Free Until the Sun Falls by Cecelia Holland

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