In early February, when the rivers lay frozen solid, one could travel in a straight line from Vladimir to Novgorod in seven to ten days.

  Zaya borrowed ten soldiers from Batu and organized a small detachment. Along with the interpreter Stephan, she brought an additional man to serve as a backup interpreter and scribe. Including porters, their total numbered around thirty—a force not large enough to terrify Novgorod, yet far too many to ignore.

  Sarnai and Guyuk’s forces had already departed; Zaya’s group could not afford delay. After inspecting the supplies, Zaya mounted her horse and surveyed the unit. Norjin pulled up alongside her.

  “Let’s go. Move out!”

  At her command, Zaya’s horse surged forward. Warriors of her tribe followed, with Mongol soldiers riding behind them. The small column began its westward march.

  Winter had already passed its midpoint. The sunlight lingered a little longer each day, and people had begun counting the days until spring.

  Novgorod was a city of forests, marshes, rivers, and lakes. Situated between Lake Ladoga and the Baltic Sea along the Volkhov River, it thrived as a commercial crossroads. Furs, honey, and wax flowed downstream from the interior, while silver and news arrived from the Baltic. Unlike other principalities, Novgorod was governed not by a sovereign Grand Prince, but by its citizens’ assembly and its merchants. The Grand Prince was merely a titular lord summoned only when the city required him. What they required was simple: military strength.

  Zaya had read through Taglai's notes on the city. A collective assembly. She'd never seen a king who needed permission from his merchants to act, and she doubted anything would get decided quickly. This was going to take longer than she liked.

  They were permitted entry and led to a building near the market. Log-built like the rest, but inside it was nothing like the princely halls Zaya was accustomed to—no gilded icons, no throne raised above the rest. The hangings were fine wool, the furniture well-made, but everything was measured, deliberate. Understated in a way that felt almost like a statement.

  The room they were shown to had no throne. Just a long wooden table, and chairs—all the same height, all the same size.

  The first man through the door wore a kaftan of deep green wool trimmed in sable—good quality, but not ostentatious. Behind him came a sword-bearer, then a cleric in a cassock like Stephan's, black bishop's cap, medallions layered on his chest. Several merchants followed, and last, a scribe with an ink flask at his belt.

  The man in green sized up Norjin's party and gestured for them to sit. Norjin settled into his chair; Stephan took his place at his shoulder. Zaya and the guards fell back to the wall. She watched the room arrange itself—the bishop and the sword-bearer flanking the man in green, the merchants filling in along the sides, everyone facing Norjin. A table of equals, except it wasn't.

  When all were seated, Norjin spoke.

  “In the name of the great House of Jochi, I, the envoy Norjin, come bearing the words of Batu Khan.”

  Stephan translated into Rus: “От имени великого дома Джочи я, посланник Норджин, прибываю с посланием Бату-хана.”

  The man in green nodded. “Я посадник Новгорода, Лука Петрович. Это епископ Софийского собора. Это тысяцкий Борис Семёнович.”

  “I am Luka Petrovich, Posadnik of Novgorod. This is the Bishop of Saint Sophia Cathedral, and this is the Tysyatsky, Boris Semyonovich—commander of the citizen levy and deputy mayor.”

  Norjin met each name with a courteous nod, though in truth none of them interested him except the man sitting directly across the table.

  When the introductions were done, Norjin told them of the death of Prince Vsevolod. Petrovich's brow clouded for a moment. The bishop's fingers found a medallion. The Tysyatsky pressed his lips together. None of them looked grief-stricken—and why would they? To Novgorod, a Grand Prince was a military asset. They had just been informed that their asset was gone.

  The merchants began talking all at once. Stephan made a valiant attempt to translate each outburst until Norjin raised a hand and stopped him.

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  “From this day forward, Novgorod will submit to the Mongols and render one-tenth of the Grand Prince's revenues, one-tenth of the people's wealth, and one-tenth of all things.”

  Before Stephan could even finish translating, the merchants erupted in protest. It took Petrovich some time to quiet them, a spectacle Norjin watched with faint, relaxed amusement.

  “Outrageous! We have not even decided to submit!”

  “And do you believe,” Norjin asked, his voice carrying a trace of a smile, “that you possess the right to decide?”

  From the wall, Zaya began rhythmically rapping the hilt of her sword. The Tysyatsky, Boris, stared at her, his eyes wide with a fear he couldn’t hide. Luka Petrovich felt sweat gather on his brow.

  “Zaya.”

  His voice was quiet, almost gentle. She still at once. His eyes never left Petrovich.

  “Submission is…” Petrovich began.

  “Submission is?” Norjin prompted, as gently as a teacher coaxing a slow student.

  “We cannot.” The words came out strangled.

  “I see.”

  “I mean—” Petrovich pressed on, desperation sharpening his voice.

  “We cannot decide here and now. In Novgorod, all matters must be determined by the will of the citizens. Allow us to convene the assembly.”

  Norjin appeared to consider this.

  "We are not your God, sending trials to test the faithful," Norjin said pleasantly, and rose to his feet.

  "Think of it as a proposal. We would like nothing more than to be on friendly terms with Novgorod.”

  The words were gracious. Luka knew exactly what they meant. To the Mongols, friendly meant obedient. With Vsevolod dead and Vladimir in ashes, he needed time—time to send word, time to find swords that could match theirs.

  “Very well. Convene your assembly. We will wait.”

  Norjin walked to the door. He let Zaya and the others file out first, then paused at the threshold and glanced back, as if he'd nearly forgotten something.

  "Oh—one more thing."

  He turned back, almost apologetically.

  "We happen to be at Torzhok at the moment. Friendly advice—you'll want to send your reply before the granaries run dry."

  The door closed behind him.

  For a long moment after the door closed, no one spoke.

  Then Ivan Mikulich, the fur merchant, slapped the table.

  “A counterproposal! We draw up a counterproposal and put it in front of them!”

  “Must you shout?” Fyodor Savich, the moneychanger, winced.

  “This is my natural voice! Luka, get your scribe working—we'll shove a proposal under their noses before nightfall. If the barbarians can read, that is.”

  “And if they can't?”

  “Then I'll read it to them myself!”

  “God help their eardrums,” Savich muttered. A few men laughed, and just like that, the tension cracked. They were merchants. They knew how to negotiate. Get the Mongols to the table, and the ground shifts—that was the merchant's creed. Everything, in the end, was a transaction.

  “What about the Prince of Smolensk?” Matvei Lukich ventured.

  “Sviatoslav? You want to beg that man to be our prince again? After what he did—or rather, failed to do?”

  “Polotsk?”

  “And show weakness to Lithuania? Absolutely not.”

  “Galich?”

  “We'd be handing over the house to save the doorstep.”

  The debate might have gone on indefinitely had Mikhail Onisimovich, the grain overseer, not spoken.

  “Gentlemen.” His voice was quiet, which was why they listened.

  “You all heard what the envoy said as he left. They are at Torzhok.”

  He let that sit for a moment.

  “If we cannot reach terms before spring, there will be no grain coming into this city. None.”

  The word he didn't say—famine—landed in the room like a stone dropped in still water.

  Batu rode hard and felt good.

  The campaign was going well—better than well. The plunder was substantial, the territory expanding, and the Kipchak forces that had submitted swelled his army to more than twice what had left the Ili Valley. Every frozen river was a road. Every road led west.

  The breath of horses and men hung white in the cold air. It didn't bother him. Let it be cold. While the rivers held, the north was his. And when the grass came in thick on the Don plain, he would stop, and Boraqchin would be there—probably already annoyed that he'd taken so long.

  For the first time in weeks, he let himself think about spring.