Текст книги "Horselords"

Автор книги: David Cook

Соавторы: David Cook
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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 state 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.

Chanar tilted his head back, looking toward the smoke hole. His lips moved, saying a silent prayer. Finally, he lowered his head and looked the confident Bayalun straight in the eyes, almost as if he were trying to fathom the depths of her dark nature.

She didn't flinch from his gaze, but met it straight on. Defiant, self-assured, savage—these qualities Chanar saw within the glistening blackness of her eyes.

The general blinked, breaking away from her hypnotic gaze. He had made his decision. Carefully Chanar pulled his long, curved saber from its scabbard, letting the weak sunlight that came through the smoke hole play over the blade. With a defiant thrust he jammed it into the carpeting between them. Bayalun gently touched the blade with her staff.

"Tell me what I have to do," he demanded grimly.

"For now, come with me," Bayalun answered gently, the coldness melting away from her now that she had triumphed. Bayalun took Chanar's hand and gently pulled him toward the back half of the tent. "There will be time for talk later."

Koja stumbled through the gloom, exhausted. He had been sitting all day in negotiations with the diplomats of his old lord, Prince Ogandi. He could only see it that way now—Prince Ogandi was the man he once served, what seemed to be centuries ago. This meeting had confirmed Koja's separation from his own people. He could vividly see the look of outrage and fury on the faces of the Khazari diplomats when he was presented as the khahan's representative. His title certainly hadn't helped the negotiations any.

The priest desperately wanted to go to bed and forget this awful day. Emotionally, it had been hideous, perhaps worse in its own way than the terror he had experienced on the battlefield. During the mad charge across the plain, excitement and fear had kept him detached and allowed him to witness the blood and suffering without any emotional response. He wasn't even aware during the battle of how scared he was. That realization only came later. In the tent with the Khazari, however, Koja felt every excruciating second. Their hatred for him seemed much stronger expressed in Khazari. He understood every nuance and connotation of their words. There was little he could do at the time but suffer through it, while demanding their acceptance of the khahan's terms.

Now, he had to tell Yamun the day's results. Reaching Yamun's yurt, the lama leaned against the doorframe while a servant announced him. It was not proper or decorous, but Koja didn't care. He was tired.

The servant came back and ushered the lama in. The khahan was alone, enjoying a late dinner of boiled horsemeat and curd porridge, chomping noisily on the simple food. He looked up from his meal and nodded for Koja to take a seat. Finishing the mouthful, Yamun wiped his face on the silken sleeve of his robe, leaving a greasy swipe on the fine blue fabric. "Welcome, priest. Will you eat?"

Koja nodded, although he wasn't hungry, especially not for the unappetizing dishes set out in front of him. One small advantage of being in Khazari was that he had found some proper food: roasted barley and vegetables. Still, not wanting to insult the khahan, he gingerly took a scrap of meat and a small bowl of the porridge. Chewing broadly, he made a great show of eating. Neither man spoke during the meal.

Finally, Yamun slurped down the last drops of the porridge and then wiped the bowl clean with his fingers. He set it aside and waited for the priest to finish. Koja wasted no time in pushing away his own meal, barely touched.

"They've accepted my terms for peace," Yamun predicted, scratching at the stubble of his thin beard.

"Mostly," corrected Koja. "They still have some reservations."

Yamun looked carefully at the priest. "Such as?" he asked, a steely edge in his voice.

"Of course, they agree to surrender," Koja hurriedly explained, to avoid provoking the khahan. "They are only ambassadors and will have to go back and present your terms to Prince Ogandi. However, they find them generally acceptable."

"What are their problems?" Yamun demanded, cutting through Koja's stalling. He gulped a ladleful of kumiss and waited for Koja to get to the point.

"They want to negotiate the amount of tribute—"

"Haggling?" Yamun shouted in astonishment. "I offer them peace or destruction, and they want to haggle about the price?"

"I'm sure it's only a formality, Yamun," Koja interrupted, speaking as quickly as he could.

The Illustrious Emperor of All People snorted in disgust. "You said there were problems, not just one."

"The governor and his men are a problem, too. The ambassadors want to know if you intend to keep these men as hostages. The demand for the Shou envoys has them concerned." Koja rubbed his temples, trying to make his rising headache go away.

"My intentions are clear. I'm going to kill them. It is this or total destruction. Didn't you make this clear?" Yamun looked away in vexation.

"Naturally. I stressed it to them," Koja assured the squat warlord. "They are confused."

"Why's that?" Yamun scratched his head, picking for a louse that had crawled out of his hat.

Koja discreetly chose not to notice the khahan's preening. "Taking Khazari hostages they understand, but they don't see why you want the men from Shou Lung. They are afraid this will make the Shou emperor angry with them."

Yamun ignored the comment. He set aside his kumiss and asked, "Does this governor have any use as a hostage?"

The priest thought for a minute. "I think he is a cousin of the prince."

"Good. What about the other man, the wizard who killed my men?"

Koja hesitated. He knew the man was no relation to Prince Ogandi, but if he revealed that, Yamun would certainly condemn the dong chang to death. That would make him, a priest of Furo, responsible for the murder. Still, if he lied, the khahan would learn the truth sooner or later and would kill the man anyway—and Koja would be in trouble.

"He is not related to anyone I know of, Yamun," Koja finally replied.

"Then he must die. The jagun of the men executed in Manass will want vengeance," explained the khahan. "It is known the wizard still lives. This is a great shame for their jagun, and it will be worse if he is allowed to escape. Therefore, the wizard will be turned over to them for punishment."

Koja cringed. He knew that the men of the jagun would not just kill the dong chang, they would make the wizard's death prolonged and agonizing. The only argument to save the wizard's life Koja could think of was that it was wrong, but it wasn't wrong to Yamun. For him, it was the correct thing to do.

"What of the governor?" the lama asked weakly. "Can I promise the Khazari that he will live?"

"Only if they also turn over the wizard and the men of Shou," Yamun stressed. "I'll keep the prince's cousin as hostage, but the others will die."

Koja pondered the offer, judging whether the Khazari would be likely to accept it. It was clear from the meetings today that the Khazari were frightened by the power and savagery of the khahan's men.

"I think they will accept that," the priest decided sadly. He felt unclean. He had managed to save the life of one man, but only at the cost of the other three.

Yamun suddenly yawned. "I am tired now, Koja, and so are you. It is time to rest. Go now." With a nod, he dismissed the priest.

The audience over, Koja returned to his yurt and quickly went to bed. Already tired, Yamun's yawn had seemed to drain him of his last energy reserves. Ignoring the cold meal Hodj had laid out, Koja went straight to bed.

At first, exhausted though he was, the priest could not sleep. He kept thinking of the day's events, particularly the wizard's fate. Koja felt responsible for Yamun's decision. Fretting and guilt-ridden, he fell into an uneasy slumber.

A noise penetrated the gray fog enclosing the priest. It was the grinding clink of stone against stone. He was outside, still dressed in his sleeping robes. The wind was blowing, but he did not feel the cold.

Looking around, Koja could see that it was still night, somewhere on a grassy plain—or what remained of it. The ground was a jumble of cracks and upheaved earth. Bodies of warriors and horses lay half-buried, half-crushed under the churned ground. Some were Tuigan bodies, clearly identified by the war banners flapping spectrally in the wind. Mingled among the troopers were the bodies of other warriors, dressed in antique armors. Koja could recognize only a few. A man here wore the garb of a Kalmyr chieftain, like one the priest had seen on an ancient scroll. Another wore the outlandish armor of a Susen warrior, easily identified by the flaring earpieces on the battered helm. The bodies encased by the armors were dried husks, their mummified skin stretched tight over the bone.

The odd noise came from up ahead. Koja clambered over the mounds of dirt, past the skeletal warriors and broken lances. Reaching the top of the largest mound, he could see a dark shape, a wall of immense size. To the left and right, it stretched beyond his vision. It stood higher than the five-storied palace of Prince Ogandi in Skardu. At the top was a line of battlements, jutting upward like broken teeth. The hammering sound came from its base.

As he drew closer, Koja saw a line of men, futilely battering the wall's foundation with mauls. Like the dead of the broken land behind Koja, these men were dressed in a weird assortment of ancient clothes. There were soldiers from Kalmyr, Susen, Pazruki, and men from lands he could not identify from their garb.

Each man swung his maul at a single spot, a single stone, oblivious to those around him. The ground reverberated with their blows, but no swing left any mark on the fortification.

Fascinated, Koja walked down the line, invisible to the toilers. He passed by a Kalmyri, then stopped to study the man. It was Hun-kho, the great war chief of Kalmyr. Centuries ago, Hun-kho had driven the Shou out of the wasteland, back behind the Dragonwall, only to be stopped by the Shou construction. Koja recognized him from the history texts in the temple.

The dead warlord continued his monotonous task. Koja resumed his walk. Farther on was the infamous T'oyghla of the Susen, a conqueror in his own right. He, too, never faltered from his work on the wall.

Finally, Koja saw an end to the line and a lone, robed figure, apart from the others. This man held a hammer, but did not swing it at the Dragonwall. Compelled by curiosity, the lama ran forward. When he reached the man, Koja put a hand on the mason's shoulder. The figure turned, revealing the face of his old master, horribly shriveled and gaunt. Smiling, the master handed Koja the hammer.

"This is the wall you have chosen. Break it and be free," the old man intoned. Seizing the sledge, Koja watched as the old master faded before his eyes. Suddenly he was alone with a line of warlords.

Automatically, Koja swung the maul. The stone splintered, splitting the smooth surface of the wall. Koja looked at the crack. Something glittered and slid inside it. He swung again and the crack widened. A shape softly ground against the ragged edges of the stone. The line of warlords stopped, turning in dumb astonishment. The lama peered into the crack. Something moved inside the Dragonwall, something huge and scaled.

"Free me," it whispered, the tones musically floating out through the hole. "Free me, Koja of Khazari."

Koja swung the maul. A painful shock ran through his hands as the sledge hit stone. Chips flew, but the crack was no larger. He swung again and again, jolting with each blow. The priest's breath came in ragged pants. His sweaty hands grasped the maul's handle, trying to keep it from slipping away. He pounded frantically, desperate to widen the crack.

Finally, Koja stopped, exhausted. Looking up, he saw the crack was unchanged, unbroken. It was no wider than it was when he started. There were no chips or scratches in its surface. Frustrated, he slumped down at the foot of the wall, the spirit drained out of him.

"You alone cannot free me, Koja of Khazari, any more than these others who have tried and failed." Lit by a faint glow, the warlords returned to their task.

"Who are you?" Koja gasped to the mysterious voice.

"I am Lord Chien, master of the ocean," the voice said haughtily. "I am the Dragonwall."

"Why can't I free you?" Koja asked as he clambered to his feet.

"I await your lord. Together you will have the might to humble my captors." Dark scales slid past the crack in the wall, then a baleful eye, yellow and catlike, came into view.

"Guide him," the strange voice continued. "Bring your lord to me and together you will free me."

"Why do you call me?" Koja demanded as he stared at the huge eye.

"You are his man. He listens to you. The others, here, know the price of failure. They are doomed to stay, tormenting me, until the wall is no more." Koja looked at the toiling lords and shuddered.

"And if I do these things?" the lama asked, backing away from the crack.

"Then I will have my revenge!" roared the voice. The ground shook with the spirit's words, then the eye disappeared from view.

Shaking, Koja turned. There was his master again, strong and healthy once more. The old man gently took the maul from Koja's grasp. The lama knew it was time for him to leave. Instinctively, he headed back the way he had come, past the conquerors and over the lands of the dead. Just as he reached the hill's top, his master called out faintly. "Everything is in balance, apprentice. Change one thing and you will destroy something else. There are walls all around you. Choose carefully the ones you will destroy." The words echoing around him, Koja walked back into his yurt, into his bed.

Blinking, Koja sat up in the near-darkness of his yurt. The events of his dream remained clear in his mind. Without knowing quite why, the lama hastily dug out his writing supplies. Huddled close to the light of a glowing brazier, Koja began to set down every detail.

14

Dreams and Destinies

On the next few days, the army's energies were consumed in its preparations to once again go on the march. When the khahan had attacked Khazari, Koja had marveled at the flow of orders given; now he was absolutely stunned. Forty thousand, perhaps even fifty thousand men had taken part in the trek to Manass, and even then only ten thousand had actually attacked the city. The rest were stationed at points along the border, partly to provide a threat to the Khazari, but more to ease the problems of finding food and water for tens of thousands of men and horses.

Now arrangements were being made for an even grander campaign. As historian, Koja discharged his duty conscientiously; he listened all he could and noted everything carefully in a growing pile of papers.

Yamun, for his part, organized his troops while waiting for the arrival of more men. Messengers were coming with greater frequency from Hubadai in Semphar. These reports were taken directly to the khahan. Other riders, wearing the stained yellow robes of Tomke's men, also arrived with their letter pouches bulging.

From different sources, Koja knew that there were one hundred and fifty thousand troopers converging on Yamun's camp. The priest guessed that there would be about two hundred thousand men in the army by the time it reached Shou Lung.

Fifty thousand men were already a burden on the land; two hundred thousand men would break it. Already the stocks of grain and grass in this region were low, because the army had not moved for so many days. In his tent, the khahan drew up plans to move the horsemen to new pastures and lay in supplies for the coming campaign.

To do this, Yamun appointed more yurtchis and charged them with the responsibility of gathering supplies. These officials set about their task with swift efficiency. Each day the priest watched another group of blue-robed horsemen, their faces caked in brown dust, return with a herd of lowing cattle, adding the beasts to the growing pastures of cattle and sheep. Other jaguns triumphantly galloped past the tents, leading in fine stallions and mares. These prizes would become the extra steeds that would be needed for the upcoming battles. Trains of oxcarts lumbered in with more goods—bags of millet and barley, sacks of flour, bales of rice, barrels of wine, urns of soy, and bricks of tea, salt, and sugar. The yurtchis, sitting at a makeshift table, diligently counted in all these provisions, making tally marks on long strips of paper.

All these things Koja noted in his papers as he sat in the doorway to his tent, sipping a cup of tea Hodj had prepared. There were so many details that he could only note them briefly. Finally he had to stop, before he ran out of paper. Carefully Koja packed away his writing materials and stood to leave. He still had to inform Yamun of that day's negotiations with the Khazari.

The lama carefully dusted off and adjusted the skirts of his black kalat, the uniform of a nightguard. It was a gift the Kashik insisted he wear; though he was uncomfortable in the dress of a warrior, the priest was not about to insult the generosity and honor of a few thousand tough soldiers. The story of how the priest had saved Yamun's life came out after the couralitai and spread to the guards. In recognition of his deed, they more or less adopted him into their ranks. He was now an honorary Kashik and so had to dress the part.