Текст книги "Horselords"

Автор книги: David Cook

Соавторы: David Cook
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"What will you do?" Goyuk finally asked, his nose practically touching the map as he screwed up his eyes to see the lines. "Semphar? Or Khazari?" At the mention of Khazari, Koja scooted sideways a little, trying to find a better angle to see the map. By leaning to the left, he could see it clearer.

"Semphar must fall. They've refused my demands. Hubadai will march against them." The khahan traced a line on the map. Again there was a murmur of approval. Chanar glanced at the wolf-faced khan, giving him the tiniest of nods.

"Great Yamun," the man said, "I must speak because it is my duty under heaven. Your son Hubadai is a brave and valiant warrior, but he is young and has not gone to war often. The caliph of Semphar is a mighty ruler. Our spies tell us he has many soldiers protected by great stone walls. It would be wisdom to send a wise and experienced warrior to instruct and aid your son."

"My son is my son. He must fight," Yamun snapped.

"Of course, Great Khan," Chanar noted. "He must command. Perhaps Chagadai does not mean you should send a new commander. Send someone you can trust to advise Hubadai. Make this advisor commander of the right wing."

"Hubadai is young and his temper is quick," pressed Chagadai, the wolfish khan. "Send him someone to cool his rashness, someone who knows the traps of war. Send someone your son can learn from."

" 'A wise man has a wise tutor,'" Chanar offered.

"They speak wisely, Yamun," wheezed out Goyuk.

The khahan looked at the khans around the circle, pondering the advice. "Chagadai's advice is good," Yamun finally said. "But who should I send? You, Chagadai?"

"Great Lord, my wisdom is the wisdom of the tent," the khan demurred. "I do not have the cunning for war. Send a warrior who has served you well."

"I am too old," said Goyuk, before Yamun could even ask him. "Send a young man."

"What about you Chanar?" Yamun asked.

"I hoped to visit the yurts of my people," the general began, "but by your word, it shall be done."

"Then it is done," Yamun concluded. "I hoped you would ride by my side, but you must serve my son now. He'll listen to you."

"You have my word, Semphar will fall." Chanar bowed, smiling as he did so.

"But what about Khazari?" inquired Goyuk, pointing at the map. Koja, peering over their shoulders, could see that Chagadai pointed to the same general area of the map as the Orkhon Oasis. So Prince Jad was camped near Khazari, he thought.

"Before we talk, we must hear the reports of the scouts," Yamun said. "Come forward, trooper."

The soldier at the back slid forward and prostrated himself.

"This man led the scouts I sent to Khazari. We will hear his report. But first," Yamun said, turning to Koja behind him, "you must go. Wait outside. You will be called when you are needed."

"Yes, Khahan," Koja said softly, concealing his bitter disappointment. Yamun's face was impassive, unconcerned, but Chanar looked at the priest with smug satisfaction. As quickly as he could, Koja hurried out of the yurt.

Outside, the revelers were waking up. Koja, with nothing else to do, sat down on his haunches beside the doorway. He strained to hear anything of the conversation inside, but the thick felt of the yurt swallowed up the words.

Koja sat there, disconsolate, watching hung-over khans wander away from the scene of last night's feast. The day-guards walked among the circles, kicking awake their brothers who had passed out the night before. A few halfhearted fights broke out, more loud arguments than real brawls.

One did turn into a serious battle as two men wrestled across the ground. Their fight quickly attracted others, and soon there was a shouting crowd around the battlers. Yamun and the khans came out of the yurt shortly after the fight started, but no one seemed very interested in stopping the conflict. Yamun and the others stood by as the two brawlers rolled around, trying to get each other in a deadly hold. Within minutes, though, one man screamed, and the fight ended as quickly as it had started.

Ignoring Koja, who sat expectantly by the door, the khahan called down to the big wrestler. "You are a good fighter."

The man knelt where he was. "Teylas has given his strength to me," he answered.

Yamun raised an eyebrow at the man's words "What's your ordu?"

"I am Sechen of the Naican," the wrestler answered. "I have killed five men with my bare hands, Khahan." Behind him the dayguards dragged his dead opponent away.

"Sechen, you're proud and shameless. I like you," Yamun said impulsively. "From now on you will serve at my side."

Sechen fell into the dirt, humbling himself before the khahan. Inarticulate cries of thanks poured from the man's lips.

Koja looked in horror at the big wrestler. The khahan had just honored an admitted killer, praising the man for what he had done. Astonished, the priest looked at the emperor of the Tuigan. The man showed no shame or conscience for what he had just done. Koja had almost forgotten just what the Tuigan were. For all their cunning craftsmanship and military skill, the Tuigan were still uncivilized barbarians. Koja wondered if they could ever be anything more.

Yamun finally finished speaking with the wrestler, but the grateful man was still kneeling at his feet. Looking at Koja standing beside him, the khahan gave no notice of the priest's horrified expression.

"We have reached a decision, lama," Yamun said. "I have an answer for your prince."

"What is the message I am to take to Prince Ogandi?" Koja finally, hesitantly asked, his voice trembling with rage and fear.

"You don't. The Tuigan ride to Khazari with their own answer. No one speaks for us," Yamun pronounced. "And your prince will hear from me very soon."

6

On The March

Elsewhere in the royal compound, another meeting was just beginning. It was a furtive liaison in one of the yurts used as a storehouse. The tent's felt walls were black, darkened by powdered charcoal. The smoke hole was sealed shut, and the door flap was tightly closed. It was an isolated yurt, seldom visited or disturbed.

Outside, a few soldiers, wearing the blue kalat of common troopers, leaned on their lances. Their eyes were far from idle, though. Under a guise of nonchalance, the men constantly scanned the area, ready to warn of any intruders.

Inside, the black yurt was barely lit by one small lamp. It burned fitfully, the little circle of light it cast growing and shrinking with each flicker. The dim glow revealed rolls of fabric, sealed baskets, rugs, and stacks of metal pots. Nestled in all this, within the circle of light, were General Chanar and Mother Bayalun. She was dressed in a simple robe, hardly fitting to her station. Around her head she had wrapped several coils of a shawl, until her face was hidden in shadows. Her staff leaned against a bale beside her.

"Did you do as I instructed?" she demanded, leaning forward to look the general in the eye.

"Everything," answered Chanar with cocky self-assurance.

"And Chagadai?"

"He played his part," Chanar said with a smile. "What did you promise him?"

"More than nothing," she answered, avoiding his question. "What is the result?"

"He rides to the Sindhe River to meet with Jad. Then they go to Khazari." The general warmed his hands over the lamp.

"Excellent. Soon, Chanar, you will become the true khahan," Mother Bayalun said coldly. "And where are you to be?"

"I am to ride to Fergana Pass to advise Hubadai." Chanar heard something and stopped speaking. He sat up straight, looking about him to see the source of the noise. The dark walls of the tent quivered in a faint breeze.

"Relax, my general," Bayalun said soothingly. "We are alone. My guards outside will make sure of that. Now, take this—" She handed him a small leather bag. "Mix it with some wine tonight, then drink it. It will make you sick, but don't worry, it won't kill you. Yamun will see that you are too sick to travel."

"Why do this?" he questioned, eyeing the bag dubiously.

Bayalun grabbed his hand and stuffed the bag into his fingers. "Don't be a fool," she said sharply. "We need each other alive. And you need to be here, in Quaraband—not with Hubadai. When the khahan is dealt with, you must be ready to move, so that means you must stay here with me. How are you going to do that? Tell Yamun you don't feel like riding out today? That it's an unlucky day?" She gently squeezed his fingers. "Use the powder or he will become suspicious."

"Oh," Chanar said, slowly coming to understand. "What if he orders a cart to take me to Hubadai?"

"He won't," she contended. The khadun's patience was starting to wear thin. "He has too much to do. Tell him you will take care of your arrangements. He'll believe you."

"And then what?"

"Then you wait. Things will work just as we've planned. And then—" Bayalun reached out and laid her hand gently on his arm. "We will lead the Tuigan to their true glory."

"Yes." Chanar savored the thought. "When I'm khahan, I'll get rid of these foreigners."

"Of course," Mother Bayalun said, stroking his arm. "That is the whole reason we're doing this, isn't it?"

Chanar grinned wolfishly, openly admiring the older woman. She was not passive, a mere ornament like Yamun's Shou princesses. She was bold, a woman for a true warrior.

"But quickly," she urged, breaking the mood, "you must go before anyone becomes suspicious by your absence. Leave now. My men will make sure the way is clear." She pressed on his arm, sending him on his way.

Chanar moved to go with only a little reluctance. Her words reminded him of the plan's dangers. Going to the door, he peered out through a tiny gap. After what seemed an interminable minute of watching, he slipped out through the doorway. There was a brief flash of sunlight, and then the tent fell dark again.

Bayalun sat on the pile of rugs, leaning on her staff, her eyes closed as she thought. Her plans were going well. Nothing had gone wrong, but that worried her. She was certain that by now there would have been some mistake. "Perfect plans are made by fools," or so went the old proverb.

"Does he suspect?" said a soft, yipping voice from the darkness.

Mother Bayalun looked up slowly, not showing any surprise at the new speaker. "No, but that's through no help from you. Your clumsiness almost gave you away," she snapped. "What are you doing here?"

A large fox, honey brown in color, walked into the light. Moving opposite Bayalun, it settled back on its haunches. With its front paws, it produced a long pipe from the leather bag it carried slung around its neck. "I wish you people would move your tents. It would make things a lot easier. I'd change out of this form, but these damned magic-dead lands prevent me."

"Why are you here, you insolent creature?" Bayalun demanded, thumping the rolled-up rug beside the fox-thing.

"My master sent me," it explained as it stuffed tobacco into the pipe and tamped it down with a paw more human than foxlike. "Are we stuck with that dolt?"

"Who?"

"The buffoon who was just here," the fox explained. He dug into his bag and pulled out a smoldering ember, casually holding the burning coal in his paws. "Stole it from a fire outside," the fox offered before she could ask. He set the coal to the pipe.

"Don't light that in here!" Bayalun snapped. The fox looked up at her in surprise. "The smoke will give us away."

"To whom? Your guards? They're the only ones outside." The fox drew a long puff on the pipe, blowing out sweet smoke from the combination of tobacco and strange herbs. "This shape lets me get around easily, but it is so tiring. Especially when everyone wants to chase you." It puffed on the pipe again, watching Bayalun's increasing irritation with an unconcealed glee.

"You take too many risks! Someone saw you?" Bayalun asked with alarm.

"Some saw a fox, nothing more," the creature replied confidently.

"Carrying a bag!"

"I was careful. Stop worrying like an old woman. I've done this all my life, which is longer than yours—even if you are one of those half-spirit Maraloi." The fox-thing blew smoke up toward the ceiling.

Bayalun started at the mention of the Maraloi. "How did you know?" she demanded. "No one knows of that."

"The emperor of Shou Lung knows. Your father was one of the Maraloi, spirits of the great northern wood. Humans think the Maraloi don't exist. You and I know better." The fox tapped its pipe, shaking out the excess ash. "But, the man you were talking to—"

"Will present no problems," Bayalun said, a little subdued. "He thinks we only plan to get Yamun out of Quaraband so he can seize power. He has no idea of my true intentions."

"Our true intentions," corrected the fox, rubbing its back against a rough-sided basket. "Ahh," it sighed.

"Our intentions," Bayalun noted. "And just what does your master intend?"

"He is concerned. He wants to be sure that everything is as he agreed." The fox-thing suddenly dropped its casual air. "Yamun Khahan continues to unite the tribes, and his army grows larger. Soon even the unbreachable Dragonwall will be threatened by his might. There is a chance its magic may not be able to hold him back. You assured my master that there would be peace between Shou Lung and the Tuigan."

"There has been no change," she answered defensively. "Once I have control, I will see that the peace between the Tuigan and Shou Lung remains unbroken. But, your master has certain obligations to fulfill, too."

"Of course," assured the fox between draws on its pipe. "That's why he sent me."

"What?"

"You needed an assassin, an expert in disguise. Am I not," the fox said as it stood and took a little bow, "brilliant at disguise?"

"Not if that's the best you can do," Bayalun shot back. She was furious with the hu hsien, this inhuman trickster of the spirit realm. She was equally furious with the Shou mandarin who sent it. The mighty of Shou Lung think they can toy with me, she cursed silently, but I'll show them just how dangerous that can be. "Go back to your master and tell him to send me a real assassin, not a clowning animal."

The fox bit down hard on the stem of its pipe. "You will take whomever my master sends," it snarled, baring its fangs as its animal side boiled to the surface. "Now, old woman, I'm tired of this. Tell me what I am to do."

Bayalun relented. "There is a post you can fill—assuming you can look human—among the khahan's dayguards. Then you will be close to him. You must take it and wait." Bayalun twisted the staff between her hands as she explained things.

"That's all? How will I know when to act?" the beast asked.

"I will send you a message," Bayalun answered.

"How?"

"That's all you need know," she snapped, frowning at the beast's curiosity. "Too much knowledge and you become a danger to everything. Tomorrow, present yourself to Dayir Bahadur—in human form. He commands a jagun of the dayguard and will see to your position. Then, wait for my word." She narrowed her eyes, waiting for any more questions. None came. "Now, you may leave."

The fox blew a puff of sweet smoke. "I haven't finished my pipe," it declared.

"Leave now," Bayalun hissed, "lest I complain to your master."

The fox pricked up its ears. "Careful, or I will complain to your lord." The hu hsien watched the empress's reaction. "I find you interesting, half-Maraloi. Your husband might be strong enough to seize the riches of Shou Lung, but you want him dead. Your ambitions are strange."

"Yamun Khahan killed the yeke-noyan—my husband, his father—so he could rule the Hoekun. I will never forgive him for that." Besides, Bayalun thought, with the khahan dead, I will control the Tuigan. Chanar will be khahan, but I will have the power. "Now, no more questions."

"Very well, I will take my leave," the fox-thing said pompously. It closed the lid on the pipe and stuffed it back into the pouch. Dropping to all fours, it smiled a foxish smile at Bayalun and lightly leaped away into the darkness.

After the creature had left, Bayalun waited patiently for some time. She was in no hurry. Haste ruined careful plans. She had learned that from experience.

It was impossible to keep secret the fact that the khahan was on the move toward Khazari, and by the afternoon the news had spread through all of Quaraband. Yamun's women had emptied out the Great Yurt and had started to take it down. Within an hour, the yurt was stripped of its felt walls, the frame standing like a skeleton atop the hill.

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 paged 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 camp-fire 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."