by David Cook
The dismantling of the royal yurt was a signal to the rest of the city. Men rode from their tents, extra horses in tow, to assembly areas outside Quaraband. Each arban of ten men gathered to form the jaguns of one hundred and in turn the minghans of one thousand. For every unit there was a specific meeting place, so that the men could be organized quickly. Throughout the day, yurts disappeared from the valley as preparations were made to move out.
Men loaded Yamun’s throne onto the back of a huge cart, which was roofed with a smaller version of the royal yurt. The cart, pulled by a team of eight oxen, was Yamun’s capital while on campaign. During the work, the khahan set up his headquarters in the sunshine. He sat on his bed, a small wooden-framed thing with stubby legs. Koja sat on a stool nearby, along with several other scribes, mostly Bayalun’s wizards and holy men. All of them furiously scribbled down orders, rolling up the sheets as they were done and thrusting them into the hands of waiting messengers.
Koja had just finished writing out a sheet of orders meant for Hubadai at Fergana Pass. “It is to be there in no less than five days,” insisted Yamun as the priest handed the scroll to a rider.
“By your word, it shall be done!” the rider shouted, sprinting to his horse before he had even finished speaking.
Koja leaned to the scribe next to him, a young man with a thin, black goatee and shaven head. “How can that be?” Koja asked, pointing his writing brush at the departing rider. “How can he deliver a message so quickly? Do they use magic?”
The young priest shook his head, barely looking up from his work. “He is an imperial messenger, so he can use the posthouses. He will ride all day, changing horses at special stations. Then another man will take the message at night.” The priest bent back to his work.
Yamun dictated orders for hours, going into minute details for the impending march. By his orders, the army was divided into three wings, with Yamun in command of the center. Troops were assigned, and tumens and minghans dispatched to the different wings. Commanders received orders concerning the amount of food to carry, the number and types of weapons they were to employ, and how many horses each man was to have. The khahan appointed yurtchis, the army’s purveyors, to supervise the camps and find supplies as they marched. Many of the orders concerned the condition of the horses, setting penalties for galloping them unnecessarily or working them too hard.
Koja wrote until his fingers were numb. The nightguard came to relieve the dayguard as the sun set. Lamps were brought, and the scribes continued to work by the dim glow.
Finally, Koja walked back toward his tent, the nightguards in his wake. His legs moved mechanically as his mind slowly dozed off. All he could think of was the pile of cushions that waited for him at the yurt—soft cushions and warm blankets that would cradle him while he slept.
When the priest got to his tent, he stopped. A barren circle of crushed grass filled the space where his yurt had stood. In its place were two horses and a camel, hobbled to keep them from wandering, a small mound of sacks and baggage, and the curled-up shape of his servant, sleeping on the ground.
Koja moaned. It was to be another night sleeping under the stars. Searching through the baggage, he found a set of rugs. Resigned to his situation, Koja lay down, using his leather bag for a pillow, and pulled the rugs tight around him. Within a few minutes, lulled by the snoring of his servant, the priest was sound asleep.
In the morning, Koja awoke to find that Quaraband was gone. All that remained was a field of waste—fire scars, muddy tracks, and garbage. A line of creaking carts drawn by lowing oxen lumbered across the green steppe, carrying the households deeper into the trackless plain. Many miles away, in a more secluded spot, the city would be rebuilt by the women and children. There the families would wait until their men returned from war.
File after file of soldiers moved out, leading their mounts across the river and away to the east. The water, normally clear, was a turgid, brown flow. The banks had been turned into quagmires by the churning tread of man and horse. There were shouted good-byes to wives and children, assuring them of their safe return. Horses whinnied; oxen lowed.
An arban of dayguards rode to Koja’s camp. “Come with us, grand historian. The khahan commands you to ride with him.”
“Wait until I have eaten,” Koja requested, refusing to be rushed.
“No,” insisted the chief of the arban. “The khahan leaves now.”
“But my food—”
“Learn to eat in the saddle,” the experienced old campaigner said helpfully. He signaled his men that it was time to go.
Back aching from a night on the ground, Koja gingerly climbed into his horse’s saddle and rode to join the khahan’s train. Behind him, his servant led a small string of pack animals.
The journey quickly fell into a pattern that would become routine over the coming days. The army moved at a brisk pace; even the oxcarts moved faster than Koja expected. For him, the ride was painful and jolting. The horsewarriors traveled for ten hours a day, stopping only occasionally to let the horses graze and water themselves. Fortunately, the animals were tough, wiry little mounts, much different from the well-bred and magnificent steeds that Koja had seen in Khazari and Shou Lung. Surely, the priest thought, these animals must draw some of their nourishment from the air. With the exception of a small bag of millet at night, the men made no effort to feed the horses, letting them survive on the new shoots of grasses and tough scrub they found on the steppe.
By the time Yamun called for camp on the first day, it was dusk. A few yurts were standing here and there, tents of the khans, but the bulk of the army simply slept under the stars. Each man laid out a small felt rug to use as a mat, taking his saddle for a pillow. The mares were milked and driven into clusters around a single tethered stallion, where they stayed for the night, grazing and sleeping. Each arban camped as a group, kindling a fire at their center. The men worked together to prepare their evening meal.
As the red horizon of twilight gave way to darkness, the glow of campfires covered the plain. Koja ate at the camp of the khahan, served by the quiverbearers. Dinner was a simple stew of dried meat and milk curds, bitter yet bland, brown-gray in color. Nonetheless, Koja ate it with enthusiasm. A meal, any meal, was welcome.
After dinner, Yamun found Koja alone in the dark. “Priest,” he began without any preamble, “the khans are unhappy with you. They think you will try to curse the army. A few suggest I should get rid of you.” He said no more, but gazed at Koja.
The priest swallowed, suddenly feeling Yamun’s stare. “Khahan, as I have said, my duty is to Prince Ogandi. Still, your intentions may not be hostile, so I should not bring misfortune to you,” he said in a single breath, not giving Yamun the chance to interrupt.
“No wonder you’re a diplomat,” Yamun said, sorting out the answer. “Remember this—you owe me your life. You were dead and brought back at my command. Betray me and I’ll take it back.”
Koja nodded.
That night, the lama returned to his own campfire. Hodj was already asleep. The nightguards sat at a small fire a little way off from Koja’s. The lama dug into his bags, finally pulling out the small packet of letters he had written. He opened them and surveyed the sheets he had prepared for Prince Ogandi. Each page was covered with fine brushstrokes, column upon column of neatly arranged characters. The sheets represented hours of work in his tent, hours inking out pages of crabbed text. They were supposed to have been the sum and goal of his existence, at least while among the Tuigan.
“The prince might find these useful,” he said to himself. He looked over the yellow sheets of rice paper.
“Or he may already know everything I’ve written,” he countered. “In any case, he will know the intentions of the khahan soon enough.”
Koja stared at the pages. Yamun had treated him well, showing him kindnesses and trust far beyond what his position warranted. If he sent the letters, which might not even be useful, he would betray that trust. Koja sighed and page
d through the letters again. If he didn’t send the letters, would it matter to the prince anyway?
“Yamun Khahan, you are wrong,” Koja said clearly, as if there was anyone to hear. “I am a very bad diplomat.” He touched a corner of the top sheet to the coals of the campfire in front of him. The flame eagerly devoured the flimsy paper. One by one he burned the sheets, watching their ashes rise into the night sky.
In the morning, the letters were only a few crumbled wisps of ash. As Koja rolled awake, Hodj stirred the last of the ashes into the fire. Soon, the servant poured out cups of tea, one thick with milk and salt for himself and the other with butter and sugar for Koja. Apart from the tea, however, this morning’s breakfast was different. Instead of boiling a porridge of millet and mare’s milk or reheating last night’s dinner, the servant spooned globs of a white paste into a leather bag. He filled the sack with water and sealed it tightly, then he hung one bag from the saddle of each horse. Next he took several strips of dried meat and slid them between the saddle and the blanket.
“Later we eat,” Hodj answered, patting the saddle. “Dried meat and mare’s curd. See, the meat softens under the saddle, and the horse’s bouncing will mix the curd for you.” The servant proudly showed Koja how it was done. “And I made tea, master.” Hodj held up another bag.
After tea, Koja once again took to the saddle. Although the pace this day was no slower than yesterday’s, perhaps even faster, it seemed less frenzied and chaotic. The scouts resumed their patrols. Operations began to function without the khahan’s hand guiding every detail.
By midafternoon, Koja found himself riding with the khahan, undisturbed by messengers and commanders.
“Khahan, I am wondering,” Koja began, his curiosity coming to the fore once again. “We are well beyond the deadlands of Quaraband. Why then do you ride and rely on scouts when simple magics could make everything much easier?”
“Priest,” Yamun answered, “count my army. How many could I move by simple magic? An arban? A jagun? Even a minghan? What would they do? Hold off the enemy until more arrived? We ride because there are so many of us.”
“But surely the scouting could be done by spells,” Koja suggested.
“You’ve got some sight?” Yamun asked. He reined back his horse to a slower pace, a concession to the saddle-sore priest.
“A little, yes.” As they slowed, riders began to pass them, churning up dust. Koja’s eyes smarted as the air grew cloudy.
“Then tell me what’s ahead, beyond my eyesight.”
“Where?” Koja asked, peering through the haze thrown up by the army.
“Ahead, priest—the way we’re going.” Yamun smirked, pointing with his knout.
“But there’s so much ahead of us. If you told me what I should look for—”
Yamun broke into laughter. “If I knew what was there, I wouldn’t need your sight!”
Koja clapped his mouth shut. Embarrassed, he rubbed his head, keeping his eyes lowered.
“See, priest,” Yamun explained, still laughing at Koja’s embarrassment. “That’s why I use men and riders. I send them out with orders to look and see. They’ll ride back and tell me what they have found. I learn more from soldiers than I ever will from wizards and priests.”
Koja nodded, pondering the lesson’s wisdom.
“Besides,” Yamun concluded more darkly, “I’d have to rely on Mother Bayalun for magic.”
There was a silence between the two men, although the world around them was hardly quiet. A constant chorus of shouts, song, snorting whinnies, and the steady, droning thunder of horse hooves filled the air.
“Why?” Koja finally asked, unwilling to phrase his question completely.
“Why what?” Yamun asked without turning.
“Why does Mother Bayalun … hate you?”
“Ah, you noticed that,” Yamun reflected. He snapped his mare’s reins, urging the horse to go a little faster. Koja had little choice but to follow pace. The ride became rougher.
“I killed her husband,” Yamun said in even tones when Koja had caught up with him once again.
“You killed your own father!” the lama gasped in astonishment. He fumbled with his reins, trying not to drop his knout.
“Yes.” There was no sign of remorse in the khahan’s voice.
“Why? There must be a reason.”
“I was meant to become the khahan. What other reason is there?”
Koja dared not speculate aloud.
“Bayalun was the first wife of my father, the yeke-noyan. Her son was to become the khan. I was older, but my mother was Borte, the second wife. In my sixteenth summer, the prince was twelve and he died. He fell from a horse while we were out hunting.”
Yamun stopped as a messenger from the scouts rode toward him. Yamun waved the man on to Goyuk.
“You see, I was destined to be the khahan, even then. Mother Bayalun, though, she accused me of killing the prince.” Yamun turned in his saddle to talk to the priest.
“Did y—” Koja stopped himself, realizing the question he was about to ask was hardly diplomatic.
Yamun eyed the lama sharply, his gaze stabbing like ice.
“She used her seers to convince the yeke-noyan I did. Even when the Hoekun were a small people, she had great power with the wizards.” Yamun paused and scowled.
“Anyway, my father turned against me. I escaped from his ordu, taking only my horse and weapons. I went to Chanar’s father—Taidju Khan—and he took me in and fed me. He treated me like a son.”
“That’s when you and Chanar became anda?” Koja ventured.
“No, that was later. Chanar didn’t like me then. He was afraid his father loved me more. He was right.” Yamun stopped talking and spat out a mouthful of dust. Unfastening a golden flask that hung on his saddle, he swallowed a mouthful of mare’s milk.
Koja realized that his own mouth was thick and dry. Still, he didn’t care to try the milk brew Hodj had prepared, and the tea was all gone. Taking the long cowl of his robe, he wrapped it over his mouth and nose, screening out some of the thick dust.
“Taidju swore to help and gave me warriors from his own people. We went back to the tents of my father. One day he was riding with some of his men and I found him. He wouldn’t listen to me, so we fought. I couldn’t shed his blood.”
“Why not?” Koja’s voice was muffled.
“The yeke-noyan was royal blood. Shedding his blood would be a bad omen,” Yamun explained as if he was talking to a child.
“What happened?” Koja scratched at the top of his head, paying close attention to the words.
“I seized my father as he galloped by, and we fell to the ground and wrestled. I had to break his neck so I wouldn’t spill his blood. After he was dead, I went to the Hoekun ordu with Taidju’s people and declared myself the khan.” Yamun unconsciously mimed the actions as he spoke.
“If Mother Bayalun created all the trouble, why did you marry her?” Koja asked. His horse became restless, so he gripped the reins tighter.
“Politics. Custom. She was powerful.” Yamun shrugged his shoulders. “Mother Bayalun has the respect of the wizards and shamans. Through her they are protected. I could not have her turning them against me. Besides, she realized that I was meant to be khahan.”
“So why does she stay in your ordu?”
Exasperated, Yamun snapped, “Why, why, why. You ask too many questions. Which snake is better, the one in your talons or the one in the grass?” With that, the warlord wheeled his horse toward Goyuk and called out, “What’ve the scouts seen?”
Koja rode the rest of the day without seeing the khahan. He worried that he had offended Yamun, so he tried to occupy his mind by watching the surroundings. The land was slowly changing. The gently broken steppe was giving way to steeper, harsher hills. Small gorges cut through the dry and rocky ground. Outcroppings of sandstone jutted through the surface in heavily eroded heaps. Snow drifted into the hollows. There were fewer patches of grass and more scrubby br
ush, but it was probably only the result of twenty thousand horses passing through the countryside.
That night, the army divided into a number of smaller camps. Koja left Hodj to set out the rugs for another night under the stars. The priest walked toward Yamun’s oxcart, brushing the dust from his clothes.
“Greetings, Khahan,” the priest hesitantly called to Yamun. Sweat-caked dust clung to the ruler’s silken clothes. Grime coated his face. Yamun unceremoniously scooped a ladle of kumiss from a leather bucket and guzzled it down.
“Food!” he ordered, wiping the kumiss from his mustache with his sleeve. He scooped up another ladle of the drink. “You don’t sleep, priest?”
“No, Lord Yamun,” Koja said softly. “I waited to speak with you.”
“Then get on with it,” Yamun said gruffly. “I want to sleep.” He filled the ladle once more.
“I ask to be your envoy to the prince of Khazari.” He spoke in a quick monotone, trying to keep himself from panicking.
“Eh?” Yamun stopped in midswallow, looking sharply at Koja over the top of the ladle.
The priest straightened his robes and stood up a little straighter. “I want to be your envoy to the Khazari”
“You? You are Khazari,” he sputtered in surprise.
“Khahan, I know it is unusual,” Koja hurriedly continued, shifting uneasily on his toes. “But I know my people, and I have learned much about the Tuigan. I am sure I can make them—”
“Yes, yes, that’s fine,” Yamun said. “Still, these are your people. How do I know you won’t betray me?”
“I owe you a life,” Koja answered simply.
“What is the truth?” The khahan probed. “Not your rationale—the truth.”
Koja sucked in his breath. “Because I want to save Khazari,” he blurted. “If you conquer, what will you do with the country? You have not made plans. You know how to conquer, but can you rule?” Koja clamped his jaws tight, waiting for Yamun’s outburst.
The khahan slowly returned the ladle to its bag. He paused by the kumiss sack, staring past Koja. Finally, he slapped his knout against the leather bag.
