'Still, if those are your orders,' she said, shrugging. 'We obey, Yao Shu, do we not?'

His suspicions hardened, though he could not see how she could have been the author of the command to send him away. It made him more determined to remain and challenge her control of the khan in his weakened state.

'I will send a colleague. I am needed here, in Karakorum.'

Sorhatani frowned delicately. 'You take great risks, chancellor. In the khan's state of health, it would not do to anger him with disobedience.'

'I do have other work, such as bringing the khan's wife back from the summer palace where she has languished these long months.'

It was Sorhatani's turn to look uncomfortable.

'He has not called for Torogene,' she said.

'She is not his servant,' he replied. 'She was most interested in your care of her husband. When she heard you were in such close contact, I am told she was keen to return and thank you personally.'

Sorhatani's eyes were cold as she regarded the chancellor, their mutual loathing barely hidden by the facade of manners and calm.

'You have spoken to her?'

'By letter, of course. I believe she will be arriving in just a few days.' In a moment of inspiration, he embroidered the truth a little for his benefit, playing the game. 'She has asked that I be here to receive her, so that she can be told all the latest news of the city. You see now why I cannot go haring off at such a time.'

Sorhatani bowed her head slightly, giving him the point.

'You have been…conscientious in your duties, I see,' she said. 'There is a great deal to do to welcome back the wife of the khan. I must thank you for letting me know in time.'

A tic had begun high on her forehead, evidence of internal strain. Yao Shu watched it in delight, knowing she felt his gaze on that spot. He chose his moment to add to her discomfort.

'For my own part, I would also have wanted to discuss the permission Ogedai gave for his nephew to travel to Tsubodai.'

'What?' Sorhatani said, shaken from her reverie. 'Mongke will not be an observer of the future, chancellor. He will help to shape it. It is right that my son is present as Tsubodai secures the west. Or should the orlok take all the credit for giving us a safe border?'

'I'm sorry, I did not mean your own son. I meant Baidur, the son of Chagatai. He too is following in Tsubodai's steps. Oh, I thought you would have heard.'

He tried not to smile as he spoke. For all her connections at the heart of the city, Sorhatani had no access to his network of spies and gossip-mongers stretching for thousands of miles in every direction, at least not yet. He watched as she mastered her surprise and her emotions settled. It was impressive control and he had to remind himself that her beauty hid sharper wits than most.

Yao Shu leaned forward so the servants around them could not easily overhear.

'If you are truly one who looks to the future, I am surprised you did not consider Baidur joining the great trek west. His father is next in line to be khan, after all.'

'After Ogedai's son, Guyuk,' Sorhatani snapped.

Yao Shu nodded. 'All being well, of course, but it was not so many years ago that these corridors and rooms were full of armed men contesting just such an event. May it never happen again. The princes are gathering, Sorhatani, with Tsubodai. If you are planning to have your sons reach for the khanate one day, you should be aware of the stakes involved. Guyuk, Batu and Baidur have as strong a claim as your own, don't you think?'

She glared at him as if he had raised a hand to her. He smiled and stood, the meeting at an end.

'I will leave you to your tea and fine things, Sorhatani. I have found such luxuries are fleeting, but do enjoy them for the moment.'

As he left her sitting in thought, he promised himself that he would be there to witness the khan's wife returning to Karakorum. It was one pleasure he would not deny himself after so many months of strain. The soldiers stood and shivered in the shadow of the huge gate. Like the stockade around them, it was made of ancient black logs, lashed together with ropes that became brittle in the winter cold. There were men in the stockade whose daily task was to walk the outer line, stepping carefully along a tiny walkway. With frozen hands, they checked each rope was still like iron in the cold. It took them the best part of the day. The stockade was more like a town than a camp and many thousands were crammed inside.

The yard in front of the gate was a good place to stand, Pavel thought, a safe place. He was there because he had been among the last to come in the night before. Yet the soldiers who stamped and shoved their hands into their armpits for warmth felt its strength looming over them. They tried not to think of the moments to come when the gate would be heaved open by snorting oxen and they would go out among the wolves.

Pavel stood back from the men close to the gate. He felt his sword nervously, wanting to draw it again and look at it. His grandfather had told him the importance of keeping it sharp. He had not told him what to do if he was given a blade older than he was himself, with more nicks, cuts and scratches than he could believe. Pavel had seen some of the real soldiers run a whetstone along their swords, but he had not had the courage to ask to borrow one. They did not look like the sort of men who would lend anything to a boy. He had not seen the grand duke yet, though Pavel had craned his neck and stood as tall as he could. That would be something to tell his grandfather when he went home again. His dedushka remembered Krakow and, in his cups, the old man claimed to have seen the king when he was young, though it might have been just a story.

Pavel longed for a glimpse of the freemen adventurers, the Qasaks the duke had bought for the campaign with a river of gold. He tried not to get his hopes up that his father could be among them. Part of him saw the sadness in his grandfather's eyes whenever he spoke of the brave young man who had gone to join the horsemen. Pavel had seen his mother weep in the house when she thought he couldn't hear. He suspected his father had simply abandoned them, as so many did when the winters were too hard. He had always been a wanderer. They had left Krakow looking for land of their own to buy, but farm work had turned out to be one step from starvation and with little more joy. If anything, the Russian farmers were worse off than those they had left behind.

There were always men who travelled to Kiev or Moscow looking for work. They promised they would send money to their families, but few ever did and fewer still came back. Pavel shook his head. He was not a child, hoping for a little truth in all the lies. He had a sword and he would fight for the duke alongside those fierce, coarse riders. He smiled, amused at himself. He would still look for his father's face among them, tired and lined with hard work, with the hair cropped close to the skull against lice. He hoped he would be able to recognise him after so long. The Qasaks were somewhere outside the stockade, riding their horses in the snow.

The cold was biting as the sun came up, the ground rubbed to slush by men and horses. Pavel wrung his hands together and cursed aloud as he was jostled from behind. He enjoyed cursing. The men around him used terms he had never heard before and he growled a good blasphemy at his unseen assailant. His irritation faded as he saw it was just a runner boy carrying dough balls stuffed with meat and herbs. Pavel's hands were quick and he lifted two of the steaming lumps as the boy struggled to get past him. The boy swore at the theft, but Pavel ignored him, cramming one into his mouth before someone noticed and took it away. The taste was glorious and the juices dribbled down his chin and under the mailed jerkin he had been given just that morning. He had felt like a man then, with a man's weight to carry. He had thought he would be frightened, but there were thousands of soldiers in the stockade and many more Qasaks outside. They did not seem afraid, though many of the faces were stern and quiet. Pavel did not speak to those who wore beards or heavy moustaches. He was still hoping to grow whiskers of his own, but there was nothing there yet. He thought guiltily of his father's razor in the barn. For a month or so, he'd gone out there every evening to run it up and down his cheeks. The boys in the village said it made the hair grow faster, but there was precious little sign of it on him, at least so far.