by David Cook
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 horsehide 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 glowed 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, angu
lar 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 followed 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 presen
t, 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.
