Horselords (11 page)

“Greetings returned, Mother Bayalun,” Chanar replied. A part of him was intrigued. It was not like Bayalun to be so forward.

“I couldn’t help but see you are alone today, instead of with your anda, Yamun.”

Chanar slowed his pace to match hers. “You are very observant.” His voice went cold. He glanced back to the khahan’s yurt. Yamun and the foreign priest were sitting in close conversation.

“I have just come to apologize and say that I do not think it is proper.” Her tone was soothing to his injured pride. “You have been traveling much of late, General Chanar.”

Chanar turned in surprise at her concern. “I have been doing Yamun’s wishes.”

“The khahan has messengers to carry out duties such as these,” Bayalun said as she steadied herself on the staff. “He sent you to Semphar—”

“It was an honor!” Chanar insisted.

“Naturally, though hardly taxing on your abilities,” she answered, unperturbed by his outburst. “The priest you brought back is quite a prize of war.” Chanar glared at her, needled by her barb.

“Of course it was an honor to go to Tomke’s ordu, too,” Bayalun added as she stopped walking. They were near her tent. The second empress turned and looked back toward the khahan. “Since you have been gone, Yamun has spent much time with the foreigner. He has named the priest his grand historian.”

“I know” Chanar muttered sullenly. He followed the empress’s gaze to where the two men sat.

“Other things have happened while you carried messages,” Bayalun noted ominously. “Yamun consults the priest for advice, listens to his word. It could be the priest has enchanted Yamun.”

“Bayalun, you know no spells can work here. He—” Chanar tipped his head toward Yamun’s tent, “—chose this place with you in mind.”

“There are ways other than spells to enchant, General,” Bayalun reminded Chanar as she turned to enter her yurt. “The priest is dangerous—to both of us.”

“Not to me. I am Yamun’s anda,” Chanar corrected. He didn’t look Bayalun in the eyes.

“Chanar, things have changed. More things could change. Look up there. That should be you talking to Yamun, not the Khazari.” Bayalun pulled aside the tent flap. “The khahan forgets you, forgets all the things you have done… forgets you for a lama.” She paused again for effect.

Chanar let his head sink so that his chin almost rested on his chest. He watched the second empress from the corner of his half-closed eyes. The light of the morning sun highlighted her figure, the slimness showing even through the heavy clothes she wore. “You’re right,” Chanar conceded, “Yamun should listen to his khans, his anda—not strangers.”

“Of course,” Mother Bayalun agreed in a magnanimous tone. “The khahan needs good advisors, not bad ones. If he is not careful, Yamun may forget the Tuigan way. Then, General Chanar, what will happen to us? Come into my tent,” Bayalun cooed as she stepped through the doorway. “I think we should talk more.”

With a cold, friendless smile, Chanar stooped and stepped inside. The tent flap silently fell back into place.

“Come, Koja,” Yamun bellowed, “sit here beside me!”

Under the night sky, Yamun sat in half-darkness, illuminated by the flickering flames of a large, foul-smelling fire. Thick smoke from the burning dung drifted lazily into the chill, star-studded sky. Koja wrapped the sheepskin coat around himself and walked into the ring of light that marked Yamun’s campfire.

The feast celebrating Chanar’s return had already begun by the time Koja arrived. It was now late in the evening. The sky was black, and the moon was three-quarters full. Tonight it shone with a reddish hue, dimly illuminating the landscape, casting thick sepia shadows over everything. Behind the moon trailed the string of sparkling lights. Tuigan tales said these were the nine old suitors scorned by Becal, the moon. According to the story, she in turn pursued Tengris, the sun.

The celebration was no small affair. In the walk to the top of the hill where Yamun’s yurt stood, Koja passed a dozen or more fires. Around each was a circle of men, eating and drinking. At several fires the soldiers sang wailing, obscene songs. At one, two squat burly men were stripped to the waist, arms locked around each other as they wrestled in the dirt. Their companions roared and shouted out bets. More than a few troopers had already drunk themselves into a stupor and now lay around the fires, snoring in sotted bursts. Koja hurried past these fires.

During his hike, Koja noticed a change in the quality of the men. Near the base of the hill were men who carried iron paitzas, the lowest pass issued by the khahan. Koja knew because he recognized a few of the men as commanders of a jagun of one hundred soldiers. Serving as the khahan’s scribe, the Khazari had seen these men in audiences before Yamun. Also around these fires were common dayguards, now off duty. The dayguard troopers were the least important of Yamun’s elite bodyguard, but they still had greater status than the rest of Yamun’s army.

At the next ring were lesser noyans, commanders of minghans of one thousand soldiers. Koja did not recognize most of these men, but guessed their rank by their talk. The priest acknowledged the greetings of the few he had met.

At the innermost circle, clustered around Yamun’s fire, were the greater noyans, the commanders of the tumens of ten thousand men. All of these men were khans of the various tribes, important in their own right. Occasionally one would leave his fire and slowly approach the center, where the khahan sat. However, even the khans took care not to alarm the nightguards who stood around Yamun’s camp.

“Come and sit, Koja,” Yamun repeated to the priest, who still stood at the edge of the firelight. “You’ll be my guest.” He waved to an empty space on his left. A quiverbearer quickly rolled out a rug and set up a stool for Koja.

The priest glanced about furtively, looking for Chanar. This feast was in the general’s honor, and Koja didn’t want to accidentally insult the man. Chanar was already irritated enough as it was.

Koja couldn’t spot the general among the faces around the fire. Several of Yamun’s wives, old Goyuk, and another khan Koja couldn’t identify sat close to the khahan. An iron pot hung from a tripod over the fire, simmering with the rich smell of cooking meat. Several leather bags, undoubtedly kumiss and wine, sat on the ground next to the revelers.

“Sit!” insisted Yamun, his speech slightly slurred. “Wine! Bring the historian wine.” The khahan tore at a clublike shank of boiled meat.

“Where is General Chanar?” Koja asked, pulling his shearling coat out of the way as he sat down. He had traded a nightguard an ivory-hilted dagger for the coat and then spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the lice and vermin out of it. Now, it was tolerably clean and kept him quite warm.

Yamun didn’t answer Koja’s question, choosing instead to talk to one of his pretty wives. “General Chanar, where is he?” Koja asked again.

Yamun looked up from his dalliance. “Out,” he answered, waving a hand toward the fires. “Out to see his men.”

“He has left the feast?” the priest asked, confused.

“No, no. He went to the other fires to see his commanders. He’ll be back.” Yamun swallowed down another ladle of kumiss. “Historian,” he said sternly, turning away from his wife, “you weren’t here when the feasting began. Where were you?”

“I had many things to do, Khahan. As historian, I must take time to write. I am sorry I am late,” Koja lied. In truth he had spent the time praying to Furo for guidance and power, hoping to find a way to send his letters to Prince Ogandi.

“Then you have not eaten. Bring him a bowl,” the khahan commanded to a waiting quiverbearer.

A servant appeared with a wine goblet and a silver bowl for Koja, filling the latter from the steaming kettle over the fire. The pot held chunks of boiled meat, rich with the smell of game, swimming in a greasy broth. A second servant offered a platter covered with thick slabs of a sliced sausage. Koja sniffed at it suspiciously. Aware that Yamun was watching him, he chose one of the smallest slices. At least Furo was not particular about what his priests ate, Koja thought.

Closing his eyes, the priest took a bite of the sausage. He had no idea what the meat was, but it tasted good. Fishing into his coat, he pulled out an ivory-handled knife, mate to the one that bought him the coat, and poked the meat around in the bowl, stabbing out a large chunk of gristly flesh. The meat was hot and burned his lip. Koja took a quick swallow of wine to cool his mouth.

“The food is good,” Koja complimented his host.

Yamun smiled. “Antelope.”

“Lord Yamun kill it on the hunt today,” one of the khans said from the other side of the fire. It was Yamun’s advisor, Goyuk. The old man smiled toothlessly, his eyes nearly squeezed shut by wrinkles. “He only need one arrow. Teylas make his aim good.”

There was an impressed murmur from the others around the fire.

“Goyuk Khan lost most his teeth at the battle of Big Hat Mountain, fighting the Zamogedi,” Yamun explained. The old man nodded and smiled a broad, completely toothless smile.

“That is true,” Goyuk confirmed, beaming. Toothlessness and strong drink gave his speech the chanting drone of a soothsayer or shaman.

“What is the sausage made of?” Koja asked, holding up a piece.

“Horsemeat,” Yamun answered matter-of-factly.

Koja looked at the piece of sausage he held with a whole new perspective.

“My khahan! I have returned!” a voice called out of the darkness. Chanar, still dressed in the clothes he wore that morning, lurched into the camp. He had a skin tucked under one arm, dribbling kumiss across the ground. He held a cup in the other. As Chanar got close to the fire, he stopped and stared at Yamun and Koja.

“You are welcome at my fire,” Yamun said in greeting as he sipped on his own cup of kumiss.

Chanar stood where he was. “Where is my seat? He has taken my seat.” The general pointed at Koja.

“Sit,” Yamun ordered firmly, “and be quiet.” A servant unrolled a rug on the opposite side of the fire from the khahan and set out a stool.

Slowly, without taking his eyes off Yamun, Chanar slopped more kumiss from his skin. He let the bag drop to the ground and slowly drained the cup. Satisfied, he stepped to the seat put out for him and sat down with a grunt. He glowered at Yamun from across the fire.

Koja was uncertain if he should break the silence. As he sat there, he could feel the anger forming and solidifying between the two men. The women disappeared, slipping from their seats and fading into the night.

“Khahan,” the priest finally said, “you made me your historian.” Koja’s mouth went dry and his palms began to sweat. “How can I be your historian if I don’t know your history?”

For a moment Yamun didn’t answer. Then he spoke slowly. “You’re right, historian.” He turned his gaze from Chanar. “You’ve not been with me from the beginning.”

“So, how can I write a proper history?” Koja pressed, diverting Yamun’s attention from the general.

The question seized hold of Yamun’s mind, and he mulled it over. Koja quickly glanced at Chanar. The man was still staring at Yamun. Finally, the honored general’s eyes flicked toward Koja and then back to the khahan. The priest could feel the tension begin to ebb as both men’s thoughts were diverted.

“What should you know?” Yamun wondered aloud. His fingers began to toy with his mustache as he considered the question.

“I do not know, Yamun. Perhaps how you became khahan,” Koja suggested.

“That is no story,” Yamun declared. “I became khahan because my family is the Hoekun and we were strong. Only the strong are chosen to be khahan.”

“One from your family has always been the khahan?” Koja asked.

“Yes, but I’m the first khahan of the Tuigan in many generations. For a long time the Tuigan weren’t a nation, only many tribes who fought each other.”

“Then how did this come about?” Koja spread his hands to indicate the city of Quaraband.

“I built this in the last year—after the last of the tribes submitted to my will.” Yamun explained offhandedly. “But that’s not my story.”

The khahan paused and sucked at his teeth. Finally, Yamun began his tale. “When I was in my seventeenth summer, my father, the yeke-noyan, died—”

“Great pardons, Yamun, but I do not understand yeke-noyan” Koja interrupted.

“It means ‘great chieftain,’ ” Yamun replied. “When a khan dies, it is forbidden to use his name. This is how we show respect to our ancestors. Now, I’ll tell my story.”

Koja remembered that Bayalun had no such fear for she had named Burekai freely. The Khazari bit his lip to restrain his natural curiosity and just listen.

“When I was younger, my father, the yeke-noyan, arranged a marriage for me,” continued Yamun. “Abatai, khan of the Commani, was anda to my father. Abatai promised his daughter to be my wife when I came of age. But when the yeke-noyan died, Abatai refused to honor the oath given to his anda.” Yamun stabbed out a large chunk of antelope and dropped it into his bowl.

Across the fire, old Goyuk mumbled, “This Abatai was not good.”

Yamun slid back from the fire and took up the tale again. “The daughter of Abatai was promised to me, so I decided to take her. I raised my nine-tailed banner and called my seven valiant men to my side.” The khahan stopped to catch his breath. “We rode along the banks of the Rusj River and near Mount Bogdo we found the tents of the Commani.

“That night a great storm came. The Naican were afraid. My seven valiant men were afraid. The ground shook with Teylas’s voice, and the Lord of the Sky spoke to me.” The khans at the fire glanced up at the night sky when Yamun mentioned the god’s name, as if expecting some kind of divine response. “The storm kept the Commani men in their tents, and they did not find us hidden behind Mount Bogdo.

“In the morning, To’orl of the right wing attacked. My seven valiant men attacked, too. We overturned the Commani’s tents and carried off their women. I claimed the daughter of Abatai, and she became my first empress.” Yamun stabbed the meat in his bowl and took a bite. Steam still rose from the boiled antelope.

Koja looked at the faces around the fire. Chanar sat with his eyes closed. The other two khans listened with rapt attention. Even the boisterous singing that had started at one of the nearby feast-fires didn’t distract them. Yamun himself was excited by his own telling, his eyes aglow with the glories of olden days.