1

Quaraband

Quaraband was a city of tents. There were no permanent buildings, only domelike yurts of white and black spread out in the shallow bowl of a val ey.

The little round shelters were scattered in dense clumps, large and small, radiating out from the river that meandered across the valley from the south.

The space between each yurt was cluttered with heavy, wooden-wheeled carts, ox yokes, racks of drying meat, hobbled horses, and camels. Here and there were wicker corrals for horses and sheep. Thin trails of smoke drifted from the cooking fires between the yurts. Farther out were herds of horses, cattle, and sheep grazing on the greening grass of the spring steppe.

The stubby grass broke through the pitted crust of old snow that still dotted the plain. White snow, green grass, and brown dirt covered the flat ground in broken patches, stretching as far as one could see. There were no trees, only gently rolling hillocks that rippled to the horizon. Dark scars from old gullies made jagged cuts across the barren land. Small clumps of bright blue and pink, the blooms of early crocus and dwarf lily, struggled against the cold to bring the first signs of spring to the land.

Chanar Ong Kho, a general of the Tuigan, seemed to glisten as sunlight played off the burnished metal scales of his armor. The light emphasized the luster of Chanar's thick braids and the thin sheen of sweat on the shaven patch at the top of his head. The sword at his side, its scabbard set with sapphires and garnets, swung in rhythm to his mare's swaying steps, scratching out a beat as it scraped against the general's metal leggings.

Saddle leather creaked as Chanar looked back to see if his companion was impressed. The man, a gaunt rider on a black mare, lurched along, parallel to a long, winding file of mounted soldiers—a small part of the ten thousand men under General Chanar's command. The companion wore what were once bright orange robes, though they were now travel-stained and worn. His head was shaven, and around his neck hung several strings of beads, each ending in a small prayer case of silver filigree. The priest rode stiffly, bouncing with every jolt, not with the natural grace of his fellow horseman. Chanar waited with bemused distaste as the priest pulled alongside.

"Tonight, Koja of the Khazari, you'll sleep in the tents of the Tuigan,"

Chanar announced, as he leaned forward to stroke his mare's neck. "Even though it's only been a few nights under the sky."

"Three weeks is more than a few nights," Koja observed. The priest spoke haltingly, with a musical inflection, ill-suited to the guttural twists of the Tuigan tongue. It was a language clearly different from his own. "Even you, honorable general, must welcome a night in warmer surroundings."

"Warm or cold, Khazari, it makes no difference to me. The Blue Wolf gave birth to our ancestors in the bitter cold of winter. My home is where I stand.

Learn that if you mean to stay with us," General Chanar answered. Snapping the flank of the dapple mare with his knout, the general urged his horse into a gallop toward Quaraband, leaving the foreign priest behind.

Koja let out an exasperated sigh as he watched the horse-warrior gallop ahead. Once again Koja had to put up with the arrogance of the Tuigan general. The priest was saddle-stiff, dust-caked, and sun-scorched after three weeks of constant riding. The Khazari had traveled with the general and ten thousand Tuigan warriors through forests, over mountains, and finally across the dry and empty steppe to reach the great capital of the Tuigan people. He had left the comforts of civilization far behind.

Now, the capital of these mysterious warriors, men who bedeviled the valuable caravan trade, lay ahead. This khahan, emperor of the Tuigan, could wait a few more minutes while he looked their city over.

It was primitive, rustic—and it took Koja's breath away. There wasn't a single stone building in Quaraband. The little tents—yurts—were dirty felt mounds, but the sheer number of them was awe-inspiring. There were thousands of the yurts set up upon the plain. Quaraband covered the valley floor, a mile or more in each direction. A gray smudge of smoke hung over the tents, the residue from hundreds of fires. It had an acrid tang that came from burning dung. This unpleasant fuel was a necessity, since there was precious little else to burn on the treeless steppe.

A cloud of dust swirled up in front of Koja, partially obscuring his view of the city. The line of troopers snaked past; the sound of snorting horses, grumbled curses, and creaking leather suddenly reminded the priest of where he was.

General Chanar was well ahead, trotting toward Quaraband. Koja awkwardly spurred his own horse forward, hurrying to catch up.

Just at the outskirts of the tent city, the priest rejoined General Chanar. The warlord barely noticed as the dallying priest came apace. Instead, the general turned back to survey the dispositions of his men. The ten thousand riders were already breaking into smaller groups, directed by the yurtchis, the officers responsible for laying out the camp. Satisfied that his men were being taken care of, Chanar turned back to where Koja sat on his horse.

"Come with me. I must present you to Yamun Khahan," Chanar ordered.

He spit on the ground, clearing the dust from his throat, then tapped his horse forward. Koja followed.

As they passed through the yurts, Koja studied them closely. The round tents were made from thick felt pounded into rugs and stretched over a wooden frame. Each doorway was covered with a loose rug that could be pulled aside to let in fresh air and light. The roofs bulged at the very top, where a smoke hole provided a little ventilation. Judging by the dirty exteriors, Koja doubted the yurts were bright and cheery inside. As they passed one yurt whose door was open, Koja caught the thick odors of sweat, grease, and smoke issuing from the inside.

A small troop of riders, rough-looking men with butter-colored skin, approached the priest and the general. The riders wore identical black robes and pointed, fur-trimmed caps topped with long red tassels. Each man carried a curved saber at his side. "Yamun Khahan sends these men to escort the valiant Chanar Ong Kho to the khahan's home. He asks Chanar to share drinks with him," hailed the lead rider as the men approached. As he spoke, the man eyed Koja curiously.

Chanar nodded in acceptance, then motioned toward the priest. "Tell the khahan that I've brought an ambassador of the Khazari along from Semphar."

At the command of the lead rider, one of the escort galloped away with the message.

The group continued in silence. As they rode, women peered shyly from behind tent flaps and dirty, bare-legged children ventured out to see the stranger riding by. The riders skirted the cooking fires, where pots bubbled, filling the air with the strong odor of boiled mutton.

Soon they reached a palisade of simple wooden stakes. The fence was five feet high, and ringed the base of a low hill that stood alongside the river.

Beyond the fence Koja saw five large yurts, bigger than any he had passed.

The largest yurt, dark black, occupied the top of the hill. The others, clustered around it, were smaller and powdered white with chalk. Primitive figures formed a printed band around the top of each yurt.

"I've come to see Yamun Khahan, my anda," General Chanar announced formally to the black-robed guard at the entrance. Koja noted the curious phrase Chanar used, which apparently denoted some close bond between the general and the khahan.

The guard hurriedly pulled aside the simple gate and allowed the riders to pass through. Gray-robed servants ran forward and held the horses while Chanar and Koja dismounted. The general carefully straightened his armor, tugging at the hems of his grease-and sweat-soaked silk undershirt. Satisfied, Chanar turned to the priest and declared flatly, "You'll stay here until I send for you." Sharply he turned and strode up the small hill toward the large central yurt.

Suddenly stranded by his host, Koja stood awkwardly still. The men of the armed escort were nearby, in small knots, talking among themselves. At intervals, perhaps prompted by a word or a thought, one of the guards would suddenly look Koja's way, stare through narrowed eyelids for a little while, and then, just as abruptly, return to the conversation.

The priest stood, then squatted, then stood again. No one made any attempt to speak to him or show him the hospitality an ambassador was properly due. Koja was hardly surprised, given what he saw was the barbarism of the Tuigan. Still, he had hoped for better.

For a time Koja was content to study the men in his escort. They might have been young men, but their faces were so heavily weather-beaten that their actual ages were impossible to determine. Long, thin mustaches were the favored style among these warriors. They had no beards and a few of the older-looking men had long ago taken knives to their cheeks, scarring them so badly that their beards could not grow. Most wore their hair in long braids that hung down in front of their ears. This was not unusual, but the way they shaved the crowns of their heads was quite distinctive.

After the priest waited for an hour or more, dusk fell.

Koja roamed a little, slowly at first to see if the guards would notice. He walked a short way up the slope, toward the banner that stood halfway between the gate and the largest yurt. It was a pole, fifteen feet tall with a crossbrace at the top. From the arms hung nine long black horsetail plumes.

Affixed on the very top was a human skull. Below the skull was a golden plaque, while small dolls made of red cloth stood at the pole's base. Bits of hair and leather were stuck to these. Koja studied the standard, guessing at its significance.

A man came down from the large yurt, dressed in a black robe with silk trim, clearly an officer. He stopped directly in front of Koja. "Koja of Khazari—

come. But first, you must kneel to the khahan's standard."

Koja looked at the dolls. They were idols, he realized—some shaman's spirit guardians, probably the powers of earth and sky. However, they were certainly not any of the gods he knew from his training at the Red Mountain Temple.

"I cannot," Koja said softly. "I am a priest of Furo. These are not my gods."

The officer looked at him darkly, his hand sliding toward the sword at his side. "You must. It is the khahan's standard."

"I mean no disrespect to your khahan, but I cannot kneel to these gods,"

Koja said flatly. He crossed his arms and stood firm, gambling that the guard would not strike him.

"I cannot take you to the khahan's yurt until you kneel," protested the officer. "You must kneel."

"Then I shall not see the khahan," answered Koja. A strained look crossed the officer's face.

The black-garbed officer stood in indecision. The other guards came up to see what was happening. The men and the officer fell into a heated, whispered conversation. Koja discreetly pretended not to notice, returning to his examination of the idols.

Finally, the officer gave in. Turning to Koja, he said, "You will come, but the khahan will be told."

"Your courage is great," Koja praised, allowing the officer to save face. The priest pointed to the skull at the top of the pole. "What does that represent?"

"That is the khan of the Oigurs," the officer said with relish. "He attempted to slay the khahan by luring him into a trap. The Oigurs were the first people Yamun Khahan conquered, so he honored them by placing their khan there."

"Does he treat everyone in this way?" Koja asked as he eyed the dubious honor.

"No, only a fortunate few," said the officer. The other guards broke into laughter as they led the priest up the hill.

When he reached the khahan's yurt, Koja looked down to the plain below.

From the doorway the priest had a clear view of the entire Tuigan encampment. It was clear why the khahan had chosen this hill as the site for his yurt. The squat yurts of Quaraband stretched out below in a rough oval, following the course of river.

The tent flap was pulled open as the officer beckoned Koja to enter.

Ducking his head through the opening, the priest carefully stepped inside. The khahan's chamberlain tugged at Koja, carefully making sure the priest did not accidentally step on the jamb, a sure sign of evil luck. Inside, it was dark. Koja willingly allowed himself to be led to a seat. As he padded across the heavily carpeted floor, the priest tried to focus his eyes in the gloom.

The Illustrious Emperor to the Tuigan, Yamun Khahan, leaned forward on his seat of cushions at the back of the yurt. His face was lit by the flickering flames of oil lamps hung from the roof poles of the Great Yurt. The light barely revealed his reddish hair, bound into long braids. Occasionally light glinted off the pale, jagged scar that ran across the bridge of his nose and over his cheek. A second old scar gave the khahan's upper lip a slight curl.

Not far from the khahan, General Chanar sat on the rugs, only a single cushion beneath him. The warrior sipped at the hot cup of tea he cradled in his hands. As Koja settled into his seat, Chanar leaned over to the khahan and spoke softly. The khahan listened, then shook his head gently, apparently vetoing the general's suggestion.

"So, envoy of the Khazari, what did you think of the grand council of Semphar?" boomed out Yamun Khahan from the far side of the yurt. Koja was surprised by the khahan's directness, but quickly regained his composure.

"Surely, Khahan of the Tuigan, General Chanar has told you about the conference. I am only an ambassador of the Khazari," Koja protested.

"You're going to tell me about this great conference at Semphar," the khahan ordered bluntly, scratching at his cheek. "I have already heard the general speak. What did the Sempharans have to say?"

"Well, Lord Yamun, the caliph of Semphar was, uh, surprised." Koja shifted his legs, trying to find a comfortable position.

Yamun Khahan snorted with laughter and drained his silver goblet, setting it down on the thick woolen rugs with a muffled thump. "Surprised? I send my best general with ten thousand men, a complete tumen, and the caliph is only

'surprised.' Do you hear this?" He leaned toward Chanar, who was sitting stone-faced while Koja talked. A servant came out of the shadows to pour the khahan another goblet of heated wine and dropped a pierced silver ball filled with herbs into it. Yamun, his face stern and unsmiling, turned back to the envoy. "This caliph didn't tremble in fear at the sight of General Chanar?"

"Perhaps he did, Khahan of the Tuigan, but never that I saw." Koja found his gaze locked with the khahan's. In the dim light, the ruler's eyes were black and riveting. Flustered, Koja could feel his blood reddening his face, even making his bald scalp tingle. The priest suddenly wondered if the khahan was some type of sorcerer. Unconsciously, his fingers fumbled with one of the small scripture lockets that hung around his neck.

Chanar cocked an eyebrow, noticing what the envoy was doing. "Your charms and spells won't help you here, Khazari. No magic functions within this valley."

Koja stopped in surprise, slightly embarrassed when he realized what he was doing. "No magic? How is that possible?" He looked to Chanar for an answer, but it was Yamun who replied.

"Teylas, the Sky God, banished the magic—or that's what the Second Empress Bayalun Khadun tells me. I don't care how it happened. No magic makes this a good place for my capital, a safe place," answered Yamun Khahan between swallows of wine.

"Isn't life difficult without magic?" Koja asked softly.

"If Teylas wanted life to be easy he wouldn't have given us the steppe for a home. And he would have given me an easier people to rule," commented Yamun as he finished off another goblet of wine. "Enough of this. Was the council impressed when General Chanar told them my demands? Will they pay a tax for the caravans? Do they recognize me as ruler of the whole world?"

Koja thought carefully about the answer. "They were outraged by your ...

boldness, Lord Khahan. Many of them took exception to your claims. As the king of Cormyr pointed out, 'You do not rule the entire world.' " Koja heard a soft, irritated snort from Chanar.

The khahan slowly stood, stretching his legs. He was not a tall man, but was still imposing. His chest was broad and his neck was thick with corded muscles. He slowly walked with a bowlegged swagger toward the door of the tent. All the while he kept his eyes on the seated priest, the same way a desert cat watches its prey. "Cor-meer? I've never heard of such a place."

Koja, still seated on the woolen rugs that covered the floor, scuttled around to keep facing the khahan. Although the evening was chill, the lama was sweating in the stuffy tent. His orange robes were damp and clammy. Slightly frosty breezes slipped in through the minute gaps in the felt walls of the yurt.

"Is it far?" quizzed Yamun, tugging at his mustache.

"Great Lord?" asked Koja, confused by the sudden shift of the conversation.

"This place, Cor-meer—is it far away?"

"I don't know. It is a land far to the west, even far from Semphar. I have never been there."

"But this king, he talks bravely. What is he like?"

"The king is named Azoun. He is a strange-looking man, with pale skin and thick hair on his face—"

"Pah! I asked what he is like, not what he looks like," the khahan snapped.

"He was a... king, Khahan," Koja said, unable to think of a better word. "He was bold and seemed brave. The others listened to him and seemed to respect his words."

"He sounds like a man to meet. I will go to Cor-meer someday, and then we will see how brave Azoun is," Yamun decided, slapping his thigh. "So this king was not impressed. My words were not enough."

Koja tried to slowly and calmly explain what had happened at the council, at least the way he saw it. "The leaders came to the council to talk. They did not bring armies, only their wizards, priests, and guards. They were ... not pleased, upset. After all, there was a huge army of Tuigan soldiers camped outside the city. Soldiers make very poor diplomats."

"Diplomats! Old men from tents that have no warriors—those are diplomats. Your diplomats meet because they are worried about their caravans." Yamun tapped one of the center posts of the yurt. "You think I didn't hear these things, envoy. Your khans and emperors thought they could fix everything without me, but I rule this land. I rule all the tribes of the land, and nothing is decided without my word," declared Yamun. "So I sent my own envoys—warriors with fat horses and bundles of arrows."

"With all due respect, Khahan, all the ambassadors saw was a great army of men and a brazen general," Koja replied, respectfully bowing his head to the floor. There was a sharp hissing of breath and a muttered curse from General Chanar. Koja bit his lip as he realized he'd just slighted the warlord.

"A brazen general?" Yamun said softly as he turned away from Koja, twisting his mustache between his fingers. "What do you mean 'brazen?' "

"General Chanar is a warrior," Koja answered carefully, hoping that would be sufficient. The khahan tilted his head and waited for more. Nervous, Koja rubbed his neck. "Well, those at the council expected soft words. General Chanar was ... insulting."

"These are lies, my khahan," Prince Chanar asserted as he shifted in his seat. "This foreigner has insulted me."

Chanar's hand slid to the hilt of his saber. Glowering, he stood and stepped toward Koja. "I say you're a liar and you will pay." There was a scraping sound as he started to draw his sword from its scabbard.

"Chanar Ong Kho, sit down," rumbled Yamun, his calm voice carrying easily over the general's mumbled threats. There was a quality of iron in the deeply resonant words. "Will you dishonor my tent with bloodshed? Stay your sword. This priest is my guest."

"He has insulted me!" Chanar insisted. "Didn't I say the council trembled in fear? That they were awed by our might? Is a foreigner allowed to mock me in your yurt?" Sword half-drawn, he turned to face Yamun. Chanar's body was tense, his back arched, his arms stiff.

Yamun strode directly up to Chanar, unflinching in the steady gaze of the general. Looking up into Chanar's eyes, he spoke slowly and softly, but with a hard edge. "Chanar, you are my anda, my blood-friend. We've fought together. There is no one I trust more than you. I have never doubted your word, but this is my tent and he is my guest. Now, sit and think no more of this." Yamun closed his hand over Chanar's on the sword hilt.

"Yamun, I petition you. He's lied about me. I will not let him stain my honor.

I will not have this." Chanar tried to pull his hand free, but Yamun's grip kept it in place.

"General Chanar, you will sit down!" the khahan replied. His voice thundered as he spit out the words in tightly clipped fury. "I listen to this man,"

he said, flinging his finger toward Koja, "but do I believe? Perhaps I should if he angers you so."

Chanar trembled, caught between rage and loyalty. Finally, he slid the blade back into its scabbard and silently strode back to his seat. There he sat, staring darkly at the priest. All through the exchange, Koja stayed quiet, a slight shiver of nervousness and fear running through him. He marveled at the liberties the general had taken in the presence of his lord.

Yamun casually returned to his cushions and waved for another cup of wine. "Chanar is my anda. It is a special friendship, like brothers to each other. Because he is my anda, Chanar Ong Kho has the right to speak freely before me." Yamun paused to look closely at Koja. "You, however, are not my anda. It would be wise for you to remember this when you speak. The Tuigan do not take insults lightly. I should have you whipped for your words, but you are my guest so this time I only warn you," the khahan calmly informed the surprised lama. Chanar's black looks softened.

"I plead for forgiveness for offending the valiant Chanar Ong Kho. I can see that he is a brave warrior," Koja said, bowing to the general. Chanar coolly acknowledged the apology.

Yamun drew a small knife from a scabbard that hung at his belt and held it between himself and Chanar. "Brother Chanar, this priest does not understand our bond. This, Koja of Khazari, is what it means to be anda."

Yamun drew the knife across his hand, making a small gash in the palm. As the blood started to well out of the cut, he handed the knife over to Chanar.

Chanar took the knife, turning it back and forth so the light sparked off the blade. Without saying a thing, the general pulled the tip of the blade across his hand. He bit down on his lip at the sudden pain.

As the first drops trickled out of the wound, Yamun pressed his bleeding hand to Chanar's, clasping it tight. Blood seeped from between their fingers, splattering in droplets on the rugs. The two men locked eyes: the khahan confident, the general smiling through the sting.

"See, priest, we are anda," Yamun said. The khahan still showed no sign of pain. He squeezed Chanar's hand even harder, drawing a faint wince from the general. They gripped hands for a few minutes more, then released each other, the bond broken by unspoken communication.

"I am your anda, Yamun," Chanar announced loudly, if somewhat breathless for pain, so Koja could hear. The warrior held his hand in a fist.

Yamun settled back into the cushions, paying little attention to his own wound.

A servant came forward with thick strips of felt and a bowl of hot water and set these between the two men. Chanar began binding his own hand while the servant tried to fuss over the khahan.

"Bring drinks—black kumiss—for my anda and this visitor," Yamun ordered.

"I'll tend to myself."

The man disappeared for a moment, then reappeared with a leather bag.

Setting out silver cups, the servant ladled the drinks and placed them before the men. Koja looked at the kumiss, a curdled white color, and sniffed at it gingerly. The priest recognized it as fermented mare's milk, a drink popular among the Tuigan. This was "black" kumiss, drawn from the khahan's own mares and considered the finest of all. Koja took a sip of the bitter drink and then discreetly set the cup aside while the other men gulped the contents of their chalices.

"My lord—," the lama eventually began, but the khahan waved him off.

"This audience is over," Yamun announced. "Tomorrow we'll hold council to hear the message of this envoy." He picked up his cup of kumiss and turned partially away from Chanar and the priest, the signal for them to leave. Reluctantly, Chanar stood, bowed to Yamun, and strode out the door. A blast of cold spring air blew through the doorway, making the lamps flicker. Koja took care not to turn his back on the khahan, which would be considered an insult in the priest's own country.

Yamun raised his hand to recognize the envoy's leaving. The hastily wrapped bandage across his palm slipped loose, letting blood flow once again from the wound. Seeing this, Koja took the opportunity to be of aid.

"Great Lord, I have a little skill in healing wounds. If I could be of some small service to my illustrious host it would bring great honor to my temple."

Koja knelt down, touching his head to the floor.

Yamun turned back toward Koja, one eyebrow arched as he studied the kowtowing priest. "If you have some skill with spells, it will do you little good here. Remember, the power of magic is gone from this area."

"I know, Khahan of the Tuigan, but at our temple we are taught the secrets of herbs. It is something all of the chosen must learn," Koja explained, still kneeling.

"What if you plan to poison me?"

"I would not do this, great khahan. I have come a long way to speak for my prince," Koja explained, looking up from the floor. "You have not even heard his words."

Yamun tilted his head and studied the priest. Finally, his lips twisted into a wry grin. "I think your words have merit. Well then, envoy of the Khazari, let's see what your skills can do for my hand."

Koja sat himself at the feet of the khahan. Reaching into his robes, the priest brought out a small pouch he always carried. From it he took a small strip of yellow paper covered in script, a lump of incense, and three dried leaves. Taking Yamun's wounded hand, Koja carefully began unwrapping the loose bandages.

"The herbs are very cleansing but cause some pain, Lord Yamun," Koja warned, crumbling the leaves into the Yamun's kumiss.

"What of it? Tell me about Semphar."

"I only saw a little of it, Khahan," Koja began as he soaked a strip of cloth in the kumiss. "But it seemed like a powerful land." The lama handed the wine-soaked cloth to the khahan. "Squeeze on this, Khahan."

"If they are so powerful, then why did the Sempharans call this council?"

Yamun queried, ignoring any pain as Koja washed out the wound.

Koja finished dabbing at the cut. "Caravans from east and west begin and end in Semphar, so they become worried when the merchants are attacked and no longer travel the routes to Shou Lung. Hold your hand flat, please."

Koja pressed the yellow paper into the wound and carefully placed the incense on it. The yellow was immediately tinged with red. Standing, Koja reached up and unhooked one of the lamps.

"Still, if they are mighty warriors, why don't they send soldiers to protect their caravans?" Yamun asked as he poked at the paper on his hand.

"Semphar is powerful, but they are not horsemen. The steppe is far from their homeland. They did not know who ruled the lands of the steppe. There have been many tribes here and many chieftains, khans as you call them."

Koja fumbled in his pouch.

"I am the khahan, the khan of khans. I rule the steppe," Yamun declared.

Koja only nodded and lit another scrap of paper from his pouch off the lamp beside him. Twice he passed the burning paper over the khahan's hand, muttering prayers. Then he touched the flame to the incense. Yamun twitched his hand to pull it away from the fire, more in surprise than pain. "Keep your hand stil , Khahan. The ash must be rubbed into the wound."

Yamun grunted in understanding. For a time he watched the little ropes of sweet smoke coil upward from his hand. Finally, he spoke. "Since they do not attack me, perhaps I must go to them."

Koja started at the suggestion. "Khahan, Semphar is a mighty nation with great cities of stone with walls around them. You could not capture these with horsemen. They have many soldiers." The khahan didn't seem to understand the greatness of the caliph. "Semphar does not want war, but they will fight."

"But they refused my demands, didn't they?"

"Only because they seek more time to consider them," Koja explained as he blew on the smoldering incense.

"They're stalling. They have no intention of obeying me and you know that, priest," Yamun pointed out. The last wisps of smoke from the incense wafted over his palm.

"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.

The scribe's pathetic screams grew louder as the black-robed guards approached. Koja slid back, out of the way of the grim-faced warriors.

Yamun's visage was fixed with anger and hatred.

"Shut up, dog!" the khahan shouted. "Guards, take him!"

Three soldiers picked up the scribe and carried him from the tent. His muffled cries could be heard through the tent walls. Yamun waited expectantly. The screaming grew frantic and hoarse, then there was a dull thud and the screaming stopped. Yamun nodded in satisfaction and took his seat.

Koja realized that he was trembling. Lowering his eyes, the priest practiced his meditation to regain his composure.

The captain of the guard pulled the tent flap aside. In his hands was a bloodstained bundle—a simple leather bag. Wordlessly he entered and knelt before the khahan. "As you ordered, so is it done," the captain said as he unwrapped the package. There, in the middle of the cloth, was the head of the scribe.

"Well done, Captain. Take his body and feed it to the dogs. Set that," he sneered, pointing to the head, "on a lance where everyone can see it."

"It will be done." The captain looked at Koja in curiosity, then took the head and left.

Yamun let out a great sigh and looked at the floor. Finally, he turned to Koja. "Now, priest, bandage my hand."

Still trembling slightly, Koja took out his herbs and began to work.

2

Mother Bayalun

Yamun trotted his horse, a sturdy little piebald mare, through the camps of his soldiers. Alongside him rode Chanar on a pure white stallion. From behind came the jingling clatter of reins and hooves as five bodyguards, black-robed men of the elite Kashik, followed closely behind.

It had been days since the audience with the priest from Khazari, and Yamun was still reflecting on the events. He scowled as he pondered the contents of the envoy's letters. The prince of the Khazari wanted a treaty between their two nations. Yamun didn't know if that was desirable, and, before deciding, he needed to know more about the Khazari—their numbers, strengths, and weaknesses. "The sleeping rabbit is caught by the fox," or so went the old saying. Yamun had no intention of being lulled to sleep by mere paper.

Dismissing the topic in his mind, Yamun slowed his horse and looked with pride on the endless sea of soldiers' tents and campfires. This was his army.

He had organized the tribesmen into arbans of ten men, then jaguns of one hundred, further still to minghans of one thousand, ending finally in the tumen, the great divisions of ten thousand men. Every soldier had a rank and a place in the army, just as Yamun planned. Under his command the men of the steppe were transformed from raiding bands into a tightly disciplined army.

The khahan reined in his horse, bringing it to a stop just in front of a small group of soldiers gathered around their fire. The entourage with him clattered to a stop, too. The squad of ten men who sat around the fire leaped to their feet.

"Who is the leader of this arban?" Yamun demanded, tapping his horsewhip on his thigh. The khahan's horse pranced uneasily, agitated by Yamun's energy.

One man hurriedly ran forward and flung himself to the ground at the mare's hooves. In the warm spring day, the man wore only his woolen trousers and kalat, a stained blue tunic trimmed with red. A conical bearskin cap, decorated with goat-hide tassels, identified the man as a common trooper of Chanar's tumen.

Satisfied with the trooper's response, the khahan waited for his horse to quiet down. "Rise, brother soldier," he said, trying to put the nervous trooper at ease.

"Yes, Great Lord," mumbled the man, pushing himself up from the dirt.

Even sitting upright, the man kept his eyes downcast. Yamun could tell the man was a tough and seasoned soldier by the large scars on his cheeks.

"Fear not, warrior," Yamun spoke soothingly. "You're not to be punished.

I've some questions, that's all. The commander of your jagun recommended your bravery and skill. What's your father's ordu?" Yamun whisked away the flies from his mare's mane.

"Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, my father was born into the Jebe clan."

The trooper bowed again on completing his words.

"Jebe's ordu has many tents, and he's served me well in the past. What's your name?"

"Hulagu, Khahan," the trooper answered, bowing again. "Very well, Hulagu.

Stop bobbing up and down and be a soldier." The man sat up straighter, obedient to the words of his khahan. "Jebe Khan keeps his ordu to the east, near the Katakoro Mountains, doesn't he?"

"Yes, Great Lord, in the summertime when the pastures are rich there."

"Have you heard of the Khazari? I'm told they live in those mountains." He stroked the neck of his horse, keeping it calm.

"This is true, khahan. We sometimes take their sheep and cattle," the trooper answered with pride.

Yamun smiled. Raiding and rustling were old and honorable traditions among the Tuigan. As khahan, he could barely keep the different ordus of the Tuigan from stealing each other's horses. Any Tuigan caught stealing from another was executed on the spot, but the law did not apply to non-Tuigan.

Yamun tucked his horsewhip into his boot-top. "Are they easy to raid?"

"My father says it was not as hard as raiding the ordus of Arik-Boke and Berku—or so he was told; my father never did this," Trooper Hulagu added hastily, remembering the penalties Yamun had set. "The Khazari aren't horsemen and don't chase us very well, so it is easy to get away. But they live in tents of stone and keep their sheep in pens at night, so we could only raid them when they took their flocks out to pasture."

"Are they a brave people?" Yamun asked, dropping his horse's reins to let it graze.

"Not as brave as the Jebe," the man answered with a trace of boastfulness.

"They would fight, but were easy to trick. Many times they did not send out scouts, and we could fool them by driving horses ahead of us to make our numbers seem much larger." The trooper wriggled a little, trying to keep his toes warm in the cold mud.

Yamun stroked the fine beard on his chin. "Are there many of them?"

The man thought for a bit. His eyes glazed as he started imagining numbers larger than twenty.

Finally, the trooper spoke. "They are not so numerous as the tumens of the khahan nor do they fight as well," he said, breaking into a big smile at what he thought was his own cleverness.

Yamun laughed at the man's answer. What he really needed, as he had known from the start, was solid information on who and what the Khazari were like. Trooper Hulagu's memory was certainly not going to be enough. "What's the distance to Khazari?" he asked. Again the man thought, although this time Yamun suspected he knew the answer.

"Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, when I left my ordu to join the magnificent Son of Teylas's armies, I rode for three weeks, but I did not hurry and stopped many days in the yurts of my cousins along the way. The trip could be made faster."

"Undoubtedly," Yamun said, half to himself. The squat warlord paused, although he already knew what needed to be done. Leaning on the pommel of his saddle, Yamun turned to General Chanar beside him. "Chanar Ong Kho, this man and his arban are to ride with all haste to the Katakoro Mountains with as many men as you think wise to send. I want to know the numbers, strengths, and weaknesses of the Khazari. See that the scouts have fresh horses and passes. They must return in five weeks, no later." Chanar nodded in understanding.

Just as he was about to go, Yamun turned back. "And send someone from my Kashik who can count. Make him their commander. Let all who disobey you know this is by the word of the khahan." Yamun added the last automatically, a formula that signified his orders.

"By your word, it shall be done," responded Chanar mechanically, according to the formula of etiquette. "Is that all my men are to do?" the general asked.

Yamun stopped his horse and stared back at Chanar. "You, General Chanar, will ride to the ordu of my son, Tomke, and observe his camp. I want to know if his men are ready. Take the men you need and go immediately.

Teylas will protect you."

"By your word, it shall be done" Chanar responded. The discussion finished, Yamun tugged his mount's reins and galloped off.

The trooper still cowered at the feet of Chanar's horse.

"Get going!" the general bellowed. The terrified Hulagu leaped to his feet and scrambled back toward his camp. With his boot, the trooper roused the men of his arban, sending them tumbling after their gear.

"See to the details," Chanar ordered an aide nearby. With his own preparations to make, General Chanar wheeled his horse around and galloped away, headed toward his own yurt.

*

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*

*

*

In his tent, Koja brought out his papers and began to make notes of the day's events and sights. He had only added a few pages since his arrival in Quaraband. Looking at the meager letters only reminded him of how little he knew of the khahan. Undiscouraged, he took up the writing brush and with quick practiced strokes started another letter.

My lord, Prince Ogandi of the Khazari. Greetings from your most humble servant, Koja, envoy to the Tuigan court.

For two days I have awaited the word of the khahan of the Tuigan. There has been no communication from him. He has received your offers, but gives no sign of his opinion toward a treaty. I can do little but wait.

During this time, I have ridden about Quaraband, as the Tuigan call this city of tents, attempting to learn more about their numbers and their way of life.

Using the paitza given me by the khahan, I have been able to go where I wish, with one exception— the royal yurt.

Koja stopped to ink his brush and lay out another sheet of paper. He paused before touching the brush to paper again. That morning he had gone to Yamun's tent. There he was stopped by the Kashik dayguard stationed by the gates. Showing his paitza had had no effect on the man and all his protests had been in vain. The guard, in his black kalat, made it clear that Koja was not to be admitted, since the priest's pass bore only the tiger seal.

This was apparently the pass used by low-ranking officials. Koja thought about penning the story down, then decided against it.

Perhaps no one was allowed within the royal palace except by invitation.

Traveling elsewhere in the camp, I had no such difficulty, though I have been in the constant company of an armed escort, a precaution of the khahan. I carefully counted tents, making a knot in a string for every ten. By now the cord is short, twisted with little knots. There are more than one hundred knots on the cord, and I still have not ridden the extent of the camp.

The Tuigan are a numerous people, O Prince.

In crafts and arts, the people are more than mere barbaric savages. They have men skilled in working gold and silver, and from the wool of sheep make a wondrously warm and soft fabric called felt. At the same time, they are among the smelliest and most abhorrent people for their personal habits.

Koja set aside his brush and pondered what he knew of the Tuigan so far.

What seemed like ages ago, when he had first learned he was to visit the Tuigan, Koja had assumed that they were all uncultured savages. Chanar's appearance at the Council of Semphar—dirty, foul-smelling, rude, and arrogant—certainly confirmed that impression.

The ride to Quaraband had been no better. The entire force had traveled at a killing pace, sometimes covering sixty to eighty miles in a single day. He had joined this rank, unwashed group at their meals of near-indigestible dried meat and powdered milk curds mixed with water. For three weeks the men never changed their clothes. It was not a pleasant journey.

The Tuigan, Lord, will eat anything, nor does this give them indigestion.

They are great eaters of mutton and horsemeat. They eat much game, for they are most excellent shots with the bow. Mare's milk is used at every meal, made plain, curdled, fermented, and dried. A powder made from the curds is mixed with water or, I am told, mare's blood, to make a drink the soldiers use while they travel.

Koja stopped writing when he realized that his description was incomplete.

In Quaraband, he had finally been exposed to another facet of his hosts. To be sure, they still seemed to be barbarians—cruel, dangerous, and impulsive—but Koja could no longer say they were simply uneducated and unskilled. There was a surprising variety to Tuigan life.

The first thing he noticed was that not everyone traveled by horseback and lived in yurts. Mixed among the tents were households who used great, heavy carts to haul their belongings. Some families owned carts but still used yurts; others had abandoned the dome-shaped tents and lived in houses built on their wagons. Other carts carried portable forges for the blacksmiths who set up shop along the water's edge.

These smiths were skilled craftsmen. Working with silver, they made decorated cups, bowls, saddle arches, buckles, pins, and an amazing assortment of other ornaments. Others worked leather, tanning and dying horse-hide for all uses. The women wove bright-colored cloth of wool and camel hair. Armorers were especially prized, and the priest had seen many fine examples of their art since he arrived.

Koja was just about to set these thoughts down when the guard outside summoned him to the door. Hurriedly putting the writing instruments away, Koja folded the slim sheets and put them in a letter pouch. Pouring water from a leather bag, the priest rinsed his inking stone and fingers, leaving a blue stain on his fingertips. At last, with what seemed proper dignity and decorum, he threw aside the tent flap to see who was there.

Outside were five soldiers wearing white kalats trimmed with blue, the personal guard of the empress of the Tuigan, Eke Bayalun. Koja noted their presence with a slight nod.

"Empress Eke Bayalun of the royal household requests you come to an audience with her," stated the officer of the group, identified by the red silk tassels that hung from his cap.

"I am honored by the empress's invitation," Koja answered with a bow.

Judging from the man's tone, Koja decided the request was actually an order, so there was little to do but accept graciously. Gathering his things, the priest mounted the horse the guards had brought for him.

Koja was curious to meet the empress of the Tuigan. Eke Bayalun was, from what he had learned, the only surviving wife of Yamun Khahan. She was also his stepmother. Apparently, Tuigan custom required a son to marry his father's widow—or widows—mostly to ensure the women would be cared for.

Her full title was Second Empress Eke Bayalun Khadun, denoting her status as Yamun's second wife. It seemed she took an active interest in the khahan's affairs.

Koja studied the guards she had sent. As empress, she was allowed her own bodyguards, much like Yamun's Kashik troopers. Koja noted, too, that Bayalun's troops must not like the khahan's bodyguard; they were widely skirting the tents of the Kashik. Finally, they came to a gate in the stockade , one Koja had not seen before. They rode through without stopping, waved on by the white-robed guards that stood to either side.

Inside the palace grounds, the escort dismounted and helped Koja from his horse. Leaving the horses behind with the soldiers, the officer in charge led him through the grounds to a large, white yurt. Before it stood a banner of white yak tails. The officer knelt quickly before this and then led Koja to the door.

The man pulled the door flap aside and informed the chamberlain that they had arrived. There was a delay, then the chamberlain returned to usher Koja into the empress's yurt. As he entered, the priest noticed two rag idols hung over the doorway. Near the one on the left was a leather drinking bag; by the one on the right, a bundle of grain. Offerings to protective spirits, he guessed.

This yurt was far more lavish than the khahan's spartan tent. The chalk-white walls were hung with patterned silks of red, blue, yellow, and white. One section of the yurt was blocked off by a carved wooden screen. The rugs on the floor were bright red, embroidered in gold and silver with leaflike curls.

The two tent posts that supported the central frame were carved and painted to resemble what Koja thought were twining dragons and horses.

At the yurt's far side was a square platform, no more than a few inches high, covered with rugs. On the platform was a couchlike bed of carved wood inlaid with seashells. Blankets were draped over the curved ends. Perched on its edge was a woman, Eke Bayalun.

The second empress was a striking woman, far more graceful and attractive than Koja had imagined. Knowing her to be Yamun's stepmother, Koja thought she would be an old crone, her face bound up in wrinkles with blotchy age spots. Instead, Eke Bayalun was remarkably poised and youthful.

Her face was only lightly wrinkled at the corners of the eyes and mouth, the skin stretched tight over her high cheekbones. There it was smooth and flowed with a rich buttery color. Unlike the other Tuigan women Koja had seen, with their soft, round cheeks and broad noses, Bayalun had a sharp, angular nose and chin, both straight and narrow. Her eyes, too, were different, more like those of the westerners he had seen at Semphar—lacking the fold of eyelid at the outer corner. The woman's eyes were sharp, bright, and clear.

Her lips were thin and tinted with natural color.

Bayalun's hair was covered with a cowl of white silk, gathered high in the back and fanned out to drape behind her shoulders. The front of the silk wrapped loosely around the neck, and wisps of black and silver hair peeked out from under the cloth. Silver earrings, set with blue and red stones, barely showed behind the fabric. Her dress, in the style of the Tuigan, was high-necked with broad lapels and collar. The dress was black silk, while the collar was a bright red velvet. Over the dress Bayalun wore a long, sleeveless felt jacket, a jupon, decorated with silver coins and silken tassels. Rough woolen trousers and hard leather boots peeked out from underneath the layers of clothing. A wooden staff, topped with a golden, fanged face, lay across her lap. At Bayalun's feet were several neat stacks of paper scrolls, each carefully tied with a cord of red or gold.

Koja, startled as he realized that he was rudely staring at the second empress, turned his gaze to the other people in the yurt. The men sat to the left and the women to the right. There were three men on the left side. The first, sitting slightly out of the way, was clearly Bayalun's scribe: an old man, perhaps ancient, who hunched over his little writing table. To the scribe's left was another old man, dressed in robes of faded yellow silk. The robes were completely covered with Shou characters. This man looked quickly and sharply at Koja as the priest advanced to take his seat.

Taking his place between the two rows, Koja walked past the third man. His hair hung in loose, greasy hanks, and his teeth were crooked and rotten. The man was garbed in ratty-looking pelts, thickly layered over each other. Iron hooks, bars, plates, chain-links, and figurines were stitched all across the breast of his robes. In his lap he held a large skin drum and a curved drumstick. Koja was fairly certain the man was some type of shaman, calling on primitive spirits for his powers.

On the right side of the yurt were ten women. Two sat in the front row, facing the men, and seemed important. At the head of the row was an old crone, dressed in a warm del, the leather garment that served as both coat and robe to the Tuigan. Beside and slightly behind the crone was a younger woman dressed in similar clothing. She wore the headdress of an unmarried woman, a towering cone of wrapped red cloth held in place with tortoiseshell combs and silver pins. Long dangling strings of silver coins draped down over her shoulders.

Koja bowed low as he stood between the two rows of attendants. Head lowered, he waited for some word from the second empress. "Welcome, Koja of the Khazari," she said in a warm and friendly tone. "You may sit." Koja sat, making himself as comfortable as possible.

"The second empress does me great honor, more than I deserve," he said.

Bayalun smiled in recognition. " 'Second empress' is not a title I am accustomed to. Among my people I am better known as Mother Bayalun or,"

she informed him with a wry smile, "Widow Bayalun, even Bayalun the Hard. I prefer Mother Bayalun, if only because through me the House of Hoekun is traced."

"Please pardon my ignorance, but I have only been here a short time. What is the House of Hoekun? Is it the same as the Tuigan, or is it something different?" queried Koja. He waited attentively for her answer.

"A quick mind. You ask questions," commented Mother Bayalun as she leaned forward, setting the point of her staff on the rugs. She studied the priest's face intently with her dark, deep eyes. Raising the tip of her staff, she drew a large circle in the thick nap of the felt. "This is the Tuigan empire." Her staff tapped at the circle.

"Are the Hoekun part of the Tuigan?" Koja asked.

Mother Bayalun ignored the question. Instead she drew several smaller circles inside the first. The circles more or less filled the space. "These are the people of the Tuigan empire. These," she said, stabbing at one of the circles with her staff, "are the Naican, conquered by Burekai, my husband before the khahan." Bayalun went on to tap four other circles. "These are the Dalats, Quirish, Gur, and the Commani. They were all defeated by the current khahan. And this circle," she pointed at the last, in the center of all, "is the Tuigan. There are many families among the Tuigan." Using her staff, the empress poked the rug, leaving little dents. "These are the people of the Tuigan. There are the Hoekun, the Basymats, the Jamaqua, and many more.

Each house is named for its founder. Ours was Hoekun the Clever, son of his mother, the Blue Wolf."

Koja nodded politely, though he wasn't sure he understood completely.

"The Blue Wolf?"

"A wise spirit. She whelped our ancestor in the middle of winter and caused our people to be born." Bayalun leaned back and shrugged her shoulders.

"The children of the House of Hoekun are all the sons and daughters of the Blue Wolf. This makes the Hoekun the royal family of all the Tuigan. I am the oldest of the house, so I am called Eke—or Mother—Bayalun."

"Then your husband before Yamun Khahan was also the khahan?" Koja noted, trying to make sure he grasped everything clearly.

A scowl knitted Bayalun's brow, but she quickly assumed a blank look.

"Burekei was khan of the Hoekun ordu, no more. It was his son, Yamun, who was chosen to be the khahan."

"Yamun Khahan was elected? He wasn't born to become the khahan?"

Koja asked in surprise. He had assumed the khahan was a hereditary rank, like that of king or prince.

"All men are born to become what they will. Such is the will of Teylas, Lord of the Sky," she explained, playing her fingers up and down the staff. "When Burekei died, Yamun became khan of the Hoekun. It was only later, after he conquered the Dalats, that the families named him great prince of all the Tuigan." Bayalun crossed her feet and adjusted her seat.

"But, I did not invite you here to answer all your questions, envoy, although they have been amusing." She gave him a slight mocking smile and watched to see what kind of reaction her gentle barb would bring.

Koja became red-faced. "Accept my apologies, Second Empress," he meekly responded, bowing his head slightly.

"Please, call me Mother Bayalun," the empress chided. Sitting back in her seat, Bayalun carefully set the staff down by her feet. "You say you are a lama of the Red Mountain," she began casually. "What teachings do you follow?"

"The lamas of the Red Mountain live by the words of the Enlightened One, who taught us how to reach peace and perfect oblivion. We seek to banish our passions, so we can understand the teachings of the Enlightened One."

He paused, waiting for some sign of understanding. Bayalun watched him closely but gave no indication that she understood.

Koja continued. "If I drink tea and I like tea, my life will be ruled every day by the desire for tea and I will not know anything else. Every day I will think about my cup of tea and will miss what is happening around me." The priest's hands mimed holding a cup of tea. "Only after we no longer savor life can we truly feel everything life has to offer." Koja tried to keep his explanation simple, not wanting to confuse his hostess with the complexities of Red Mountain theology. Judging from the shaman beside him, the Tuigan were not all that familiar with sophisticated philosophical teachings.

Mother Bayalun squinted at him. "I heard it said you fol owed Furo the Mighty. Isn't he the god of the Red Mountain Temple? But today you talk of the Enlightened One. Do you follow the teachings of one and worship the other?"

Koja scratched at the stubble on his skull. His simple explanation was getting more complex. "We know it is a truth that Furo the Mighty is a divine agent of the Enlightened One."

"So, you practice the teachings of the Enlightened One, but pray to Furo to intercede on your behalf?"

"Yes, Mother Bayalun." Koja marveled at the astuteness of her questions.

" 'He is like the wind all about us. Felt but not touched, heard but not spoken, moving but unmovable, always present, but always unseen,'" quoted Bayalun, her eyes closed in concentration.

Koja stared at her in amazement, too dumbfounded for words. "That is from the Yanitsava, the Book of Teachings," he whispered.

"And you're surprised that I know it," she chuckled. "I, too, have spent my life learning the teachings of wise men. These worthies have been my instructors." She waved a hand toward the men who sat down the row from Koja. "This is Aghul Balai of the Tsu-Tsu, a people close to the border of Shou Lung," she said, introducing the thin man in the mystical robes. "For many years he studied in Shou Lung, learning the secrets of Chung Tao, the Way."

The wizened man pressed his palms together and bowed slightly to Koja.

While at the temple, Koja had heard a little about Chung Tao. It was powerful within the Shou empire, far to the east. It was said that the emperor of the Jade Throne himself followed its teachings. Koja had been taught its teachings were wrong and had heard many evil stories about its practices. To Koja, the mystic suddenly looked sinister and dangerous.

"This other," continued Bayalun, pointing to the fur-clad man, "is Fiyango.

Through him, we are able to speak with the spirits of the land and our ancestors, and learn much good advice." The shaman, whose age Koja found impossible to place, smiled a toothless smile at him.

"And she," concluded the second empress, tapping her staff in front of the old crone, "is Boryquil, and this is her daughter Cimca. Boryquil has the gift to see things as they are and things as they should be. She knows the ways of the kaman kulda, the dark spirits that come from the north."

"With my eyes I can see them; with my nose I can smell them," cackled the hag, reciting an old, ritualistic formula. Her lungs labored from the exertion.

With each gasping breath, her necklace clacked and rattled. Peering at it from across the aisle, Koja saw that it was a leather cord strung with broad, flat bones. Each bone was covered in red-inked script.

"So you can see, Koja of the Red Mountain, I have surrounded myself with people of useful skills. They advise me and they teach me." Bayalun stopped and quickly wet her lips. "Aghul hopes to convert me to Chung Tao. Fiyango worries that I will forget the spirits of earth, sky, and water, while Boryquil protects my tent from evil spirits. Of course," she added softly, "not that any spirit could enter this area." She touched the finial on her staff.

"Tell me, Koja of the Khazari, are you here to teach me the secrets of the Red Mountain?"

Koja paused for a bit, trying to think of an appropriate response. Finally, he answered, "I was never the best student of my masters, and so I only learned a little from them. These were only small things in the teachings of Furo. I have traveled instead, hoping to aid others through the services of the Enlightened One." Koja didn't lie; he wasn't the best disciple, but his skills were more than he allowed.

"I thought all of you sat in your temple and meditated," Bayalun commented, brushing a wisp of hair from her eyes. The shaman to Koja's right broke into a fit of coughing. Bayalun pursed her lips and waited until he was done. "If you are a teacher, you must stay and instruct me in the ways of your temple."

Koja swallowed uncomfortably, unwilling to offend the second empress with a direct refusal. He was not here, however, to teach, even if it might spread the belief of Furo to these nonbelievers. "I will certainly be happy to teach you of our ways while I am here, illustrious empress, but I must carry messages back to my prince in Khazari." He bowed slightly as he spoke.

"I understand," Bayalun said, relenting. She leaned back with a sigh, stroking her eyebrows carefully. Koja detected a note of disappointment in her voice. "So when you summon him, does Furo lay waste to your enemies?"

Koja started at the boldness of the question. "It is said, Mother Bayalun, that he is both wondrous and terrible, but we do not summon him. We live to serve our god, not to have him come at our beck and call." A tone of chastisement unavoidably crept into the lama's voice.

"I see," said Mother Bayalun, turning away from Koja. "At this time the interview is over. It is our misfortune that you are unable to stay and instruct us. But I am sure your pressing duties need your attention. You may leave."

Koja bit at the inside of his lip, frustrated by his own indiscretion.

The chamberlain came forward and touched Koja on the shoulder, motioning the priest to rise. Koja hoisted himself to his feet and backed out of the tent, bowing as he went. The priest, bewildered by the strange meeting, was led back to his waiting horse. Only one man from his original escort remained. The two of them rode back toward his tent, once again following the roundabout way they had taken earlier.

"Why do we go this way? It is shorter that way," Koja said, pointing along a route that would lead them past the front of the royal enclosure and Yamun's bodyguard.

"Orders."

"Oh," the lama answered. The white- kalated guard trotted his shaggy-maned horse forward, expecting the priest to follow along.

Koja, inattentive to his riding, urged his horse forward, giving it what he thought was a gentle kick. The mare set off at a full gallop. Koja was slammed forward into his saddle and then toppled backward, barely keeping his hold, as the horse leaped over a cooking fire. The lama only had time to glimpse a flash of startled faces. Panicked, he dropped the reins and used both hands to cling to the saddle arch. There was another hard jolt, and his feet flew from the stirrups.

"Haii!" shouted the guard, wheeling his horse around to pursue. The man leaned forward onto the neck of his pony, slashing its haunches with his three-thonged knout. "Haii! Haii!" he cried, trying to warn everyone out of his path. The guard could see Koja bouncing and tumbling about on his saddle, feet flying in the air.

"Stop! Stop!" Koja screamed to his horse as it took a tight turn past an oxcart. He managed to knot one hand into the pony's mane while his other arm flailed about. The horse's hooves clattered and thundered, pounding over the icy ground and meager grass. Koja tossed to the right, lurched forward, cracked his spine in a hard jolt against the saddle, then felt his legs fly backward, almost up over his head. The wind whipped at his robes as the pony galloped onward.

From behind Koja there was a chorus of shouts, cries, and yells. Suddenly, a man's scream came from in front of him. The horse answered the scream and reared, almost throwing Koja off its back. The mare's breath was labored, coming in snorting pants. There was a sharp crack as its hooves hit the ground.

The jolt snapped the priest forward, flipping his body over the front of the saddle, one hand still tangled in the mare's mane. In an instant, Koja slammed to the ground, thrown completely over the head of the panting steed, a hank of mane in his hand. As he hit, Koja's head struck a stone.

"Haii-haii-hai," the breathless guard hoarsely shouted as he leaped from the saddle of his still-moving steed. He sprinted over to where the runaway horse pranced. Under its hooves was the priest, a huddled form of tangled robes. From the nearby tents ran the black-garbed men of the khahan's guard.

* * * * *

Yamun paced back and forth along the dusty streambed; it was the only action that could contain his frustration and anger. Several times he stopped to slash an offending tuft of grass with his bloodstained knout. At one end of his pace was the guardsman of the second empress, Koja's escort, spread-eagled on the ground. The man lay staked out on his back, his head pressed into the dirt by a cangue, a heavy, Y-shaped yoke that was lashed to his neck by twisted thongs. The guardsman had been stripped naked and was bleeding from several lash marks.

At the other end of Yamun's stride was a pallet bearing the unconscious priest. Huddled around him were three shamans, wearing their ritual masks. A piece of white cloth, set with a silver bowl of milk and bloody sheep bones, was spread at the head of the pallet. Encircling everyone was a wall of Kashik dayguards, their backs turned so that they faced away from Yamun and the shamans, forming a living wall. A strong wind whipped their kalats about their legs. In the distance, the smoke of Quaraband curled over the dim shapes of the tents.

Yamun stopped at the prisoner. "Why did old Bayalun summon the Khazari?" he demanded, towering over the bound man.

The prisoner, choking from a parched throat, barely gurgled a reply.

Infuriated, Yamun whipped him with the knout, leaving more bloody wounds.

"Why did she summon him?"

"I—I—don't know," the guardsman rasped out.

"What did they talk about?"

The guard gasped as Yamun struck him again. "I did not hear!"

Disgusted, Yamun strode to the other end of the little compound, where the shamans worked. "Will he live?"

"It is very difficult, Great Prince," spoke one of the three. He wore a crow mask, and his thin, creaky voice echoed hollowly from it. Horse-mask and Bear-mask kept to their work.

"I don't care. Give me an answer," Yamun snapped.

"His gods are different from ours, Khahan. It is hard to know if our healing spells will have power over him. We can only try."

Yamun grunted. "Then you'd better try very hard." He turned to resume his pacing.

The wall of Kashik parted to allow a mounted rider to enter. The man, a commander of a minghan in the Kashik, slid quickly off his horse, ran to Yamun, and knelt before the khahan.

"Get up and report," Yamun ordered.

"I come from the tents of the Mother Bayalun, as you ordered, Great Lord."

"And what did she have to say?"

"Mother Bayalun says she only wanted to learn more of the world," the officer quickly answered as he looked toward the prisoner on the ground.

Yamun gripped his knout with both hands. "And what's her excuse for the guards?"

"According to her, the orders she gave were not followed. She commanded the guards to escort the priest to and from his tent, and to make sure that he was not hurt," the commander explained. "She ordered an arban of men to go as escort, but they did not obey her orders."

"Then you must ride back and tell her to choose a punishment for the nine that deserted their posts," Yamun ordered. He impatiently scuffed at the ground with his toe.

"She has anticipated your desire and has already given her judgment. They are to be sewn into the skins of oxen and sunk into the river, as is by custom."

"She's clever and quick. She hopes this will appease me." Yamun pulled at his mustache as he thought it over. "Her judgment will do. Still, I want you to go back and tell her I'm not satisfied. For letting this happen, she must reduce the size of her bodyguard. I'll set the numbers when I return."

"Yes, Khahan. Surely the second empress will be angry, Lord. Might she do something dangerous?" The officer had heard much of Bayalun's powers.

"I don't need to please her. She'll accept it because I'm the khahan,"

Yamun said confidently. He turned and walked over to his captive. "And did she say anything about him?" Yamun asked, pointing at the man on the ground.

"Seeing as he is within your grip, she allows you to deal with him as you want."

Yamun looked down on the man. The fellow's eyes were wide, waiting for word from the khahan.

"He did not desert, Khahan," the officer noted.

"True. He can live, but..." The khahan paused, thinking. "He failed in his duties. Fetch men and stones. Crush one ankle so he cannot ride again. Let all who disobey you know that this is by the word of the khahan."

"By your word, it shall be done," answered the commander. Taking his horse, he left the circle to see to the arrangements.

The sound of the drum and flute brought Yamun's attention back to the shamans. The droning melody of their chant was just ending when he came back to them. Taking their horsetail wands, the shamans sprinkled the still body of the priest with milk and then stepped away from the pallet.

"Well?" demanded Yamun, only to be hushed by Crow-mask.

"Wait, we will know in a little while." The shaman's voice echoed from inside the mask. The three squatted down on their haunches. Yamun stood behind them, fiddling with his knout. Finally his patience could take no more and he resumed his pacing.

After several minutes Yamun heard a cough. He turned and strode back to the pallet. Koja was struggling to prop himself up on one elbow. The shamans clustered around, their masks pushed up from their faces. They fussed over the priest, pushing him back down each time he weakly tried to sit up. Crow-mask turned to Yamun. "He lives, Illustrious Khahan. The spirits of the Sky God, Teylas, have favored him with their blessing."

"Good," commented Yamun, stepping past the man. He looked down into Koja's wan face. Dried blood still caked the back of his skull, although the wound, magically healed, had already knit. "Well, envoy of the Khazari, want to go riding?" He laughed at his own joke while Koja winced in pain at the thought.

One of the shamans tugged at the khahan's sleeve. "Gently, Great Lord.

He is still very weak."

Yamun grunted in acknowledgment and squatted down beside the sickbed.

He waved the shamans back so he could be alone. "You live."

Koja nodded weakly, tried to raise his head, and fell back in pain. "What—

where ... ?" His questions drifted off.

"You're outside Quaraband. I had you brought here so the shamans could work their spells on you."

Koja took a deep breath and composed his thoughts. "What happened to me?"

"You were thrown from your horse. My guard brought you in, almost dead.

It took a little time, but the shamans healed your wounds." Yamun's legs were getting stiff, so he rocked gently from side to side to stretch. "The men who failed you have been punished," he added, assuming the priest would demand justice without delay.

A cloud of confusion swirled in Koja's eyes, only in part from dizziness.

"Why have you done this?" Remembering his manners, he rephrased the question. "Why has the khahan, Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, come here to see to the health of this insignificant one? You have bestowed great favor on me."

Yamun scratched his neck, thinking of how to explain it. The reasons for his actions seemed obvious to Yamun, so he assumed that those same reasons were clear to everyone. "Why? You're a guest in my yurt. It wouldn't be good if you died while you were here. People would say my tents were plagued by evil spirits."

The khahan paused and smiled. "Besides, what would your prince think if I sent him a message saying 'Please send another priest, the first one died'? I don't think he would be pleased." Yamun picked up a pebble and rolled it between his fingers.

"And now," Yamun said softly, "I've saved your life." The warlord tossed the rock aside.

Koja was at a loss for words. "I am unable to repay you for this, Great Lord," he whispered at last. A shiver ran through his body. His chest felt tight and restricted.

Yamun smiled broadly, the scar on his lip giving it a leering quality. His eyes remained squinted and hard. "Envoy of the Khazari, I need a new scribe.

The last one proved unreliable."

Koja gulped painfully. "Unreliable?"

"He forgot his loyalties."

Koja remembered the bloody head and Yamun's quick justice. "You mean—"

"He told me what others wanted me to hear," Yamun interrupted. "So, who do you serve?"

Koja hesitated in fear, then swallowed and answered. "Prince Ogandi of the Khazari, Great Lord." He closed his eyes, waiting for the blow.

"Hah! Good!" Yamun bellowed. "If you'd betray your proper lord to serve me, what kind of loyalty could I expect?" He slapped his thigh in satisfaction.

"But now, you will do your prince service by serving me."

"Great Khan, I—"

Yamun cut off his protests. "Your prince ordered you to learn more about me and my people, didn't he?"

"Yes, but how did you know?" Fearful that his letters had been found, Koja struggled and finally managed to sit up.

"Because that's what I'd have you do. Now, as my scribe, you'll be very close to me and have the chance to learn many things, won't you?" Yamun scratched at his chest.

"Yes," Koja answered hesitantly.

"Good. It's decided." Yamun stood once again, rubbing the soreness out of his back. The khahan turned and looked toward the tents of Quaraband.

"You've met the second empress. What do you think of her?"

"She is ... strong-willed," responded Koja, picking his words carefully.

Yamun snorted. "She tried to get something from you, I see. Remember, she will never give up, and she is powerful. Most of the wizards and shamans heed her words."

"I will remember."

"As my scribe," Yamun continued, still looking away, "she may seek your favor. Look over there." He turned and pointed across the small circle.

Koja looked where Yamun pointed and saw the bound prisoner. Up to now the man had been mostly silent, except for slight whimpers of pain. Koja was barely able to recognize him as the rider from his escort. Yamun raised his hand, signaling to his guard. Two men stepped from the ranks. Each carried a large, flat stone. Seeing them, the prisoner began to scream and beg for mercy. Impassive to his cries, the men set to work.

With a quick cut of the knife, the guards slashed the bindings that held one leg. One man quickly grabbed the victim's leg, twisting the ankle upward, while the other Kashik slid one stone underneath. The prisoner, still screaming, tried to kick free, but he was held fast. The second guard raised his stone high over his head.

"Stop them, Khahan!" Koja cried out as he realized the guard was about to smash the stone down. The effort it took to shout caused him to fall into a wracking fit of coughing.

"Hold!" Yamun commanded. The Kashik lowered the stone he held over his head.

"Why should they stop?" Yamun demanded of Koja once the coughing passed.

"This man has done nothing. You cannot blame him for my accident," Koja protested.

"Why not?" Yamun countered. "He failed to protect you. Therefore, he must be punished. At least he will live. His comrades were drowned."

His mind already weak from shock, Koja was amazed at Yamun's words. "It is not his fault that I was hurt. I will not have him harmed," the priest finally said with conviction. Exhausted, he fell back on the pallet.

Yamun sucked on his cheek as he listened to the priest. "Do you request his life?" the burly warlord asked.

"His life? Yes, I do," Koja answered as he lay on his back.

Yamun looked over to the prisoner. The man was watching them, his eyes filled with fear and expectation. "Very well, priest. According to custom, I give him to you; he's your slave. His name is Hodj. If he commits any crime you'll be punished. That too is our custom."

"I understand this," Koja assured Yamun, closing his eyes.

"Good. Now, as for Bayalun, she'll assume that you're loyal to me. She hates me," he said matter-of-factly, "and so she'll hate you. Always remember that I'm all that stands between her wrath and you." Yamun signaled the guards to release Hodj and then left to find his horse.

Koja watched the khahan ride off as the bearers came and hoisted his pallet onto their shoulders. All the way back to Quaraband the priest silently said his prayers, calling on Furo to protect him until he saw his home again.

3

Lightning

For four days, Koja lived in a special white yurt raised on the outskirts of Quaraband, just outside the boundary of the magic-dead lands. Here he stayed on his pallet, resting and regaining his strength. Once a day the shamans came and unfurled their white sheet and set out their offerings to Teylas. Beating their drums and howling out chants, they cast spells to heal and fortify him. Every day, after they left, Koja would sink into deep concentration, praying to Furo for strength and forgiveness. Though he told no one, the priest was mortified, fearful that Furo and the Enlightened One would shun him for having accepted the healing of another deity.

By the fourth day, the shamans were marveling at Koja's speedy recovery and priding themselves on the efficacy of their spells. To their minds, Teylas clearly favored them by accomplishing the healing of this foreign priest. The shamans told the khahan of this wondrous progress, explaining that the priest must somehow be special.

Four days also gave Koja time to learn his new servant's qualities. Although Hodj was a slave, Koja refused to treat him like one, and, instead, gave him the liberties and confidence of a trusted servant. Hodj responded to this and seemed to care for his new master. The first morning Hodj made tea in the Tuigan style—thick with milk and salt. Koja almost choked, and a tea-brewing lesson immediately followed. Thereafter, Hodj brewed tea Khazari-style—thick with butter—although he made an awful face as he set it out for his master.

While recovering; Koja had little to do with his days but listen. Hodj rarely spoke, but the shamans were another matter. Their lengthy conversations usually centered on beliefs, but ranged across a variety of subjects.

Soon, Koja had enough new information to add to his letters. He lit the oil lamp that sat on his small desk and unfolded a thin sheet of paper, the page softly crackling as he smoothed it out on the top of the desk. The white paper appeared straw yellow in the dim circle of light from the lamp. Taking up his brush, Koja began to write in tight, controlled strokes.

The khahan claims to command more than one hundred thousand men, in four different armies. I know too little to say if he is a boastful man. Three of his armies are led by his sons. The fourth commander is Chanar Ong Kho. He is a vain and proud man. There are also many lesser khans among the Tuigan. Most of these I have had no chance to meet.

The khahan has a wife, the Second Empress Eke Bayalun, his own stepmother. She surrounds herself with sorcerers and holy men, and seems to have sway over the shamans of the people. That she does not love her husband is clear, and her feelings may be even stronger. There is some chance that overtures to her would drive a wedge between the khahan and his wizards.

Having written everything he could, Koja was left with nothing to do but brood. In particular, he was worried how to get his letters to Prince Ogandi. In Semphar, trusted messengers carried them by the Silk Road to Khazari. Here, his only choice was the khahan's riders, and Koja certainly did not trust them with his messages. He wished he could send the letters safely back, but that was not possible. However, there was little Koja could do, since he had to stay until the khahan at least gave some answer to Ogandi's offer. Am I doing the right thing, he worried, in serving as Yamun's scribe in the meantime?

After four days of rest, Koja was fit enough to get about. He was still weak, but Yamun pressed him to return to the royal compound. The khahan needed his scribe. So, reluctantly, Koja returned to Quaraband and assumed his duties as the khahan's court scribe.

There was not much to these duties, mostly sitting quietly to the side during the khahan's audiences, noting any orders or proclamations Yamun made. It was quiet work, indeed so much so that Koja learned little more about the khahan than he already knew. Two weeks of that drudgery passed before anything of note happened.

It was very late at night, almost midnight, and the three men remaining in the royal yurt were almost exhausted. Yamun sat half-sprawled on his throne, drinking wine and resting. Koja, still only two weeks at his new duties, yawned as he patiently worked with a pile of papers. In the darkness at the side of the yurt was one of Yamun's nightguards. In his black kalat, the man almost disappeared into the gloom. He sat still, trying to remain bright and alert, knowing he would be beaten if he fell asleep.

His writing table pulled up in front of him, Koja sat transcribing the day's judgments and pronouncements. As he worked, the priest stopped to listen to the hammering roars of thunder and staccato pounding of rain against felt.

The thunderstorm raging outside made him start each time a new crash shook the yurt. Such storms were the distant battles of the god Furo against the evil spirits of the earth—at least that was what he had been taught. Still, this storm, the first since Koja had arrived in Quaraband, was greater than any the priest had ever heard before.

All day the sky had been gray, promising a storm of swelling power. While the khans had watched the sky fearfully, the khahan had been edgy, waiting for the rain to come. In the early evening, the storm broke. Abruptly, Yamun dismissed the khans and the servants, sending them out into the downpour.

Since then, Yamun had been sitting, drinking wine and occasionally issuing orders, but his tension had not subsided. By this hour, the khahan moved wearily and his temper was short.

Yamun swallowed a gulp of wine from a chased silver cup. "Write out this order, scribe," he said brusquely.

Koja neatly set aside the notes he had been working on and laid out a fresh sheet of paper. His vision was blurred by the long hours he worked. His tired fingers dropped the writing brush, splattering the drops of black ink over the clean white page.

"You'll have to be stronger than that, scribe," Yamun growled, irritated with the delay. "Make yourself tougher. You'll have days and nights with no sleep when we begin to march."

"March, Great Khan?" In two weeks of taking down proclamations, Koja had yet to hear any mention of the armies of the khahan going on campaign.

"Yes, march. You think I intend to sit here forever, waiting on the pleasure of others—like your Prince Ogandi? In time, I must march," the stocky man snapped back. "Soon the pastures here will be gone, and then we must move."

"Great Khahan," Koja pleaded as he rearranged the papers, "would it not be easier for you to find another scribe? Surely one of your people, somebody stronger, could do the job."

"What's this? You don't like being my scribe?" The khahan glowered over his cup at Koja, his foul mood getting worse.

"No, it's not that," Koja stuttered. "It's ... I am not brave. I am not a soldier,"

he blurted out. Terrified, he turned his attention to the sheets in front of him, mumbling, "Besides, I never thought there was so much work. I mean—"

"You thought we were ignorant and didn't know how to keep records,"

Yamun interrupted in cold tones. Koja despaired. All his attempts to explain his weaknesses were only making things worse.

Yamun slid forward out of his seat, bringing himself close to Koja. "I can't write and I can't read, so you think I'm a fool. I know the value of these." He grabbed up a handful of Koja's papers from the little writing desk. "Great kings and princes all rule by these slips of paper. I've seen the papers sent out by the emperor of Shou Lung. I, too, am an emperor. I'm not some little prince who goes from tent to tent, talking to all his followers. I am the khahan of all the Tuigan and I will be more."

Koja looked in silence at the khahan, startled by the outburst.

Still, the skepticism must have shown on the priest's face. Yamun heaved to his feet, splashing wine over the carpets. "You doubt me? Teylas has promised it to me! Listen to him out there," he shouted, pausing long enough for Koja to hear a particularly loud thunderclap. "That's his voice. Those are his words. Most people live in fear of him. They pray and scream, afraid he'll call them to the test. But I'm not afraid. He's tested me and I still live."

Wobbling slightly from the drink, Yamun walked toward the door. "He's calling to me now. Today."

Koja stayed at his seat, trying to make sense of Yamun's ranting. The nightguard, however, dashed over to the doorway and flung himself down on the carpet. "Great Prince," he entreated, "do not go outside! I beg it of you.

There has never been a storm like this. It is an evil omen. Teylas has released his spirits upon us. If you go out they will try to snatch you away. Teylas is angry!"

"See," Yamun shouted across the yurt at Koja. "They all fear the storms, the might of Teylas. These are my soldiers-children! Move, guardsman," he ordered, turning his attention back to the cowering man. "I don't fear the wrath of Teylas. After all, I am the khahan. My ancestor was born the child of Teylas and the Blue Wolf."

Arrogantly, Yamun strode past the kneeling man and unfastened the door flap. The heavy cloth immediately flew open with a crack. Cold rain blasted through the open doorway, swept in by the powerful wind. Foul ashes swirled up in choking clouds from the braziers. The warm air suddenly drained away.

"There. That is the might of Teylas," Yamun bellowed, motioning toward the storm. "Come, scribe, since you don't believe he talks to me."

"Please, Great Lord," Koja begged, shouting over the wind, "stay inside."

"No! You'll come and see because I've ordered it." He strode over to Koja, grabbed him by the shoulder, and half-dragged him to the doorway. With an unceremonious push, Yamun shoved the priest into the blasting rain.

Koja stumbled and slipped, sliding down into the cold mud. Rain splashed into the slop and splattered thickly against him. A lance of lightning cut jaggedly through the night sky, illuminating the entire horizon. In the brief stab of light, Koja saw the dark form of Yamun standing over him, face to the sky, mouth wide open. The light lasted only an instant, and then the world was plunged back into darkness. Yamun's strong hand grabbed the priest's robes and hauled him out of the muck.

The two men set out, struggling and sliding their way down the slope. They walked through the icy mud, out the gate, and past yurts until they reached the horse pens outside the capital. Wind and rain lashed against their faces.

Rivulets ran from Yamun's hair into his mustache, dribbling into his mouth.

Huge drops ran down all sides of Koja's shaved head, washing away the gobs of mud.

"Teylas!" shouted Yamun, spitting water between each word. "Here I am!

Listen to me!" A distant bolt of lightning dimly lit the steppe, casting weird shadows over the pair. The wind swept the rain away from their faces for a moment and then whipped it back again. The hollow rumble of the distant bolt barely carried over the wind.

"He listens," Yamun said confidently, letting go of Koja's shoulder.

Suddenly unsupported, the priest stumbled backward and fell, floundering along an unexpectedly steep part of the bank. Oblivious to everything, Yamun strode forward until Koja could barely see the older man's bulky silhouette.

Splashing through pools of foul, muddy water, Koja did his best to catch up.

Finally, the priest fell back into the mud, exhausted from stumbling and slipping in pursuit of the khahan. Occasional flashes of lightning had guided Koja, but now he had lost sight of Yamun. Horses screamed and whinnied somewhere nearby, their shrill cries rising over the rattling rain. Koja pushed himself out of the mud and splashed off in the direction of the noise.

"Teylas!" Yamun's voice came from somewhere off to the priest's left.

"Khahan!" Koja shouted, hoping Yamun would hear him.

A stroke of lightning, almost overhead, flooded the sky with light and thunder. Though his eyes hurt from the light, Koja could see Yamun off to the left. Around him were the shadowy shapes of horses, rearing and prancing in panic.

"Yamun Khahan!" he shouted. There was no answer.

The lightning illuminated the ground again, as if in response to Koja's shouts. In the moment of light, he saw Yamun, arms stretched to heaven, at the center of one of the horse corrals. The rain formed streaks of silver all around him.

Determined, Koja plunged forward into the darkness. His feet squished into the mud and threatened to slip out from under him at any second. Rainwater dripped down his eyebrows, blurring his sight. His robes, sodden and filthy, sagged and pulled on his frame.

Koja's shin smashed against something hard and solid—a fence. Shocked by the pain, the lama tried to hop back on one foot, then lost his balance. Both feet shot out from under him, kicking into the air. He sat in the muck at the foot of the corral fence, rubbing away the shooting streaks of pain that started at his shin and ran up his leg.

"Teylas, listen . .. powerful . . . rule ..." Yamun's voice floated in snatches over the howling wind. Koja peered through the fence. He was close enough to see into the corral now, although he still could not make out anything clearly. Shielding his eyes from the rain, Koja peered through the horses'

legs, straining to see Yamun.

The dim form of a man standing all alone was barely visible to Koja. The mares and stallions had all moved as far from him as possible, pressing their bodies against the fence. They stamped and kicked, their eyes wild with fear,

"Take my offering of thanks, Teylas. I have united my people, but with or without you, I must conquer," Yamun shouted. Koja heard the words clearly as the wind dropped away to nothing. The rain pelted down in straight sheets, the thick drops deprived of their driving force.

Koja could see Yamun more clearly now. The khahan stood with his feet planted widely apart, arms akimbo, head tilted to the sky. He paid no mind to the rain as it pounded against his face. His clothes were plastered wetly to his body, but the khahan didn't care. He stood still, waiting.

There was a dazzling burst of light as the storm renewed its fury. Before the glare had died away, there was another stroke of lightning, closer and brighter than the first. It was followed by another, then another, and another.

The explosions of light became continuous, first from the east, then west, north, and south. The rumble of thunder grew louder and more shattering, until it was a continuous barrage. The whinnies of the horses became screams of terror, piercing over the bass rolls of thunder.

Koja, trembling in fear, clapped his hands over his ears and sank down as close to the ground as he could. The posts of the corral thudded and shook as the panicked horses reared and lashed out with their hooves. Even though the sky was bright, Koja could barely see the khahan through the flailing hooves, but the man was unmoved by the pandemonium around him.

Just as Koja felt the storm was at its height, a luminous ball of sparkling blue swirled around Yamun, illuminating him clearly. It crackled and sizzled, a leaping electrical fire. Miniature bolts arced from the center, scorching and snapping as they hit the ground. At its heart, Yamun stood, unaffected by the charged flame.

Koja sat, dumbfounded. Then it dawned on him that the khahan might be in danger. "Great Lord!" he shouted over the roaring storm.

"Yamun Khahan!" the priest shouted again, cupping his hands to add more volume to his voice.

In response a spark arced from the khahan and hurtled toward Koja.

Flinching, Koja threw himself aside as the charge lazily flew past him. It hit the ground behind him and exploded in a shower of muck. The force of the blast knocked him forward into the fence, driving the air from his lungs. Koja sagged against the corral, stunned.

More sparks began flying from Yamun, drifting out over the corral. As each ball of lightning detached itself, the radiance enclosing the khahan diminished slightly. The horses went into a frenzy, galloping and wheeling to avoid the drifting sparks. The fence, too high to jump, penned them in.

There was a sizzling pop and a scream of equine pain. The steeds redoubled their efforts. The fence wobbled and banged. Koja slid back in the mud as hooves flailed just in front of his face, but the fence held firm. There was another frenzied whinny and pop, followed by a third. With each, the cries of the horses grew a little less.

Terror took hold of Koja, driving him with uncontrollable energy. He had to get away, get to safety. Panting, the lama crawled away from the corral, dragging himself across the rain-drenched ground. Behind him, the brilliant glow spread from the corral, then began to fade. The wind and rain drowned out the noises behind him. Finally spent, he collapsed like a rag doll, unable to move any farther.

As Koja lay there, the wind began to drop away and the howling rage subsided. The rain changed from a hammerlike pelting to a slower downpour.

The water was still icy, and rivers of muck ran into the folds of his robe. Koja's body was chilled to its core. He clung to the ground, trembling, as the lightning and thunder diminished.

"Scribe? Where'd you go?" Yamun's voice carried easily to Koja.

"Here," Koja called weakly, raising his head from the mud. Panting, he got to his feet. "I am here, Great Khan. Wherever that is," he added quietly. With the storm gone, it was too dark to see far.

"Come here, then," ordered the khahan. He sounded unharmed by the storm.

Koja set off in direction of Yamun's voice. He could only hope he was headed the right way. "Great Lord, where are you?"

"This way," came the answer. Koja stumbled along until he found the corral. The fence was still standing, but the pen was silent. Following the fence around, the priest came to the gate. Waiting on the other side was Yamun Khahan, unhurt, although he wavered unsteadily. Spying Koja he said,

"Let us go," offering no explanation.

Koja nodded automatically, concentrating on the pen. It was empty; there were no horses, living or dead. The lama looked at Yamun, startled, and then back into the corral, trying to see any sign of the horses or any marks left by the glittering blue fire. There were no steeds, and the mud was so churned up that it was impossible to tell what had happened. The fence showed no scorching or damage from the sparks. It was as if nothing had occurred.

"What happened?" Koja asked in amazement.

"Come on. We go," Yamun said as he stepped through the gate. He moved slowly, with exaggerated care. His stiffness could have been caused by the late hour or the lightning. It was impossible for Koja to tell.

Koja remained insistent. "What happened?"

Yamun guided the priest by the elbow, firmly squeezing it as they walked along. By now the wind was only a chilly spring breeze and the freezing drops of rain had given way to a fine drizzle.

"I talked with Teylas, my father, the Lord of the Sky."

Koja stared at Yamun, believing him possessed or victim of some demented illusion. Perhaps Yamun meant it only figuratively, he decided.

Many people, he knew, "talked" to various gods and never received an answer. Lamas and wandering priests were the only ones he knew of who could contact the fearsome powers of the outer planes and expect some kind of reply.

Yamun noticed Koja's skeptical stare. "I talked with Teylas." The khahan's voice was filled with conviction.

Koja didn't say anything. There wasn't anything he could say that wouldn't sound patronizing or obsequious. He slogged up the muddy slope alongside Yamun in pained silence. "You were glowing," he finally said.

"Was I? I can never see what happens."

"You've done this before?" Koja sputtered.

"Of course. Teylas demands his offerings." The khahan waded through a wide puddle.

"But you're not hurt."

Yamun stepped over a fallen cooking pot. "Why would Teylas hurt me? I'm the Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, and a son of the Blue Wolf."

Koja cocked his head at that, trying to decide if Yamun was serious or playing some grotesque joke.

"Teylas will not strike down his own clan." Yamun splashed through the mud, not breaking his stride.

"Then what happened to the horses?" the lama finally asked.

"Teylas took them." As Yamun spoke, his breath fogged the air. The temperature was dropping quickly in the wake of the storm.

"What?"

Yamun stopped walking and turned to face Koja. The khahan's shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but his face, especially his eyes, were still vibrant.

"The horses now serve Teylas in his realm. Don't you make sacrifices to your god?"

"You sacrificed them?"

"Teylas took them. I didn't touch them." Yamun pointed out.

"Flaming blue sparks flew from your fingers," Koja said, explaining what he saw.

"That was the power of Teylas," Yamun replied. He turned and resumed walking toward the Great Yurt. They continued on in silence through Quaraband.

At last they returned to the door of the royal yurt. Yamun threw open the flap and was about to step inside when Koja stopped him.

"Please wait, Great Lord," Koja blurted, barely observing proper courtesy.

Yamun stopped in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder.

"What did Teylas tell you?" Koja asked, bowing slightly as he spoke.

Yamun looked at the priest. A small, sardonic smile crossed his face. "He—

"

"He what, Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan?" Koja prompted, unable to suppress his curiosity.

Yamun looked slowly at the sky, and saw the starlight visible through the thinning clouds. "He showed me the entire world, priest, from the great water in the east to lands of the west. I saw Shou Lung and this 'Cor-meer' you spoke of." The khahan, eyes blazing, turned back to the priest, yet seemed to focus on something farther away. "Green lands and forests, wailing to be conquered—and all I have to do is reach out and take them."

Koja stepped back as Yamun spoke. The khahan's voice was slowly growing as the warlord saw his vision once again unfold before his eyes.

"Teylas promised you these things?" Koja ventured fearfully.

"Teylas promises nothing. He only showed what I could have. It's up to me to take it," Yamun answered coldly. The priest's question dimmed the fire in Yamun's eyes. "I will be emperor of the world."

"The world is large and has many emperors, Yamun Khahan," Koja pointed out. The priest shivered in his wet robes.

"Then I'll conquer them, and they'll be the slaves of my khans." Yamun leaned slightly against the doorframe of the yurt. "And you'll tell the story of my life."

"What?" Koja gasped in astonishment.

"You will write the history of my rule. I will be a great emperor. As my historian, you will be honored by many." Yamun stepped inside the yurt, and Koja followed him, still arguing.

"But—but—I am just an envoy, Great Lord. Surely there must be someone better."

The nightguard, the same man who was in the yurt when they left, ran up to the door and dropped to one knee alongside the khahan. "Great Khan!" he said in surprised relief. "You live! I will tell my brothers that you have safely returned."

"You'll stay until I dismiss you," Yamun countered as he walked past. "Koja of Khazari, you will write the history of my life—starting from right now. No one else will do."

"Great Lord, I serve Prince Ogandi. It would not be right." Koja hurried across the yurt.

"I don't care. You'll write it because I need you—who else would write the truth? Mother Bayalun? Her wizards? I wouldn't trust them. My generals?

They're like me—they don't know this magic of writing. You—" He wagged his finger at Koja. "You, I trust. And that is why I choose you."

"Lord Yamun, I am very flattered, but you barely know me. I have a responsibility to my prince. I cannot serve you." Koja realized he was knotting his fingers.

"You're in my tent, in my land. You will do what I say," Yamun commanded.

He began unwrapping the wet sash from around his waist.

"And if Prince Ogandi bids me otherwise?" asked Koja as he nervously squeezed the water from his cuffs.

"Then I will deal with your prince." Yamun spoke in slow, measured words.

"I'm loyal to Khazari," Koja pressed, his throat getting dry with tension.

"It doesn't matter. I trust you. There's no more discussion to be had of this."

Yamun tossed his wet sash aside and settled himself on his throne.

Koja rubbed his head in frustration. He was stymied. In desperation he tried another ploy. "Isn't there a saying of your people about a man who tells the truth?"

Yamun looked about for his wine cup. " 'A man who tells the truth should have one foot in the stirrup,'" he quoted. "It's good advice. You should remember it."

Koja finally gave up and spoke his mind. "I do not want to be your chronicler, Yamun Khahan."

"I know."

"Then why do you make me do it? Why do you need a biographer?"

"Because Teylas revealed that I should," Yamun said testily as he pulled at one of his sodden boots.

"But why? What good would I do you?"

"This is no longer amusing, scribe. There will be no more argument,"

Yamun snapped, his voice rising in volume. "You will write the history of my great deeds because I am the khahan of the Tuigan and I say you will. Every king and every emperor has someone to make songs about them. You will write mine. Now leave until you are called for!" With a jerk Yamun pulled the boot off and threw it aside.

Stiffly, Koja walked out of the tent, giving only a slight bow and turning his back to the khahan upon leaving. The tent flap slapped shut with a wet flop.

After the priest left, Yamun sat brooding, staring into his glass. The wind whistled around through the small gaps in the smoke hole. Drips fell in the corners where the rainwater had soaked through the seams of the tent.

After the nightguard had laced up the flap of the tent, Yamun spoke. "What do you think?"

"Me, Great Lord?" the guard asked in surprise.

"What do you think of the Khazari priest?" Yamun said, pointing to the door.

"It's not for me to say, Great Lord," the guard deferred.

"I'm asking, so it is. Come closer and tell me."

Intimidated by the khahan, the man hesitantly came forward. "Noble khahan, I apologize for speaking so boldly, but I speak because you have ordered it. The foreigner is disrespectful."

"Oh," Yamun commented as he began tugging at his other boot.

The guard became more confident. "He argues and does not heed your word. He is only a foreigner, yet he dares challenge you."

"And what should I do?" Yamun asked, jerking on the stubborn shoe.

"He should be flogged. If a man in my tumen spoke as he did, our commander would have him beaten!"

"Your commander is a fool," Yamun observed, adding a loud grunt as the boot came off with a thick pop.

The guard looked up, his eyes wide with astonishment.

Yamun continued. "What if everyone obeyed me and never questioned my word? Where would I get my wise advisors? They'd be no better than a worn boot." The khahan held up his own mud-caked boot and then tossed it aside.

Humbled, the guard nodded automatically.

"Why do you think the truthful man has one foot in the stirrup? Truth is not always what people want to hear. Learn and someday I will make you a commander," Yamun finished, suppressing a yawn. He struggled to his feet and began unfastening the toggles of his robes. "Now, I'm tired and will sleep alone tonight. See that my guards are in order and send someone to the women's tent. Tell the ladies they won't be needed. You will sleep at my doorstep."

"By your word, it shall be done," said the guard, touching his head to the floor, acknowledging the duty the khahan had given him. He ran to the doorway and loosened the laces enough to bark out his orders.

Before the guard finished, the khahan had struggled out of his clothes and collapsed, exhausted, onto the hard wooden bed set up behind his throne.

4

Chanar

It was late the next morning when an escort of black-robed dayguards arrived for Koja to lead him to the royal compound. Reluctantly, the priest gathered his writing materials together. Today he was not eager to enter Yamun's presence, not after what had happened last night. Although the wild night out in the storm was clear in his mind, except for the moments where he had succumbed to blind panic, Koja still had no understanding of what had happened. That, along with the idea of becoming the khahan's biographer, frightened him.

Taking the horse waiting for him, the priest set out. One man rode alongside him, holding the reins of his horse. Ever since Koja's accident, the guards had taken the utmost precautions with his mount. None of them wanted the foreigner's horse to go galloping off again.

The rain from the night before had altered the dry steppe. The snow cover had melted to patches and pools of slushy mud. Grasses and flowers, filled with bright vibrant green, had sprung up where none had been before. The ground around the Great Yurt was checked with swatches of fresh green and barren areas of churned mud. Small, black-headed birds hopped around the edges of these mires, poking at the standing water with their beaks. Children charged at them, scaring them off, and then splashed merrily through the muck. The legs and the hems of their robes were caked in mud.

Passing through the entrance to the khahan's compound, the guards dismounted and led their horses up the slope. As they marched to the royal yurt, Koja looked out across the the horse pens, trying to decide which corral had been the scene of last night's terrifying visitation. There was nothing to distinguish one from another, so he couldn't be sure which of them was the one.

"Captain," Koja called out as he hurried to ride alongside the officer in charge, "did anything unusual happen last night?"

Slowing his pace, the officer turned to look at Koja. "Unusual? Teylas sent a storm."

"Yes, but more than that. Did the nightguards report anything strange?"

The captain looked at him suspiciously, his eyes narrowed. "Strange? I did not hear of anything strange."

"I heard rumors some horses had escaped."

"A man who listens to his neighbors seldom hears the truth." The captain once again picked up his pace, making it clear he would answer no more questions.

As he neared the top of the hill, Koja saw that the court was to be held outside today. The area was already prepared. Felt rugs in bright red and black patterns were laid out over the sodden ground, layered thickly to keep the topmost ones dry. A small stool for the khahan sat near the doorway to his yurt. Behind the seat towered the khahan's horsetail standard, a sign that he was present in his compound. On the left was the khahan's golden bow case as well as a quiver filled with blue-feathered arrows. On the right side of the standard was a saddle of polished red leather. A white trim of sheepskin decorated the saddle's edges, and its silver fittings gleamed brilliantly in the sun. A tray with cups, a kettle, and a pitcher sat beside Yamun's throne.

"And let his horses graze in our pasture," boomed the khahan from nearby.

He was walking up the hill along another trail, evidently returning from some business. He was still dressed in the thick layers of the his sleeping robes, and his hair was loose, undone. Koja could see the tips of his toes under the long hems, unshod and covered in cold mud.

With Yamun walked an old, stoop-backed khan, who was absentmindedly nodding as the khahan gave his orders. The ancient man was a short, thin fellow with patchy spots of hair and a perpetual stoop. Koja recognized the man as Goyuk Khan, one of Yamun's trusted advisors.

Behind those two followed an entourage of guards and attendants. There were several unsmiling dayguards in heavy black kalats, hands always at the hilts of their swords. Yamun's quiverbearers, his personal servants, carried his morning clothes and a silver-hiked sword in a bejeweled scabbard. At the end of the group came one servant carrying a hooded falcon, the khahan's prized hunting bird, out for its exercise. All told, Koja counted at least thirty people.

Yamun acted as if they were not there.

Koja had been told the khahan had two thousand quiverbearers in his service and another four thousand dayguards. No one had ever estimated the number of nightguards, the finest of the bodyguard, because the khahan had decreed anyone that curious would be beheaded. Koja had no doubt the khahan would carry out the sentence, too.

Yamun casually tracked mud across the carpets and took his seat on the throne. Goyuk bowed and took his leave to carry out the khahan's orders.

Koja stood, waiting to be recognized, his shoes slowly filling up with cold mud.

"Bring my bird," Yamun ordered.

As a falconer walked forward, another quiverbearer ran up with Yamun's hawking gauntlet and a small dish of raw meat. Yamun pulled on the thick glove, adorned with mottled red leather cut from the belly of a giant fire lizard, one of the strange creatures that roamed the steppe. The servant stood by with the meat ready.

Yamun held out his arm and coaxed the falcon onto his hand. Even hooded, the bird spread its wings and tried to fly away. The khahan held the bird by its jesses and gripped the leash in his teeth. He whispered soft words through clamped jaws as he took off the bird's hood. The falcon blinked and flapped again, trying to get away. Yamun held out a strip of raw meat. The falcon snapped at the morsel, tossing its head back to get the piece down.

When the bird settled down, Yamun spit out the leash.

"Welcome to my tent, Koja of the Khazari. Sit and enjoy the flesh of my lambs, the milk of my horses," the khahan called out, giving the traditional greeting that preceded each day's audience.

"I thank you, Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, for your generosity," Koja responded with a slight bow. Like the invitation, his answer was repeated every day, a part of the ancient ritual that ruled the lives of the Tuigan.

"Well, then, come and sit. Quickly—there's a lot to do today. I want to go hunting later," Yamun said, dispensing with etiquette.

"Yes, Great Lord," Koja said as he hurried to his seat.

"You will come, too. You will hunt with me." Yamun handed the fierce bird to the falconer and dismissed the servant with a wave. "But first you must be my scribe for a little bit more—just for today."

Koja nodded and took his seat, laying out his papers, brushes, inking stones, and pressed cakes of powdered ink—both red and black. A servant set out a small dish of water for mixing the powder.

Yamun waved his hand to his waiting attendants. "I'll dress now," he commanded.

The quiverbearers ran forward, unfurling a long strip of white cloth. Four of them took positions in a square around the khahan, their eyes turned, holding the fabric up to form a screen. Other servants set piles of clothes inside the screen, then backed away.

"Bring my women to dress me."

After a short delay, two young girls came from the direction of the women's tents. Koja guessed they were little more than eighteen years old. They were Shou in appearance, with glossy black hair, pale skin, and narrow eyes. The girls hurried forward in quick, mincing steps, the way court ladies were trained to do. Each wore a tight silk dress and the towering headdress of an unmarried woman. Combs carved from the bones of exotic monsters held their hair in place. Giggling shyly when they saw there was an audience, the two girls stepped inside the screen and set to work.

"These are the princesses Water Flower and Spring Peony," Yamun boasted over the screen. "Gifts from the Shou emperor. He sends me more than wine. These two are princesses of the royal blood, and he has given them to me. Has he done this for your prince?" Yamun wriggled as the girls pulled his outer robes off.

Koja didn't answer, trying to discreetly keep his eyes lowered. He looked up briefly. The khahan's bare shoulders were covered with long, narrow scars.

"Dressing is not all they are good at." Yamun broadly leered. "But then, you would not know that. Is it true you priests never touch women?"

Koja flushed at the question. "Purity of mind and body is the path by which we seek Furo," he said defensively.

"So then women are impure?" Yamun asked, an incredulous tone creeping into his voice.

Koja could hear more giggling behind the screen.

"Passions cloud the mind and corrupt the spirit. We live to control our passions and purify our minds, so we can achieve perfection in thought and deed." Unconsciously, Koja settled into the cross-legged pose assumed by the priests of his temple when at their lessons.

"Hah! And what does that get you in the world?" Yamun held up his arms as the princesses undid his trousers.

"Only one with a pure spirit can enter into the presence of the Enlightened One."

"So if you avoid women you might, just might, get a chance to see your god?" Yamun had ducked from sight behind the screen.

"Something like that, yes." There was a lot more to the philosophy of the Red Mountain Temple, but Koja wasn't about to go into it now. Preparing for his work, Koja mixed his inks.

"What does your Enlightened One do? Does he reward you and strike down your enemies with lightning?" Yamun's voice was muffled as fresh clothes were pulled over his head.

"The Enlightened One fills us with perfect understanding and harmony.

With that we do not have enemies."

"Phah. What if I were your enemy? Would your perfect understanding protect you?" Yamun stepped out, dressed in long, loose robes of red and yellow silk, embroidered with leaping tigers. The quiverbearers and the women gathered up the dirty clothes and carried them away.

"I have faith in Furo and the Enlightened One."

"I have faith in my bow and my sword," Yamun pronounced as he strapped on his sword. "They are the power. Teylas gave them to me, and he can strike down his enemies from the sky. Teylas is a god you can use."

Koja was astonished by this last statement. "Gods are not used."

"Teylas would take back the power if I did not use it, so he is a god to be used," Yamun snapped with a slight sneer.

Dressed and accoutered, Yamun sat in his chair, ready to hear the morning's business.

"Don't you fear offending Teylas?" Koja asked as he wetted the writing brush.

"Why?"

"Well," Koja offered hesitantly, rubbing at the back of his neck, "others might call your words presumptuous. You might be wrong in interpreting Teylas's will."

"Others have not been given the power by Teylas. That is why I sit in judgment of the khans, and we have kept them waiting long enough," he announced, pointing to the quiverbearer coming up the hill. "It is time for business."

"Yes, Great Lord," Koja said, setting out a clean sheet of paper.

"Enough 'Great Lord.' Today I permit you to call me khahan, with no other titles." Yamun looked to the quiverbearer as the man reached the courtyard.

"Who waits?" the khahan asked, pointing to the gate at the bottom of the hill.

The servant knelt, bowing his head. "Glorious khahan, the khans of the Jeun and Bahkshir bring petition that you hear their cases, and one of Chanar Ong Kho's men has come saying his master has returned. The general awaits your pleasure to make his report."

"Tell Chanar to come," Yamun said, irritated. "He should have presented himself when he arrived. Jeun Khan and Bahkshir Khan will wait until this afternoon."

Koja sat up straighter and smoothed out his orange robe. "Khahan," he asked hesitantly, uncertain of the liberties of his new status as historian, "just where has General Chanar been?"

"Eh? You don't know?"

"No, Great Lord—"

"Khahan," Yamun corrected.

"No, Khahan," Koja said, biting his lip over the fumble. "I only heard that he was gone, sent away."

"Good. You weren't meant to know."

"I what?"

"You were not meant to know where he went," Yamun said slowly and clearly. "Again you thought I was simple. Koja of the Khazari, in my empire you learn what I want you to learn and nothing else. Learn that," he stated with finality.

A servant in a white kalat stepped up to the edge of the carpets and knelt down, pressing his head into the mats.

"Speak," Yamun ordered, reluctantly recognizing the man.

"The honorable second empress, Mother Bayalun, expresses relief that the khahan of all the Tuigan is once again unharmed by Teylas's wrath. She gives the greetings of a mother unto her stepson, of a wife unto her husband," the servant announced.

Yamun scowled. "Take my greetings to my stepmother and my wife, Mother Bayalun, at my pleasure."

The man stayed in his place, head to the carpets. "The second empress wishes the indulgence of her husband and wonders if she might attend on the khahan his morning."

"Mother Bayalun knows she is always welcome. Go back and tell her she can attend if she wants," Yamun lazily answered. He waved to dismiss the man.

"I thought you did not care for the second empress " Koja commented as the white-garbed man hurried out of sight.

"I don't, scribe. I married her because tribal tradition demanded it," Yamun explained.

"Then why do you let her attend?"

Yamun stretched his arms forward, working the kinks out of his shoulders.

"Why not? She would learn what happens anyway. If I send her away, she becomes suspicious and makes trouble. Here, I can see what she's doing. I pick my battles better than that."

Koja nodded. "I see."

"Good. Now," Yamun said, turning to Koja, "prepare yourself. General Chanar and his aides are coming, and you will have to take down all that is said. Now you will learn where General Chanar has been."

Koja looked toward the gate of the stockade, easily spotting the stiff-backed form of the general, mounted on his horse. Unlike all others who passed through the gate, Chanar refused to dismount, remaining in his saddle as his stocky white mare pranced up the hill. Behind him trailed three aides, on foot, their horses at the gate.

As he rode forward, Chanar kicked and whipped at his pony, getting it to rear and prance. The beast was already spirited, but the general was determined to get it to perform more to make his entrance all the more exciting. The aides following him kept a good distance back, lest his horse lash out at them.

At last, Chanar reached the top of the hill. With a final spur, he reared his horse back, bringing its hooves down just short of the carpeting. A quiverbearer ran forward and took the animal's reins, holding the horse while Chanar dismounted. Swinging one leg over the horse's neck, the general easily slid from the saddle and landed on his feet in the mud with a loud plop.

"Greetings to my khahan," Chanar said loudly. He looked to all those around him. " 'Though I was far, when my khan called, quickly did I come,'" he said, quoting an old poem.

" 'Many are my enemies, but like rotten trees they fall,'" countered the khahan, quoting from the same poem.

"Greetings to my brother Chanar," Yamun continued. "May the Sky God always make your horses fat and your lambs many." A quiverbearer scooped a ladleful of kumiss. He handed it to the khahan. Yamun took a drink from the ladle. The yellow-white liquid clung to his mustache. The ladle next passed to Chanar, who noisily gulped a large swallow and handed it back. The servant walked back to Yamun, but the khahan waved him to Koja.

"Today, he also drinks from my cup."

Chanar looked in surprise from Yamun to Koja as the servant passed the ladle over. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it just as quickly.

Steeling his stomach, Koja took the ladle with both hands and gulped a swallow of the bitter drink. Suppressing a gag, he gave the silver ladle back to the servant.

The khahan turned to the east and poured a little kumiss on the carpet.

Then he turned to the south and the west, doing the same at each spot. Only the north, an evil direction, was avoided. Meanwhile the servant took the horsetail banner from its stand and lowered it in front of Yamun.

"Teylas lead us on the hunt. Teylas lead us in battle. Teylas make our wives fertile," Yamun chanted in a toneless voice as he sprinkled the last of the kumiss over the banner. The servants took the cup and banner and set them back in their places. Yamun, the formalities over, sat back on his throne.

"Sit, Chanar, and report," the khahan said casually.

Slowly and with noticeable reluctance, Chanar sat beside Koja, eyeing the priest venomously.

Just as the general was about to speak, a procession arrived from Bayalun's tent. The second empress led the small group, of only a few servants. Stepping onto the carpets, she bowed to the khahan. "I thank my husband for permitting me to attend." Her silver-brown hair shone richly in the morning sun.

Yamun nodded respectfully to his stepmother. "Your wisdom is always welcome to us." Mother Bayalun quickly took a seat opposite the men.

"Now, make your report, General Chanar," bade Yamun. Chanar took in his breath slowly, composing his thoughts. After a slight pause he began.

"Following your orders, I went first to Tomke's ordu. He camped all winter on Yellow Grass Steppe, but with the spring now, his pastures are almost gone—"

"He's not to move until I tell him," Yamun interrupted, addressing his comment to Koja. The priest dutifully noted it down, writing with quick strokes.

"As I said," Chanar continued, "the grass there is almost gone. He hopes to move east toward the Tsu-Tsu people, but he waits for your orders."

"How are his men?"

"Tomke let many of them go home during the winter, to reduce his grazing.

He has three tumen left—Sartak's, Nogai's, and Kadan's—in addition to his own." Koja counted them off on his fingers. "They are not full. His wizards count perhaps thirty minghans."

"Minghan?" Koja softly interrupted. "What is this? Please excuse me, but I need to know for the letters."

Chanar answered him contemptuously. "A minghan is one hundred arban.

An arban is ten men."

"Ah," Koja said, working out the figures on a small abacus, "Tomke has thirty thousand men."

Yamun scowled. "He's let too many men go. Order him to call them back immediately."

Koja quickly wrote the command on a fresh sheet of paper and handed it to a waiting quiverbearer. The man presented the paper on a tray, along with a stone coated with red ink. The khahan took his seal, a small silver block with a top in the shape of a bird, from under his shirt. The underside was carved in the contorted Tuigan script. Yamun dipped the seal into the ink and pressed it on the sheet. The sealbearer backed away, blowing the ink dry as he went.

"Continue," ordered the khahan.

"He has not sent many scouts," Chanar noted. "The Tsu-Tsu seem peaceful. He thinks they will come over to us without fighting. The lands behind him, to the west, have been conquered. He has recruited some soldiers from them, but they are poor warriors. He says they are too weak to rebel, and I agree with him. They are dogs."

"Dogs bite," observed Yamun. "What do you say, historian?"

Koja was startled by the question, too surprised to be diplomatic. "If they have been treated well, they will not rebel. But if Tomke has ruled them harshly, they will fight more fiercely than ever before. My own people, the Khazari, have fought so in ancient times against wicked emperors of Shou Lung."

"So, the Khazari are not just mice," commented Chanar with a faint sneer.

Koja colored at the slight and bristled to make a reply.

"Enough," Yamun firmly interrupted. "Good advice. Chanar, how was my son treating them?"

"I didn't ask," Chanar replied sullenly. He shot an evil glare at Koja.

"Someone should find out. Send Hulagu Khan. Draw up the orders to see that it's done."

Koja nodded and made a brief note.

"Was there anything else at Tomke's camp?" Yamun asked, returning to Chanar.

"He's met with the chief of the ogres from the northern mountains. They want to fight alongside us. He wants to know if he should send the chief to your ordu."

"What are they like?" Yamun tugged at his mustache, considering the offer.

"They're strong. Their chief stands twice the height of a man and likes to fight. I say we use them."

"What do you know of ogres, historian?" Yamun asked, curious to see if the priest had any insight on these beasts.

Koja thought back to the scrolls in his temple that showed ogres as hideous, blue-faced monsters locked in combat with Furo. "They are treacherous and violent beasts. I would not trust them."

"Hmmm." Yamun sat wrapping the long end of his mustache around his finger, considering the choices. "The Tuigan do not fight alongside beasts.

Tell Tomke to have nothing more to do with them."

Koja scribbled out the order and passed it along to the sealbearer.

"Unless you've got more to say about Tomke, tell me how Jad's camp was," Yamun commanded after he'd struck his seal on the last order.

"Jad sets his camp at Orkhon Oasis, five hundred miles southeast of Tomke. His pasture and water are good, and he has held his men in hand."

Koja suddenly paid more careful attention. He didn't know where the Orkhon Oasis was, but southeast was the direction of Khazari.

"How many?" Yamun queried.

"Five tumen— Hamabek, Jochi—"

"Enough, I do not need their names. What does he have to report?" Yamun scratched at his brow.

Chanar paused to pick at his teeth and spit into the mud at the edge of the carpet. "His scouts said they traveled south into the mountains. The peaks were so high that snow never melted from the tops. There they found a mountain that breathed fire and spit stones at them. There was a race of little bearded men there who lived underground and prayed to the mountain.

These little men were wonderful craftsmen of iron. The scouts claimed when they tried to cross it, the mountain killed many of them with magical burning stones. I think they lied and they were afraid to go on."

"Mother Bayalun, have your wizards ever told you of a mountain like this?"

Yamun queried.

The second empress looked as if she were asleep. At Yamun's words, she slowly raised her head. "They have never spoken of such a place, my husband."

Koja didn't remember any fire-breathing mountains to the southeast, but Khazari was on the edge of a great range of peaks. Such a strange thing was certainly possible.

"You should send a truth-seeker to question the scouts," Chanar continued.

"Jad is too lenient with them."