The Medieval Murderers - The Lost Prophecies

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.