It was troubling to find no sign of the Ordu along the Sungari, but as I proceeded down the Karamuren and still saw no sign of them, I became alarmed. Grim thoughts raced through my mind, another plague, an uprising by the locals, an invasion from the north, the south, or the west, a flash flood? Mongols did not panic, I reminded myself and began to sort things out. A plague never wiped out everyone, and besides we had heard nothing of any plagues in the north back in Khanbalikh. The locals had neither the means nor the inclination to attack the Ordu—besides, they liked us as much as anyone could like a pack of outsiders, for we did always treat them fairly, and we both benefited from trade, their fish for our game or herd meat. Invasion was possible, but not from the north; there was no group strong enough, not from the west. Why would they come here? The south was the only possibility, the Koryo. But even there, why would they bother to come all the way here to take out a single Ordu? Besides, I had not run into any foreign military along the way, and if they had attacked, wouldn’t they have moved on afterward toward the capital? After all, they had attacked before. Of course, there were also the remnants of the Jurchids. They had actually conquered the Hanjen, but Chingis had greatly scattered and absorbed them, and it was unlikely they would be ready to do anything yet. Again, I had not seen any soldiers or signs of battle. Nor had there been any apprehension at any of the yams along the way. I closely looked at the river, but I couldn’t tell if there had been a flash flood. After all, it flooded every summer and would be starting to rise soon. I continued downriver with more puzzlement than anything else. It was fairly obvious that no one had been near here with herds since at least early spring, for the grass was untouched. I decided the easiest way to find what happened would be to ask at the nearest local village. There had been a Nanai village not too far downstream from my current position. I would have to see if it was still there.

It was with no small relief when the village finally came into view. It looked much the same as I remembered it, although it seemed smaller. The Nanai summer villages were simply a scattering of conical huts that were covered with strips of birch bark. I had forgotten how “fishy” their villages smelled. Everywhere, one saw the fruits of their labor, racks of fish drying or being smoked, seines being repaired. Even the clothes they wore were made of fish skins. Not surprisingly, my approach was noted but since I was alone, I was soon ignored, as I made my way to the largest hut, which was usually the headman’s hut. The headman, a large, beefy fellow, more than a little long in the tooth, was actually the same one as before, and I could see he was shocked when I greeted him by name in his own tongue. It took a while for him to realize who I was, but once he did, he received me warmly and asked for stories about the great capital. Politeness demanded that I comply before asking my questions, so I patiently described the capital for them over dinner, then asked about their health and luck with fishing, expressing all due admiration with the large sturgeon we had eaten for dinner, talked about the weather, the imminent monsoon season, then finally I felt I could ask them what had become of the Ordu and when they had last seen it.