Uzzia murmured, ‘She says she is Kokachin, called the Wind-Rider. He says he knows who she is; she is a niece gone to the bad. (Not a niece – something like that.) She says he has shown his weakness by allowing the brutes from the steppe to penetrate the empire. He tried to buy them off, it seemed; it did not work. He says matters of state are not hers to judge. She says her own father was disinherited by the Khan’s father, who was a camel turd. (A Khan cannot accept such insults! Ah, that’s the nub of it. It’s a family dispute. The descendants of Genghis Khan are as numerous and as disputatious as the royal family of New Hattusa.) The Khan is offering a conference to settle it. (That’s what the Mongols do, the clans gather on the steppe and talk it out.) She says the time for talking to the likes of him is over. He is demanding she kowtow—’

‘Look! There is Pyxeas, with Bolghai.’

The two scholars stood together, Pyxeas frail but defiant, Bolghai agitated. The Mongol was clutching the Northlander’s sleeve, as if for protection.

‘Come.’ Uzzia slipped through the crowd towards them.

By the time they reached the scholars the Khan and his niece were shrieking at each other, and their followers were growing restive, their voices a rumble. Bolghai was murmuring to himself, distracted. Pyxeas was dismissive. ‘What a scene! What savages these fellows are, under the veneer of civilisation they stole from their Cathay subjects.’

‘That’s as may be, scholar,’ Uzzia said, ‘but a small war is about to erupt in this room, and we don’t want any part of it. We are going to get out of here, and fast.’ She pointed. ‘That door.’

Avatak nodded. ‘Why that one?’

‘Because it’s the quickest way to the city’s south gates. We have the paiza. If we move fast enough, maybe we can beat the spread of the bad news from Daidu.’

‘And then?’

She was distracted by the gathering row, tense, nervous herself. ‘It’s always “and then” with you, isn’t it, Coldlander? And then we will get out of this insane place and find a way to get the two of you home.’

Kokachin jumped up onto the back of her pony. Standing straight on the stolid beast, she called out, waving her bow in the air.

‘ “To me, to me,” ’ translated Uzzia. ‘ “To me, my cousins!” This is it. Now the barons and the rest of the Mongols have to choose, Khan or challenger.’

Bolghai hid his face in his hands. Then he straightened up, looked regretfully at Pyxeas, and walked towards Kokachin on her horse. He had made his choice, Avatak realised; at heart he was a Mongol like the rest.