Sergei looked at his men, barely held back, like fighting dogs on a leash, and gave a grim little smile.
‘And those are Cossacks,’ he said.
His eye swept the waiting group of tribesmen, and picked out the man near the centre whose eye sought his. He wore a striped robe, which was edged with scarlet – usually among the Tcherkess a colour reserved for princes. There was a short hatchet as well as a long knife and a powder-horn hanging from his broad leather belt, and he carried a spear instead of a gun. His pointed cap was of leather dyed deep blue, and edged with a ring of fine, black fur – some kind of fox, Sergei thought – which seemed to ripple as the breeze stirred the long hairs. He looked young, not much older than Sergei himself, though it was hard to tell with the Tcherkess; he was dark haired and dark-skinned, with high cheekbones, and he sat very still on his pony, and very straight, head up. A young man, in the pride of his strength: evidently the war leader rather than the village elder, perhaps the chief of the clan, or the chief’s son. It might make him easier to deal with, Sergei thought.
Slowly moving his hands so that they were in full view, he pressed his heels gently to Nabat’s flanks, and walked forward, clear of his men. The Chechen leader let him advance five steps before he lifted his hand and held it up, palm forward, in a halting gesture. At the same moment the point of the arrow of the man next to him lifted almost lazily to the horizontal, so that it was pointing directly at Sergei’s breast.
‘Stop,’ said the leader.
Sergei stopped.
Chapter Nineteen
There was a long, tense moment of silence. Sergei, stranded out in the open between the two armies, was aware of how perilous the situation was. The men on both sides were poised on a knife edge, and if any one allowed his excitement to overcome him, indiscriminate firing would break out, and he would be caught in it.
He sat very still, never allowing his eye to waver from that of the man with the spear. The sun was behind him; the tribesman frowned a little against it. The light breeze ruffled the fur of his cap, and lifted the fine ends of Nabat’s mane. There was a sound somewhere of a crow yarking, and more distantly the chack of jackdaws, and below that the singing upland silence; the mountain air was cool and utterly without smell. Sergei waited. The tribesmen had already showed that they did not want to fight, which put him in the stronger position. Let their leader make the first move.
He did so at last by kicking his pony forward, advancing a few paces clear of the group and halting again. He held his spear like a badge of office rather than a weapon. Sergei sensed uncertainty in him, and his heart rose a little. If they had killed Natasha, or sold her south, they would surely expect retribution, and anticipate it by attacking. A desire to parley suggested a desire to trade, which in turn suggested that she was still alive.
The leader spoke at last. ‘Turn around and go back,’ he said in the strong, harsh accents of Chechniya. The dialect was similar to that which Sergei heard most often around Grozny, and he thanked God for it. If there were to be negotiation, it was important that they understood each other.
‘I come seeking the village of Kourayashour,’ Sergei said, ‘and the chief man of that village.’
‘I speak for Kourayashour,’ said the tribesman. ‘You have come to our village with armed men, but we will let you go in peace, provided you turn round and go now. Otherwise…’ He shrugged, and let the threat suggest itself.
Sergei ignored it. ‘I am Sergei Nikolayevitch Kirov, and I seek the chief man of Kourayashour. If you are he, name yourself. Otherwise, let him come forward.’
The tribesman lifted his head a little, stung by the tone. ‘I am Tatvar Khoi Zaktal, and I speak for my people. Why do you come here with armed men? We are men of peace. Go now, that there may be no bloodshed.’
Sergei smiled a little. ‘I have never heard that the Chechen people dislike the shedding of blood. Yet we do not come here for blood, but to take back what has been stolen. Restore it to us, and we will go in peace.’
Zaktal did not flinch. ‘We have nothing that is yours,’ he said. ‘What is it that you seek?’
‘You know what I seek,’ Sergei said, his voice rising angrily. ‘Bring forward the golden-haired child, restore her to me unharmed, and I will spare you and your village. Bring her to me now!’
There was a slight stir amongst the tribesmen, hardly more than the ripple of a light breeze through a barley field, but it filled Sergei with triumph. It was the right place, then! Kizka had not lied. He had brought them to the right place.
‘I know nothing of any golden-haired child,’ Zaktal declared, looking past Sergei aloofly. ‘The children of my people belong to the Prophet, whose name be honoured, and they are dark-haired, as all of the Faith should be.’
‘The child was here,’ Sergei said, ignoring the jibe at his own fair colouring. ‘Many have spoken of her. It is known all over the Caucasus that she was here.’
‘Nevertheless, I do not know it,’ Zaktal said.
Sergei was a little puzzled: it was not the best way to begin negotiations, by denying that you had the goods. His eyes flickered over the other tribesmen, trying to determine the purpose of the lie; and then he caught sight of something in the corral beyond them which made him stiffen. His blood coursed angrily through his veins, but he spoke with icy calm.
‘It surprises me that you do not know. I would have thought one who spoke for his people would know everything that happens in his village. Perhaps there is someone else who knows more than Zaktal? If so, let me speak to him about the child.’
Zaktal was young enough, at all events, to be proud. His eyes narrowed and brightened, and there was another stirring amongst the field of arrows, mirrored by a stirring amongst the Cossacks behind Sergei. But before he could speak, Sergei went on.
‘You say you know nothing about the child: yet the horse she rode is there in your corral, amongst your mountain ponies. How do you explain that?’
The Cossacks broke into a muted cheer, and Nabat waltzed restlessly sideways. Sergei checked him, and anxious that nothing should precipitate firing, raised his hand to quiet his men. The silence fell again, and Zaktal subjected Sergei to a long, thoughtful examination. Finally he said.
‘By what right do you demand to know about the child?’
‘I am her brother,’ Sergei said simply.
The arrow that was pointing at him was lowered a little.
After a moment, Zaktal spoke. ‘You and I will go apart from the rest,’ he said, ‘and I will speak with you.’
Zaktal wanted Sergei to leave his arms and his men behind and go into the village with him, but Sergei would not trust him quite as far as that. Eventually both men dismounted and walked to a little distance where they could not be overheard, but could be seen clearly by both sides. Zaktal seemed ill at ease, almost embarrassed, and Sergei wavered between hope and dread. This was not the behaviour of a man with a hostage to sell. He could not make sense of it.
When Zaktal finally began to speak, the story was long and rambling, and Sergei picked his way through it with difficulty. It seemed that the news of the Chastnaya horse fair had, as expected, fired some of the outlying tribes with the idea of using the occasion, with all its comings and goings, as a cover for a little horse stealing. Zaktal did not admit this in so many words, but it was obvious that the ‘war party’ he spoke of, which had happened to be passing along the ridge of the Valley of the Horses that day, was not there by accident, or for any innocent purpose.
‘Yes, I saw you,’ Sergei said, trying to cut through the evasions. ‘I was riding along the other side of the valley, and I saw your men against the skyline. You were a long way out of your usual runs, surely?’