[Red denotes untranslated dialogue, which, were this posted, I would not have revealed]
Lord Zamoyski and the princes seemed more than a little shocked when you offered yourself up to be swallowed by Leviathan. But there's no better way to add some serious weight to what otherwise would be a mere ransom run: to potentially negotiate a Tatar withdrawal, or to set them upon the Muscovites to savage them as they had three years ago — it'd be a triumph. If they don't just take you hostage, that is. A risk of the mission,it is, and of your occupation and station in general, but you reckon with just fifty good hussars you could fight your way out of their Goddamned tent-filled hole.
That's another thing, too. Is it really a hole? You're curious, there's no denying it, and you do enjoy travel. The air of mystery makes you excited. Not many commoner Christians leave Bakczysaraj as free men, and the Crimeans tend to come north and west for diplomacy and trade, and only invite Turks into their depths. You want to see how the savages live, like how you'd want to see the Indians of Asia or of the New World and the Antarctic, or the reindeer herders of far Finland. Do they truly spend all their lives in those circular tents? Surely not, yes? But there's only one way to find out.
You depart into the edges of the Wild Fields feeling very small: five well-esteemed Lipkas, fifty hussars, and a few dozen support staff is all you bring. You spend days and nights on watch, fearing ambush at any moment, but as you snake around abandoned villages and small settlements, you find no sign of anything besides the odd group of Tatar herdsmen – no threat from them. You and the men theorize that, this late in the season and in this remote of an area, the chambuls have all moved deeper into the country, further from the Dniepr. And it's not as if the Tatars need supply wagons.
Which is what you thought, until your heart leaps out of your chest at the sight of a dustcloud on the horizon on the seventh day, with the river nearly in sight. Pistols and sabers are drawn and, judging from the size of the approaching mass of mounted men, a decision is made to move to engage, rather than flee and lose precious time. As you ride toward the foe, sun hot on your helmet, you wonder if you'll make it out of this one, too. You squeeze the trigger on your pistol as they come into range; your men do, too. A few slump off of their horses, and arrows begin to fly at you, killing the man to your left with an arrow in the eye. You scream a curse.
It's only just before contact is made that you realize that you're staring in the face not Tatars once more, but Zaporozhians! Suddenly, everyone is screaming to stop, and the air is filled with grunting and swearing as horses everywhere rear up or collide into each other. "Stop, by God, stop! All of you! We are Christians!"
"Who's in charge here?!" bellows a long-mustached man with a half-shaved head.
"Me, my lord, and I must heartily apologize for–"
He slaps you hard across the face. You haven't been hit like that since you were a boy.
Your men lunge for him but he produces a pistol and brandishes it wildly, sending them leaning back into their saddles. "You rich bastard! Do you have any idea how many of my men you just killed? I know I don't, but I've never taken so much pistol shot in my life!"
"You… You're of the Sich," you say, rubbing your jaw and cheek.
"That I am! A free man from a free land, peacock. Clearly, you didn't see the flag," he says, gesturing up to a banner with a white cross on a maroon field, framed by suns and crescent moons. "Does that look Crimean blue to you, God damn you? If we had our war wagons with us…"
You raise your fist for your men to cease their swearing and spitting. "We have an Orthodox priest among us; let us bury your dead and we'll be on our way. I sincerely apologize."
"A Christian burial's a start," he grunts. "What the Hell is a peacock doing out here anyway?"
"On a mission to see the Khan. We took valuable prisoners and are moving to negotiate," you say. "It's for your people's sake, too. We either weaken their coffers or force them to withdraw."
The Zaporozhian lets out a "Ha!" His men laugh despite the circumstances. These are some real tough bastards. "Good luck with that. He'll cut your Christian head off. But, you know what? That's brave. Suicidal, but brave. I can respect that."
"Got any coin?" chimes in another Zaporozhian.
"Yeah!" says another.
Their leader smirks. "You know, burying my men makes me liable to forgive you. But compensation makes me liable to forget."
You sigh and curse the man heartily in your head. You look back to Marszowski. "What have we got?" you ask in Polish. "We're being extorted."
"I've got my pimply ass for him, then!" he exclaims. Those who can understand him laugh. Even some of the Zaporozhians.
"Come on, not now."
"Fine," says Marszowski. "We have a couple hundred złoty for bribes and 'gifts.' That's all."
"One hundred złoty," you say. "For what? Five men. That's more than enough for their families."
"Surely you've got more than that between all of you."
Stop being annoying. "We have pistols, too, you know. And armor. You have not."
He looks you up and down. A moment passes. You place your hand on the hilt of your blade. His men look fierce. But then they all laugh. "Good man! Good man! You're young but you've got a fire. You could be a real kozak!" He sighs. "How terrible it is that we meet under such circumstances. Fork it over so I can give the widows something, and get your men to start digging."
Funerals are conducted out on the steppe. Five men. Everybody sings Vichnaya Pamyat. The grasslands and gentle hills and sparse shrubbery stretch for a mile. Crosses are fashioned from a rare tree. You and the Zaporozhians part ways. How fierce do you have to be to shrug off the deaths of five of your comrades? They're a different breed, alright, like that Filon Kmita.
You manage to find some peasant ferrymen the following day, and make it over the Dniepr, then you turn southward for Crimea. More than once, the Lipkas must talk down armed Tatars, who always part at the mention of their Khan. Praise God that simple bandits were never encountered at any point.
To your surprise, you find the Tatars here on the peninsula living in houses like anybody else, unlike the nomads of the steppe. As you ride toward the Crimean capital, now back on defined roads, you notice that the thoroughfares are lined with what look like shallow graves. A Tatar peasant explains that it's all slaves who died being marched to the sea. Barbarians. But they seem to live as any other kind of people.
Bakczysaraj makes your head spin a little – it looks straight out of an engraving of Turkey! Minarets loom over the rooftops as you ride into the city, greeted by local noblemen who speak hurriedly with the Lipkas. One turns to you and smiles. "They were not expecting this," he chuckles. Curious Tatars and Greeks line the streets and stand atop the near-flat roofs, pointing and discussing amongst themselves with hushed voices. Only the rare Orthodox priest is friendly — they allow Christians to abide? — most people seem confused at best.
A column of shackled Ruthenians on the main thoroughfare are beaten with canes to make way. They begin to beg and plead and pray, asking to be bought – now there's an idea – but you can only feel a tightness of sorrow and anger in your breast as you proceed to the center of the city. There's still business to attend to.
A great mosque sits astride the Khan's palace, which looks halfway like an Italian villa (from the woodcuts you've seen), except the walls are all done up with beautiful murals and, when there isn't paint, mosaic tiles. Floral motifs abound, creeping vines and rose-wheels of blue and yellow and green, interspersed with what you recognize to be Mohamatan calligraphy – you saw a forbidden Koran once, shown to you furtively by the philosopher Montaigne back in France. The savages are capable of such beauty? You knew Turks to be civilized heathens, and formidable ones at that, but these monsters of the steppe? It's food for thought.
A blonde man in Tatar garb greets you at the threshold of the palace's sanctum. "My name is Fetih, honored guest, translator-slave of the great Devlet Khan, he who sits upon the Throne of Crimea and Desht-i Kipchak, Lord of the Great Horde and of the Circassians and all the Nogai," he says in Ruthenian, a thick southern peasant's accent forcing you to listen closely. Fetih… the poor man must have been renamed. A voice calls out in a throaty language from deeper in the room, behind the curtain. "My master bids you enter."
You are ushered into the room and briefly drop your jaw at the sight of its many colors. Beautiful carpets of Persia and Turkey and the more familiar Armenian kind adorn the floors and walls almost completely, cast brightly and beautifully beautifully by the light shining through oblong windows. A turbaned man in flowing green and blue robes sits atop a mat surrounded by brightly-dyed pillows; he beckons you toward him and his chainmailed guardsmen. As you approach, you recognize now that he is an older man – perhaps sixty – with deep wrinkles and crow's feet, wearing a large graying beard. He almost looks kindly, but there's something in his eyes. This is a genteel barbarian and a heathen king.
You're unsure how these people salute each other, so you drop to a knee and try to say what you've been muttering to yourself over and over again:
"Assalamualaikum, Khan muazzam. Bik zur räkhmät sêzgä, ḩäm ozak yashäy sezgä telim," you enunciate slowly. The Lipkas taught you for hours the day before, and said it's an honorable address, thanking him for the audience and wishing a long life. ["Peace be upon you, noble Khan. I offer up my thanks, and may you live long."]
The Khan laughs dryly and claps his hands. "Oh, that's marvelous, truly. He can talk. Allah help me, he sounds like those Northerners; I can hardly understand them, let alone this one. Slave, tell the infidel fool 'welcome.'"
"My master welcomes you to his home," says Fetih. It seems like the Khan said a lot more than that.
"And ask him why he's here before I have him clapped in irons and traded for his weight in silver."
"He wishes to know why you honor him with your coming. A Christian prince in Bakczysaraj is a –"
"Just translate. I can tell you're talking too much," snaps the Khan.
"Yes, of course, my apologies," replies the interpreter meekly.
Your eyes dart between the two of them. "I am here to parlay for the lives of around a hundred mirzas," you say, deciding to just rip the bandage off. "Including His Majesty's grandson, Saadet."
The Khan perks up at the mentioning of the name. "Did he just say 'Saadet?' What of my grandson?"
"I…" the translator sounds hesitant, almost wincing. "I am afraid to say, great Khan, that a blow has been struck against our mighty armies. A hundred noblemen are prisoner to him, including Saadet Mirza."
The Khan lets out a little gasp, leans back, and hums. He rumbles out angry words. "May Allah give you troubles, infidel… Seven living sons and thirty-nine grandsons, and he captures my firstborn's firstborn." He shakes his head and laughs, sounding weary. "That boy's heels were always too hot. And here I thought a treasure trove just walked himself into my palace." He mutters: "and my beys would be furious about their sons and brothers…"
Fetih is grimacing. "The Khan is troubled by this news." He looks to his master.
You swallow. The Khan is staring daggers into you, but you feel as if that must be a thinking face as much as it is an angry one; perhaps you ought to protect yourself. "And I wish to inform His Majesty that if I am not back to my people within a moon, the mirzas will all be killed."
"He threatens their lives, great Khan, and sets a deadline for his safe passage home: one moon hence." The Ruthenian translates with a hurried tone now.
Devlet Khan swats at the air, not looking so stately. "Just ask him what he wants, then."
"My master asks for your terms."
What do you say?
[You literally got so lucky that the Giray at picked at random happens to be close in line to the throne. I would then prompt you to ask for money, peace, or both.]
