by David Cook
Sitting at the foot of Yamun’s throne was his anda, the grand historian, Koja. “Well, anda,” Yamun said to him, “soon there’ll be more to write in your histories, if you have the time. There’s much to be done before we march on Shou Lung.”
The priest looked at Yamun sharply, still puzzled by the events of the couralitai. “Why have you done this?” he finally asked. “You attack Shou Lung and ignore Bayalun. Is this wise?”
Yamun scowled. “Anda, I did what I must.” He held out his fists. “Someone seeks to kill me: Bayalun—” He closed one fist. “And Shou Lung.” He closed the other. “I will not ignore this insult.”
“But Shou Lung is the mightiest of nations!” protested Koja. “Why them and not Bayalun?”
“Bayalun is one of my people. If I strike at her, there will be dissension among the khans. They will demand proof and the wizards will turn against me,” the khahan predicted. “Then my empire would be nothing.” He lowered his fists. “But, if I attack Shou Lung, my people will stand united in battle, and I will be rid of one enemy. Better one foe than two. That is ruling, is it not?”
Koja swallowed, hearing the determination in Yamun’s voice. “But Shou Lung is huge!”
“And their emperor is afraid of me. Scared men can be beaten,” Yamun confidently predicted.
Koja resigned himself to Yamun’s decision. “What of Bayalun?” he asked as an afterthought.
Yamun dismissed her name with casual wave. “Now that I know her tricks, she will be watched. We will keep her here with us so she can’t cause problems. We will keep the snake under our heel.
“I have decided,” Yamun noted idly, abruptly changing the subject, “you’ll meet with these envoys from Khazari and handle the details of their surrender. I’ve got to make plans for our conquest of Shou Lung.”
“Me, Yamun? Have you forgotten that I am a Khazari? I can’t negotiate the surrender,” Koja protested.
“Who said negotiate?” the khahan replied sharply. “Just accept their surrender.”
“But, there must be terms. I can’t just tell them to give up.”
“Why not?” Yamun asked, stroking the fine point of his mustache. “They’ve got no army to protect Manass. I can destroy anything they send. You tell them that. There are too many things for me to do here. There are orders to give, and reports have just arrived from Hubadai in Semphar.” He pointed to the royal scribe, next to whom sat a bundle of papers tied with yellow silk ribbons.
“But, they want my head!” the little lama sputtered, nervously rubbing his scalp.
An ironic smile twisted the khahan’s scarred lips. “You will do this because I have ordered it. They want your head, so they no longer consider you a countryman. You see, you are no longer a Khazari.”
Koja swallowed at Yamun’s words. “What can I do?” Although he did not want this task at all, it was clear that he had to accept the khahan’s will.
“I want them to surrender,” Yamun repeated, knowing that Koja expected more. “Very well, I want goods equal to ten thousand bars of silver to be paid on the first moon of every new year. Then, they must turn over this governor, his wizard, and the Shou officials you described. They escaped the battlefield and I want them—or their heads and hands.”
Koja waited for Yamun to outline more, but the khahan had finished his demands. “That is not all,” the priest enjoined.
Yamun counted out his terms on his fingers. “Surrender, goods, and prisoners. What else is there?”
Exasperated, Koja took paper and pen from the scribe, spreading the sheet between himself and Yamun. Koja quickly drew Khazari’s borders.
“Yamun, these are not wandering tribesmen you have conquered. The Khazari will not surrender and obey you just because you are khahan—”
“Then I’ll destroy their homes and scatter the people among my khans. Tell them that,” Yamun threatened.
“No, Yamun, that will not do. The Khazari are not like the tribes.” Koja dotted the map with the towns and cities of Khazari. “They have stone towns and fields. They do not travel from camp to camp. You must set someone to rule them, pass laws, and make judgments.”
Yamun leaned forward to study Koja’s map. “This is not our way,” he grumbled. “But because you say it must be done, I will consider it. For now, tell the envoys they must give me Manass as my own. Then, they must tear down the walls around all their other ordus.” The khahan pushed the crude map away with his toe. “Make me a good map of Khazari, anda.”
Koja sighed and thought through the list of demands that Yamun had made. “And what can you negotiate on?”
“My anda, there will be no negotiation.” Yamun loomed over the priest to add emphasis to his words.
“And if they refuse?” Koja asked softly.
Yamun casually sipped from a cup of kumiss. “As I said: I will destroy every ordu in Khazari. Every male taller than the yoke of an oxcart will be put to the sword, and all their wives and little children will be scattered as slaves among my people. Their nation will be no more. That I can do, anda.” The khahan settled back into his seat. “Scribe, write out my demands. I’ll put my seal to it. Anda, you can take that with you as proof.”
The demands written, Yamun turned to his scribe and ordered him to begin reading the stack of reports that sat beside him. Koja rose to one knee and made a brief bow to the khahan before slowly backing out of his presence. Rapt in Hubadai’s account of the fall of Semphar, Yamun didn’t even notice his departure.
In her commandeered yurt, Mother Bayalun worked alone, preparing to cast her magical spells. The door to the yurt was carefully fastened, sealing out all light, and her guard had instructions not to let anyone disturb her, not even Chanar, her current paramour. Her hands moving quickly, the khadun set out the materials she needed: a brazier containing a small glowing coal and a small pouch of powdered incense. Softly, in case anyone might be listening, she muttered the incantation, passing her hands over the brazier.
The words finished, Bayalun flung a pinch of incense into the coals. There was a brilliant puff, and smoke coiled thickly into the air, writhing and turning, forming into the face of a Shou mandarin. The smoke made the man’s forehead appear soft and puffy, like bread dough, but his dark eyes shone clearly. The smoky face blinked a few times in surprise, as if the mandarin had been awoken by the spell.
“Khadun of the Tuigan,” it rumbled in surprise with a hollow-sounding voice, “you called me?”
“Indeed. We must speak.” Her breath caused the outlines of the wraith to waver and shift.
“Now is not the best time, Eke Bayalun Khadun,” the face said, the puffy features forming into something that looked like a scowl. “The emperor is giving a poetry reading. It is difficult for me to concentrate on both.” As if to illustrate the point, the cloud-face’s eyes rolled back into its head. The outlines started to spread and rise, breaking up as the contact was momentarily lost. Then the head began to reform as the speaker refocused his thoughts toward Bayalun and the barren steppes. “Speak quickly, Khadun. My time is short.”
“Do not order me, Ju-Hai Chou. I am not one of your dog-people,” the second empress snapped. She reached for a small fan, a gift from the Shou emperor, to dispel the smoky form.
“Most humble apologies, wise one,” said the face with an expression of diplomatic regret. The head tilted a little to bow toward her. “Please inform this simple servant why you have summoned him. You did summon me.”
Bayalun was accustomed to the mandarin’s impatience and paid it no attention. Slowly, the khadun smoothed her robes, adjusting the jupon, the overrobe, so that it hung straight from her shoulders. “The Tuigan army is in Khazari.”
“This we know through our spies. Is that all?” There was a trace of annoyance in the mandarin’s voice at being disturbed over such petty news.
“The khahan lives. The creature you sent failed.” Although the assassination attempt had been a near disaster, she relished telling the Shou minister of st
ate the news. The image’s eyes widened in surprise, then quickly became blank.
“Is it alive or dead?” His words were quick and clipped.
“Dead.”
“Do they suspect?”
“Me?” Eke Bayalun asked, knowing full well that was not what the mandarin meant. He couldn’t care less about her troubles. “Of course they suspect.”
The vaporous brows furrowed. “By that you mean your khahan suspects Shou Lung.”
“He does not just suspect,” Bayalun gloated. “He blames the emperor of the Jade Throne himself. Your little assassin was too obvious and easy to identify—once he was dead. A priest of the Khazari knew quite a bit about your hu hsien.”
“A Khazari priest?” the image ruminated, the words echoing around the small yurt. “Who—”
“An envoy of Prince Ogandi. But that does not matter.” Bayalun knew perfectly well the mandarin was eager to know more. She relished goading the Shou bureaucrat with these petty secrets. It kept him off-balance.
“Know this,” she continued before the mandarin could protest or probe further. “The khahan blames your Son of Heaven and is marching with his army to conquer all of Shou.”
The face smiled, parts of its cheeks drifting away. The smoky shape was slowly becoming smaller, leaner. “He is more foolish than we thought. We will easily brush him away like a small insect. He cannot break the Dragonwall.” The trace of panic and puzzlement that had been in the voice was gone, replaced by confidence.
“Perhaps,” countered Bayalun. “By the time he reaches the Dragonwall, he will have two hundred thousand warriors.”
The cloud snorted a puff of smoke in contempt.
“He might also have magical aid,” Mother Bayalun stated slowly. She deliberately picked up the fan and gently waved it to cool her face. The image wavered and spread, pushed back by the gentle breeze.
A smoky eyebrow raised. “Unless?” it hissed, picking up the beat of her words.
“I have kept you too long from your duties,” the crafty woman said. “Perhaps you should return to your emperor.”
The face barely repressed a grimace of frustration. “Perhaps I should have the Gorath come speak with you!” Bayalun blanched slightly at the mention of the Gorath, a creature of great power rumored to be the emperor’s personal assassin. The smoke of the mandarin’s face swirled and distorted, breaking up in several different directions.
“Threaten me, Ju-Hai Chou, and I will end this alliance in blood!” Bayalun spat.
“Threaten us,” the mandarin answered in a cooler, but no more friendly tone, “and we will expose you. There will always be another willing to aid us.” The image restored itself to form and glared down from the top of the tent. Bayalun matched stare for stare, stiffly getting to her feet so she didn’t have to look so far upward. One hand still clutched the fan.
“Then we must work together,” she finally said. Although a powerful sorceress, Bayalun knew that the mandarin’s threat was real, just as he knew her threat was no idle boast.
“Indeed,” agreed the voice. “What is it you now seek?”
“Your feeble assassin is what brought us to this disaster. Now, you must be ready to give more. Yamun’s throne you have already promised—but now he goes to war with you. You’ll have to buy your peace. First, you’ll have to pay a tribute to get the khans to go home.”
“A bribe, you mean.”
“Call it what you will.”
“And how do we get rid of your troublesome son?” the face asked. Bayalun’s magic was fading; the back of the smoke-formed head was trailing off into a cloud of winding tendrils. Suddenly form’s eyes rolled back again as the mandarin’s concentration weakened.
Bayalun spoke quickly, before she lost contact entirely. “The khahan marches toward the Dragonwall. There you will have to destroy him and his bodyguards. I cannot do this now. They are too suspicious of me. It must be done by the armies of Shou Lung. You can trap and destroy him with my aid. There are those in his army who will help us.”
“A trap …,” the mandarin’s voice echoed, the face completely gone from sight. “… meet again … Xanghi River.” The spell was broken. The vapor swirled out through the yurt’s smoke hole.
Vexed by her conversation, Bayalun waited until all the trailing wisps faded away. The heavy scent of incense still hung in the air. Satisfied that all traces of her work had dissipated, Bayalun gathered up her pouch of incense and set the brazier back in its proper spot. Shuffling slowly to the door, for these days she moved stiffer when no one was around, she undid the ties and pulled the flap back. Thrusting her head out into the afternoon sun, she startled the guards, who were standing at ease on either side of the door.
“Send a runner for General Chanar. Tell him the khadun would be most honored if he would attend her.” She coughed a bit and realized how raspy her voice was from the smoke-filled tent.
While one guard went off to see that her orders were carried out, Bayalun had the other bring out one of the small chests so she could sit in the sun. Settling in comfortably, she planted her staff between her feet and wrapped her hands around its gnarled wooden shaft. The sunshine cut through the cool spring air and heated her tired, aching body. In a short time, she closed her eyes and relaxed.
To passersby who might not know better, Bayalun was just another matron, dozing in the warm afternoon sun. But she was not asleep. A corner of her mind was still alert and attentive, listening to the outside world. But the rest of her mind wandered, thinking back to other times, more youthful days among her mother’s people, the Maraloi.
A series of footfalls brought Bayalun out of her dark reverie. She stretched her neck, struggling to clear her head. Opening her eyes, she saw Chanar waiting impatiently for her word.
“I have come to do you honor,” he said pompously. He did not kneel to the khadun, but stood waiting for her to acknowledge his presence.
Bayalun looked up at him over the golden finial of her staff. The general’s arrogance was almost palpable, but he still cut a handsome figure. His braids were long and full, and his mustache carefully trimmed. Dressed in armor, he looked the powerful warrior that he truly was, one of the seven valiant men. “Help me up,” she said, although it sounded more like a command. Chanar easily hoisted Bayalun to her feet.
The general followed her into the yurt and reached for her waist as soon as the flap closed. Gently she slid out of his grasp and blocked him with her staff. “Do you still have the desire—” Chanar’s eyes gleamed lustfully. “To take the power that should be yours?” the khadun concluded.
He stopped where he was, somewhat taken aback by her question. “To become khahan, you mean?”
“Of course.” Her light smile mocked him. “What else?”
Chanar turned away, hands clasped behind his back, arrogance and desire rising up to face what remained of his loyalty. “Before—when we spoke—it was ‘Who could save the empire if the khahan died?’ You spoke of things that could happen, might happen, even hinted that you saw something with your arts. I believed you.” Chanar turned back toward her, his face graven with a look of betrayal.
“But then, the khahan shows this … thing that attacked him. I knew you weren’t speculating then. You did that. You sent a beast, not even man! Not even Yamun should die like that. You wanted to kill Yamun, but you failed. And now you want to try again—and drag me into it.”
Bayalun cocked her head as Chanar spoke, watching him through gradually narrowing slits. “So, that’s it,” she said in a soft monotone, “your courage leaves you when your hand must hold the reins. You are willing to let me do your work. No wonder you’re such a fine general—ordering others to their deaths.”
Chanar reddened in anger and embarrassment, and his voice rose to a snarling hiss. “That’s not true! I’m braver than any man. You’re changing my words. It’s just that now I see you want me to be your assassin.”
“Foolish man. If I wanted a killer, I could find one who would
not have doubts,” Bayalun said as she lightly dismissed his rage. She put her hand on his chest. “I do not want a killer; I come to you because I see that you are a leader. And I thought I saw a man, but you are afraid to even hear what I have to say.”
Chanar gritted his teeth, biting back the rage. “Yamun is my anda,” he spat.
Bayalun sprang upon his words like a hawk striking the trainer’s lure. Her jaw trembled as she circled round him. “Has he treated you like his anda?” she goaded. “Do you drink his kumiss? No, a little, bald foreigner does that for you. The priest sits at his councils, not you. His wet-nosed sons lead his Kashik in battle. Others mock you behind your back.”
Eyes flashing as the huntress in her closed for the kill, the widow pressed close to Chanar’s side and continued, whispering in his ear. “I’ve heard them, when the khahan sits with the other khans. I’ve heard them talk of you. Fool, evil dog, lazy mule—those are things they say. Then they laugh around the fire and drink more kumiss. Perhaps they are right. I offer you the throne of the Tuigan and you will not take it.”
“Bayalun, you have your reasons to see him gone! If not me, you’d turn to another for help,” Chanar accused.
“Of course I have my reasons, and I will turn to anyone who can help me,” came the unhesitating reply. There was no shame in the widow’s voice, only a bitter undertone of hatred. “I think of my son. I think of my husband—my true husband, not this murderer I was forced to marry. I have not forgotten them. I have the right,” she snapped. “And don’t you have your reasons? Yamun will lead us all to destruction, battering our armies against the Dragonwall of Shou Lung. Perhaps the priest suggested this as a way to destroy us all. So, what will you do?”
The second empress took a step backward as she waited for Chanar’s answer. He stood there quietly, his chest heaving, fingers slowly unknotting behind his back. The color that had drained from his face was gradually returning. The wind blew against the yurt, creaking the wickerwork sides. The door flap snapped against its wooden frame.
