Horselords (3 page)

“Noble khahan, it takes men time to decide. My own prince, Ogandi, must hear what has happened at Semphar and then discuss it with the elders of Khazari.” Koja gently rubbed the warm ashes into the blood-soaked paper. That finished, he began rewrapping the bandage around the khahan’s hand.

“Then, your people should know that I will destroy them if they refuse me,” the khahan promised in grim tones. His face was emotionless, and he watched Koja in silence, letting his words sink in. Koja shifted uneasily, uncertain how to react to such a threat. Then, breaking the tension, Yamun leaned forward and slapped the priest on the knee. “Now, envoy, tell me of the people and places you have seen.”

It was almost dawn before the khahan permitted Koja to leave. Exhausted from the strain of the meeting and thickheaded from the wine, the priest stumbled out of the tent. The icy wind snatched at his robes, whipping and cracking them about his legs. Shivering, Koja wrapped a heavy sheepskin coat, taken from the belongings still packed on his horse, tightly about him, but it did little good for his slipper-shod feet. Stamping, he worked to get the blood circulating through cold toes once again.

The khahan’s bodyguards watched the priest from where they huddled by a small fire. In the three weeks that Koja had been traveling with the Tuigan, men like these had watched over him. For the most part they had eyed him silently, but a few had been talkative. It was from these men that Koja had learned the most about the Tuigan.

Not that it was much. The Tuigan were nomads, raising sheep, cattle, and camels. But horses were their lives. They ate horsemeat and brewed kumiss from the curdled mare’s milk. They tanned horsehides and made plumes from horsetails. They rode horses better than anyone Koja had ever seen. It seemed as if every man was a warrior, trained to use bow, sword, and lance.

The finest of these warriors were handpicked for the khahan’s bodyguard, the Kashik. These were the men who were now watching him from around their fire. Each man was a proven warrior and killer. One of them stood and announced himself as the priest’s escort.

“The khahan invites you to stay at one of his yurts,” the squat guard said. It wasn’t phrased like an invitation, but Koja didn’t care. The command would mean a tent, and a tent would be warm.

Willingly following the guard, Koja walked slowly, sometimes stumbling over clumps of grass that broke the thin crust of snow. His tired body barely noticed. A servant followed, leading the priest’s horse. Finally, the guard stopped and pulled aside a felt rug door. Koja entered and the servant unloaded his belongings. Fatigue settling on him, the priest tottered over to the pile of rugs and gently collapsed on top of them, dropping away into blissful slumber.

The sun was high over the eastern horizon when Koja awoke to someone shouting outside his tent. “Koja the Lama, envoy of the Khazari, come out.”

Koja straightened his sleep-rumpled robes and stepped through the tent door. Four guardsmen stood outside, dressed in the black robes of the khahan’s bodyguard. They wore tall caps of sable, the pelts turned inside-out so the hide was on the outside. The men’s braids were bound with silver disks and tassels of blue yarn. Long straight swords hung from their belts, the silver fittings gleaming in the sunlight. Koja squinted and shielded his eyes from the bright glare.

“Yamun Khahan, Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, orders you to appear before him,” said one, stepping forward from the rest.

Koja sighed and held up his hand for the man to wait, then ducked back into the tent. Inside, he hastily pulled off his dirty robes and rummaged through the wooden chests of clothes, flinging shirts and sashes over his shoulder. Finally, Koja pulled out an orange-red silk robe. It was the color worn by lamas of his temple, the Red Mountain sect. He had bought the silk from a Shou trader and had the robe specially made after learning he was going to the council at Semphar.

In a few moments Koja left his tent and set out for the khahan’s yurt. As he walked along, Koja noticed the tents were arranged in rough rows, each positioned the same way. “Why do all the doors face the southeast?” he asked his escort.

One of the guards grunted, “That is the direction where Teylas lives.”

“Teylas is your god?” Koja asked, stepping around a patch of mud. The guard nodded. “You have no other gods?”

“Teylas is the god of everything. There are cham to help him.” The fellow was far more talkative than others Koja had met.

“Cham?”

“Guardians, like our mother, the Blue Wolf. They keep the evil spirits away from a man’s yurt. See—there they are.” The guard pointed to the band of stick-like figures that circled the top of each yurt.

After that the guard fell silent. There was nothing left for Koja to do but trudge along, watching in silence. They passed through the gate and marched up the hill to the khahan’s yurt. This time no one challenged the priest when he reached the horsetail banner, although his escort bowed. At the khahan’s yurt, Koja waited outside.

It did not take long for the priest to be announced. A servant pulled up the tent flap and tied the door open, letting a little light into the dim interior. At the far end of the tent was a raised platform, covered with rugs. Sitting there, on a small stool, was Yamun Khahan. Below the platform, sitting to the side, was an older man, his mustache wispy with graying hairs.

The khahan was dressed in formal clothing—leather boots dyed red and black, a pair of yellow woolen trousers, a blue silk jacket embroidered with dragons, and a leather coat-robe with broad cuffs and collar of white ermine. His cap was low and only slightly pointed, the brow a thick band of sable fur. From under it hung his braids, bound in coils of silver wire. Glass beads dangled from the long ends of his mustache.

For all the grandeur and might Yamun Khahan claimed, his yurt was furnished simply. The felt rugs that formed the walls were brightly dyed in geometric patterns, as was the custom, but aside from the dias there was little else in the tent. A stack of cushions rested along one wall, and an incense burner sat in the middle of the room. Oil lamps hung by chains from the ceiling braces, which were themselves carved and embellished with silver plaques of scrollwork. Behind the khahan was a stand, which held his bow and several quivers of arrows.

The old man in front of Yamun sat at a low table. Neatly arranged on it were several pieces of paper, an inking stone, and a heavy, square silver seal. Koja guessed the fellow was a scribe.

“Welcome, Lama Koja of the Khazari, to the tents of Yamun Khahan. The khan of the Hoekun and emperor of all the Tuigan people asks you to sit,” said the khahan in the weary tones of a man bored with protocol.

A servant scampered from out of the darkness, bringing a cushion for Koja. A place was set for him in the center of the floor, just behind the incense burner. Kneeling on the cushion, Koja bowed his head to the floor.

“If the yurt you slept in was comfortable, I give it to you,”

Yamun offered, suppressing a yawn.

Koja bowed again to Yamun and carefully began the speech he had rehearsed for this formal reception. “The khahan does me great honors. I am only a simple envoy of my prince. Knowing that you would attend the council of Semphar, he ordered me to carry messages to you from his hand. I have brought these with me,” Koja said, pulling two packets from the sleeves of his robe. They were large blue envelopes, bound with red silk string and closed with the wax seal of Prince Ogandi. Koja set the letters on the rugs before the khahan.

The khahan waved his finger, and the scribe picked up the letters. Taking these, he presented them with two hands, his head bowed, to the khahan. Yamun took the envelopes and studied the seals while the scribe returned to his seat. Apparently satisfied that they had not been tampered with, Yamun broke the first open and carefully unfolded the sheet. Uncertain what languages the Tuigan might understand, the letter had been written in both the flowing script of Semphar and the hachured ideograms of Shou Lung. Yamun scanned the page and passed it back to the scribe.

“My scribe will read these. I have no use for reading,” the khahan bluntly explained. The scribe carefully placed the paper on the writing desk.

“Koja the Lama,” continued Yamun, arching his back to stretch, “you are the envoy of the Khazari. Therefore, I’ve ordered proper documents prepared for you, stating your position and the honors you must be shown. These will keep you from being mistaken for a bandit or a spy.” Yamun’s eyes flicked up and down over the priest. “Show these signs and you will be allowed to pass unmolested—except where my word says you will not go. No one will refuse you because defying my word is death.”

Yamun waved to the scribe once more, who scurried from his table to present Koja with a golden paitza—a heavy, engraved plate, almost a foot long, strung on a red silken cord.

Taking the paitza, Koja studied it closely. At the top was the fanciful face of a tiger, the seal of the khahan. Below it was writing, carved in Shou characters. Koja read it softly aloud. ” ‘By the power of eternal heaven and by the patronage of great grandeur and magnificence, who does not submit to the command of Yamun Khahan, that person is guilty and will die.’ “

“Wear it about your neck and do not lose it or you may find yourself in trouble.” Koja gently hefted the paitza and decided to wear it somewhere else.

“Now, priest, I must dismiss you. There are other things I must do. I will consider the words of your prince. When the time is ready, I will prepare a reply.” Yamun abruptly ended the meeting, turning to the scribe while ignoring the presence of the priest.

Bowing one last time, Koja took his leave. After the previous night, the formality and shortness of this meeting was jarring. Perhaps, he thought, there was something he didn’t understand about Tuigan hospitality.

Koja returned to his yurt to work on his reports. Since leaving Khazari, the priest had tried to maintain a careful account of his mission by writing his observations in letters to Prince Ogandi. Although Koja had sent a few missives from Semphar, he had not had the chance since. Pulling out a bundle of sheets, the priest began to carefully add the recollections of last night and today to the papers. He quickly became engrossed in the work.

It was dark when Yamun summoned Koja back to his yurt. The khahan sat alone on the dais. The scribe was seated at his little table. A wick floating in a bowl of oil provided the man with light. Other lamps were lit, casting a dim illumination against the dark. Koja was ushered in with little ceremony.

“Sit, priest,” Yamun said, dispensing with formalities. Koja took his seat on the cushions in the center of the floor. “No, here.” Yamun pointed at his feet. “You will look at my hand.”

“As you wish, Khahan.” Koja reached into the front of his robe, getting his charm pouch.

“Priest, will you join me in drink?” Yamun asked while he watched the Koja rummage through the bag.

“You are most gracious, Khahan. I will take wine.”

Yamun clapped his hands, taking care not to strike his bandage. “Bring hot wine and kumiss for me. It’s a better drink than wine,” he said, pointing a finger at Koja. “Kumiss reminds us of who we are. It is our blood. But,” he concluded with a grin, “it is an acquired taste.”

The servants appeared and poured the drink into silver goblets. As they did so, Koja carefully unwrapped the bandage on Yamun’s hand. The skin around the edge of the wound was black and crusty, but there was no sign of swelling. Already it had started to knit properly. “Let the wound air,” Koja advised the khahan.

“Very well. Now, for the sake of formality, read me your prince’s words,” Yamun requested. Reaching into his robe, the khahan produced the letters and tossed them to Koja. He leaned forward, intent on Koja’s words.

The priest unfolded the sheet and squinted, trying to make out the words in the dim light.

” ‘To the gracious lord of the steppe from Prince Ogandi, ruler of Khazari, son of Tulwakan the Mighty:

” ‘Long have we heard of your people, and great are they in their lands! Mighty is your valor. Greatly it pleases us to have so stalwart a neighbor—’ “

“What does it say?” Yamun interrupted impatiently, tapping his fingertips together.

“Great Lord?”

“What does your prince say? Tell me. Don’t read anymore. Just tell me.”

“Well…” Koja paused as he scanned the rest of the letter. “Prince Ogandi offers his hand in friendship, hoping that you will enter into peaceful trade with him. And then, later on, he proposes a treaty of friendship and defense.”

“And the other letter, what does it say?”

Koja unfolded it and scanned through the lines. “My prince has outlined this proposed treaty for you to consider. It calls for recognizing the borders of the Khazari and Tuigan lands. He says that, ‘Your enemies shall be our enemies’ ” Koja stopped to see if the khahan had understood. “It’s a promise to assist each other against attackers.”

“He does not threaten war?” Yamun asked sternly.

Koja looked at the letter again. “No, Great Lord!”

“Does he state that assassins will be sent to slay me?” Yamun fingered at the baubles in his mustache.

Koja wonder just what Yamun was getting at. “Not at all.”

“Hmmm…” Yamun stroked his mustache. “Then why would someone tell me these things?” he wondered out loud as his gaze settled on the old scribe. The man went pale, sweat beading out on his forehead. “Why would someone tell me lies?”

“I did not lie, Lord! I only read what was there!” the scribe babbled as he frantically pressed his face into the carpets. His voice muffled, he continued to plead. “I swear by the lightning, by the might of Teylas, I only read what was written! I am your faithful scribe!”

“One of you has lied and will forfeit his life for it,” Yamun rumbled, looking from the priest to the scribe. The prostrate servant began heaving with muffled sobs. Koja looked at the letters again, baffled by this strange accusation. Yamun looked at the two men over his folded hands, his mind deep in thought.

Suddenly the khahan stood, knocking the stool over, and strode to the doorway of the tent. “Captain!” he shouted into the darkness. The officer appeared within a second. “Take this dog out and execute him. Now!” Yamun thrust his finger at the scribe. With a shrieking wail the man clutched at the carpets for safety.