The Ringed Castle - Dorothy Dunnett [173]
The Starosta of Cherkassy, who during their last encounter had been thrown into the roof-garden pool at Vorobiovo, dismounted and striding forward met Lymond, also on foot, with his mighty gold-mantled arms widely spread. They kissed each other on both cheeks and stood, gripping hands, while the Song of Baida bellowed over their heads.
In the market place of the Khanate
Baida drinks his mead
And Baida drinks not a night or an hour
Not a day or two …
‘Listen to them,’ said the Prince, and pulled the fur hat from his tangled brown hair. ‘I drink mead as a sick bear eats ants, in default of a better remedy.’
Lymond said, ‘I cannot conceive you mean vodka?’ and stood still as he was embraced yet again.
‘A man of saintly perception! I hear you held a feast for our blood-drinking Besermani neighbours, which they attended in two parts, polled head on one side of the field and crossed legs on the other.’
‘Rumour exaggerates,’ said Lymond politely. Walking towards his own spreading pavilion, where Slata Baba sat hunched, her hooked bill exploring her mailes, he paused where Hislop and Best stood, politely erect by their horses. ‘You met, I think, Richard Chancellor, the Master Pilot of the Muscovy Company. This is Robert Best, one of the Company’s servants. If you will allow him to join us, he will, I am sure, be as impressed as my Tsar by the original of the legend. Hoddim? And Guthrie.’
The chosen joined the small procession.
And so he drinks and sways
And looking at his valet, says
‘O youthful valet,
Will you remain faithful to me?’
The chorus rose and fell through the air. Vishnevetsky smiled, stopping beside Slata Baba. ‘I do not see your Venceslas. Is this the eagle?’
‘Venceslas does not go to war. This is the golden eagle. Perhaps you will hunt her with me later. Or have you had hunting enough?’
They were inside the tent. On the hide floor rugs had been laid, Turkish-style, and Lymond and his guest dropped to sit on a long woollen bolster, surrounded by cushions. On these, Guthrie, Hoddim and Best ranged themselves in silence, sliding the shubas from their shoulders. Vodka was brought. Prince Vishnevetsky, brightly knowing, waited until his beaker was full and, raising it, toasted his host before he answered. ‘You observe we have prisoners.’
‘I observe you have Tartar women,’ said Lymond. ‘So you found the yurt.’
‘I found the yurt,’ the Lithuanian said. ‘It was fifteen miles to the south.’
The Turkish Sultan sends for Baida
And with flattery speaks to him.
‘Baida, so young, so glorious
Become a loyal knight to me,
Take my daughter’s hand
You will reign supreme throughout the land!’
Guthrie caught Hoddim’s eye. Without speech, Best knew what he meant to convey. The yurt was the moveable city, the heart of the nomadic horde. The Tartar tents, made of wattle and hide, were set on carts which spread over the steppe like a township, drawn by a thousand camels or more from pasture to pasture; set at night into streets swarming with women and children, chickens and cattle. By day the men hunted; shooting, fishing, hawking wild horses, raiding and stealing, for the Tartar had no money and no means of livelihood save barter, nor any art or science save war. And behind in the yurt, the women flayed the horsemeat and dried it, and sewed the sheepskins they wore, and milked the mares for the strong drink they lived on, while the old men taught the children to shoot, and denied them what food the yurt held, until they had hit the true mark.
From the yurt had come the menfolk that yesterday the Voevoda’s army had slaughtered. Without their young men, it was unlikely the tribe would survive. And Vishnevetsky, neatly forestalling Lymond, had delivered the death blow. He said, ‘They had made a few raids. You would have been amazed. There was gold in the wagons, and one of the Ataman’s daughters was wearing sapphires.’
‘Have you brought her?’ Lymond asked.
‘No. She was ill-favoured. You need not wonder long why their maidens wear linen over their mouths,