Time’s Eye

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.