Horselords (9 page)

“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.

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.