'I'm an old man and the lumps on my shoulder are getting bigger. I didn't expect to see the boy die before it was my time, that's all.'

'You should get them cut out, brother,' Temuge said.

Khasar winced. He could no longer wear armour that pressed against the painful spots. Each night it seemed the growths had swelled, like grapes under the skin. He did not mention the ones he had found in his armpits. Just to touch them was painful enough to make him dizzy. The thought of enduring a knife sawing at them was more than he could bear. It was not cowardice, he told himself firmly. The things would go away in time, or kill him; one or the other.

'I was sorry to hear about Kachiun,' Temuge said.

Khasar closed his eyes, stiff with pain.

'He was too old to be on campaign; I told him that,' he replied. 'No pleasure in being right, though. God, I miss him.'

Temuge looked quizzically at his brother. 'You're not becoming one of the Christians now, are you?'

Khasar smiled, a little sadly. 'It's too late for me. I just listen to them talk sometimes. They curse a lot, I've noticed. That heaven of theirs sounds a bit dull, from what I've heard. I asked one of the monks if there would be horses and he said we wouldn't want them; can you believe that? I'm not riding one of their angels, I tell you that now.'

Temuge could see his brother was talking to cover the grief he felt over Kachiun. Once more he looked for it in his own heart and found an emptiness. It was troubling.

'I was just thinking of the cleft in the hills, where we all hid,' Temuge said.

Khasar smiled and shook his head.

'Those were hard times,' he replied. 'We survived them, though, like everything else.' He looked at the city behind the furnace that hid the khan's body. 'This place would not exist if it hadn't been for our family.' He sighed to himself. 'It's a strange thing to remember when there was no nation. Perhaps that is enough for one man's lifetime. We have seen some good years, brother, despite our differences.'

Temuge looked away rather than remember his dabbling in the darker arts. For a few years of his youth he had been the chosen apprentice of one who had brought great pain to his family, one whose name was no longer spoken in the nation. Khasar had been almost an enemy for those years, but it was all far away, half-forgotten.

'You should write this down,' Khasar said suddenly. He jerked his head to the funeral pyre. 'Like you did for Genghis. You should make a record of it.'

'I will, brother,' Temuge said. He looked again at Khasar and truly saw the way he had withered. 'You look ill, Khasar. I would let them cut you.'

'Yes, but what do you know?' Khasar said, with a sneer.

'I know they can dose you with the black paste so you don't feel the pain.'

'I'm not scared of pain,' Khasar said irritably. Even so, he looked interested and shifted his shoulders with a wince. 'Maybe I will. I can hardly use my right arm on some days.'

'You will need it if Chagatai comes to Karakorum,' Temuge said.

Khasar nodded and rubbed his shoulder with his left hand.

'That's one man I'd like to see with his neck broken,' he said. 'I was there when Tolui gave his life, brother. What did we get for it? A few miserable years. If I have to see Chagatai ride through those gates in triumph, I think I'd rather die in my sleep first.'

'He will be here before Guyuk and Tsubodai, that's the only thing we know for certain,' Temuge said sourly. He too had no love for the lout his brother had fathered. There would be no grand libraries under Chagatai's rule, no streets of scholars and great learning. He was as likely to burn the city as anything, just to make a point. In that regard, Chagatai was his father's son. Temuge shuddered slightly and told himself it was just the wind. He knew he should be making plans to remove the most valuable scrolls and books before Chagatai arrived, just until he was certain they would be honoured and kept safe. The very thought of a Chagatai khanate made him sweat. The world did not need another Genghis, he thought. It had barely recovered from the ravages of the last one. Koten of the Cumans crossed the Danube in a small boat, a wherry with a surly soldier on the oars who made it fairly skim across the dark water. He wrapped himself tightly in his cloak against the cold twilight, lost in thought. He could not resist his fate, it seemed. The king had every right to ask for his men. Hungary had given them sanctuary, and for a time Koten thought he had saved them all. Once the mountains were behind them, he had dared to hope that the Mongol tumans would not run so far west. They never had before. Instead, the Golden Horde had come roaring out of the Carpathians and the place of peace and sanctuary was no refuge at all.

Koten seethed to himself as he saw the shore approach, a dark line of sucking mud that he knew would pull at his boots. He stepped out into shallow water, wincing as his feet sank into the stinking clay. The oarsman grunted something unintelligible and examined his coin closely, a deliberate insult. Koten's hand twitched for his knife, wanting to cut a scar on the man that would remind him of his manners. Reluctantly, he let his hand fall. The man rowed away, staring back at him with a curled lip. At a safe distance, the man shouted something, but Koten ignored him.

It was the same story across the cities of Buda and Pest. His Cuman people had come in good faith, been baptised as their lord ordered and made every attempt to treat the new religion as their own, if only for their survival. They were people who understood that staying alive was worth sacrifice and they had trusted him. None of the Christian priests seemed to think it strange that an entire nation would suddenly feel the urge to welcome Christ into their hearts.

Yet it was not enough for the inhabitants of Bela's cities. From the first days, there had been tales of thefts and murders by his men, rumours and gossip that they were behind every misfortune. A pig couldn't take sick without someone claiming that one of the dark-skinned women had cursed it. Koten spat on the pebbled shore as he trudged along it. The previous month, a local Hungarian girl had accused two Cuman boys of raping her. The riot that followed had been put down with ruthless ferocity by King Bela's soldiers, but the hatred was still there, simmering under the surface. There were few who believed she had been lying. After all, it was just the sort of thing they expected from the filthy nomads in their midst. They were rootless and they could not be trusted, except to steal and kill and foul the clean river.

Koten disliked his hosts almost as much as they apparently hated him and the presence of his people. They could not take up less room than they did, he thought in irritation, seeing the city of tents and shacks huddled along the river. The king had promised them he would build a new city, or perhaps expand two or three of those already there. He had talked of a ghetto for the Cuman people, where they could live safely among their own. Perhaps Bela would have kept his word if the Mongols had not come, though Koten had begun to doubt it.

Somehow the threat of the Mongols had only increased the tension between the local Magyars and his tribe. His people could not walk down a street without someone spitting at them or jostling the women. Every night, there were dead men left in the gutters, their throats slit. No one was ever punished if they were Cuman bodies, but the local judges and soldiers hanged his men in pairs and more if it was one of their own. It was a poor reward for two hundred thousand new Christians. There were times when Koten wondered at a faith that could preach kindness and yet be so cruel to its own.

As he made his way along the shit-strewn shore, the smell made him gag. The wealthy people of Buda had fine drains for their waste. Even the poor quarters in Pest had half-barrels on the corners that the tanners would collect at night. The Cuman tent-people had nothing but the river. They had tried to keep it clean, but there were just too many of them crowded along too short a stretch. Already, there were diseases ripping through his people, families dying with red marks on their skin he had never seen at home. The whole place felt like an enemy camp, but the king had asked for his army and Koten was honourbound, oath-bound to him. In that one thing, King Bela had judged his man correctly, but as Koten kicked at a stone, he thought there were limits even to his honour. Would he see his people slaughtered for such a poor reward? In all his life, he had never broken his word, not once. At times, when he was starving or sick, it was all he had left to feed his pride.