“It’s called First Field,” Hans said. “This is where they start.” He pointed at the platform in the center. “They bring their flags and place them there.”
Andreas nodded, understanding how the system worked. Each fighter entered in the competition by putting his flag in one of the open slots. When all the holes in a leg of the triskelion were filled with standards, the fights would begin. A pair of standards would be moved to one of the circles, and their owners would enter the roped-off arena and compete. It was a system not unlike the one used by knights throughout Christendom in their tournaments of arms.
“Win here; go there,” Hans said, pointing at the arena.
“How often are the fights?”
“Every three days.” Hans shrugged. “But no one goes to the arena anymore, and so they don’t fight as much.”
Andreas nodded. The Mongolian champion whom Haakon had fought had gone crazy when the young Shield-Brother had spared his life, and a number of Mongolian guards had died in the ensuing riot. Onghwe Khan had closed the arena, and there hadn’t been any word when—or if—he was going to start the fights again.
The temporary residents of Hünern were waiting, and after a few weeks, they were starting to lose their patience. Andreas assumed the same was true for the Mongolian army. How long would they simply sit and wait for their Khan to regain his interest in the competition? How long before tempers frayed to the breaking point?
The situation was not unlike a siege, and Andreas had seen the way madness crept in men’s minds when they thought they were trapped.
“The Mongol camps are there.” Hans waved his hand. With the arena on his left and the church on his right, Andreas guessed the general direction of Hans’s wave was to the south and east of First Field. Hans pointed to the west. “Knights there, and Christians.” His hand moved to indicate the church and the area to the north and west of it. “Hünern, before...” Hans trailed off with a shrug. “Some call it that now too.”
“And where we came from?”
“Rat,” Hans said. “That’s where the rats live.” There was a hint of pride in his voice.
“Rat,” Andreas echoed. “Do you have names for the other quarters as well?”
Hans indicated each section again as he listed their names. “Wolf, lion, and eagle.”
Andreas liked the simplicity and the descriptive names the boy had given the areas of the city. He doubted a reasonably accurate map could be made of Hünern, but Hans’s basic divisions against the two perpetually visible landmarks made it easy to know where one stood in the sprawling maze. If you were closer to the arena than the church, you were closer to the enemy; safety meant putting the church between you and the Mongols—a rule any good Christian could remember.
“The Livonians are in the Lion Quarter, then?” Andreas asked.
“Mostly,” Hans answered. He brought his hand up to his mouth, and Andreas realized he was miming a specific action. “The Heermeister likes to drink,” the boy said.
Andreas chuckled. “Having tasted your uncle’s ale, I can’t say that I blame him.” He clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Lead on, young scout. I want to see everything. Show me the Mongols, the Livonians—I want to see where they sleep and keep their arms—and then we’ll go find their master and have a drink with him.”
An idea was beginning to form in his head—a simple plan that Rutger would, no doubt, find entirely unacceptable. Yet, there was an elegant purity to it that was appealing. Yes, he thought, looking at the honeycombed triskelion, at some point you cannot hide who or what you are.
*
In the Wolf Quarter, the Mongolian presence was overwhelming. Andreas had expected to see an armed presence, but the sheer number of roving four-men patrols astounded him. They got as far as being able to see the gates of the Khan’s compound, but Hans would go no closer. Nor could Andreas blame him. At least three groups of Mongolian guardsmen had taken interest in the two of them already, and to stand around and stare at the gates would only attract more attention.
Marching up to the gate and asking if one of the guards would mind delivering a letter to the Flower Knight wasn’t an option. Andreas hadn’t really thought it would have been that simple, but there was no reason to not be sure. At the very least, he had gotten a glimpse of the Mongolian defenses and had found them strong and sound. Nothing larger than a squirrel or a rat was going to sneak into the Khan’s camp.
He and Hans swung west, scurrying back across the invisible line that separated east from west, losing themselves in the unnamed and unmarked alleys that snaked across the city. Soon thereafter, he spotted the Livonian standard, raised over a dilapidated barn, the white flag snapping in the wind. The red cross surmounted the red sword, its tip pointing down as if to signal to any passersby, “Here be righteous knights.”
Slightly north of the Livonian camp, Hans led Andreas through a half-collapsed arch and up a charred beam. The wood groaned and shifted under their combined weight, and Andreas crouched low, keeping both hands on the beam. A jumble of masonry jutted out from a ruined wall, obscuring their view of the camp. They couldn’t be seen, either; Hans, crouching at the top of the beam, indicated that Andreas should creep up the last few feet and peek over. Andreas did and found he had a bird’s-eye view of the Livonian camp.