Free The Golden Horde by Peter Morwood Page A

Volkovich,” he said at last, giving way to curiosity.
    “From my mother’s family, Highness,” said the Grey Wolf, bowing his head a little to conceal his smile. “Breeding will always show, so they say. But they serve me well enough.”
    “And have you seen this Tatar horde, Volk Volkovich? Seen them with these eyes that serve you so well?”
    “No, Highness.” The Grey Wolf drew himself up even straighter than before, disliking this petty prince with an intensity he would normally have considered wasted energy. Dislike was all he could indulge at present, and it was difficult to keep the expression off a face unschooled in the diplomatic niceties. “As I already told you” – three times now – “I’m reporting what was described to me by the Tsar of Khorlov. He saw them, with his own eyes, as did his wife, his Captain-of-Guards and his Kipchaq scouts… One of whom was sent to you directly, if memory serves me right.”
    “Ah yes, the Kipchaq. You must understand, Volk Volkovich, that when a Prince receives some wild-sounding message from an equally wild-looking messenger – one without seal or signet of authority from his claimed lord – no Prince of any wit would give credence to his tale. Without further proof.”
    “Highness, he was sent direct from what might have been a battlefield. Of course he had no seal or signet; no ruler of the Rus carries such things on a campaign. So you ignored him?”
    “Oh no, no. We would never be so rash, since inside even the most unlikely story one may find a kernel of truth.” Prince Roman Ingvarevich made a little gesture of regret, partly a shrug and partly a pout of his full lower lip. “Of course, such kernels must be properly extracted …”
    Volk Volkovich blinked, even his ruthless wolf’s mind caught off guard by such an admission. “Highness, are you telling me …” he began, then thought better of it. “Where is the Kipchaq?”
    Again the shrug and pout. “Kipchaqs are a stubborn people, Volk Volkovich. This one more than most. By the time he told us what we wanted to know, there was no alternative but to kill him. So we did.”
    “Why?”
    “We have already given our reasons. Do not presume too far on your status.”
    “The Kipchaq was a messenger from Tsar Ivan of Khorlov, sent in friendship to warn you of the Tatars!” snapped Volk Volkovich, shocked at himself for displaying such human feelings as righteous indignation. Playing the envoy was all very well, and moderately easy while his shape remained human, but to become so involved was a surprise. Especially when this stupid creature on the throne might be provoked into repeating – or at least attempting to repeat – what he had done to the previous courier. “By what right did you torture him and kill him?”
    “By the right of a Prince who was justly suspicious of a realm that has never before displayed much… friendship to ours,” said Roman Ingvarevich. “But rest assured, your Kipchaq gave his life in a worthy cause. Had there been any point in letting him live after the, ah, questioning, then once his answers were confirmed as truth he would most certainly have gone free.”
    “Highness, could you not have checked his message first, then tortured him afterwards if it proved false?” The Grey Wolf was all sweet reason, trying to correct any problems that his outburst might create for Ivan or himself. It was the verbal equivalent of showing your throat to the pack leader; he wouldn’t tear it out, but being given the opportunity was enough to calm him down. Not that the Grey Wolf had ever run with a pack in his life, but the instinctive reactions were as much a part of him as ears and eyes and teeth.
    “You may be the Tsar’s courier, Volk Volkovich, but you are very innocent for all that.”
    The Grey Wolf closed his teeth on the laugh that threatened to burst past them at such magnanimous praise and such a remarkable misreading of character. “How so,