The Lost Prophecies (12 page)

‘Enemy. You have made an enemy.’

I shrugged. Soon, I would be gone and never see this man again. Eldegai was just showing himself to be a stiff and ornery man, good at taking offence. Or, I soon saw, giving it.

It all blew up a little later, when Karakuchuk started delving in one of the large saddlebags the Tartars had brought into the stove-house with them. The ripening smell had told me already that the pack contained meat that was not responding too well to the warmth of the room. Now it appeared the old Tartar was proposing to prepare some of the stinking contents of his bag for everyone. I wondered if I would be able to stomach the food he prepared. Kyrill noticed my horrified look upon seeing the greyish slab that Karakuchuk produced, and guffawed. He pointed at the mysterious pot he had earlier placed on the stove. The one I thought contained something alive.

‘Perhaps you would rather eat my leeches, though I would prefer you not to, as they are most excellent for bleeding the sickly.’

He had put the pot on the stove to prevent the contents from freezing to death. Leeches. I shuddered at the very idea of even touching the slimy beasts that lurked inside. I hated them, and would rather die of excess bad blood than have one attached to me. Kyrill smirked and pointed at the slab of meat that was being carved up.

‘It’s probably an old horse that no longer had the legs to run as fast as the devils required of it. I have watched Tartars like this Karakuchuk slice open the chest of some still-living beast, butcher it and then turn it into a well-stewed pottage. Mind you, it still looked grey and unappetizing even after cooking. So I have found that a good swig of kumiss helps me tackle it.’

He proffered the kumiss skin, and I drank deep – several times – while the old man stewed down the fatty slabs in water over the fire. So I was ready, if a little tipsy, when the boiled-down mess was grudgingly offered me. It had even begun to look appetizing to my growling gut. It wasn’t so appealing to the more fastidious Eldegai, who I could now tell was rather more refined than the others. He wasn’t the raw provincial I had first had him down as. Nor the poor traveller he professed himself to be. He fussily disdained to touch the stew and rose from the fire to turn his back on the fare. I could see that his superior attitude drove one of the others, in particular, mad. This was a short, stocky Tartar whose name I had also picked up while playing at dice. He was called Taulubeg. And when Eldegai turned his nose up at the food, his face grew red. He rose from his corner, stomped on his bowed legs over to Eldegai, and spat some Tartar comment into his face. The import of the words was obvious to me even without understanding the language fully.

Something like:

‘Too well bred to dig in along with the rest of us, then?’

Eldegai’s reply was clear too from the haughty way he responded to his shorter protagonist.

‘Well, yes, actually. This trash is not what I am used to. Besides, I can’t afford to get ill with food poisoning. I have important things to do. Things you couldn’t dream of.’

He turned his back on Taulubeg, as though the other man was beneath his consideration. If our leader, Sartakh, had not stepped in at that moment, pushing Taulubeg away, matters might have got nasty. Ulan, perhaps sensing Eldegai might at last give away something of his true, demonic nature, sidled closer to the well-dressed Tartar. So only he and I heard what Eldegai then muttered.

‘The Il-Khan’s envoy to Sarai doesn’t soil his hands on such provender,’ Eldegai said under his breath.

Ulan’s face paled, and he backed away from this man he had reckoned to be a demon in disguise. And what he had said, it looked as though it was something to confirm Ulan’s opinion of him. I kept well clear, not caring what it was that upset Ulan so. But I did register that the man was on some sort of important mission. An envoy to Sarai, eh? I might be able to use that, but for the time being I would keep it quiet. I didn’t want to give Eldegai cause to dislike me any more than he did. I reckoned his annoyance at being cleaned out at Sic Bo would soon dissipate. And he would be wanting to get back what he had lost. So I was not surprised when, a short time later, he shuffled over to me as I lay back licking my lips over the fatty feast. For a while he said nothing, then he tried me out with a few words of Turkish. He had guessed that, as a merchant from the West, I might be more familiar with that tongue than with Tartar. It was likely he had met other traders too, and found this common language useful. But it was another common language – profit – that I wanted to share with him. For now I said nothing. A good gambler knows when to shut up and let a mark do all the running. So I let him run off at the mouth for a while, until he came to the point.

‘You will give me another chance to beat you at the dice.’

His tone was peremptory, but I knew it would soon be wheedling. I turned the grip of the vice.

‘No. I am weary of gaming, and happy with my winnings.’

‘But it is only fair!’

I shrugged my shoulders and lay back, closing my eyes as though dozing. But, of course, my brain was working at full speed, looking to the far horizon, and Sarai. Who said a gambler had to play fair, anyway? That rule was not in the vocabulary of a Venetian. Playing fair is for losers. And Genoans – which is tantamount to the same thing. Though I digress. Eldegai was nonplussed by my refusal to play, but I soon heard the scrabble of his feet as he hunkered down close by. We resumed our silent discourse, with Eldegai no doubt puzzling out how to tempt me into another game. I could almost hear his pompous brain churning ineffectually. I finally realized I would have to lead him by the nose or wait all night. I opened my eyes and cast a glance sideways at him.

‘Maybe there is another way you can regain your riches. A way we can both benefit from. At Sarai.’

When I mentioned Sarai he bristled a little, but I wasn’t worried. Like all the Tartars, he had a natural swagger, but a certain bulge around his waist betrayed him as someone who spent too much time lounging around a court. I had him down as more of a talker than a doer. And for an envoy, he was not very quick on the uptake either. His eyes showed he had no idea what I was angling for. I realized I would have to spell it out for him.

‘If you could use your influence at court, in the matter of trade, then perhaps we could both profit?’

I had in mind a sort of long trade such as I told you of earlier. But this time I would make it work. Eldegai would supply the reputable front to the business. And be the gullible fool who would be left behind to face the creditors after I had skipped with all the profits. A hard lesson, but I was willing to teach it him. Eldegai pursed his lips and stared off at an imaginary horizon. I could see the greed in his eyes, though. Impassive he wasn’t. In fact, he was worse at doing a deal than he had been at dice. But I knew he could see the opportunity I was offering.

‘I would just have to recommend you?’

He was imagining clear profit for no effort; for just being a figurehead. He thought I needed him more than he needed me, and that it was he using me, not the other way around. And so he was eager. I even toyed momentarily with the idea of doing an honest deal with him. It might have worked, after all. But I didn’t consider it for very long. Why work hard to gain a fraction of the amount you can grab with just a little subterfuge? As a token of my false honesty, I gave him back the dagger I had won from him. It was more ornamental than practical, anyway. He grinned widely, showing yellowed teeth, and accepted the gift. But then he grimaced.

‘There’s only one problem.’

‘A problem?’

‘Yes. I am not going to Sarai with good news, so I will not be the best of partners. Besides, I would advise you to seek your fortune in Cathay. There is a far greater prize to be had there. Ask the old man. He’s been, and knows the score.’

Eldegai jerked his thumb over his shoulder, and I looked over to where Sartakh stood. I could see he was talking to the other old Tartar.

‘He knows. I have spoken to him of the riches that await anyone in Cathay. Once my message is received in Sarai.’

The wind takes on a different character. Instead of gusting, it now becomes a persistent howl that tugs at the whole structure of the stove-house. We all instinctively huddle closer together despite the uneasiness surrounding the Tartar’s death. Someone in the room has murdered him. And I am no nearer to working out who. For the time being I remain the chief suspect, and at least one of these Tartars will be happy to see me dead. The real murderer, that is. The logs that make up the framework of the stove-house creak in protest at the battering from outside. Out of the corner of my eye I see a Tartar reach up and dab some kumiss on the felt doll on the shelf over his head. It’s the one called Tetuak. The doll is an image of the Tartars’ god, Tengri. Making an offering to Tengri betrays the fact that Tetuak is obviously very nervous. He sees me looking at him and masks the fear that shines from his eyes. He grabs the skin from me and takes a slug of the kumiss with a show of bravado that only serves to amuse me. It reminds me of how his boasting also amused Eldegai.

The stew had been eaten by all but the fastidious Eldegai, and once again the kumiss sack was circulating. We were in for a long night, and the Tartars fell back on what all warriors do to pass the time. Bragging of past deeds.

‘I have crossed the Great Desert of Lop,’ averred the boastful Tetuak, seeking in others’ eyes the awe that feat should occasion. ‘They say there are sirens there, which can lure you from your path, leading you astray to a place from which you will never return alive.’

‘All the more reason to pay attention to your companions and stick together,’ observed Eldegai with a smile. ‘If you believe such nonsense.’

Another man would not have risen to the bait. Tetuak, however, could not leave it there, and retorted with what would turn out to be an ominous comment.

‘Lucky that you found us, Eldegai, or you certainly would have perished in this blizzard. Death was at your heels.’

No one knew then how unfortunate those words were to prove. Murder was merely hours away, and the victim’s only epitaph was Taulubeg’s uncharitable next words, as he looked over at Eldegai, the outsider, sitting on his own.

‘Saved by us, but still avoiding the common herd.’

‘Enough.’

Sartakh’s reprimand was sharp and abrupt. He had a look of concern in his eyes. The arrival of Eldegai in our midst had soured the mood of the little band of Tartars, but he was still Sartakh’s responsibility. In his impromptu role as host, it was he who had welcomed Eldegai to his fireside. But the man had made himself unpopular with everyone, and a sullen hesitancy gripped the camp. It was Karakuchuk who broke the awkward silence.

‘Sartakh is right. We are stuck here until this storm decides to release us. Let’s make the best of it. After all, we have another skin of kumiss to get through yet.’

He tossed a skin from his own saddlebags into the centre of the floor, where it wobbled enticingly, announcing its fullness. The old-timer himself tipped the dregs of the previous skin down his receptive throat, gargling on the milky brew. The new skin began its rounds of our eager hands, and my perception of the evening became as hazy as one of those winter peasoupers that fog out Venice so much you can’t even see the other side of the Grand Canal. Did I say evening? With no windows in this damned hut, there was no way of even knowing what time of day it was outside. And I didn’t know how long we had been cooped up together. We were suspended in a fog of timelessness. We drank.

Suddenly something caused me to wake up. A voice, a gurgling sound – I don’t know what it was that roused me from my drunken stupor. But something woke me, and I threw the goatskins back that I had pulled around me. The cold air struck me hard, like a blow in the pit of my stomach, and I wrapped my fur jacket around me tightly. The room was dark, and I realized there was no rosy glow from the stove. No one had attended to the fire recently, and it was nearly out. I pushed myself up from the floor, keen to keep the embers in the stove going. It would take a great effort to relight it, if it died. My belly was suddenly eager to throw back up the kumiss I had drunk last night. I swallowed hard against the stale, sour taste, quelling the queasiness, and longed for a good red wine. Belching acidly, I laced up the front of my new, thick leather boots. They were the Tartar pair I had won off Eldegai last night. If indeed this was now morning. My old boots had been worn quite through, as I had bought them years ago from the little cobbler in the San Silvestro district of Venice. Old times, good times.

I stood on legs as wobbly as that fresh skin of kumiss had been last night before we had all emptied it down our throats. Why did my head ache more than it had a right to? Sudak had turned me into a seasoned drinker of rot-gut, but this brew seemed to have had a strong effect on me. And looking around, an even worse effect on everyone else. All I could see in the darkness were bodies, scattered over the floor like the aftermath of a battle. But unlike a scene from a military disaster where not a breath passed dead lips, here stertorous snores emerged from several mouths in a tuneless counterpoint of noise. I began stepping over bodies. One I recognized as Kyrill from the tangle of his beard – the Tartars were mostly hairless on their chins. I went to step over another recumbent figure face down on the ground and tripped on the fur-trimmed edge of his robe. As I fell, my hand went out to save me, and it encountered something wet and sticky on the hard-packed earth that formed the stove-house floor. I prayed it wasn’t the man’s regurgitated horsemeat stew from dinner. It wasn’t, it was worse than that.

When I cautiously sniffed my besmirched hand, I smelled a familiar odour. Metallic, coppery. It was blood. I knelt beside the body I had stumbled over and turned it over. It was Eldegai. I could see that his elegantly decorated outer jacket was matted with black blood. His normally ruddy face was pallid and wax-like, his bloodless lips curled back in a fixed scream of horror. But more shocking were the eyes. They were gone, apparently gouged from their sockets.