Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [141]
There was nothing in his cup but strong drink, which he had not yet tasted. The liquid swirled, and the small flames danced and flickered. Nicholas heard himself saying, ‘I see an eagle. I have seen it before.’
Abdan Khan, his face intent, said, ‘I see nothing. The eagle of the Byzantine Empire? Of Moscow? Of the Great Emperor of the West, or of Rome?’
‘Not this eagle,’ said the shaman. ‘It is an eagle of the future, not the present. And it is not an emblem of empires, but of something quite simple: an act of humanity, perhaps.’
‘Of the future?’ Nicholas had said.
‘You are relieved? Oh, yes. You have been afraid of the past: perhaps you should be. But the shadows you see, the broken messages that have almost found their way home, are not from the past, but the future.’
‘I see,’ he recalled saying. He remembered draining his cup without pause until the eagle had gone, and embarking with firmness on the business of thanks, and of payment. Only at the very last, following Abdan Khan from the tent, had he been impelled to fling round and confront the complacent bastard. ‘I want no messages. How can I stop them?’
‘By death,’ the shaman had said. ‘If you wish to deny them. For the poor-spirited, the grave is the ultimate refuge.’
He was silent, then tried again, full of childish rebellion. ‘But surely there must be some other way. The interference must have a conduit. What led me to see the eagle this time?’
‘How did you see it before?’ Abdan Khan had stopped, and was listening.
‘I don’t remember. It was connected with death, and a child, and with snow. With riding on snow.’
‘There are shamans in the north,’ the physician said. ‘They have their own goddess, a woman. She is called Slata Baba.’ He smiled. ‘I see I have given you something. It is nothing of practical use, my lord Abdan: I should tell you and your prince if it were. My patient has a gift which he cannot control, and which is too frail, in my view, to exploit. I shall tell the Khan myself, if you wish.’
And after that, they had left. It had been another test. But ever since, the wrist had mended as if by a miracle.
THE KHAN MET HIM ALONE, on the final day. Tomorrow morning, with Abdan Khan and an escort to guide them, Nicholas was to start on his way back to Caffa. He had left his servants to pack, not knowing which of his borrowed clothes and equipment to leave, and which to take for the journey. It was the last of three long discussions which had taken place since his report had been completed: one with the Khan and his mentors, one with the Khan and his inner council, and now this, where those things could be aired which no one else ought to hear.
Mengli-Girey came breathless to the table, his broad face and shoulders encased in chain mail and his weapons still rattling at his side: he had led the army exercises that morning, and his hard hands were black from using mace and javelin without gloves. He was a capable leader and knew how to keep his men happy. The Tartar nobles enjoyed the security he and his father had given them, but chafed at the price. Tribute to Turkey they understood, but they were lords of the Peninsula, and should not have to pander to a few thousand heretic foreigners. They were fortunate to have in Mengli-Girey a leader who understood