The area was relatively densely populated. They passed many yurt villages, some of them large and sprawling, with smoke rising everywhere, the fine threads leaning in the prevailing wind. There were even roads, after a fashion, or at least heavily worn and rutted trails. This part of the Mongol empire seemed to have come through the Discontinuity almost intact, even though it was studded with time-slice incongruities.

They came to a broad, sluggish river. A ferry had been set up here, a platform guided by ropes slung across the river. The platform was big enough for the riders, cosmonauts, horses and even the cart to be loaded on and transferred in one go.

On the far bank they turned south, following the river. Kolya saw that a second great river snaked across the countryside, glistening; they were heading for a mighty confluence. Clearly the nomads knew where they were going.

But at the foot of a hill, close to a big oxbow loop of one of the rivers, they came to a slab of stone, closely inscribed. The nomads slowed and stared.

Kolya said grimly, “They haven’t seen this before, that’s clear. But I have.”

“You’ve been here?”

“No. But I’ve seen pictures. If I’m right this is the confluence of the Onon and Balj rivers. And that monument was set up in the 1960s, I think.”

“So this is a little teeny time slice. No wonder these guys are staring.”

“The script is supposed to be old Mongolian. But nobody knows for sure if they got it right.”

“You think our escorts can read it?”

“Probably not. Most of the Mongols were illiterate.”

“So this is a memorial? A memorial to what?”

“To an eight-hundredth birthday …”

They rode on and climbed over a last ridge. There, set out before them on a lush green plain, was another yurt village—no, not a village, Kolya realized, a city.

There must have been thousands of tents, set out in a regular grid pattern, spanning hectares of ground. Some of the yurts seemed no more impressive than those in Scacatai’s village out on the steppe, but at the center was a much grander structure, a vast complex of interconnected pavilions. All this was enclosed by a wall, but there were outer “suburbs,” a kind of shantytown of cruder-looking yurts that huddled outside the wall. Dirt roads cut across the plain from all directions, leading to the gates in the wall. A lot of traffic moved on the roads, and inside the city itself smoke rose from the yurts, merging into a pale brown smog that hung over the city.

“Christ,” said Sable. “It’s a tent Manhattan.”

Perhaps. But on the green land beyond the city Kolya saw vast herds of sheep, goats and horses, grazing contentedly. “Just as the legends described,” he murmured. “They were never anything more than nomads. They ruled a world, yet cared only about having somewhere to graze their flocks. And when the time comes to move to the winter pastures, this whole city will be uprooted and moved south …”

Once more the horses jolted into motion, and the party rode down the shallow ridge toward the yurt city.

At the gate, a guard in a blue, star-spangled tunic and felt cap held them up.

Sable said, “You think our guys are trying to sell us?”

“Negotiating a bribe, perhaps. But in this empire everything is owned by the ruling aristocracy—the Golden Family. Scacatai’s people can’t sell us—the Emperor already owns us.”

At last the party was allowed to go ahead. The guard commander attached a detail of soldiers, and Sable, Kolya, and just one of their Mongol companions, along with the cart laden with their gear, were escorted into the city.

They made their way down a broad lane, heading directly for the big tent complex at the center. The ground was just churned-up mud. The yurts were grand, and some were decorated in rich fabrics. But the stench was Kolya’s overwhelming first impression—like Scacatai’s village, but multiplied a thousandfold; it was all he could do to keep from gagging.

Smell or not, the streets were crowded, and not just by Asian peoples. There were Chinese and perhaps even Japanese, Middle Eastern types, maybe Persians or Armenians, Arabs—even round-eyed west Europeans. The people wore finely made tunics, boots and hats, and many had heavy jewelry around their necks, wrists and fingers. The cosmonauts’ gaudy jumpsuits attracted some eyes, as did the spacesuits and other gear piled on their cart, but nobody seemed much interested.

“They are used to strangers,” Kolya said. “If we’re right about our location in time, this is the capital of a continental empire. We must be sure not to underestimate these people.”

“Oh, I won’t,” said Sable grimly.

As they neared the central complex of pavilions, the presence of soldiers became more obvious. Kolya saw archers and swordsmen, armed and ready. Even those off-duty glared at the party as it passed, breaking off from their eating, and gambling over dice. There must have been a thousand troops guarding this one big tent.

They reached an entrance pavilion, big enough to have swallowed Scacatai’s yurt whole. A standard of white yak tails hung over the entrance. There were more negotiations, and a messenger was sent deeper into the complex.

He returned with a taller man, obviously Asiatic but with startling blue eyes, and expensively dressed in an elaborately embroidered waistcoat and pantaloons. This figure brought a team of advisors with him. He studied the cosmonauts and their equipment, running his hands briefly over the fabric of Sable’s jumpsuit, and his eyes narrowed with curiosity. He conversed briefly and unintelligibly with his advisors. Then he snapped his fingers, turned, and made to leave. Servants began to take the cosmonauts’ goods away.

“No,” Sable said loudly. Kolya cringed inwardly, but she was standing her ground. The tall man turned slowly and stared at her, wide-eyed with surprise.

She walked up to the cart, took a handful of parachute fabric, and spread it out before the tall man. “All this is our property. Darughachi Tengri. Comprende? It stays with us. And this material is our gift for the Emperor, a gift from the sky.”

Kolya said nervously, “Sable—”

“We really don’t have a lot to lose, Kolya. Anyhow you started this charade.”

The tall man hesitated. Then his face split briefly into a grin. He snapped orders, and one of his advisors ran off deeper into the complex.

“He knows we’re bluffing,” Sable said. “But he doesn’t know what to make of us. He’s a smart guy.”

“If he’s that smart we should be careful.”

The advisor returned with a European. He was a small, runty man who might have been about thirty, but, under the customary layer of grime, and with his hair and beard raggedly uncut, it was hard to tell. He studied the two of them with fast, calculating eyes. Then he spoke rapidly to Kolya.

“That sounds like French,” Sable said.

And so it turned out to be. His name was Basil, and he had been born in Paris.

In a kind of anteroom they were served with food and drink—bits of spiced meat, and a kind of lemonade—by a serving girl. She was plump, no older than fourteen or fifteen, and wore little but a few veils. She looked vaguely European too to Kolya, and her eyes were empty; he wondered how far she had been brought from home.

The tall grandee’s purpose soon became clear. Basil was proficient in the Mongol tongue, and was to serve as an interpreter. “They assume all Europeans speak the same language,” Basil said, “from the Urals to the Atlantic. But this far from Paris it’s an understandable error …”

Kolya’s French was quite good—better than his English, in fact. Like many Russian schoolchildren he had been taught it as his second language. But Basil’s version of French, dating only a few centuries after the birth of that nation itself, was difficult to grasp. “It’s like meeting Chaucer,” Kolya explained to Sable. “Think how much English has changed since then … save that Basil must have been born a century or more before Chaucer.” Sable had never heard of Chaucer.