The river meandered ten leagues in every direction for every one that it actually moved south. But its overall course was decidedly southbound as it flowed toward the Khazar Sea. Raphael was of the opinion that the river might be the one known as the Yaik, originating in a mountain range that might be the fabled Riphean Mountains that were spoken of by the ancient Greeks. If so, it was a boundary, and everything beyond was unknown territory—past the end of the world, as Alexander had conquered it. This detail wreaked a depressing effect on the other members of the party, who had hoped that, after so much hard traveling, they might at least have escaped, months ago, the boundaries of their known world.
In any case, the town had grown up at a place where it was possible to ford the river during the driest part of the year—which was now. Viewing it from a safe distance in the flat, golden light of the late afternoon, Raphael and Vera—huddled a bit closer together than was really called for, as far as Cnán was concerned—discussed it at some length and seemed to agree on something, which Raphael then passed on to the rest of the group.
“The place is far too small to be Saray-Jük, which is fortunate for us.”
Cnán had actually heard of Saray-Jük. “A garrison town of the Mongols, located somewhere on this same river, where it is crossed by the Silk Road,” she explained. “There, Alchiq would be able to summon as many jaghun as he pleased.”
Feronantus nodded. “Then we shall proceed as planned,” he said, “before Alchiq has had time to send messengers down to the place you named.” Wisely, he did not attempt to pronounce it. “Alchiq’s decision to make his camp in a settled place will favor us; the unfamiliar noises and smells of the town will conceal our advance.”
Our advance.
Cnán’s part in the advance was to sneak around in the dark with Yasper, who had gone ahead of them into the market town in search of Cathayan merchants. The time of year favored them. This part of the world was, as a rule, too dry for growing grain and other thirsty crops. But it seemed that some farmers and orchardists had found ways of coaxing food from the ground, perhaps along the windings of the river or in scattered dells watered by streams flowing down from the mountains that Vera claimed lay many leagues to the north. Where this was not possible, they took advantage of the infinite supply of grass to breed ponies. At any rate, this seemed to be the time of year when such people brought their produce here for sale, and so a warren of stalls and wagons had sprung up on a stretch of floodplain nearly surrounded by a loop of the river. It lay between the riverbank and the village proper, which had been prudently situated on slightly higher ground. The Mongols, having no particular interest in the river or the market, had made their camp farther yet from the riverbank, generally west and north of the village.
Yasper seemed to have spent a stimulating afternoon wandering about the makeshift market, which had attracted an assortment of outlandish-looking sorts from various parts of the continent that stretched before them on the opposing bank, as well as a few Westerners—even a Khazar or two. They had come to trade silver money and valuable goods from faraway places for the produce of the local farms, which they loaded onto river barges or oxcarts. Cnán, infiltrating the place after nightfall, smelled what was unquestionably Cathayan food being cooked and was ambushed by something like homesickness. Not a useful emotion for a Binder.
Rather later—an hour or two past midnight, she guessed—she and Yasper hiked up a gentle sandy slope toward the village, which was tiny and despicable compared to the seasonal market. In doing so, they left the savory smells of the cooking behind them. Certain odors, however, seemed to follow them wherever they went: the fruity aroma of alcohol on Yasper’s breath and a sharper tang that reminded her a bit of rotten eggs, but sharper, like pepper. The latter emanated from a capacious wicker basket filled with rustling objects—but apparently not too heavy—that Yasper kept slung over his shoulder. He patted it nervously from time to time.
The village was an oval compound of small thatch-roofed houses up on stilts, surrounded by a wooden stockade. They circumvented it, taking care not to expose themselves to the view of the Cuman standing guard at its gate, and made their way through a strip of scrub brush and tall grass to the verge of the field that Alchiq had claimed for the night’s camping place.
The Mongols’ ponies, numbering well over a hundred, had been staked out in a wide belt surrounding an inner core speckled with small campfires and the indistinct forms of Mongols lying asleep on the ground, rolled up in their blankets. Cnán had learned that there tended to be about one campfire per arban, and the rule seemed to hold true here, since there were seven such fires. Most were only smoldering since no one was awake to feed them, and the night was warm enough that their heat was not needed.
She numbered the sentries at half a dozen, and as usual in a well-ordered camp, they were all on their feet, moving about, only rarely gathering to converse.
Feronantus had said that nothing would happen until the moon’s crescent touched the western horizon. It was two fingers away from doing so, and so Cnán left Yasper to his preparations, and stole away from the camp back toward the river along the route she expected to retrace later. She had studied the way hastily before sundown, but it seemed prudent to reconnoiter it once in the dark.
North of the village, a screen of trees—the tallest they had seen in weeks—grew between the Mongols’ camp and the bank of the river. It was only ten paces in breadth, but its undergrowth was dense enough for Cnán to become lost in it for a few moments, and she made enough noise passing through to alert Eleázar, who was lurking nearby, almost completely invisible in armor that had been blackened with a mixture of grease and char.