Horselords (27 page)

Bayalun studied the khahan closely, trying to see if his image was some illusion created by the priest. At the same time, she quickly reviewed the spells she had ready, just in case there were more surprises.

“Sadly, there was truth in the rumors. Have the guards bring the body,” Yamun commanded Sechen. The towering fellow left his position and exited the tent. Yamun continued, “Yesterday, during battle, a creature tried to kill me. It failed because my anda—” At this the khahan tipped his head toward the priest. “He fought to protect me. Let us drink to his fortune.” With a feeble wave, he had the servants bring ladles of black kumiss. Hands shaking, he raised his ladle to his lips and tipped his head back for a drink.

As he drank his face came out of shadow. Bayalun clearly saw the deathly color of his cheeks, which were gleaming with cold sweat from the mere effort of sitting up.

Chanar sat ramrod-straight, his hard, narrow eyes on the lama. The others raised their ladles and slurped the drink. The general, though, sat still, refusing to salute the priest.

As the group finished the toast, Sechen coughed discreetly from the door. Yamun acknowledged his presence and everyone turned to watch as the huge Kashik pulled open the door flap. There, wrapped in a freshly butchered horsehide, was the body of the hu hsien. The guards kept it just outside the door, so that it wouldn’t pollute the khahan’s yurt. Even knowing who, or what, the body was, Koja found the creature hard to identify. It’s fur had already lost the luster it possessed in life. The gash in its chest was crudely closed, but the decay and corruption had not stopped.

Bayalun looked at the body briefly, only long enough to satisfy herself that it was the Shou assassin the mandarin had provided. It only confirmed what she now expected, so she easily concealed the few emotions seeing the body evoked. Mother Bayalun was disappointed. She had expected much more from the great empire of Shou Lung. Their token of support, a lone assassin, had failed. Now, she would have to press them for greater commitment.

Chanar, on the other hand, looked at the thing with disgust and fascination. He’d never seen such a creature. It didn’t surprise him that Bayalun would use beasts and not men. He could see now why her plans had failed, relying as they did on such creatures.

“There are also rumors,” Yamun said thinly, interrupting the contemplation of the body, “that you, Mother, were somehow responsible for this.” He paused. Unconsciously, the khahan tugged gently at his mustache, his body sagging forward as he did so. “Of course, this isn’t true. Still, it would end these rumors if you swore an oath of loyalty to your khahan.”

Bayalun glared coldly at her stepson. In icy, measured tones, she said, “You would make your mother and your wife swear to you? Men will say you are without morals for this perversion.”

“Men will say worse of you if you refuse!” Yamun snapped, suddenly revealing surprising strength. “Will the khans hear how you are afraid of Teylas’s wrath?” Yamun braced himself once more against his knees.

Bayalun realized that she stood alone. Chanar could not, would not, come to her aid without arousing suspicion. Bitterly the woman agreed. “Never before in our history has the khahan dared to demand this of his khadun. May Teylas find this offensive to his sight!” She turned and spat on the rugs.

“Teylas can make of it what he wants. Now, say the oath.” Yamun commanded. By his tone it was clear he would brook no more argument.

Bayalun stared at her husband, weighing her choices. She could hear his armor creak to his labored breathing. At last, she kowtowed before the khahan. With her face pressed into the rugs, she recited the ancient words.

“Although your descendants have only a scrap of meat thrown on the grass, which not even the crows will eat; although your descendants have only a scrap of fat, which not even the dogs will eat; even then my family will serve you. Never will we raise the banner of another to sit upon the throne.”

“As this is heard by the khahan, Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, so it is heard by Teylas,” Yamun murmured in response. His body sank slightly as he recited the words. “Now, dear Bayalun, you’re tired. This audience is over.”

Burning with humiliation, the khadun struggled from the floor, pushing herself up with her staff. Eschewing the traditional formalities of departing, she barged from the yurt, driving aside the guards with a few solid whacks of her stout wooden shaft.

“Chanar, you will stay. I have questions for you,” the khahan ordered when the general stood to go. Chanar froze, briefly panicked, and then slowly sat back down. He looked around, wondering if the audience was about to turn into some sort of trap.

Yamun deliberately let Chanar sit and wait. Just as Koja decided that the khahan had passed out inside his armor, Yamun spoke. “General Chanar, my anda, why aren’t you in Semphar advising Hubadai?” He let his voice trail away at the end.

“I was ill and could not travel,” Chanar answered stiffly. He placed his hands very carefully in front of him. “I sent messengers telling you of my sickness.”

“You could’ve ridden in a cart, or were you too sick to travel at all?” Yamun asked.

“I am not an old man—” Chanar stopped suddenly and gave a quick glance to Goyuk. The khan’s normally pleasant smile was clouded and grim. “I am not a woman,” Chanar began again, “who cannot ride. Valiant men do not follow oxen to the battle. I could not fight from a wagon.”

“It is true a warrior should ride into battle,” Yamun agreed. “I’m pleased to see that you’re feeling much better. Now that you are well, why have you come here?”

Wary of the khahan’s maneuvering, the general picked his words carefully. He looked at the floor in mock humility.

“The khadun suspected an evil fate had struck you and came to learn the truth. I could not allow the khadun to travel without a proper guard.”

Metal scraped wood as the khahan shifted in his seat. “So, you came for the sake of my mother. Learn this, khans,” Yamun said louder, addressing Goyuk and Jad. “General Chanar has shown us the proper thing to do. It is true I have chosen two worthy andas, the warrior and the lama. Let us drink to their health.”

The kumiss was drunk and the toasts were made. Throughout the salutes, Koja tried to stay quiet and avoid Chanar’s attention. There could be no misreading the angry looks the general gave him over each ladleful of fermented milk. Koja could also see that Yamun was weakening, the ladle shaking a little more each time the khahan raised it to his lips.

“Yamun,” the priest finally called out, “Chanar is surely tired from today’s traveling. However, he is too noble to complain, so let me speak for him and ask that this audience end.”

The khahan turned toward Koja, about to lash out at the priest for such impudence, when he suddenly saw the wisdom of the lama’s words. Turning back to Chanar, he held one hand up to send the servants back to their places. “My anda, Koja, is wise. I’ve kept you too long, Chanar Ong Kho. This audience is over now, and you may leave.”

The warlord sat gaping, then, with a crash, hurled the ladle across the yurt, spraying kumiss over the rugs. “He does not speak for me! I need no one to speak for me. I am your anda!” he shouted. Not waiting for a reply, Chanar stormed out of the yurt, savagely shoving the guards at the door out of his way.

The door flap had barely been tied shut when Yamun toppled off the throne. Arms weakly flailing, he grabbed at the screen only to succeed in pulling it over with him. The khahan tumbled from the dais in a crash of metal and cracking wood. The gleaming brass helmet popped off his head and bounced across the floor. Koja sprang to his feet, hastening to the side of the stricken khahan. Quickly, he examined the fallen leader.

“He lives, thankfulness be to Furo, but he needs rest,” the priest announced as he tugged off Yamun’s armor. “Help me get him to bed.”

“You shouldn’t have put him in that heavy armor,” the prince snapped as he hoisted the khahan to his feet, half-dragging him to his bed.

“The khahan insisted on it. I did not want it,” Koja shot back, trying to keep his temper under control.

Jad, too, bit back his words. “That would be like father,” he conceded.

“He is strong-willed,” Koja noted as they laid Yamun’s unconscious body on the bed. Goyuk stood near the door, making sure they were not interrupted.

“More than you know, lama,” Jad agreed. He looked Koja in the eye. “I was wrong to accuse you.” Together, the pair finished making the khahan comfortable. When they were done, Jad called Goyuk from the door.

“Wise advisors,” he began, nodding to both Goyuk and Koja, “Bayalun knows our tricks. What do we do now?”

“He knows about you!” Chanar snapped hysterically, his composure completely shattered. He looked at Mother Bayalun, sitting opposite him, his eyes flashing with panic and rage.

“He suspects, dear Chanar. If he could prove anything, we would be dead by now,” the matronly Bayalun corrected. Her voice was low and ripplingly musical. She took the general’s hand in hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

They sat alone in a small yurt she had appropriated from one of the commanders of Yamun’s bodyguard. Influential and important though the Kashik khans might be, not even they dared refuse the illustrious second empress. It was a simple matter for her to find a tent to her liking and then persuade its owner to vacate. Indeed, the khan had been most willing; he believed the khahan dead, making this a good time to be friendly and helpful to the khadun.

Still, the usurped accommodations were far from lavish. The tent was small and cramped, divided into two sections. Bayalun and Chanar sat in a small reception area. A pair of small wooden chests covered with rugs served as chairs. The khadun had disdained these, choosing instead to sit on the floor next to the oil lamp, which provided a feeble glow. A fine bow of antler horn and lacquered wood, and a quiver of red leather hung on the wall behind one seat, marking it as the master’s spot. A suit of iridescent armor, carefully tended and decorated—perhaps the khan’s finest possession—hung on a stand nearby. Weapons, helmets, shields, buckets, and utensils decorated the rest of the wall space.

A folding wooden screen separated the other half of the yurt from the reception area. On the other side of the screen was the private area—a small collapsible bed with a carved and inlaid headboard, and chests of clothing and war booty.

“How long before his suspicion gives way to certainty?” the general countered, slowly pulling his hand free from Bayalun’s. He closed his eyes and rubbed hard at his temples, struggling to regain control of his emotions. Blood throbbed through the veins of his forehead and the shaven top of his head. His shoulders ached from the tension. “Why can’t we just raise our standard and attack him now—just get it over with? We should defeat him in battle, not with a game of words.”

“Patience, my bold warrior,” Bayalun gently urged. She smiled warmly. His sudden display of temper threatened all her plans and yet fascinated her. “Forgive me. You are a man of deeds, and I have forgotten this. Blood and the sword are meat for you, not politics and words. Patience. There will be battles, I’m sure, but not yet.” Chanar could not help but notice the change in her tone.

The khadun moved closer to Chanar. It was important now, more than ever, that the general do nothing rash, that he be placated. She needed to control him, but let him think he was in command.

“Let Yamun suspect,” Bayalun continued, her voice dropping to soft murmur. “We will find a way to distract the khahan.” She took Chanar’s hands again and gently pulled the general to her. He gave a slight resistance at first, then took her in his arms. She stroked his tanned scalp and the thick brown braids that gathered over his ears. Caressingly, she tugged at his tunic, slowly undoing its clasps.

The sun only weakly warmed the layer of frosty dew that covered the ground the next morning. On the plain where the dead lay, the day’s chorus of jackals and vultures was beginning. Listening to their cries, an almost comforting sound, Chanar stretched grandly in the doorway of Bayalun’s yurt. There was a rustling noise behind him as the khadun stepped into the small reception area, adjusting her headdress.

“Yamun’s death standard still stands, Bayalun,” Chanar commented. He did not turn from the doorway. Coming up behind the general, she peered over his shoulder.

“Good. It gives us more time. There are many things we must plan. Now, come and eat.” A small tray set with cups of salted tea, soured mare’s milk curds, and chunks of sugar had been prepared by her guards. The second empress motioned Chanar to sit as she sipped at her tea.

Chanar could tell by the set of Bayalun’s jawline that she had already been thinking of the distraction they needed. Taking up a cup, he settled back to listen, leaning comfortably against one of the chests.

“Did you see the khahan’s face yesterday?” The khadun didn’t wait for an answer. “It was pale, and his voice was weaker than I have ever heard. He did not escape my assassin. He’s been hurt.” She stared into her salted tea. “He wants to be dead so he can heal. We must force him into the open before he is ready.”

Chanar nodded. “Easily said, but everyone believes him dead.”

“I have a plan. Which khans are friendly to you?”

Chanar began to rebraid his hair. He thought for a few seconds while he worked. “Several—Tanjin, Secen, Geser, Chagadai—”

“Enough. Talk to them. If the khahan is dead, then there must be a couralitai to select a new khahan,” the sharp-witted Bayalun explained.

“A couralitai?” Chanar exclaimed with a contemptuous laugh. “It’ll take months to gather all the khans for a council. By then Yamun will be healed and there won’t be a need to pick a new khahan. Bayalun, you’ve lost your cunning.”

The khadun ignored his slight. “No, your khans must insist on it now.” She touched his chest with her staff. “Think about it. The Tuigan are fighting two wars—one with Semphar and one here. Things could go badly without a khahan. Yamun’s sons might fight each other for the throne. A decision must be made immediately.” She lowered her staff. “These are the things you must tell your khans to make them worry. Then they will insist on the couralitai. They will even believe it is the right thing to do. Now, do you see?”