The Lost Prophecies

ACT TWO

Tartarus’ hordes irrupt through Alexander’s gate.

Six Christian kingdoms crumble in a breath.

Though Latin traders use long spoons to eat,

It won’t protect them from a demon’s death.

I snatch the kumiss from the Tartar’s hand and, tipping the leather sack up, I throw my head back. The raw, milky-white fluid gurgles out of the sack and hits the back of my throat like a well-aimed arrow. I relish the sting on my tongue and the fizz as the kumiss gurgles down. Drinking half-fermented mare’s milk is an acquired taste, but one to which I have adjusted. When you’re thousands of miles from a good Rhenish, and the craving’s on you, you’ll drink anything that’ll guarantee to get you legless. Too much of it, though, and you end up seeing stars. Still and all, that’s better than sharing your quarters with a dead man.

I should explain. The year is Ren-Xu – the Tartar year of the dog – and the year 660 for Mohammedans. To you and me it is the ninth year of Doge Renier Zeno’s governance of Venice, the second year of Pope Urban the IV’s reign, and one thousand two hundred and sixty-two years since the birth of Christ. Or at least I think it is. I have been away from civilization for too long now. And I have lost count of the days that have passed, like a sailor lost at sea. The mare’s milk brew hasn’t helped in keeping my head straight either. All I can say for sure is that it is several months since Friar Giovanni Alberoni, a fellow Venetian (albeit from that sharp, shingle strip that edges the lagoon), picked me up out of the gutter in Sudak.

‘Niccolo Zuliani? Is it really you? I can hardly recognize you.’

‘No, I’m not.. . who you say. My name’s.. . Carrara, Francesco Carrara.’

‘Nonsense. I know Francesco Carrara. He’s at least twenty years older than you, and considerably larger in girth.’

I was so addled at the time that I didn’t quibble any further over my embarrassment at being found in that state. Nor about the friar’s reinstatement of my real name, which I had avoided using for some time. In Venice it was the name of a wanted man. Alberoni always calls me Niccolo in that formal, stuffy way of his. My true friends use the more familiar Nick just as my English mother did, but for the moment I was glad to be Niccolo again at least. He helped me get to my feet and supported my enfeebled body.

‘I’m glad I found you. I have a proposition for you.’ So it was that the gutter in Sudak became the crossroads of my life. Sudak is in Gothia, by the way – some call it Crimea – on the northern side of the Black Sea close to the icy fastnesses of Russia, which are controlled by the Golden Horde. Its main claim to fame is as a point of contact between us Latins and those mysterious Tartars of the East. It was there the good friar nursed me back to something resembling health and fired my imagination with the prospect of plundering the fabled wealth of the Tartar Empire. Well, to be honest (a trait some say I lack, though they tend to be prejudiced, having been outwitted by me in some deal or other) – to be honest, I was the one wanting to do the plundering. Alberoni wanted to penetrate the distant depths of the Empire in order to spread the word of God to the heathen.

Myself, I go for more modest scenarios in order to make a living. I had been living in Sudak, albeit rather poorly, off a scam that we Venetians call ‘the long trade’. Don’t ask me why. The trick is to set up a company in a false name, or with a gullible but reputable fool as a front. Using the fool’s reputation, you then obtain goods on credit over a long period, paying small deposits to keep your creditors happy. Then you rapidly sell off everything you have stored very cheaply, and finally disappear in order to avoid those creditors. Leaving the front man to take the blame. Simple, as long as you can hold your nerve. I lost mine when I was threatened by a big bear of a fur trader from Russia and came out with nothing. I should have stuck to honest trading, especially as the only other time I had reached for the stars had been an unmitigated disaster too. You may recall that I tried to rig the Doge’s election to no avail, ending up with a murder rap. In short, that’s why I had been holed up in Sudak using fat old Carrara’s name as my own.

But that’s all in the past now. Tonight I have to set about saving my own neck from the noose in connection with another murder. Though neck and noose are not exactly precise references. If I am found guilty of murder, the Tartars whose company I am forced to bear in this snowstorm will either tie me up to two horses and thrash them until they fly in opposite directions, taking pieces of me with them, or, if they deem me sufficiently noble, will wrap me in a carpet and merely trample me to death. The carpet treatment is to prevent my noble blood from despoiling the earth.

I suddenly feel dizzy and take another pull from the skin of kumiss to drive such thoughts from my head. I think of the body lying in the snowdrift outside. When the storm abates, he will be interred, and all traces of his existence under heaven obliterated from his Tartar god, Tengri. But before that happens, the barbarous bastards who claim to be his comrades will make an end of me. Which, if you think about it, is pretty unfair as it must have been one of them who slaughtered him. So, the thing is, I wouldn’t mind so much facing death, but I did not kill the man. Then neither do I have the faintest idea who did. Yet I must find out, or suffer the consequences of being named the murderer myself.

I reluctantly set aside the skin of kumiss and huddle down in the warm goatskins beside the fire in the centre of the stove-house. I stare into the flames as they crackle and pop and rue the reasons that brought me to this pretty pass.

Back in Sudak, the good Friar Alberoni had let me into a secret.

‘I have a book of prophecies made ages ago by a Celtic priest. And if I interpret it correctly, there is a verse or two about the Tartars that guide my mission.’

He rummaged in the bundles that half-filled the floor in his lodgings overlooking the harbour. He seemed to have all sorts of gewgaws for trading with the Tartars – beads and furs mainly. As though they were primitives who could be bought for a few trinkets. I knew better. If the stories I had heard were true, it seemed that they themselves had more treasures than we could imagine. Items of great value like pearls, and precious stones, cloth of gold and silk, as well as strange items like black stones that could be lit and would burn for days. What would they want with beads and trinkets? But the stories were that they were interested in everything the West had to offer and were prepared to trade for the things they couldn’t gain by conquest.

A cold wind ruffled the wave-tops in the harbour, and I stared out over the Ghelan Sea. I fondly imagined that my gaze could stretch through the straits at the sea’s western extremity, across the ancient lands of the Greeks and into the Adriatic and Venice. Where fair Caterina Dolfin awaited my return. Or not, if my deepest, darkest moods were to be believed. Why should she wait for me, when I was as poor as a lagoon fisherman, and a marked man to boot?

‘Here it is.’

I sighed and turned my gaze back to the confines of the room. Alberoni was waving a darkly bound tome at me.

‘This is the Black Book of Brân – prophecies that go back hundreds of years. But still speak truths to us today. Listen.’

He proceeded to recite one of the quatrains, which were all in Latin. Now it may surprise you to know that I knew the Church language myself. It may shock you even more to learn that I know it because I studied once for the priesthood. That was before the jingle of money diverted me on to a more lucrative path and broke my mother’s heart. She had been set on me being a priest. Anyway, the poem, if I recall went something like this:

Though lightning and bare skull his banner bear

And all the world is ’neath a storm confined,

When hands across the sea are joinéd there,

Then righteousness is brought to heathen minds.

This he took for justification for his holy embassy to the pagan Tartars, even when I pointed out that they rode under a banner of nine yak-tails, not a skull.

‘Don’t quibble, Niccolo. They have left enough skulls behind them for it to be true. And the rest fits – the storm of the pagan hordes sweeping across the world. And if the West joins hands – we can bring righteousness to them.’

I sniffed in disdain. ‘You can make any events fit such vague ramblings. Have any of these prophecies actually come true?’

Alberoni’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes, yes. They say that at the end of the last century a rebellion in England was clearly prophesied. If the scribe of the book lived in Ireland in the seventh century, how could he know about such an event?’

A little mouse of doubt began to scurry across my brain. I needed to reassure myself that a book of prophecies written in a far-off land hundreds of years ago was nonsense.

‘Let me see.’

I took the thin but oddly heavy book from his reluctant grasp, flicking carelessly through the pages. Scanning the verses quickly and choosing one at random, I stabbed a finger at a quatrain.

‘Take this one, for example.

“When three popes all murdered lie,

And Christ’s own kingdom desecrated.. .”

‘Three Popes murdered? It’s ridiculous. Or this:

“Tartarus’ hordes irrupt through Alexander’s gate.

Six Christian kingdoms crumble in a breath.

Though Latin traders use long spoons to eat,

It won’t protect them from a demon’s death.” ’

I had intended to pour scorn on the prophecies, but suddenly this quatrain struck a chord, as if my choice had not been random after all but directed by a hidden hand. ‘Tartarus’ for the Tartars? And did the ‘Latin traders’ refer to me? Something had made me shudder when I read the last line too. It spoke of a personal foretaste of doom. Outside, a chilly wind whipped across the window opening, and I pretended my shivering was all to do with the plummeting temperature.Then I started to examine the book more closely. I could see straight away that it was not several hundred years old. The pages were relatively crisp and the illuminations bright and clear. I chortled.

‘The book is not ancient at all. No wonder the faker could insert a verse about an event sixty-something years ago. It was already in his past. This is like the letter that some claim to have seen that Prester John wrote to the West. The one that would make him over a hundred and fifty years old.’

Alberoni’s face went red. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, he had good reason to believe in the well-known Prester John myth. It centred on a letter purporting to come from the Far East, where a Christian ruler awaited his call to come and save the West in its hour of most need. To me, it was a neat forgery by an expert who made his money selling hope to the fearful. My mother had told me fairy tales of a similar king hiding under the earth in England. I didn’t believe that either. But lots of people are gullible when it comes to forlorn hopes. And a good con man can make plenty of money pandering to them. This Black Book looked like a similar scam.

Alberoni snatched it back from my disbelieving hands.

‘It’s not the original book. Did I ever say it was? No. It’s a copy made in the west of England by a scribe with a fair hand, which was then taken to Rome to add to the glories of the library at the Vatican. That is where I… found it. Languishing in a dusty corner. Unread and unappreciated.’

‘And they just let you have it?’

I had an inkling that Alberoni had not obtained the book legitimately. He scowled.

‘It was cast aside because there was some tale that the scribe was possessed with evil.’

That was all he would say, and I knew then that he had stolen it from under the nose of the Vatican librarian. His hesitancy over revealing the book’s recent history – when he realized he had gone too far – spoke volumes to me. And that was when I decided to steal this Black Book of Brân from him in my turn. His offer of a long and arduous journey to the ends of the earth, even with the possibility of profitable trade at the end of it, didn’t stack up against a quick buck. I was still recovering from my drunken bingeing over the failure of the long trade. A fast and dirty deal appealed to me more at the time. I knew I could sell it to make some money, and so start trading again. I mean, if it had fooled Friar Alberoni, then it would fool another priest eager for its contents. And how could he object or protest, if he had filched it himself in the first place? So I hope you’re now beginning to understand how I came to be stuck in a Russian stove-house with a drunken Orthodox priest and a dead Tartar.

As soon as Alberoni’s back was turned that day in Sudak, I grabbed the book and was off on my toes. I know, you’re telling me that a trader like me should have planned it more cleverly and waited for the best opportunity. But don’t forget I had not heard the jingle of coinage for a while, and I was thirsty. I didn’t have the time to plan it more neatly than that. However, I did have a good idea whom I would sell this little treasure to, so the theft wasn’t completely stupid. I had first heard of this mad priest who lived on the banks of the Dnieper river from a gang of Russian traders in fur – one of whom had later threatened to detach my head from my body if I didn’t return the furs he had given me on a sale-or-return basis. He had got wind of my long trade scam and caused the collapse of the whole deal. But before that, I had been his drinking companion. Him and a bunch of the hairy giants. I had spent a drunken night with them in Sudak planning how I might find an opening to trade with the Tartars.

Everyone else west of Sudak thought the Tartars were hounds from hell. But here on the wild frontier – the entrepôt where West met East and anything was up for sale – these fearful demons who held the yoke of Rus’s slavery were just another possible business partner. And a Venetian never passed up a chance for a deal. The Russian traders, all as hairy as the furs they dealt in and as smelly, swore that a certain Father Kyrill was well in with the local Tartar lord. He had a reputation not only as a wise prophet but also more practically as a healer. For these reasons he was welcomed at the court of the local khan. It seemed the Tartars loved a heady mixture of religion, magic and prophecy, and Father Kyrill obligingly supplied it. He thus held the key to lucrative trading with his master based at Sarai on the Volga. When he wasn’t at Sarai, the priest lived in a cave above the banks of the river Dnieper near Kherson. And positively drooled over anything to do with omens and prophecies that came his way. He could use it to impress his Tartar overlords. I reckoned I could kill two birds with one stone therefore. I would use the Black Book of Brân to buy Father Kyrill, who would then lead me to the Tartars’ main encampment and the boss of the Golden Horde. I didn’t know then that I would encounter the Tartars sooner than I had anticipated.

The howl of the wind outside the shack stirs the heavy cloth covering the door, causing a series of sharp cracks. It makes the flames of the fire flare up and brings me back to the present. The little band of Tartars now sits stony-faced across the fire from me. The Tartars are a moon-visaged breed at the best of times, with a sparse sprinkling of hair on their chins. Their narrowed eyes give the impression that they are always gazing in suspicion at whatever they see. And at this very moment they are staring suspiciously at me. I am a stranger, and therefore at the forefront of suspicion of the murder. I need to say something to ease the tension, but I don’t know what. Drink is passed, and I am reminded of earlier that fateful night, before the murder took place.

It was just my luck that the weather changed for the worse soon after I set out for the riverside cave of Father Kyrill. By the time I got to the Dnieper, a blizzard was raging, and the river had frozen over. I later learned that even the Ghelan Sea had frozen for three leagues from its shoreline. Father Kyrill was not in his cave, which was lucky for him. If he had been, he would have been a slab of frozen meat by then. As I would be if I didn’t find shelter. Even wrapped in furs as I was, the Russian winter is so intensely cold that a traveller can die in minutes if he remains in the open. That is why rich magnates had built stove-houses along major highways to act as refuges for themselves and other travellers. These square houses were made of great beams of wood that fit so snugly that no wind or cold could penetrate. The only openings were a small door to enter by, and a vent-hole for the smoke of the fire. Struggling through the biting wind that drove the snow into my face, I was lucky to spot one just before I froze. It stood out as a dark patch in an unrelenting vista of white. And someone else had beaten me to it. A thin plume of smoke was sucked from the vent-hole before it was whipped away by the blizzard. I pushed hard on the door and stumbled into the warmth. The fire was the only thing in the gloomy room that exuded any heat.

Seated in a bunch on one side of the central hearth was a gang of hard-faced slant-eyed men I knew immediately were Tartars. And on the opposite side of the fire, completely on his own, squatted a hairy-faced Russian whose fur hat merged as one with the lank, black, greasy locks of his head and beard. When he realized the newcomer was one of his own breed, a grin broke through the forest of hair, exposing yellowed, broken teeth. He spoke a few words in Russian, which I roughly understood from my days carousing with his countrymen in Sudak. I responded in kind.

‘Kak dyela, stary durak.’

I could see he was a holy man from his black garb, so to ask how the old fool was doing was a sort of compliment. They liked being considered simpletons for God. He thrust out a grimy fist.

‘I could be worse, young man. I could be frozen meat. So sharing the warmth with these hounds from hell-’ he cocked a thumb at the silent and suspicious Tartars ‘-is at least preferable to freezing in my cave. My name is Kyrill.’

I have long given up marvelling at the strange ways of coincidence in my life. I prefer to call it luck. A commodity my life had been short of for a long while. So I merely took the presence in this sanctuary of the very man I had sought as a sign that my luck had changed. I squeezed his hand vigorously and immediately wished I hadn’t. His fist was as filthy and as greasy as his locks. After I had recovered my hand, I surreptitiously wiped it clean on my furs. I noted that he wiped his own on his long, grey and greasy beard. I proffered him my name and jerked a thumb at our enforced companions.

‘I’m Nick Zuliani. Trader. Who are they?’

‘The devil’s brood,’ he grumbled.

As he settled back on his haunches, a stone jar slipped from the stinking folds of his clothes. He grabbed it before it shattered on the floor and, leaning across to the upper shelf of the stove, carefully placed the jar on it. I fancied something lurked in the jar, for it rocked slightly even after he had set it down. But then, it could have just been my fertile imagination. He wiped his beard and continued his story.

‘Though the old boy’s not so bad. His name’s Sartakh, and he says they have been escorting Prince Alexander back to Kiev. They were returning to Sarai when the blizzard caught them out. That’s all I’ve got out of them so far.’

I had heard of this Russian prince, Alexander Nevsky. He alone in Russia had dealt with the Tartar overlords, rather than try to fight them. And so he had saved his lands from devastation for years, where other princes and their subjects had fought and gone under. His pragmatism would have made him a good trader. So these Tartars were from Sarai and had been ensuring the prince’s safe return to poor old Kiev. An old city ruined in the Tartar invasion years back, and not much restored now. My luck had definitely turned. They might now be my passport to the heart of Sarai, and Berke Khan, the boss of the Golden Horde. I slid my hand inside my furs and stroked the smooth leather binding of the Black Book of Brân. Maybe I wouldn’t have to bribe Kyrill with it after all. I put on my best business manner and turned to face the Tartars. My smile was met with frosty suspicion, and my offered hand ignored. I saw I would have to work hard here.

I reckoned the only way to break the ice – no pun intended – with this bunch was to draw them into a little game of chance. All soldiers liked to gamble, and who knows? Maybe I’d even live long enough to spend my winnings. I reached slowly into my furs to ensure they didn’t think I was producing a knife and pulled out a couple of dice. I shook them with an inviting rattle and tried the Tartars with a little crude Turkish.

‘Gentlemen, the game is Hazard. As the caster, I will call a number between five and nine and put a stake on the table. You will cover that, and if I throw my number – my main – I have nicked it and win the bets. If not…’

They may not have understood a word I had said, but my intentions were clear enough. I had the complete attention of the little gang of round-faced men, agog at the two dice rolling around in my fist. The Russian priest disdained to play the game, naturally. But then he’d probably got no money anyway. Having gone over the rules again with a lot of waving of hands and holding up of fingers, I threw the dice. Of course, to draw the rubes in, I played it straight for openers. One of the younger Tartars got on a winning streak, and the pile of winnings moved his way. Then I started tapping the dice on the ground before each throw, as though in exasperation at losing. Soon the pile of coins shifted its location and grew on the rug in front of me. The session began to draw out long into the night, and they started to teach me Tartar words as we gamed.

When Eldegai arrived, he came like a demon out of the wilderness. We were still playing at dice. The leader of our band, the wizen-faced old man Kyrill had named Sartakh, suddenly pricked up his ears.

‘Wait.’

Our game stopped abruptly. I mimed an enquiry to one of the Tartars, who explained. Now I am a quick study when it comes to tongues, but at first I thought I had misunderstood what he had said. But he repeated it more slowly for me.

‘Sartakh was born in a distant country where the females are of human shape and the men of a dog’s. He can hear the slightest sound before anyone else.’

His companions sniggered, but the object of their humour stopped them with an abruptly upraised hand. He grunted in his guttural tongue.

‘Someone approaches.’

His companions tensed, reaching for their swords. I belched and grinned inanely at the old man. A harmless fool lives longer than a curious meddler, and I didn’t yet know what was afoot. Soon enough, though, we all could hear the sound of a horse being ridden hard, muffled though the hooves were by the snow. It was coming towards our encampment. The youngest of our escort – Ulan by name – muttered fearfully. My understanding of what they said was now being stretched, and I moved to sit beside Father Kyrill, who interpreted for me.

‘Ulan said that it’s a demon.’

Sartakh rose and stood by the door of the stove-house, opening it to let the firelight spill briefly into the darkness. It risked a loss of heat but, that way, whoever it was would know we were aware of him, and he would be aware of us. This way there would be no surprise reaction on either side. A surprise that might result in a fatal misunderstanding. The sound of hooves ceased, and there was a heart-stopping moment while whoever it was stabled his horse. Then a bundled-up figure appeared in the outer circle of light. Ulan hissed and stood towards the back of the hut. The figure spoke.

‘I am Eldegai, a traveller.’

‘Still on the road at night?’

The question was Ulan’s.

‘I saw the traces of your horses in the snow, and I decided to catch you up rather than camp alone. It’s too cold to camp out anyway.’

‘You followed our tracks in drifting snow? Don’t take me for a fool, demon,’ muttered the young Tartar.

The stranger gave him a puzzled look but did not question what the boy meant. The moment passed, but from that time Ulan continued to keep the closest eye on him, apparently unsure if the stranger were man or beast. Sartakh broke the impasse.

‘Quick. Come in, or we will all freeze.’

The newest arrival to the stove-house stepped inside the room and naturally moved over to the left. That is where male visitors go in a Tartar tent, I later learned, the right side being reserved for the women. I recalled that Father Kyrill was sprawled on the floor on the right of the room. Which might have explained something of the disdain in which the Tartars currently held him. They saw him as no better than a woman. Our visitor, being of their breed, knew better how to behave.

Sartakh moved to the back of the room as if the stove-house were his home, and he the host. He invited the new arrival to approach the fire. The bundled figure hunkered down, loosening his outer fur coat for comfort. By the light of the flames I could now examine his features. He was very ordinary-looking for a demon. He pulled the heavy cap off his head, revealing a head shaved in the traditional way of the Tartar with long braids at the sides. His face was that of a middle-aged man, rounded and red-cheeked in the way of the race. But trackways of lines ran from the corners of his eyes, giving him a severe mien. His mouth was a thin gash, lined on top with a curving moustache. The mouth opened, and he spoke his name again.

‘Eldegai. A poor traveller.’

At least, that is what I believed he said. His accent was somewhat different from those I had got to know while taking their money. It was harder to understand. Maybe it was because he came from some other remote region of the Tartar Empire. I opined that it made him a sort of provincial hick, in a way, and gleefully invited him to play at dice with us. I liked a dead cert and relished parting a fool from his possessions. Eldegai suddenly grinned and moved into the circle of gamblers.

It was soon afterwards that Karakuchuk introduced us to Sic Bo. I had been aware of this quiet old man sitting at the periphery of the group, and careful with his bets. He had been examining my dexterous hand movements, and his face had been more screwed up than usual. As if he was trying to work something out. I knew the look – all con artists know it – the look of a mark who was aware there was a fix on but couldn’t figure out what or how. I knew I would have to deal very carefully with him.

Now, as Eldegai sat down with us, Karakuchuk uncharacteristically took centre stage.

‘There is a game I learned on campaign in Cathay. It is called Sic Bo. Unfortunately, it requires three dice, not two. And a cup.’

He gave me a hard stare through his narrowed eyes. He thought by suggesting a game I didn’t know, he would nullify any cheating that might be going on. And prevent me from using my hands by having the dice rolled in a cup. Smiling, I dug into the pocket of my fleecy jacket and produced a new set of dice. The other dice I ferreted away in the same pocket. They were tappers anyway, and would be no good in a cup. At their core was a hollow partially filled with wax and a stone. By warming the wax in my hands, and tapping them on the ground as I had done after playing honestly for a while, the stone shifted and weighted the dice on whatever side was at the bottom. Karakuchuk’s game would require a different sort of dice if they were to be thrown from a cup. Dice such as I had now produced, some of which were shaved down one side. These I would palm in at the right moment. Sleight of hand was a particular skill that had stood me in good stead for some time. Remind me to tell you about the little matter of the purloined ruby some time.

I had played dice games with a cup before. But Sic Bo was unusual in that the dice were not thrown out of it. Karakuchuk explained slowly for me.

‘After shaking, the cup is upended, hiding the dice. Bets are laid on what might lie below the cup. The simplest bet is with straight odds on the total being high or low – more than ten or less than ten. Understand?’

Now they do say that great gamblers can hear the side that the dice fall on. But I didn’t need to worry about having ears as sharp as Sartakh’s. I knew how they would fall, once I palmed in the shaved dice. I nodded.

‘I understand. It is a risky game.’

Someone produced a simple wooden drinking cup, and we began. I let the unaltered dice roll as they wished to start with. And, of course, I won some bets and lost others. I could see the look of triumph in Karakuchuk’s eyes. But more important, I saw the greed in our new companion’s – Eldegai was suckered. Out of a sense of malice, I then arranged it so that he won several times from Karakuchuk, who was not best pleased. But it gave me a particular delight.

Soon, though, with the shaved dice, I was winning hand over fist from the newcomer. I won a rather nice dagger with a jewel embedded in the hilt, that fine fur hat he had worn on arrival, and some other trinkets he drew from inside his coat as he ran through his losing streak. I suppose I should have stopped, but I got carried away with his desperate eagerness to lose everything he had. And I had spotted a small gold tablet tucked in the folds of his coat. I wanted it, but it seemed he was not far enough gone to wager it. He did lose a spare pair of boots, though. But then, suddenly, he rose from the floor, where the little circle of gamers squatted, and stomped angrily to the darker corner of the room. Sartakh shook his head slowly.

‘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.

I heard someone gasp behind me.

‘Demon.’ It was Ulan, who had just seen what I had observed of the damage to Eldegai’s face. ‘Only a demon would do such a thing.’

I groaned at the Tartars’ fierce superstitions. First off, Eldegai himself had been dubbed a demon by Ulan. Now he was saying Eldegai had been killed by a demon. Maybe he thought that demon was me. Ulan’s cries seemed to rouse the rest of the sleepers, who voiced their horror at what they saw. For a moment the room was a turmoil of groans and guttural sounds. Then it died away, and I looked up to find the Tartars all staring at me with suspicion. But then, what would I expect them to think? Here I was kneeling over Eldegai’s mutilated body with his blood all over my hands. This didn’t look good for me. The tension in the air was palpable, and Taulubeg spat out something unintelligible. Father Kyrill quietly crossed himself and muttered a prayer. I had been in worse fixes and survived. But not much worse. My brain started racing. I pointed to Eldegai’s chest.

‘Look. He has been cut open – gutted with a sharp knife. I do not have such a weapon on me.’

It was true. I had travelled into Russia with a hefty belaying pin from a broken-down boat as my only defence. My sword and dagger had been bartered for some cheap wine a long time ago.

It was Taulubeg who recalled that I had won Eldegai’s own dagger from him at dice.

‘You killed him with his own weapon.’

‘No. I gave it back to him. Look. It is tucked in his belt.’

My command of Tartar was suddenly improving, as my position became more precarious. Still, I was relying more on hand signals than on words. I pulled his ornate jacket open and revealed the dagger. I bent over to pull it from its sheath and show it free of blood. Then I suddenly thought that maybe it had been the murder weapon after all, and I would be sealing my own fate. I began praying it had no blood on it. The Tartars tensed at my potentially hostile move, and Sartakh stepped forward to grasp my wrist. I moved back, and the old man leaned over the body himself, hiding what he did as he felt inside the jacket. He fumbled a little longer than I thought necessary, but then drew the jewelled dagger from its sheath. It was innocent of blood, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Then the rising wind distracted everyone’s attention from me. A great gust caused the stove-house to shudder, and mutterings about demons were cast around again. Sartakh told Tetuak and Ulan to wrap the body up and take it outside. We didn’t want the corpse rotting in the warmth of the stove-house, after all. They moved to follow his command, and a gust of chill air blew in the opened door. I shuddered. Even then, after the evidence was out of sight, I still felt my companions’ eyes hardly leave me. And they muttered suspiciously amongst themselves. It seemed I was not convincing them of my innocence. Even Sartakh – impartial Sartakh – was cooler than usual in his attitude towards me. I grabbed a goatskin bag and sucked the dregs of kumiss in it.

So here I am – prime suspect in a murder case. I recall in the words spoken by Taulubeg something like a name he has thrown at me at the beginning of this nightmare. I ask Sartakh what his comrade-in-arms was referring to. He ducks his head down towards where I sit sprawling on the ground and repeats it, this time more clearly.

‘Zhong Kui – it’s the name of a demon.’

It takes me a long moment to realize that the old Tartar has spoken to me in English. It is astonishing. I am half-English and have learned the tongue from my mother. It has been our secret language in the house of my Venetian father. But what is this Eastern barbarian doing speaking the language? He grins at me, full of pleasure at my shock, and pride at his own skill.

‘I have waited long to meet someone who knows the tongue, and thought I would try it on you. I see you can speak it.’

‘Yes. But how…?’

It turns out that he has learned it from a renegade Englishman – some say a Templar – who ran with Chinghis Khan’s army when it invaded Hungary. I have heard of him, because the Englishman was later captured by his own people and killed for his misdeeds. Sartakh has done more than merely hear of him – he has actually met him. It occurs to me that, just like with my mother, I have a secret language I can share with the old Tartar as I strive to prove my innocence. And someone else’s guilt. Because now Sartakh is suggesting that I find out who did kill Eldegai.

‘Proving another’s guilt is the best way to prove your own innocence, after all. And the story of Zhong Kui is not inappropriate.’

I nod. ‘Then tell me of this Zhong Kui.’

He explains in a low and guarded tone, not wanting to stir up his companions. Apparently, it is an old story from Cathay.

‘The emperor’s jade flute goes missing, and then his concubine’s embroidered perfume bag disappears too. It’s the work of a small demon that no one can catch. Until a larger demon traps it, plucks out its eyes and eats it. The emperor questions the big demon and learns he was once a man called Zhong Kui who killed himself by dashing his head against the palace steps on finding he had failed the palace entrance examinations. In gratitude for the demon’s services, the emperor bestows posthumous honours on Zhong Kui, who continues to serve him, ridding the world of mischievous demons.’

It looks as though I am cast as the big demon, and Eldegai’s murderer as my little prey. Ordinarily, I would have found the story amusing. I mean, why didn’t Zhong Kui, while still alive, merely buy his qualifications like all self-respecting bureaucrats? Then he wouldn’t have cause to bash his brains out. Still, I think the application of the epithet to me is almost flattering. But Sartakh’s face shows that it is not intended as a compliment. A demon is still a demon, and I am still suspect number one in the murder. He leans forward, his eyes cold and impassive.

‘Do everything you can to find the murderer soon, or I will be forced to kill you myself. My men will expect no less of me.’

I try to calm my nerves and return to applying common sense. Apart from seeking a motive, I have to assess who, amongst the Tartars, has had the best opportunity to kill Eldegai. I try to recall where everyone was sitting when the kumiss drinking bout progressed to its conclusion. But I soon realize that the task is almost hopeless. And pointless. Once everyone else had fallen into a drunken stupor, the murderer could have trampled right over the recumbent bodies and not disturbed anyone. I rack my brains to recall if anyone had passed on the kumiss sack a little more often than was reasonable. I immediately eliminate Kyrill. He had been like a pig at a swill trough with the brew, tipping it down his gullet and dribbling the excess down his greasy beard. Later, his stentorian snores had preceded my own descent into the blessed oblivion fed by alcohol. Besides, he had not known any of the Tartars before our forced incarceration and had done nothing to create any ill feeling. I strike him from my list. I am left with the original band of Tartars. The two older men, Sartakh and Karakuchuk, have certainly been restrained in their drinking. But then older, wiser heads often wish to keep their brains clear, where others fall into temptation. Maybe one day I will be able to say the same for myself. Taulubeg, the shortest and stockiest of the group, which is saying something in a band of Tartars, has drunk with a ferocity commensurate with his fiery temper. Perhaps he could hold his liquor better than the others – who knows? The two youngest men, Tetuak and Ulan, appeared to drink their share – Tetuak because it fitted his boastful nature to be seen to carry the booze. However, I recall at least once seeing Ulan tip the sack up to his lips but not swallow. As if he didn’t want to appear weak, but also didn’t want to drink too much. Was that a deliberate act to keep him sober for a later evil deed? My mind buzzes with the aftereffects of the booze, and I can’t get things into focus.

Then something happens that distracted my attention completely. Ulan, as if to confound my previous thought, brusquely demands the kumiss, which lies near to Sartakh’s left hand. The old man leans over and grasps the leather sack. As he bends forward to push the kumiss sack to Ulan, I notice something gleaming inside the folds of Sartakh’s fur jacket. He doesn’t see my shocked look, but as he sits back upright he pulls his jacket tighter around his middle, once more hiding what I saw. However, it is too late. I have seen the golden tablet that had been Eldegai’s and which I had coveted while gaming at Sic Bo. Now it is in Sartakh’s possession. He has stolen the gold, and maybe killed Eldegai for it. I know then I will have to add the only Tartar I considered an ally to my list of suspects. My head is swimming. If I can’t even trust Sartakh, my confidant and translator, can I ever escape from being accused and punished for the murder myself?

As I bend forward to pick up the kumiss sack, something digs into my ribs. I finally recall the Black Book of Brân that was to have been my passport to Sarai, and the prediction that I found in it. The one that jumped out at me, as if it wanted to be read. Doesn’t it say something about demons and Tartars? I slide the book from the folds of my jacket. The cover is dark and shiny in the firelight, and it feels warm and alive in my grasp. Flipping through the pages of prophecies, I find the quatrain in question:

Tartarus’ hordes irrupt through Alexander’s gate.

Six Christian kingdoms crumble in a breath.

Though Latin traders use long spoons to eat,

It won’t protect them from a demon’s death.

I once joked about these prophecies and denied their significance. Now, in the straits I find myself, this particular one isn’t so ridiculous. Its import doesn’t seem to bode well for me. The first two lines are now clear enough. The West’s first sight of the Tartars has been when they surged through the Pass of Derbend between the Caucasus and the Caspian Sea – the so-called Iron Gates of Alexander. And there must have been at least six dukes, princes and other assorted nobles who died in the Battle of Liegnitz alone. As for the last two lines, any other reader could take them as a general warning about consorting with the devilish Tartars. Usually, these prophecy books addressed the grand affairs of kings and nobles, their issues of state and world-shattering events. Not the meddlings of little men like me and you. But these lines are uncannily accurate. If I am the Latin trader, then this old monk Brân is saying I will be involved in a demon’s death – Ulan has called Eldegai a demon, after all. On the other hand, he may be suggesting I myself, in the guise of Zhong Kui, would die a ‘demon’s death’.

I shudder, even though until now I reckoned I didn’t believe in mad prophecies. This stuff all seems too accurate to be scorned as nonsense now, however. Anxiously, I flip the handful of pages over, but none of the other prophecies makes sense. I look at the last quatrain, perhaps in the vain hope that there is a happy ending. I notice there is a gap between the last two verses, bigger than that between all the others throughout the book. This final set of verses, written in the same hand, seems different somehow. It is expressed in a more modern style, though still in Latin. It seems to me as though whoever has copied the original verses has had a yearning to sneak his own predictions in with the older ones. But was not bold enough to include them fully with the original predictions. These lines are smaller and more discreet:

Though portents dire do fill with dread

And great significance implanted here,

Take care to always use your head,

Seek out the lie, for then your way is clear.

I peer closely at them, and smile. I grab the sack of kumiss and drain the slimy dregs. The words of the anonymous scribe have just given me an idea. And all this talk of demons means that a plan is beginning to form in my mind.

For its climax, I will need the services of the Russian priest. Any con artist needs a good accomplice – a ‘shill’, we call them – and the more trustworthy he is, the better. Well, who could be more trusted than a priest? Normally, the shill purports to be a complete stranger, who just happens to be passing by, when the con man is sucking in the victim. This chance stranger confirms what is being said by the con man and apparently goes on his way. That wouldn’t entirely work in the circumstances, but Kyrill arrived at the stove-house before me, and the Tartars know we are strangers therefore. What greater confirmation could the sting’s victim have of the con man’s tale than from the mouth of a priest? Kyrill has already innocently affirmed his credentials as a man of God. Now I will have to risk bringing him into my confidence. In the meantime I will play it by ear, setting the mood. I turn to the group of sullen Tartars and smile confidently.

‘Do you remember when Eldegai first arrived? Ulan, there, thought he was a demon. Then later Tetuak spoke of the sirens of the Great Desert of Lop. That they sometimes seize the horse and leave the rider. But sometimes they also rip the bowels out of the rider and leave the body on the horse. Of course, it wasn’t a demon riding in – it was only Eldegai. Just another traveller, like us. And he wasn’t dead. Then.’

Sartakh mutters a clearer translation of my poor mixture of Turkic and Tartar to his compatriots. Their eyes widen, and Ulan throws a sharp comment back. Sartakh translates for me.

‘He says, then do you think Eldegai was killed by a demon?’

I’m not sure if Ulan is entirely serious, but all the Tartars appear to be hanging on my response. The storm wind rises, spattering a swirl of hail on the outside of the shelter. It sounds as if something intangible is scratching at the walls, seeking to enter. The young Tartar named Tetuak draws a sharp breath and glances nervously over his shoulder. All this talk of demons is getting to him. I’m glad – that is what I am playing for. I want the Tartars to be fearful and open to suggestion. Kyrill casts a look of godly disapproval my way, which I ignore, and press on.

‘I cannot say, but all this talk of demons reminds me of a story I once heard of creatures at the furthest edge of the world who have no neck or head. Their faces are in the middle of their chests. I would not like to come across them on a night like this. Maybe then I would be convinced. Of demons. Have any of you ever come across such monsters in your travels?’

As Sartakh translates the story, I am aware of a communal shudder that runs through the little group. The very idea of headless men is horrific to them. They shake their heads in denial of ever having seen such monsters. But I can see it has stirred their fears and fevered imagination, which is my intention. It is Karakuchuk who now responds to my uneasy story of headless monsters. I don’t fully understand what he says, but I will tell it to you as best I can with only a little of my own embroidery.

‘I have seen monsters,’ he says.

Karakuchuk is as old as Sartakh but a little more reserved. He has hovered on the edge of the group most of the time. That he should speak up so readily is a surprise. Maybe the eerie quality of the setting – all of us trapped by the storm with a body bundled up in the darkness outside, and talking of demons – maybe it has sparked off his recollection. Whatever it is, his face, normally squashed and wrinkled due to his lack of teeth, becomes animated and alive.

‘It was a long time ago, when these things were more common than now. After the campaign in India, in the time of Chinghis’s son. As we returned through the wastelands, we came across a tribe of women whose men were in dog’s form.’

The other Tartars cast sidelong glances at Sartakh – he of the reputedly canine hearing – and grin. But this is no snide joke at Sartakh’s expense. Karakuchuk is in earnest.

‘I saw them. Dark-skinned, hairy women, they were, in the village that we occupied. And no sign of ordinary men. The men-dogs ran in packs, and I saw them attack one of our men and kill him. We tried to shoot them with our arrows, but they had rolled in freezing water, and their pelts were coated with ice. It rendered our arrows harmless. We ran after them, but they were too swift, and ran off into the night.’ He shudders. ‘We left there pretty soon afterwards.’

I would not have taken old Karakuchuk for a coward. Nor for someone who could not see that the menfolk of the village had merely disappeared into the wastelands for safety when they heard that the Tartars were coming. Still, I had not been there when the pack of dogs attacked. Maybe I would have believed the stories too, in the circumstances. He shuffles to the back of the group once more, brooding. There is an awkward silence.

Suddenly, Kyrill groans and stretches his limbs. He is still unused to squatting on the floor and expresses a longing for a good chair. While the Tartars are distracted by the thought of Karakuchuk’s tale, I quietly speak to the priest. I tell him I need his assistance in determining the identity of the murderer.

‘I have no idea who it could have been,’ he hisses anxiously, casting a fearful glance around the tent.

When his eyes turn back on me, I wonder for a moment if he also thinks I am the killer. I return his look with a confident gaze that I have no right to display.

‘Leave that to me. Just follow my lead, when I come to the crux of the matter. Oh, and have one of those leeches ready that you carry around with you in the water jar.’

‘The leeches? What for?’

He listens hard while I whisper in his ear what I need him to do. As he then settles down to sleep in the dark outer edge of the stove-house, I see that one Tartar in particular has not taken his eyes off me. Young Tetuak is a moody individual, given much to drinking and boasting of his prowess with the powerful Tartar bow. Until, I suddenly recall, Eldegai poured scorn on his more fanciful claim of killing three men with one arrow. His face had been red with stored resentment for the rest of the night. Nor had he been so loudmouthed again, when his comrades spoke of battle honours. The rest of the band were obviously veterans, apart from Ulan, who had nothing much to boast of, being no more than a boy himself. But Tetuak was still old enough to have campaigned somewhere in the growing Tartar Empire. I now wonder why he hasn’t talked of any battle deeds. Is he less bold than he suggests, and did Eldegai hit a sore spot in his armoury? And hurt his pride hard enough to cause him to retaliate in the dark?

Suddenly, there is a gust of wind down the flue that causes the fire to flare. Tetuak squeals.

‘There is a devil on the roof, and it won’t come in because there are Christians present.’ He stares at me, then gestures also at the somnolent Kyrill. ‘We should get rid of them, and the devil will enter.’

I am curious. ‘Why would you want the devil to come in?’

‘Because it could tell us who murdered Eldegai.’ He turned to his comrades. ‘You have all seen a kham evoke a good devil before.’

‘A kham?’ I mutter an enquiry of Sartakh.

The old man shrugs. ‘A diviner. A shaman. Anyone who wishes to seek answers of a devil has a kham place cooked meat in their tent. Then the kham invokes a devil and beats on a drum to call it. The kham enters into a fury and is bound. Then the devil comes in the darkness, eats the meat and speaks. I suppose a kham is like to that priest there.’

I grin to myself at the thought of Father Kyrill being compared to some wild maniac calling on the devil for answers. It is lucky he has fallen asleep, and so misses Sartakh’s unflattering comparison. But then, bearing in mind his propensity for prophecy, maybe Sartakh is not far from the mark. I think fleetingly of the Black Book of Brân tucked in my jacket, and the copyist’s own effort at prophecy. Has it not served up to me a clue to the murderer’s identity? Tetuak, meanwhile, is still muttering about my unhelpful presence. Apparently, the devil sitting on the roof would enter if I leave along with Kyrill. And freeze to death outside as a consequence. I also have no doubt that such a result would then rapidly confirm my guilt in the matter of the murder. If Tetuak is the killer, it would be a good diversion tactic for him. But I don’t propose to give him, killer or not, such an easy way out.

For a moment the roar outside the shack ceases, and everyone draws breath. The abyss of silence is more frightening than the constant battering of sound has been before it. Taulubeg licks his lips and looks shiftily around at his companions. The little man has a nondescript face, but one that is prone to revealing more of what is inside the man than any of his comrades’ visages. Where such as Sartakh hides behind an impassive face, Taulubeg signposts his moods as soon as they come on him.

‘Devils, demons,’ he grumbles. Poking a short, calloused finger at Tetuak, he jibes at the younger man. ‘You know nothing. South beyond Armenia there are real monsters who have only one arm and one hand in the middle of their chest. To shoot a bow, two of them stand together. And they have only one leg and foot, but still can run faster than a horse.’

Tetuak gives a short barking laugh at the absurdity of such a tale. Devils he is prepared to accept, but obviously not strange monsters.

‘Run faster than a horse. With only one leg!’

Taulubeg’s already ruddy features darken even more, as his face reveals his anger once again. He is not going to be derided in such a way. And especially not by someone who runs off at the mouth like Tetuak.

‘Yes. They run by jumping on their one foot. And when they tire of this, they revolve in a circle on hand and foot. They are called the Ciclopedes.’

At this further elaboration on Taulubeg’s story, Tetuak’s amusement turns into a helpless guffaw of mirth. It is only stifled when Sartakh nudges him in the ribs to remind him to be respectful to his elders. The laughter is cut off, but the damage is done. Taulubeg continues to glare at his derider with pure hatred in his eyes. The message is clear – the boy will pay for his mockery later. And I am suddenly reminded of the incident between Taulubeg and Eldegai over the nauseous stew. Can Taulubeg have harboured a grudge, only to take his opportunity for revenge in the teeth of the storm that now rages around our shack? I feel the urge to look him squarely in the eye.

With the walls creaking and groaning around us, I rise as if to stretch my stiff legs. Several sets of eyes shift suspiciously, following me as I step around the edge of the flickering fire. Taulubeg leans conspicuously away from me as I bend down to retrieve the kumiss bag at his side. He actually avoids my scrutiny, and I wonder again if he could be the murderer. Shoving a hand into the small of my back, and bending to get some feeling into it, I move to drop down closer beside Sartakh. I murmur a question to him in English.

The Tartar’s pronunciation is execrable, but using English gives us a secret, common language. To use it now means no one knows what I am saying. And I particularly don’t want Taulubeg to overhear. Even so, I studiously avoid the use of names.

‘Sartakh, my friend, remember earlier, when you had to come between the dead man and our quicktempered friend over there?’

The old Tartar screws his eyes up and gazes at me hard. For a moment I think he has not understood my words. Or to whom I refer. Then he speaks in his garbled way.

‘Think you that… the one you talk of… mayhap killed in revenge for such a slight?’

I shrug my shoulders, wanting his opinion. Valuing his knowledge of the man. Taulubeg, of whom we speak, is sitting hunched over with his head bowed, ignoring the desultory chatter that flows from his other companions. The storm continues to rip around the stove-house, pinning us all together in its confines. Sartakh understands my gesture.

‘Perhaps right you are. But… he… is more likely to have harmed him at the time. Not later, when his mood has flown.’

I sigh, and acknowledge his reading of Taulubeg’s hot and cold temperament. Quick to act when provoked, but quick to cool off also. Sartakh takes the kumiss bag from my grasp and tips it to his lips.

‘Still… who can tell how troubles fester in a man’s brain?’

He leaves this reservation hanging in the air and gulps down the heady drink, his eyes twinkling. I won’t strike Taulubeg entirely from my list, then. Glancing over to the door, outside of which is the bundle that is the dead body of Eldegai, I wonder who else amongst the Tartars has reason to have killed him. Tetuak has been mortified by Eldegai, who showed up the emptiness of his boasting concerning his skill with a bow. I next consider Ulan, who has certainly had the opportunity, as it was he who first discovered me standing over the body. Had he already been awake, waiting to shift the blame for his own actions on to another?

I glance across at where he is now engaged deep in conversation with the erratic Tetuak. The confining nature of the storm outside seems to have animated the young Tartar. The enforced proximity has driven him to engage in more intercourse than I have seen before. Perhaps the feeling of being confined with a dead man – and his murderer – is unsettling. Or maybe it is the kumiss we have all drunk. In any case, Ulan is getting red-faced over something, prodding a finger at Tetuak. Who in return is shaking his head vigorously.

I again go over in my mind the aftermath of the argument that had blown up between Taulubeg and Eldegai. The occasion when Taulubeg accused him of being too snooty. Ulan had been there too, and had been angry over what Eldegai said about being the Il-Khan’s envoy. I had heard the words too, and now need the importance confirmed. I lean backwards on one elbow across the rough skins that insulate the ground inside the stove-house. Sartakh is sitting with his back against the bundles that are piled around the edge of the room. His eyes are closed, but I am sure the canny old man is as alert as usual. I speak to him in English again.

‘Why would Ulan be angry to learn that Eldegai was an envoy going to the ruler in Sarai?’

Sartakh’s face does not betray anything, but I can see his shoulders tense at the import of my question. He slowly raises an eyelid and glances my way. He speaks, hardly moving his lips.

‘So, know you that he was more than a mere traveller? How clever of you. I suppose you saw the paizah.’

Through his half-closed eyes he observes my puzzled look. Paizah?

‘The gold tablet you coveted when you were cheating Eldegai out of his possessions.’

‘Cheating…?’

I refrain from any feigned outrage, when I see the smile playing gently on Sartakh’s lips. After the start of the gambling, when I allowed Lady Luck to dictate who won and build the confidence of my marks, he took no further part in the proceedings. I thought then that he was just maintaining a distance as the leader of the band. Now I understand that he had seen through my tricks immediately. But then he clearly doesn’t care if I have duped his comrades. That is their business. I change tack and go on the offensive. After all, I suspect Sartakh of stealing this paizah himself.

‘Paizah, yes. The tablet that now appears to be in your possession, Sartakh.’

His eyes open wide now and bore into me like gimlets in the hands of a Venetian shipwright. He gives a little barking laugh.

‘I see. You are not sure whether or not I killed Eldegai for the paizah.’ He shifts forward so his mouth is close to my ear. He whispers in it. ‘Let me explain what it represents.’ He slides his hand inside his coat, and though he doesn’t bring out the gold tablet I know he is holding it firmly. ‘This tablet is the authority of the khan given to him who carries it. Anyone who sees it must aid the bearer of the paizah. It is more than a piece of gold. It is the word of the khan himself. No Tartar would attempt to steal it, for to do so would mean certain death. The tablet told me that Eldegai was the envoy of the Il-Khan of Persia. Subordinate to the Great Khan, but an important khan nevertheless. No, I didn’t steal the paizah. I took it from his coat after his death, when I checked the dagger for blood. Now I keep it safe.’

I ponder for a while, taking in this new information. It still doesn’t provide the answer to why Ulan reacted so badly to Eldegai’s revelation. I tell Sartakh what I heard Ulan say, calling Eldegai a demon in human form for going to Sarai. The old man sighs and throws another dung brick on the fire. The flames die for a moment, then flare up brighter than before, lighting everyone’s face in an eerie glow.

‘Devils, demons. I wish you hadn’t mentioned monsters in the first place,’ he grumbles. ‘Anyway, mayhap you heard wrong. You are still inexpert in our tongue.’

I shake my head, gazing across the flames at the figure of Ulan, who has now slumped back and appears to be dozing. His altercation with Tetuak is apparently finished.

‘No. I heard the words well. He said what he said.’ I hesitate for a moment, watching Sartakh frown in annoyance. My gambler’s instinct tells me that Sartakh’s interest is piqued. Now all I have to do is make him believe he is cleverer than me. I don a look of total perplexity.

‘I just don’t understand what it all means.’

Sartakh’s eyes gleam.

‘Then you should have listened just now to what he was saying to Tetuak. You see, it’s all to do with who is really the Great Khan. When the last khan died, there remained his three brothers to succeed him, though you can forget the middle one. Hulegu is the Il-Khan of Persia, of whom we speak, and has no ambitions to be the Great Khan. Though it matters who he will support out of the other two. Arigh-Boke is the youngest brother, but he sits at the seat of power in Karakorum. And despite being the youngest, he is… how would you say it in your dog tongue? He carries on in the old ways.’

I know the sort from my trading days – holding everybody in their enterprise back, while those with new ideas want to forge ahead. I can think of a choice word or two to describe them – prehistoric, stick-in-the-mud, fogey – but I choose to be polite.

‘A traditionalist.’

‘A trad…’ Sartakh can’t quite get his tongue around the word, waves his hand to acknowledge the expression, and presses on. ‘Now, two years ago, the older brother, while still on campaign in Cathay, mind you, breaks all the rules. Without returning to our heartland, he goes and proclaims himself Great Khan. There’s a big-’

I feed him the word he seeks. ‘Rift.’

He nods. ‘Big rift. All the lesser rulers – like Alghu, the Chaghadai khan – are scrabbling around trying to decide whom to ally themselves with. I suppose the fact that Eldegai was on his way to Sarai would suggest Hulegu has decided which way to jump. And that is along with the traditionalists. Young Ulan, however, favours the older brother.’

There is the sound of a rasping throat over my shoulder, and Karakuchuk leans forward out of the dark. He spits a yellowish gob into the fire, where it sizzles briefly and is gone. I am reminded of the time he interfered in my gambling to suggest a game of Sic Bo. He is once again poking his nose in where it’s not wanted. He growls at Sartakh in their own tongue.

‘Speak a proper language, Sartakh. Not the devil’s tongue, so we know where you stand.’

I can see the fire in Sartakh’s eyes, but he keeps calm.

‘I was merely telling the traveller about Arigh-Boke and his brother.’

Karakuchuk growls again, wiping the remains of the saliva from his whiskery chin.

‘The brother you speak of is no more than an impostor. How can he be Great Khan, when he doesn’t even come to Karakorum for the kuriltai – the great gathering?’

It sounds to me as if this brother has taken a big gamble to win the crown. Not being at the traditional place to stake his claim, he breaks with the old rules and does it anyway. I am beginning to like him. Karakuchuk continues grumbling, however. ‘The boy’s gone native away there in Cathay; he’s in love with all the effete ways of the Chins. I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t move the capital there next.’

Ulan hears what the old man has said, and suddenly there is tension boiling in the stove-house. ‘What’s wrong with him? Arigh-Boke is a fossil, always hanging on to the old ways. And there’s much to marvel at in Cathay.’

‘Well, as none of us here’s been there, how can you comment?’ sneers the old man.

Ulan rocks back on his haunches.

‘Well, no. But I’ve heard lots of stories.’

‘Stories,’ laughs Karakuchuk. ‘I’ve heard stories about enchanted mountains, unicorns, and ants that dig for gold. It doesn’t mean they’re true.’

Ulan butts in again.

‘I’ll tell you a story I was told by a Chin. He told me of a province to the west which, at whatever age a man enters it, then that is the age he keeps. But you have to stay there to remain alive.’

Taulubeg snorts, staring at the wide-eyed wonder shining in the visage of Ulan. Then he cackles and spits a phlegmy gob into the fire.

‘Hehe. A Chin. I bet he was a eunuch court official who sat on his arse all day. I don’t know why you believed such nonsense. I would have opened his veins for insulting me with patent lies.’

He pauses, and his final comment is directed straight at Ulan.

‘And that’s what you want. A Great Khan who listens to lying eunuchs all day long. Give me Arigh-Boke any day.’

Tetuak has also gone as pale as a pewter storm cloud over Venice, and Ulan is rendered speechless. Only Karakuchuk nods as though he agrees with Taulubeg. The room falls silent, and the only sound is the whining of the restless wind outside. And the creaking of the walls as they buckle and swell like ancient bellows with the air soughing in and out. It is as though we are all sitting inside some monster’s chest. I can see the success of my planting the idea of unnatural activity in the minds of those present. I have them scared, and uncertain. In fact, even my pragmatic Venetian brain is jangling in the heavy atmosphere. And the sense of unease that is tangible in the very air everyone sucks into their lungs. I wanted them to be unsure of each other, and they surely are now. Better that than united in their unease about me.

Besides, all has suddenly become clear to me. I now know who has murdered Eldegai. I just have to convince the others that I am right. And that I had no reason to kill him. In fact, I had every reason for him to prosper. I think back over my last meeting with Eldegai, just before his death. It is what he told me then that I now have used to figure out who the killer is. Along with a few more shrewd observations, and the prophecy of the mystery scribe. But I’m still going to have to extract a confession. And much as I might long for the dark and feverish confines of the Doge’s palace dungeons back in Venice to assist me, I know I have to rely on my own wits. And a little sleight of hand.

I peruse my companions, sitting huddled around the flickering fire at the heart of the stove-house. The brightness of the flames has faded to a cherry glow that barely illumines all our faces. The outer ring of dark walls has disappeared into the gloom, making the sound of their creaking in the rushing wind more eerie and uncanny. We might as well be sitting in the open under some dreadful, starless sky with a horde of winged beasts flapping down to pick us off like carrion. The unease engendered by the gloom and the tales of monsters lodged in everyone’s minds admirably suits my purpose. Instinctively, the Tartars have moved closer to the fire as the scope of its warmth and brightness has faded. I rise and stalk around the perimeter of the room, which is half in darkness. It is time for a bit of showmanship.

I kick Kyrill’s skinny haunches to arouse him from sleep and make my voice as sonorous as it can be.

‘Come, priest. I feel the soul of Eldegai calling me. It wishes to speak.’

There is a stirring amongst the Tartars as the import of my words penetrates their skulls. One or two are moved to protest, but Sartakh stops them with an upraised palm. His eyes twinkle with curiosity as he searches my face for the meaning of my actions. I put on my best gambling face and drag Kyrill unwillingly towards the door. When I open it, the blast of cold air hits my face like sand from the lagoon whipped up by a vicious easterly wind. We make a swift job of dragging the stiffened body of Eldegai into the stove- house once again. Sartakh slams the door closed behind us, sealing in the warmth. The body lies close to the stove, and I stand with my back to the door, preventing anyone leaving. I abruptly indicate that everyone should form a circle around the corpse. Then I push into the group and take up my position.

We are now all sat close together in a ring, with Kyrill at my shoulder. To my left sits the sour-faced Tetuak – the boastful but unproven Tetuak. To his left squats fresh-faced Ulan, like all youths, convinced of his own rightness, but untested in battle. And then beyond him I can make out the wrinkled face of old Karakuchuk, veteran warrior and canny gambler. Between him and me, to my right hand, huddles Taulubeg – believer in demons, whose nervous features betray the fact. He isn’t sure whether he is sitting with a devil even now. Sartakh is sitting slightly back from the ring, as if aloof. I try not to be worried about this. I have discounted him as the killer. He retrieved the gold paizah only as part of his duty as leader of the group, not with theft in mind. But with him sitting dangerously close to my back, I only hope my estimation of his innocence is right.

I take a deep breath and begin.

‘Some say Eldegai was a demon…’

Ulan looks startled and begins to protest. But I hold up my hand to silence him. He subsides back on to his haunches, still tense.

‘Some say I myself am a demon.’

I pause, but this time there is no protest. My shock of red hair, my bushy beard that has been untrimmed for months, and my green eyes no doubt enhance my dubious reputation. And I am going to use it to my advantage. I grin wolfishly, and four pairs of Tartar eyes stare nervously back at me. In one pair I can see the eyes of a murderer. Only Sartakh’s eyes are calmly indifferent. I make a large gesture with my right hand, encompassing Kyrill.

‘But the priest I travel with is a great magician.’

Now I have them. They stare goggle-eyed at the figure behind me in the darkness of the tent. I pray Kyrill is alert to his cue. ‘The priest is a fisher of souls.’

‘Take care, Venetian,’ mutters Kyrill. ‘Do not blaspheme.’

I breathe a sigh of relief. At least I now know he hasn’t fallen asleep again.

‘Just pray for Eldegai’s immortal soul, Father Kyrill,’ I intone, keeping my audience entranced. ‘And I will do the rest.’

All eyes are fixed on the black shape of the priest as he steps forward and kneels over the bundle that is the mortal remains of Eldegai. They watch as he makes the sign of the cross and says a prayer for the dead man. I myself am praying – that Kyrill has remembered what I have earlier coached him to do. And that he will do it well. The leech jar that I have picked up from the shelf above the stove stirs under my jacket. I tremble as Kyrill lays a hand on the body, then closes his fist as though he is drawing something from the mortal remains. Something like the dead man’s very soul. I suddenly have a feeling that this is going to work.

With a powerful gesture that I didn’t think he had in him, he casts the invisible contents of his fist to the mat at my feet, beside the embers of the fire. The Tartars stare through the glow, unsure if they can see anything or not. Then I make a pass over the spot, and there, wriggling on the matting, is the black and slippery form of Eldegai’s immortal soul. A communal gasp escapes the lips of the band of Tartars, and they pull back in fear.

I pick the leech up from the floor by its tail and let it blindly rear its head. I am glad my sleight of hand has not failed me, when I quickly palmed it from the jar and cast it on the floor before it could attach itself to me. I hold on now despite my horror of the slimy creature. We are close to the climax of my performance. I mutter under my breath to Sartakh.

‘Tell them Eldegai’s soul is seeking his killer.’

Sartakh speaks, and even his voice is shaky at what seems to be taking place. But he speaks with conviction. I give him my next command.

‘Tell them all to put their right hand over the fire.’

At Sartakh’s command, four shaking hands are thrust out over the heat of the dying embers. I bring the wriggling worm to the centre of the circle of fingers. Its head probes the air. Tetuak’s eyes follow the wavering form of the leech with horror, but he holds his hand firm. Karakuchuk’s fist is steady too, and his wrinkled face betrays no emotion. His eyes are dead and glassy. Taulubeg’s method of control is to close his eyes firmly, but his lips are still forming a prayer to Tengri. Ulan is the most fearful of all, and his hand trembles as the seeker of truth dips and weaves in the air.

I hoped to guide the leech towards the killer’s hand myself, but to my astonishment it suddenly goes unerringly for it. Ulan squeals, but the leech fixes firmly on another hand. That of Karakuchuk. I should have guessed the hand of our animal butcher would be irresistible to a bloodsucker. For I have already figured out that Karakuchuk’s skill has also been used on Eldegai. The butcher’s favourite method of slaughter is to cut open the animal’s chest and to still its heart by squeezing it with his powerful fist. In just such a way did he end Eldegai’s life.

Screaming, and feverishly trying to brush the harmless leech from the back of his hand, Karakuchuk staggers to the door of the stove-house and tears it open. The wind roars into the room, throwing everyone and everything into confusion. Mats and pots fly through the air in the gust, and it is some time before Ulan and Sartakh together manage to force the door closed again. Leaving Karakuchuk outside in the maelstrom.

I look into Sartakh’s eyes, questioning what should be done. He shakes his head.

‘Leave him to his fate. He will not survive out there on his own.’

After the confusion caused by the wind is rectified, an uncanny silence descends on the interior. Only Sartakh is moved to speak.

‘Tell me, Zuliani. How did you know it was Karakuchuk? Once you had realized Eldegai was an envoy from the Il-Khan coming to Sarai, you should have suspected Ulan. Karakuchuk would not have killed someone who sided with Arigh-Boke and the traditionalists.’

‘You really don’t know, do you?’

Sartakh looks a little put out at my comment, but his voice is firm and unwavering. ‘Know what?’

‘That Eldegai was not offering Hulegu’s alliance with Boke. He told me himself that he was bringing bad news. The Il-Khan was throwing in his lot with the other brother. The older brother.’

‘Why would Eldegai tell you that?’

I hesitate, not wanting to explain the little matter of a long trade scam and the opportunities suggested by Eldegai in Cathay. And how I was going to have used Eldegai. I do tell him Eldegai informed me ‘the old man’ knew his intentions. Sartakh’s face breaks into a smile of comprehension.

‘You thought he meant me. But then, when I told you Eldegai was going to Sarai to offer Hulegu’s alliance, and clearly didn’t know what his message was-’

‘I had to think again. Ulan didn’t know the true course of events either. So it could have been him who killed Eldegai. As indeed with Tetuak or Taulubeg, for other reasons. But there was one stumbling block. They all spoke the truth to me. Everyone spoke the truth to me, except one. And I was reminded of a prophetic bit of doggerel.’

In fact, it was that verse at the end of the Black Book written as a warning by the copyist to anyone taking the prophecies too seriously. It went:

Though portents dire do fill with dread

And great significance implanted here,

Take care to always use your head,

Seek out the lie, for then your way is clear.

‘Only Karakuchuk lied. He implied he’d never been to Cathay, when Ulan spoke in admiration of the place. He had clearly forgotten about telling me where he learned Sic Bo, the game we played much earlier in the evening. He had fought on campaign in Cathay, and he hated the place and all it stood for. He would stop at nothing to aid Arigh-Boke’s cause against his brother. He did stop at nothing, murdering Eldegai, and gouging out the eyes to make it look as if a demon had done it. He even hinted that I might be that demon. But to show I do not place my trust in portents and magic-’

I draw the slim black book from my jacket and with only a small hesitation toss it into the stove. The flames hungrily consume the dry pages, burning like the fires of hell. Each section flares up before curling into a blackened leaf that drifts up the chimney in the hot air currents. In truth, I am glad to get rid of the cursed book. Despite the aid the last quatrain gave me, I feel that no one should have an insight into their future. It is too dangerous and fearful a thing. As I watch the pages blacken, I briefly wonder if this is the only copy. Or if the original still exists, and whether it will continue to puzzle and vex others down the years. I turn back to Sartakh.

‘You know, it would not surprise me if Karakuchuk also drugged the kumiss skin he offered up that had us all so drunk. I truly have never experienced so swift a response to such a skinful.’

Sartakh laughs and slaps me on the shoulder.

‘You are a veritable demon. From now on I shall call you not Zuliani but Zhong Kui.’ He pauses. ‘Listen. The storm has ended.’

It is true. The hut no longer shakes and twists, and sweet silence hangs over the encampment. Sartakh unfastens the door, and we both stoop through the low entrance and emerge into a peaceful world. The sky has cleared, and the morning sun is staining the snow a blood red. It feels good to be alive and no longer suspected of murder. Sartakh is gazing out towards the sunrise.

‘You will have to replan your route, it seems. Your real goal is further east than you had thought.’

He means the Cathay-loving brother’s domain. And he is right. I have already determined to return to Sudak and Friar Giovanni Alberoni. I am certain I can wheedle my way back into his favour and convince him that the Black Book of Brân was no more than a faker’s scam. I recall the place which the good friar wanted to go to from the very beginning.

‘Yes. I am bound to the court of Kubilai Khan, to the summer palace of Shang-tu, that some call by the name of Xanadu.’