddled in one corner. The woman banged her spoon against the edge of the pot and went to join them. Psin stood back and Tshant gobbled food.

“He’ll live.” Psin started toward the low door.

“Father,” Tshant said. “I fight my own feuds.”

Psin turned back. A muscle twitched along his jaw. “I’ll leave you enough of him to flay for a saddle blanket.” He took the gold chain from around his neck and handed it to the Hungarian woman and left.

Tshant gulped the last of the meat, drank the gravy, and sat up, groaning. The pain raced up and down his back. “Go get Arcut. We have to go after him. How many men did he bring?”

“I don’t know.” Djela got up. The Hungarian woman was stroking the chain. Tshant put his bowl down and stood, shuddering. He took the rings out of his ears and gave them to her. His shirt and coat lay on the couch Djela had been sleeping on, and he put on the shirt. The lightest touch on his back made him wince. His legs felt weak. Djela came back in.

“Arcut says he has orders not to let you leave until you’re well.”

“I’m well. Go tell him he’s my officer, not Psin’s. Tell him we’re riding.”

“He says—”

Tshant swore. He ducked out the door and looked around for Arcut. The trees grew thick around the hut; a goat and some chickens stood in a pen to the right. Arcut rode up and said, “The Khan—”

“Damn him. How many men does he have?”

“At least two hundred—his home guard.”

“Where’s my horse? Those are better men than Kaidu’s. Does he have remounts?”

“Yes.”

Tshant’s horse came up, and Arcut took it by the bridle so that Tshant could mount. He looked back over his shoulder. Djela was in the doorway of the hut. A Hungarian child stood beside him, one hand in its mouth. Arcut said, “It was the noyon who called us up to get you out of the fight, and who brought you here.”

Tshant tried to smile, but his face hurt. “He’s a good boy.”

Djela beamed. He moved away from the Hungarian child; their horses were trotting toward them. Tshant climbed stiffly into his saddle and tied his coat to the pommel. The stripes on his back had opened. He could feel the blood running down his spine. He rode quickly off through the trees, hoping the blood wouldn’t soak through his shirt too fast and let the others know.

 

Kaidu had camped on a point of high ground between a river and a marsh. Fires burnt all around, so that nothing could get close without being seen, and sentries walked thick as a procession just behind the fires. Psin growled in his throat. Kaidu was taking no risks.

“Tajin. Take half the men and go down by the riverbank. I’ll lead him down toward you. Go to the other side of the bridge.”

Tajin rode off. Psin took his bow out of the case, flexed it, and took the top off his quiver. “The rest of you kill sentries.”

“Long shots, Khan.”

“Watch your aim. Get as many as you can. He can’t stay there forever.” He drew his bow and settled on his point of aim. When his target was just passing a fire he shot. The sentry took two more steps and fell.

Inside the ring of fires a man shouted, and others answered. Psin’s men were shooting quietly, carefully, and another sentry wobbled off with an arrow in his back. Horses neighed. Psin jerked up his dun’s head.

“They’re coming out. Keep close to the river and watch me. Keep shooting.” Psin trotted around toward the river, keeping low, and looked into the camp. Kaidu’s men were saddling their horses. He shook himself: these weren’t Poles or Hungarians or Russians, to be cowed. He nocked an arrow and shot, but he missed.

A stream of arrows poured out of the camp. Psin’s men leapt back. He rode into their midst and called out orders—forty men drew off away from the river toward the marsh, and the rest waited, shooting at nothing. Between the fires Kaidu’s men charged toward them.

“Hold up! Hold up, on the order of the Kha-Khan.”

With the shout horses galloped into the space between Psin’s and Kaidu’s men. Psin thrust one arm out to keep his men back. That was Mongke. Kaidu’s men yanked their horses to a halt and called out, and Mongke’s voice cried, “This is Mongke Khan. Hold your bows or I’ll have you all slain.”

Mongke had only two men with him. They trotted back and forth between Psin and Kaidu. Psin cursed. If Mongke had come only a little later—

“Psin Khan. Come forward. Kaidu, come forward.” Mongke wasn’t shouting, but his voice was clear and crisp and everybody heard him. Psin kicked up his horse. Mongke pulled away from his outriders and waited, looking from Psin to Kaidu, riding up behind him.

“By what right do you use the name of the Kha-Khan?” Kaidu shouted.

“By the right of Yasa,” Mongke said. “You might not make war on each other without the Kha-Khan’s permission.”

Psin turned his horse head to head with Mongke’s. “He started it. Kaidu. Tell him what you’ve done.”

“I know,” Mongke said. “Nothing’s worth breaking the Yasa for.”

“My son—”

“Nothing. Give me light.”

Kaidu’s horse was on the other side of Mongke’s from Psin. In the silence while they waited for the torch to be brought Mongke sat still and looked from one to the other. At last a man galloped up with a torch from one of the watchfires; the heavy light spilled over them all.

Kaidu said, “When my grandfather comes—”

“Be quiet,” Mongke said. “This is a serious matter. If we were near the Gobi the Kha-Khan himself would deal with you. I take on myself the right and duty to judge.”

“You are Psin’s friend,” Kaidu said.

“Mongke is Psin’s friend; the Khan isn’t. Each of you give me an arrow.”

Psin muttered. His temper was cooling. He said, “You’ve messed up my night’s hunting, Khan.” He took an arrow from his quiver and handed it toward Mongke, head first.

Mongke took his arrow and Kaidu’s and thrust them into his belt. “Your arrows are your pledges. Go home. I’ll send a messenger to each of you to tell you when and where I’ll judge you. In the meantime cause no trouble. Now go.”

Psin turned his horse. His men were bunched up, waiting, and he called to them to move on south. When they were organized, he stopped his horse and looked back. Kaidu had withdrawn inside his fires. Probably he would camp there until morning. Mongke with his outriders trotted toward Psin.

“You meddle,” Psin said.

Mongke laughed. “I saw your trap when I came down the river.”

“What advantage do you get from this?”

“None. If I had the choice I would not get mixed up in it. But your grandson sent to me, and the messenger told me in front of witnesses.”

“Hunh. Djela is starting to use his head.”

“He’s a good boy. As long as I have to play judge, I mean to do it properly. Don’t expect me to be easy with you; you killed six of Kaidu’s sentries and you had it in mind to kill them all, every one. Good-by.”

Mongke galloped off. His horse moved with great long strides through the torchlight. Psin swung around and went down to the river to collect the men waiting there. He thought he would almost prefer to be judged by Batu than Mongke.

 

Tshant was already in the camp when Psin got back at dawn. Djela had told Dmitri that they had met Mongke halfway to Kaidu’s camp and Mongke had sent them straight home. Dmitri looked surprised when he said that.

“He must be sick,” Psin said. “To let Mongke shoo him off.”

The knight Arnulf came over and helped Psin out of his coat. “We thought he had heard the news, maybe.”

“Oh? What news? Dmitri, did the courier come from Kadan?”

“Yes.” Dmitri went into the back of the yurt, and Psin sat down, sighing when the weight left his feet.

“What news?”

“Your wives are within a day’s ride of here,” Arnulf said. “All three of them.”

“All—three—what?” Psin stopped pulling off his socks.

“Your ladies and your son’s.”

“Kerulu? She’s come to Hungary? Have you told him?”

Dmitri said, “I sent a man over to his yurt, but he was asleep.”

“God. Wait until she sees his face. Help me with these boots, and get me something to eat. I’m not sure whether I’m more tired than hungry or more hungry than tired.” He looked at the seals on the message Dmitri handed him and tore it open. They dragged his boots off and he wiggled his toes.

“Here. Read this to me. Arnulf, you should learn Uyghur script.”

The knight looked up; he was kneeling, brushing the mud from Psin’s boots. “I can scarcely read Latin, Khan.”

Dmitri said, “In the name of God, Kadan the Drunk to Psin Khan.”

“He’s blunt, Kadan.”

“The King of the Hungarians has gone south over the Danube. I shall have to wait until winter when the ice freezes to give chase. I have heard envoys from a city called Constantinople, who wish to send envoys to Batu Khan my cousin. They are going to Pesth to see him there. Is Sabotai ill, that I am to report to you and not to him? Thus, Kadan, in my father’s name and the name of God.”

“I’ll answer him tomorrow. I’m going to sleep. Wake me when the women are almost here.” He got up and pulled back the light cover on the couch. “And you’d better see that we have meat for a feast.”

 

When he woke up, in the afternoon, they brought him news that Tshant was feverish. He went immediately over to his yurt. Djela was there, yawning, his face fuzzy with recent sleep. “Is my mother here yet?”

“No. I’m going to meet them.” Psin went over to the couch where Tshant lay and looked down at him. His slashed face shone with an unhealthy heat.. One of the two Hungarian women he had taken was washing his face and hands. He twitched in his sleep and mumbled, and she bent to whisper to him. Her eyes when she looked at Psin were wary.

“Can he eat?”

“He eats,” she said. Her full lips pressed together. “When the other woman comes, let her feed him.”

“Mind how you talk of the daughter of the Kha-Khan’s brother.” He put the back of his hand against Tshant’s forehead. “Keep him warm.”

“She shouldn’t see him when he’s sick. Not if she’s not seen him for so long.”

“She’s seen him sicker than that.”

He went out; Djela had gotten his horse and mounted. They rode east. Djela said, “He will get well, won’t he? It was just the riding. When we got back his shirt was drenched with blood.”

“He’s not badly sick.”

Yet. They rode at a slow jog. Ahead, they could see the wagons coming, under the dust the slow feet of the oxen raised. It was hard to keep from galloping. Djela began to sing, an old ballad of the Merkits that Psin hadn’t known he knew. The wild sad music blended with the sound of the wind in the tall brown grass. A woman waved to them from the seat of the lead wagon.

If it were not for the different profiles of the land he could think he was in his home country. The air was the same, and the soft fall of his horse’s hoofs on the steppe. Now he had his women again. But when he lifted his eyes beyond the wagons he saw no forest, no stony mountains.

Djela gave a cry and charged toward the wagons. He had seen his mother. Psin held his horse down. Djela’s horse plunged up alongside the third wagon, draped in cloth-of-gold and fluttering with silk ribbons. The boy disappeared inside. Psin let his horse jog up to the lead wagon.

Artai said, “Psin, we come sooner than you might have wished.”

“Not soon enough.” Her smile sent the old familiar shock through him, as if now he could let go. He stood in his off stirrup so that he could reach her and they embraced.

“We’ve brought Kerulu,” she said. “She came out in the winter from Karakorum.”

“I heard. You look well.” He stroked her hair. “What’s that? He’s big for his age.”

The slave girl grinned and jiggled the baby. He had red hair and drooled. Artai said, “We thought he was strong enough to come with us. There was no one to leave him with.”

“What does she think of him?”

“Not much. Go see Chan.”

He pulled his horse away and went on to the next wagon. The curtains were tied back; inside, Chan sat on silk cushions, with two maids combing her hair. She looked at him coolly and said, “How much farther am I to be dragged?”

“Oh, a year’s trek.” He couldn’t help laughing. She surveyed him expressionlessly. Abruptly the corners of her mouth twitched; she fought the smile, but her eyes, resting steadily on his, brimmed full of delight. He touched her cheek and rode on to Kerulu’s cart.

Her clothes flashed in the sunlight. Djela was sitting beside her on the cushions, and she had her arm around his shoulders. “My son tells me he’s been fighting,” she said to Psin. Her cheeks were flushed. “Where is Tshant? Can’t he dig himself out of his adulterous bed to come meet me?”

“He’s been hurt,” Psin said. “Not badly. You’re just in time to nurse him lovingly back to health.” He climbed into the cart to hug her. Her brocades scratched him. She smiled and let him get back on his horse.

“Karakorum is dull,” she said. “Who wants to play games with a flock of other women? Psin, you’re scarred.” Her nose wrinkled. The flush in her cheeks was receding, and the bright birthmark on her cheekbone faded. “But you look no older. I wish I were a Merkit, to age so well.”

“Better an old Yek Mongol than a Merkit in the prime of life.”

Her eyes flashed. “That depends on the Merkit.”

“And not at all on the Mongol?”

She laughed. One forefinger touched the mark on her cheek. “You forget, Khan, that I was born capable of any man. Or so the shaman said. Get me a horse. If he won’t come to me, I’ll ride to him. Djela, I’ll take your horse.”

“Ama—”

“You can stay with your little brother. He’s in the front wagon.” She scrambled clumsily to the side of the cart and reeled in Djela’s horse by the reins. “Psin, help me.” Under the brocade coat she wore silk trousers. She flung one leg across the saddle, while Psin held the horse, and undid the coat halfway up from the bottom. The horse shied from the flapping brocade. She took the whip from the saddle pommel and lashed the horse twice. It shot between Psin’s horse and the wagon and streaked for the open plain, tail high. Psin trotted up to the lead wagon.

Chan said, “She is unwomanly, that one.”

He glanced at her, looked after Kerulu, and said, “Hah.” To Artai, he said, “I’ll see you in the camp,” and sent his horse after Kerulu’s.

She was already far ahead. She had seen which way he and Djela had come, and she was following their track, but they had swung wide to make sure of meeting the train. He headed the dun horse straight for the camp and let it stretch out. The sun glinted in her heavy coat. He could see that she was having trouble with her horse, which wanted to get away from the coat. The horse slammed to a halt and spun entirely around. She clung easily. He knew she was laughing. The dun was running flat out. When Djela’s black heard him coming, it took off again. Kerulu urged it on.

Psin was much closer now, and with each stride pulling up. She raised her whip, but the little black was already straining, and she didn’t beat it. The camp lay ahead of her and to the north. She veered toward it. The dun surged up, its muzzle even with the black’s girth. Her face was vivid with excitement. Her hair was coming loose from its bands, and long red strands flew out behind her like banners.

A herd of horses between them and the camp burst into a gallop and ran along beside them. Men called out, and a few slave women darted forward to shoo the chickens away. A goat bleated. They charged straight into the middle of the camp and Psin tightened his fist on the reins. His horse sat on its haunches to stop. The black bounced twice, slowing, and each time Kerulu had to snatch for the saddle to stay on. She looked over her shoulder at Psin and laughed.

“I’ve not ridden in months. Where is he?”

Psin pointed to Tshant’s yurt with his chin. Kerulu rode over and dismounted. The knight Arnulf was coming toward them, and Psin sent him after Kerulu’s horse. His dun was lathered and snorting. The knight led the black over and held Psin’s rein.

“You’ll have to walk them out,” Psin said.

“I will. Dmitri says that we should put up another yurt.”

“Oh. Yes. Naturally.”

“She rides well. Do all Mongol women ride so well?”

“No. Only Jagatai’s daughter.”

 

Tshant said, “I don’t feel sick.”

“Liar,” she said. She squirmed closer to him and pulled the cover over them both. His arms tightened around her, and the heat from his body scalded her. He nuzzled her hair.

“Kerulu.”

“And besides,” she said, “while I am gone and pining for you, you get a baby on a magnificent Russian girl with big eyes.”

“She had hair like yours. She reminded me of you.”

He was so close to her that she couldn’t remember how unhappy she had been without him. After more than two years they lay under the same robe, skin against skin, their hands clasping. He was half-asleep again, but he was smiling.

“It’s only just that you should be sick. Your eyelids are gummy.”

“It’s your cousin’s fault.”

If she followed that line she’d only anger him. She stroked his cheeks and murmured to him until he started to fall asleep again. He was uncomfortable and she shifted him, smoothing the covers.

Water stood in a bowl beside the couch; she soaked a rag and washed his face.

“Artai says you and Psin aren’t getting along again.”

“Depends on the day. When one or the other of us is sick or in trouble, we get along almost like friends.”

“This Russian girl must have been wonderful. They tell me he suffered the death ban because he wouldn’t leave her.”

Talk of the Russian girl made him nervous. She could tell by the way his mouth moved. One of the whipstrokes had caught the corner of his lip and puckered it. She stretched her arm across the couch so that he could put his head on it.

“My heart,” she said. “Tell me again how much you missed me.”