"How many scouts went out and how many came back?" Yamun took off his cap and set it on the ground.

"I did not ask," Chanar replied, as if it was beneath him.

"Then how do you know they lied?" countered Yamun.

Chanar sat silent, brooding over the khahan's rebuke.

"Is Jad ready to march?" Yamun finally asked.

"His men are in hand, as I have said," Chanar responded. He looked down, shielding the anger in his eyes from the khahan.

Koja made notes, both for the khahan and himself. He needed to find out more about Jad's—Prince Jadaran's—army: where it was, and what Yamun intended to do with it.

"And what of my youngest son, Hubadai? Has he heard from the caliph of Semphar?"

"No, Yamun," Chanar said, using the khahan's familiar name. "The caliph apparently didn't believe the demands I delivered at the council."

"Scribe, were my demands unclear?" Both Yamun and Chanar turned their attention to Koja.

Koja cleared his throat and took the time to answer carefully. "Khahan," he said, watching Chanar out of the corner of his eye, "General Chanar presented your demands quite clearly."

"What exactly did Chanar Ong Kho demand?" Bayalun asked suddenly.

Koja's mouth went dry as he wondered just why Bayalun was asking. "I apologize to General Chanar," he began, "if my words do not do him justice. It has been some time since I heard him speak. He said that all caravans crossing the great steppe would pay taxes to the khahan of the Tuigan." Koja paused, rubbing the stubble on his head nervously.

"Is that all?" Yamun queried. Chanar sat up straight, ready to protest.

"Oh, no," Koja said hurriedly. "He also said that all kingdoms must offer you tribute or submit themselves to your rule."

"It seemed quite clear to me, Great Lord," Chanar offered.

Yamun nodded in agreement. "So, the caliph has not responded?"

"No, Yamun," Chanar noted. "No word has come from Semphar."

"Perhaps the caliph does not believe you have the power, Khahan,"

suggested Koja. "After all, Semphar has a large army and many cities. Indeed the caliph is called the 'Chosen Prince of Denier' and the 'Great Conqueror.' "

"The 'Great Conqueror' will learn," Yamun said grimly. "How many men does Hubadai have at present?"

"He has kept all his tumen, five of them, ready. I, myself, advised him to await your orders," Chanar boasted.

"Did you?" Yamun commented. He smiled faintly, though any warmth in his expression was twisted by the scar across his lip. The lama could not decide if Yamun was being sarcastic or not. If he was, Chanar apparently did not notice.

"Yes, Yamun," Chanar said proudly. The general sat up straighter and puffed his chest out.

"Scribe, send this to Hubadai," Yamun ordered, settling back on his stool.

"He's to divide his command into three parts. He will lead one, and I'll send commanders to lead the others. No man of his army will go hunting except for food, to save the horses. If a man breaks this law, the first time he will get three strokes of the rod. The second time, he will have three times three. The third time he will get three times times three times three. His men are to have two weeks of food ready at all times. The horses must have sufficient fodder on hand. He must be ready to go to war on the day he is ordered." Koja wrote furiously, trying to keep up with the rapid-fire pace of Yamun's order.

"His men must have their weapons ready," the khahan continued. He signaled a servant to bring him a drink. "Each man must have two lances, two bows, and four hundred arrows. Any man who doesn't will be beaten—five lashes of the rod. Any man whose horse is not ready will be beaten for the same. Any man who goes home to his family will be captured and given to his khan for punishment."

Koja finished writing with a flourish. He held his brush poised, ready to resume writing.

"The morning audience is over," Yamun abruptly announced. "Tonight there will be a feast to honor the safe return of Chanar Ong Kho. Let all who welcome his return attend."

Chanar was stunned. Although pleased about the feast, he expected a longer meeting with the khahan. Always in the past he had enjoyed Yamun's favor. Now, it seemed things had changed. Reluctantly, he stood to go, bowing to the khahan as he started to leave. Koja also got to his feet, wincing as his legs refused to unbend.

"Koja," Yamun suddenly said, using the priest's personal name for the first time, "I want you to stay. I'm curious about your prince."

The priest waited as the khahan ordered, obedient if baffled. He also sensed Chanar's dark looks behind him. The general stalked away, keeping his counsel to himself.

"I will go now, too, my husband," Mother Bayalun pronounced. Yamun didn't answer.

After Bayalun and Chanar had departed, the khahan ordered the servants to bring drinks, black kumiss for himself and hot wine for Koja. He once again lounged back on his stool. "Now, Koja of the Khazari, I've let you learn something of our plans. Perhaps now you can tell me what sort of man your Prince Ogandi is." Yamun yawned.

Koja paused, uncertain of what to say. How much could he reveal without betraying his lord? How much did he owe to the khahan?

Down the slope, Mother Bayalun caught up with Chanar as he was walking toward his white mare. She hobbled alongside him, prodding the ground with the tip of her staff.

"Greetings to our brave general," she hailed. "Will you take a little time to visit with an old woman?"

Chanar looked at her carefully. The sunlight gave her face a warm glow. It was a mature beauty, livened with self-confidence and will. Bayalun gave Chanar a smile, knowing and tempting. "Old woman" was hardly the way Chanar would describe her.

"Greetings returned, Mother Bayalun," Chanar replied. A part of him was intrigued. It was not like Bayalun to be so forward.

"I couldn't help but see you are alone today, instead of with your anda, Yamun."

Chanar slowed his pace to match hers. "You are very observant." His voice went cold. He glanced back to the khahan's yurt. Yamun and the foreign priest were sitting in close conversation.

"I have just come to apologize and say that I do not think it is proper." Her tone was soothing to his injured pride. "You have been traveling much of late, General Chanar."

Chanar turned in surprise at her concern. "I have been doing Yamun's wishes."

"The khahan has messengers to carry out duties such as these," Bayalun said as she steadied herself on the staff. "He sent you to Semphar—"

"It was an honor!" Chanar insisted.

"Naturally, though hardly taxing on your abilities," she answered, unperturbed by his outburst. "The priest you brought back is quite a prize of war." Chanar glared at her, needled by her barb.

"Of course it was an honor to go to Tomke's ordu, too," Bayalun added as she stopped walking. They were near her tent. The second empress turned and looked back toward the khahan. "Since you have been gone, Yamun has spent much time with the foreigner. He has named the priest his grand historian."

"I know" Chanar muttered sullenly. He followed the empress's gaze to where the two men sat.

"Other things have happened while you carried messages," Bayalun noted ominously. "Yamun consults the priest for advice, listens to his word. It could be the priest has enchanted Yamun."

"Bayalun, you know no spells can work here. He—" Chanar tipped his head toward Yamun's tent, "—chose this place with you in mind."

"There are ways other than spells to enchant, General," Bayalun reminded Chanar as she turned to enter her yurt. "The priest is dangerous—to both of us."

"Not to me. I am Yamun's anda," Chanar corrected. He didn't look Bayalun in the eyes.

"Chanar, things have changed. More things could change. Look up there.

That should be you talking to Yamun, not the Khazari." Bayalun pulled aside the tent flap. "The khahan forgets you, forgets all the things you have done...

forgets you for a lama." She paused again for effect.

Chanar let his head sink so that his chin almost rested on his chest. He watched the second empress from the corner of his half-closed eyes. The light of the morning sun highlighted her figure, the slimness showing even through the heavy clothes she wore. "You're right," Chanar conceded,

"Yamun should listen to his khans, his anda— not strangers."

"Of course," Mother Bayalun agreed in a magnanimous tone. "The khahan needs good advisors, not bad ones. If he is not careful, Yamun may forget the Tuigan way. Then, General Chanar, what will happen to us? Come into my tent," Bayalun cooed as she stepped through the doorway. "I think we should talk more."

With a cold, friendless smile, Chanar stooped and stepped inside. The tent flap silently fell back into place.

5

The Valiant Men

"Come, Koja," Yamun bellowed, "sit here beside me!"

Under the night sky, Yamun sat in half-darkness, illuminated by the flickering flames of a large, foul-smelling fire. Thick smoke from the burning dung drifted lazily into the chill, star-studded sky. Koja wrapped the sheepskin coat around himself and walked into the ring of light that marked Yamun's campfire.

The feast celebrating Chanar's return had already begun by the time Koja arrived. It was now late in the evening. The sky was black, and the moon was three-quarters full. Tonight it shone with a reddish hue, dimly illuminating the landscape, casting thick sepia shadows over everything. Behind the moon trailed the string of sparkling lights. Tuigan tales said these were the nine old suitors scorned by Becal, the moon. According to the story, she in turn pursued Tengris, the sun.

The celebration was no small affair. In the walk to the top of the hill where Yamun's yurt stood, Koja passed a dozen or more fires. Around each was a circle of men, eating and drinking. At several fires the soldiers sang wailing, obscene songs. At one, two squat burly men were stripped to the waist, arms locked around each other as they wrestled in the dirt. Their companions roared and shouted out bets. More than a few troopers had already drunk themselves into a stupor and now lay around the fires, snoring in sotted bursts. Koja hurried past these fires.

During his hike, Koja noticed a change in the quality of the men. Near the base of the hill were men who carried iron paitzas, the lowest pass issued by the khahan. Koja knew because he recognized a few of the men as commanders of a jagun of one hundred soldiers. Serving as the khahan's scribe, the Khazari had seen these men in audiences before Yamun. Also around these fires were common dayguards, now off duty. The dayguard troopers were the least important of Yamun's elite bodyguard, but they still had greater status than the rest of Yamun's army.

At the next ring were lesser noyans, commanders of minghans of one thousand soldiers. Koja did not recognize most of these men, but guessed their rank by their talk. The priest acknowledged the greetings of the few he had met.

At the innermost circle, clustered around Yamun's fire, were the greater noyans, the commanders of the tumens of ten thousand men. All of these men were khans of the various tribes, important in their own right.

Occasionally one would leave his fire and slowly approach the center, where the khahan sat. However, even the khans took care not to alarm the nightguards who stood around Yamun's camp.

"Come and sit, Koja," Yamun repeated to the priest, who still stood at the edge of the firelight. "You'll be my guest." He waved to an empty space on his left. A quiverbearer quickly rolled out a rug and set up a stool for Koja.

The priest glanced about furtively, looking for Chanar. This feast was in the general's honor, and Koja didn't want to accidentally insult the man. Chanar was already irritated enough as it was.

Koja couldn't spot the general among the faces around the fire. Several of Yamun's wives, old Goyuk, and another khan Koja couldn't identify sat close to the khahan. An iron pot hung from a tripod over the fire, simmering with the rich smell of cooking meat. Several leather bags, undoubtedly kumiss and wine, sat on the ground next to the revelers.

"Sit!" insisted Yamun, his speech slightly slurred. "Wine! Bring the historian wine." The khahan tore at a clublike shank of boiled meat.

"Where is General Chanar?" Koja asked, pulling his shearling coat out of the way as he sat down. He had traded a nightguard an ivory-hilted dagger for the coat and then spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the lice and vermin out of it. Now, it was tolerably clean and kept him quite warm.

Yamun didn't answer Koja's question, choosing instead to talk to one of his pretty wives. "General Chanar, where is he?" Koja asked again.

Yamun looked up from his dalliance. "Out," he answered, waving a hand toward the fires. "Out to see his men."

"He has left the feast?" the priest asked, confused.

"No, no. He went to the other fires to see his commanders. He'll be back."

Yamun swallowed down another ladle of kumiss. "Historian," he said sternly, turning away from his wife, "you weren't here when the feasting began. Where were you?"

"I had many things to do, Khahan. As historian, I must take time to write. I am sorry I am late," Koja lied. In truth he had spent the time praying to Furo for guidance and power, hoping to find a way to send his letters to Prince Ogandi.

"Then you have not eaten. Bring him a bowl," the khahan commanded to a waiting quiverbearer.

A servant appeared with a wine goblet and a silver bowl for Koja, filling the latter from the steaming kettle over the fire. The pot held chunks of boiled meat, rich with the smell of game, swimming in a greasy broth. A second servant offered a platter covered with thick slabs of a sliced sausage. Koja sniffed at it suspiciously. Aware that Yamun was watching him, he chose one of the smallest slices. At least Furo was not particular about what his priests ate, Koja thought.

Closing his eyes, the priest took a bite of the sausage. He had no idea what the meat was, but it tasted good. Fishing into his coat, he pulled out an ivory-handled knife, mate to the one that bought him the coat, and poked the meat around in the bowl, stabbing out a large chunk of gristly flesh. The meat was hot and burned his lip. Koja took a quick swallow of wine to cool his mouth.

"The food is good," Koja complimented his host.

Yamun smiled. "Antelope."

"Lord Yamun kill it on the hunt today," one of the khans said from the other side of the fire. It was Yamun's advisor, Goyuk. The old man smiled toothlessly, his eyes nearly squeezed shut by wrinkles. "He only need one arrow. Teylas make his aim good."

There was an impressed murmur from the others around the fire.

"Goyuk Khan lost most his teeth at the battle of Big Hat Mountain, fighting the Zamogedi," Yamun explained. The old man nodded and smiled a broad, completely toothless smile.

"That is true," Goyuk confirmed, beaming. Toothlessness and strong drink gave his speech the chanting drone of a soothsayer or shaman.

"What is the sausage made of?" Koja asked, holding up a piece.

"Horsemeat," Yamun answered matter-of-factly.

Koja looked at the piece of sausage he held with a whole new perspective.

"My khahan! I have returned!" a voice called out of the darkness. Chanar, still dressed in the clothes he wore that morning, lurched into the camp. He had a skin tucked under one arm, dribbling kumiss across the ground. He held a cup in the other. As Chanar got close to the fire, he stopped and stared at Yamun and Koja.

"You are welcome at my fire," Yamun said in greeting as he sipped on his own cup of kumiss.

Chanar stood where he was. "Where is my seat? He has taken my seat."

The general pointed at Koja.

"Sit," Yamun ordered firmly, "and be quiet." A servant unrolled a rug on the opposite side of the fire from the khahan and set out a stool.

Slowly, without taking his eyes off Yamun, Chanar slopped more kumiss from his skin. He let the bag drop to the ground and slowly drained the cup.

Satisfied, he stepped to the seat put out for him and sat down with a grunt. He glowered at Yamun from across the fire.

Koja was uncertain if he should break the silence. As he sat there, he could feel the anger forming and solidifying between the two men. The women disappeared, slipping from their seats and fading into the night.

"Khahan," the priest finally said, "you made me your historian." Koja's mouth went dry and his palms began to sweat. "How can I be your historian if I don't know your history?"

For a moment Yamun didn't answer. Then he spoke slowly. "You're right, historian." He turned his gaze from Chanar. "You've not been with me from the beginning."

"So, how can I write a proper history?" Koja pressed, diverting Yamun's attention from the general.

The question seized hold of Yamun's mind, and he mulled it over. Koja quickly glanced at Chanar. The man was still staring at Yamun. Finally, the honored general's eyes flicked toward Koja and then back to the khahan. The priest could feel the tension begin to ebb as both men's thoughts were diverted.

"What should you know?" Yamun wondered aloud. His fingers began to toy with his mustache as he considered the question.

"I do not know, Yamun. Perhaps how you became khahan," Koja suggested.

"That is no story," Yamun declared. "I became khahan because my family is the Hoekun and we were strong. Only the strong are chosen to be khahan."

"One from your family has always been the khahan?" Koja asked.

"Yes, but I'm the first khahan of the Tuigan in many generations. For a long time the Tuigan weren't a nation, only many tribes who fought each other."

"Then how did this come about?" Koja spread his hands to indicate the city of Quaraband.

"I built this in the last year—after the last of the tribes submitted to my will."

Yamun explained offhandedly. "But that's not my story."

The khahan paused and sucked at his teeth. Finally, Yamun began his tale.

"When I was in my seventeenth summer, my father, the yeke-noyan, died—"

"Great pardons, Yamun, but I do not understand yeke-noyan" Koja interrupted.

"It means 'great chieftain,' " Yamun replied. "When a khan dies, it is forbidden to use his name. This is how we show respect to our ancestors.

Now, I'll tell my story."

Koja remembered that Bayalun had no such fear for she had named Burekai freely. The Khazari bit his lip to restrain his natural curiosity and just listen.

"When I was younger, my father, the yeke-noyan, arranged a marriage for me," continued Yamun. "Abatai, khan of the Commani, was anda to my father.

Abatai promised his daughter to be my wife when I came of age. But when the yeke-noyan died, Abatai refused to honor the oath given to his anda." Yamun stabbed out a large chunk of antelope and dropped it into his bowl.

Across the fire, old Goyuk mumbled, "This Abatai was not good."

Yamun slid back from the fire and took up the tale again. "The daughter of Abatai was promised to me, so I decided to take her. I raised my nine-tailed banner and called my seven valiant men to my side." The khahan stopped to catch his breath. "We rode along the banks of the Rusj River and near Mount Bogdo we found the tents of the Commani.

"That night a great storm came. The Naican were afraid. My seven valiant men were afraid. The ground shook with Teylas's voice, and the Lord of the Sky spoke to me." The khans at the fire glanced up at the night sky when Yamun mentioned the god's name, as if expecting some kind of divine response. "The storm kept the Commani men in their tents, and they did not find us hidden behind Mount Bogdo.

"In the morning, To'orl of the right wing attacked. My seven valiant men attacked, too. We overturned the Commani's tents and carried off their women. I claimed the daughter of Abatai, and she became my first empress."

Yamun stabbed the meat in his bowl and took a bite. Steam still rose from the boiled antelope.

Koja looked at the faces around the fire. Chanar sat with his eyes closed.

The other two khans listened with rapt attention. Even the boisterous singing that had started at one of the nearby feast-fires didn't distract them. Yamun himself was excited by his own telling, his eyes aglow with the glories of olden days.

"Now that I defeated the Commani people, I scattered them among the Hoekun and the Naican," the khahan added as a postscript, between bites of antelope. "To To'orl of the Naican I gave five hundred to be slaves for him and his grandchildren. To my seven valiant men, I gave one hundred each to be slaves. I also gave To'orl the Great Yurt and golden drinking cups of Abatai.

"That's how I first made the Hoekun strong and how I got my first empress,"

Yamun said as he finished the story.

Chanar opened his eyes as the recitation ended. The khans smiled in approval at the telling of the tale.

"What happened to the first empress?" Koja asked.

"She died bearing Hubadai, many winters ago."

Koja wondered if there was a trace of sorrow in the words.

"And what happened to Abatai, khan of the Commani?" Koja asked to change the subject.

"I killed him." Yamun paused, then called to a quiverbearer. "Bring Abatai's cup," he told the man. The servant went to the royal yurt. He came back carrying a package the size of a melon, wrapped in red silk, and handed it to Yamun. The khahan unwrapped it. There, nestled in the cloth, was a human skull. The top had been sliced away, and a silver cup was set in the recess.

"This was Abatai," Yamun said, holding it out for Koja to see.

The hollow eyes of the skull stared at Koja. Suddenly they flashed with a burning white light. Koja jumped back in surprise, almost toppling off his stool.

The bowl of meat and broth in his lap splashed to the ground. "The eyes, they—"

The eyes flashed again, the light flickering and leaping. Koja looked at the skull more closely and realized he was seeing the reflection off the silver bowl through the hollow eye sockets.

"What's wrong, little priest, did you read your future in the bones?" Chanar quipped from across the fire. The old khan, Goyuk, guffawed at the joke. Even Yamun found Koja's reaction amusing.

"He's dead and what's dead can't hurt us," Yamun said with conviction. He turned to Chanar. "Koja is filled with the might of his god, but fears bones.

True warriors don't fear spirits."

Koja flushed with embarrassment at his own foolishness.

"We must drink to the honor of the khahan," Chanar announced, hauling himself to his feet. He stepped around the fire and stopped in front of Koja.

Uncorking his skin of kumiss, he splashed the heady drink into the skull cup.

He took the skull from Yamun and handed it to Koja. Unwillingly, the priest took it in his hands.

"Ai!" Chanar cried, the signal to drink. He tipped his head back and drank from the skin.

"Ai," echoed Yamun and the khans. They raised their cups and took long swallows.

Koja looked at the skull cup in his hands. The eyes were still staring at him, and the brain recess was filled with a milky pool of kumiss. He turned the cup so it wasn't facing him.

"Drink, little priest," urged Chanar, wiping his mustache on his sleeve, "or do you think the khahan has no honor?"

Yamun looked at Koja, noting that the lama had not joined in the toast. His brow furrowed in vexation with his newly chosen historian. "You don't drink?"

Koja took a great breath and hoisted the skull up to his lips. He closed his eyes and gulped a draught of the wretched drink. Quickly, before they could urge him to take another swallow, the priest held the skull out to Chanar.

"Drink to the khahan's might," Koja gasped.

"Ai," called out the khans, refilling their cups.

Chanar grinned at the look of distress that flickered over the priest's face.

He took the offered cup and drained it in a single gulp. Taking the skull with one hand, he filled it again with kumiss and handed it back to Koja. "Drink to the khahan's health," he said with a wicked smile.

Koja choked.

"Ai," slurred out the khans. The toasts were starting to take their toll.

"Enough," interrupted Yamun, pushing the drinking skull away from Koja.

"My health doesn't need toasting. I've told a story, now it's someone else's turn." He looked pointedly at Koja.

"I've a story to tell," Chanar snapped, before Koja could speak up. "It's a good story, and it's all true." He stepped back to give himself more space, kicking up the ashes at the edge of the fire.

Yamun turned to Chanar. "Well, what is it?" he asked, barely keeping his irritation under control.

"Great khahan, the priest knows how you beat the Commani with the help of the Naican and your seven valiant men. Now I'll tell of what happened to one of those seven valiant men." Chanar dropped the skin of kumiss and stepped away from the fire.

"Yes, tell us," urged the toothless Goyuk Khan.

Koja looked at Yamun before he voiced his own opinion. The khahan was impassive. Koja couldn't tell if he was displeased or bored, so he kept his own mouth shut.

"After the khan—the khahan—," began Chanar in a loud voice, "defeated the Commani, he gave them to his companions, like he told us. He told his seven valiant men to gather the remaining men, young and old, of the Commani. 'Measure all the men by the tongue of a cart, and kill all those who can't walk under it,' the khahan ordered."

"Measure all the men by a cart," Koja asked meekly. "What does that mean?"

"Any male who cannot walk under the hitch of an oxcart is killed. Only the little boys are spared," Chanar answered curtly. "We killed all the men of the Commani, like the khan ordered. He wasn't the khahan yet, you understand."

Chanar circled around the fire, pacing as he spoke. "So, we killed the men.

"Then the khan gave out the women and children to us, because he was pleased with his warriors. He went to the seven valiant men and said, 'You and I are brothers of the liver. We've been anda since we were young.

Continue to serve me faithfully and I'll give you great rewards.' He said this. I heard it said." Chanar kicked an ember at the edge of the fire back into the flames.

"The valiant men were pleased by these words." Chanar paused, looking at Yamun. "There's more to the story, but perhaps the khahan doesn't want to hear it."

"Tell your story," insisted Yamun.

Chanar nodded to the khahan. "There isn't much more to tell. Perhaps you know the tale. One of the valiant men told the khan, 'We are anda, brothers of the liver. I will stand at your side.' And I heard the khahan promise, saying,

'You are of my liver and will be my right hand forever.' When the khan went to war, this valiant man was his right hand. With his right hand, the khan conquered the Quirish and gathered the scattered people of the Tuigan—the Basymats and the Jamaqua. His right hand was strong."

Chanar's story became more impassioned. He stomped about the fire, slapping his chest to emphasize his points. "I never failed or retreated. I went with the khan against the Zamogedi when only nine returned. I fought as his rear guard, protecting him from the Zamogedi. I took the khan to the ordu of my family and sheltered him. I strengthened the khan when he returned to the Zamogedi to take his revenge. Together we beat them—killing their men and enslaving their women and children.

"All this because I was his anda. When the Khassidi surrendered to me, offering gifts of gold and silk, weren't those gifts sent to the khahan? 'These things that are given are the khahan's to give.' Isn't that the law?" Chanar faced the other khans at the fire, directing his questions to them, not Yamun or the priest.

"Is true, Great Prince," mumbled Goyuk to Yamun, his toothless speech made worse by drink. "He sent it all to you."

Satisfied with Goyuk's answer, the general turned to face the lama.

"But now," Chanar growled, narrowing his eyes at Koja, "the valiant man no longer has gifts to send and another sits at his anda's right hand. And that's how the story ends." The general turned from the priest, stalked back to his stool, and sprawled there, satisfied that his point had been made.

With a sharp hiss, Yamun stood and took a step toward Chanar, who watched him like a cat. The khahan's fists were clenched tightly, and his body swayed with tension.

"This is no good," Goyuk said softly, laying his hand on Yamun's arm.

"Chanar is your guest."

Yamun stopped, listening to the truth in Goyuk's words. Koja quietly slid his stool away from the khahan, fearful of what might happen next. The singing from the other fires started up again.

"Nightguards!" snarled Yamun. "Come with me. I'm going to visit the other fires." With that he wheeled and strode off into the darkness. The guards streamed past, and the quiverbearers followed after, carrying food and drink for the khahan no matter where he stopped.

Those around the fire watched the entourage wend down the hillside. Koja sat quietly, suddenly feeling himself among enemies.

"This is a dangerous game you play, Prince Chanar," observed Goyuk, leaning over to speak softly in Chanar's ear.

"He can't kill me," Chanar confidently replied as he watched Yamun march down the hill. "The Khassidi and many others would go back to their ordus if he did."

"Is true, you are well loved, but Yamun is the khahan," the old man cautioned.

Chanar dismissed Goyuk's comments with a gulp of kumiss. As he drank down the cup, he once again saw Koja on the other side of the fire.

"Priest!" he hissed at the lama. "Yamun trusts you. Well, I am his anda! You are a foreigner, an outsider." The general leaned forward until his face was almost in the flames. "And if you betray the Tuigan, I'll have great fun hunting you down. Do you know how a traitor is killed? We crush the breath out of him under a plank piled with heavy stones. It's a slow and painful death."

Koja paled.

"Remember it and remember me," Chanar warned. With those words, he threw the rest of the kumiss on the fire and stood. "I must go to my men," he told Goyuk Khan, ignoring Koja's presence. The old khan nodded, and Chanar walked off into the darkness.

The rest of the evening seemed to pass quickly and slowly all at once. At first Koja was content to sit near the fire, keeping away the increasing chill of the frosty night air. The servants kept refilling his golden goblet, having long since taken the skull away. The old khan, Goyuk, seeing that the priest wasn't going anywhere, began to talk incessantly. Koja only understood about half of what the codger said, but smiled and nodded politely nonetheless. The khan talked about his ordu, his horses, the great battles he had fought in, and how a horse had kicked out his teeth. At least, that is what Koja thought he was discussing. As the night went on, Goyuk's speech became increasingly unintelligible.

Several times, Koja tried to get up and leave. Each effort brought a storm of protest from Goyuk. "This story is just getting good," he would insist and then demand more wine for the priest. Eventually, Koja wasn't even sure his legs would work if he did manage to get away.

At last, the kumiss and wine had their effect. The old man nodded off in midsentence, then snapped back awake and rambled on for a while longer.

Finally, Goyuk bedded down, moving the stool out of the way and wrapping the rug around himself. Koja, too tired to walk back to his yurt, followed custom, rolling the thick felt rug tightly around himself. Within a few minutes he was sound asleep.

Down the slope, a hooded servant slipped among the fires, seeking out one man. At each circle he stopped, standing in the shadows, staring at the faces.

Finally, at one fire, where the drinking was the most riotous, the servant found the man whom he sought. Moving through the darkness, he sidled up closer to his goal. The revelers were too involved with their drink to notice him.

Softly, he leaned up and whispered in the ear of his man.

"The khadun, Lady Bayalun, hears that you have been wronged this night,"

he hissed. '"Is Chanar to let himself be usurped by a stranger?' she asks."

"Eh? What do you say?" the drunken General Chanar blurted in surprise.

"Shhh. Quietly! She fears you fall from Yamun's favor—"

Chanar moved to speak, but the messenger quickly pressed his hand on the general's shoulder. "This is not the place to talk. The khadun opens her tent to you, if you will come."

"Hmm... when?" Chanar asked, trying to look at the man without turning his head.

"Tonight, while the eyes of others are occupied." The messenger waited, letting Chanar make his decision.

"Tell her I'll come," Chanar finally whispered. Without another word, the messenger faded back into the darkness.

The campfires had burned down to lifeless ashes, and only thick plumes of smoke rose up into the blackness of night. Koja found himself sitting up, shivering in the cold, rugs and robes fallen off his back. It didn't strike him as odd that he could see the sleeping forms of men, the empty yurts flapping in the breeze, even in perfect darkness. They were just grayer forms against the black plain.

There was a clink of rock against rock behind him and then a soft wet scrape of mud on stone. Wheeling around, he was confronted by a man in yellow and orange robes, hunched over so his face could not be seen. The man's hands were doing something, something that matched the sounds of stone against stone.

"Who—," Koja started to blurt out.

The man looked up and stopped Koja in midsentence. It was his old master from the temple, his bald head lined with age. The master smiled and nodded to the priest and then went back to his work, building a wall. With a scrape, the master dragged a trowel across the stone's top, spreading a thick layer of mortar.

Koja slowly turned around. The men, fires, and yurts were gone. A low wall encircled him, trapping him beside the campfire. Turning back, Koja watched his master lift a square block and set it in place atop the fresh mortar.

"Master, what are you doing!" Koja could feel a growing panic inside himself.

"All our lives we struggle to be free of walls," intoned the master, never once stopping his work. "All our lives we build stronger walls." With a scrape and heavy thud, another stone was set in place. "Know, young student, of the walls you build—and who they belong to."

Suddenly the wall was finished, towering over Koja. The master was gone.

Koja heaved to his feet and whirled about, looking for his mentor. There, in front of him, was a banner set in the ground. From its top hung nine black horsetails—the khahan's banner. He turned the other way. There was another, with nine white yak tails—the khadun's banner. Stumbling backward, he tripped and fell against another—a golden disk hung with silken streamers of yellow and red-Prince Ogandi's banner. Panicked, Koja fell to the ground and closed his eyes.

A sound of heavy breathing, and a blast of steam across Koja's face forced him to look again. The banners were gone, and the wall that circled him shivered and moved. It became a great beast, black and shimmering. A pair of eyes, inhuman and cold, stared down at him.

"Are you the khahan of the barbarians?" the beast boomed.

"No," answered Koja in a weak whisper.

The eyes blinked. "Ah. Then you are with him," it decided. "That is good.

Finally, it is time." The eyes glowed brighter. Fearful, Koja looked away from the baleful gleam. There was a rushing of wind and then the shape was gone.

Looking up, the priest saw his master again. "Be careful, Koja, of the walls you build," the old lama called out. The master faded, growing dimmer to Koja's sight, until there was nothing but the dull gray horizon. Then there was nothing at all.

The priest woke slowly, dimly remembering the voices from his sleep. A sharp tang welled up at the base of his skull, tingling the stubble of his neck hair. Involuntarily, the thin priest inhaled deeply. Suddenly, he was wide awake, sneezing and gagging, his nostrils filled with the smoke of burning manure. He flailed about, then opened his eyes. Thick wads of stinging smoke assailed him. Koja crawled out of his rug and into clear air.

"It is a good day," a wavering voice somewhere to Koja's left said.

Stil blinking, the priest looked toward the voice. He could hardly see the speaker because the dawn sun blazed behind the man's shoulder. Koja shielded his eyes from the orange-red glow with one hand and rubbed away the last of his tears with the other. Sitting next to the thickly smoking campfire was the ancient Goyuk Khan, poking at the coals with a stick. He looked back at Koja and smiled one of his broad, toothless grins.

Koja weakly smiled back. His head felt thick from drink and pained from his sudden awakening. His mouth was gummy. The years among the lamas had not prepared him for a night of feasting with the Tuigan.

"Is time to eat," Goyuk said. He didn't look the least bit haggard from the celebration. Poking the fire again, Goyuk fished out an ash-covered lump, bits of burning coals still clinging to it. Picking it up carefully, he brushed the embers away with his dirty fingers and held it out to Koja.

Koja looked at it dubiously, knowing full well that he had to take it or offend the old khan. It looked like a scrap of the horsemeat sausage, roasted in the fire. He gingerly took it, juggling it between his hands to avoid burning his fingers.

"Eat," urged the khan, "is good."

"Thank you," said Koja with a forced smile. He ate it down quickly, doing his best not to taste the meat. Breakfast finished, Koja struggled to his feet to look for water. The sun had barely risen over the horizon, but already men were about. The guards were changing, the dayguards replacing the nightguards. Quiverbearers and household slaves were going from yurt to yurt, preparing for the morning.

Not everyone was awake, however. Koja weaved through the sleepers clustered around the feast-fires. Most of the revelers were still snoring blissfully, unusual for the Tuigan camp, which was normally bustling by this hour. Some were wrapped in their blankets and rugs, curled closely around small mounds of smoldering embers. However, more than a few were sprawled haphazardly over the ground, their kalats pulled up tight around them. Koja guessed many of them slept on the same spots where they had passed out the night before.

After much futile searching, Koja finally collared a servant carrying a bucket of water. Scooping it up with his hands, he gulped down a mouthful. Though cold enough to numb his fingers, the priest splashed the water over his face and head, vigorously rubbing his skin to clear his brain.

One of Yamun's quiverbearers presented himself to Koja. "The Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, Yamun Khahan, sends me to ask why his historian is not in attendance at the yurt of his lord." The servant remained kneeling before the lama.

Koja looked at the man in surprise. He hadn't expected the khahan to conduct business so early this morning. Furthermore, the priest didn't realize his presence would be needed so constantly. "Take me to his yurt," he ordered.

Obediently, the servant led Koja through the clutter around the feast-fires.

Reaching the tent, the man announced Koja's arrival. The priest was quickly ushered inside.

This morning the yurt was arranged differently. Yamun's throne was gone, and the braziers had been moved to the sides of the tent. The flap covering the smoke hole was opened wide, as was the door, allowing rays of sunlight to dazzle the normally gloomy interior. In the center of the yurt, in a shaft of sunlight, sat a circle of men. Yamun was bareheaded, his conical hat set aside. The light gleamed off his tonsure and brought out the red color of his hair. He still wore the heavy sable coat he had worm the night before, though now it was mud-stained and smudged with soot. The other men had likewise removed their hats, making a ring of shining bald domes in the center of the yurt. Koja was reminded of the masters of his temple, although they didn't sport the long side braids favored by these warriors.

"Historian, you'll sit here," called out Yamun as the lama entered. He slapped his hand on the rug just behind himself.

Koja walked around the circle and took his seat. Chanar, bleary-eyed from the night's festivities, sat on one side of Yamun. Goyuk sat on the other.

There were three others wearing golden cloths and embroidered silks, signs that they were powerful khans, but Koja did not recognize them. Their rich clothes were travel-stained and rumpled. At the farthest end of the circle, sitting slightly away from the rest, was a common trooper. His clothes, a simple blue kalat and brown trousers, were filthy with mud and grime. He stank powerfully, Koja noticed as he walked by.

The khans glanced toward Koja as he sat. Goyuk smiled another of his gaping smiles. A look of displeasure sparked in Chanar's eyes. Yamun leaned forward, drawing their attention to the sheet spread out in front of them.

It was a crude map, something which surprised Koja. He hadn't seen any maps since arriving, and he had assumed the Tuigan had no knowledge of cartography. Here was another surprise about his hosts. The lama craned his neck, trying to get a view of the sheet.

"Semphar is here," Yamun said, continuing a conversation begun before the priest entered. He thrust a stubby finger at one corner of the sheet.

"Hubadai waits with his army at foot of Fergana Pass." He traced his finger across the map to a point closer to the center. "We're here."

"And where is Jad?" asked one of the khans Koja didn't know.

"At the Orkhon Oasis—there." Yamun pointed to the far side of the map.

The priest strained even harder to see where Yamun was indicating. All he could make out was a blurry area of lines and scribbles.

"And Tomke?" the same khan asked. He was a wolf-faced man with high, sharp cheekbones, a narrow nose, and pointed chin. His graying hair was well greased and bound in three braids, one on each side of his head and a third at the back.

"He stays in the north to gather his men. I'm going to hold him in reserve,"

Yamun explained. There was a grunt of general understanding from the men listening. They studied the map for a few minutes, learning the dispositions of the armies.

"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 half-hearted 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 wil 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."

"That's when you and Chanar became anda?" Koja ventured.

"No, that was later. Chanar didn't like me then. He was afraid his father loved me more. He was right." Yamun stopped talking and spat out a mouthful of dust. Unfastening a golden flask that hung on his saddle, he swallowed a mouthful of mare's milk.

Koja realized that his own mouth was thick and dry. Still, he didn't care to try the milk brew Hodj had prepared, and the tea was all gone. Taking the long cowl of his robe, he wrapped it over his mouth and nose, screening out some of the thick dust.

"Taidju swore to help and gave me warriors from his own people. We went back to the tents of my father. One day he was riding with some of his men and I found him. He wouldn't listen to me, so we fought. I couldn't shed his blood."

"Why not?" Koja's voice was muffled.

"The yeke-noyan was royal blood. Shedding his blood would be a bad omen," Yamun explained as if he was talking to a child.

"What happened?" Koja scratched at the top of his head, paying close attention to the words.

"I seized my father as he galloped by, and we fell to the ground and wrestled. I had to break his neck so I wouldn't spill his blood. After he was dead, I went to the Hoekun ordu with Taidju's people and declared myself the khan." Yamun unconsciously mimed the actions as he spoke.

"If Mother Bayalun created all the trouble, why did you marry her?" Koja asked. His horse became restless, so he gripped the reins tighter.

"Politics. Custom. She was powerful." Yamun shrugged his shoulders.

"Mother Bayalun has the respect of the wizards and shamans. Through her they are protected. I could not have her turning them against me. Besides, she realized that I was meant to be khahan."

"So why does she stay in your ordu?"

Exasperated, Yamun snapped, "Why, why, why. You ask too many questions. Which snake is better, the one in your talons or the one in the grass?" With that, the warlord wheeled his horse toward Goyuk and called out, "What've the scouts seen?"

Koja rode the rest of the day without seeing the khahan. He worried that he had offended Yamun, so he tried to occupy his mind by watching the surroundings. The land was slowly changing. The gently broken steppe was giving way to steeper, harsher hills. Small gorges cut through the dry and rocky ground. Outcroppings of sandstone jutted through the surface in heavily eroded heaps. Snow drifted into the hollows. There were fewer patches of grass and more scrubby brush, but it was probably only the result of twenty thousand horses passing through the countryside.

That night, the army divided into a number of smaller camps. Koja left Hodj to set out the rugs for another night under the stars. The priest walked toward Yamun's oxcart, brushing the dust from his clothes.

"Greetings, Khahan," the priest hesitantly called to Yamun. Sweat-caked dust clung to the ruler's silken clothes. Grime coated his face. Yamun unceremoniously scooped a ladle of kumiss from a leather bucket and guzzled it down.

"Food!" he ordered, wiping the kumiss from his mustache with his sleeve.

He scooped up another ladle of the drink. "You don't sleep, priest?"

"No, Lord Yamun," Koja said softly. "I waited to speak with you."

"Then get on with it," Yamun said gruffly. "I want to sleep." He filled the ladle once more.

"I ask to be your envoy to the prince of Khazari." He spoke in a quick monotone, trying to keep himself from panicking.

"Eh?" Yamun stopped in midswallow, looking sharply at Koja over the top of the ladle.

The priest straightened his robes and stood up a little straighten "I want to be your envoy to the Khazari."

"You? You are Khazari," he sputtered in surprise.

"Khahan, I know it is unusual," Koja hurriedly continued, shifting uneasily on his toes. "But I know my people, and I have learned much about the Tuigan. I am sure I can make them—"

"Yes, yes, that's fine," Yamun said. "Still, these are your people. How do I know you won't betray me?"

"I owe you a life," Koja answered simply.

"What is the truth?" The khahan probed. "Not your rationale—the truth."

Koja sucked in his breath. "Because I want to save Khazari," he blurted. "If you conquer, what will you do with the country? You have not made plans.

You know how to conquer, but can you rule?" Koja clamped his jaws tight, waiting for Yamun's outburst.

The khahan slowly returned the ladle to its bag. He paused by the kumiss sack, staring past Koja. Finally, he slapped his knout against the leather bag.

"I'll think about it," he announced at last, his voice cold and unfriendly.

"Now I am going to sleep. We ride early in the morning."

"By your word, it shall be done," Koja said with a trembling voice as he made a low bow. The khahan had already turned away, his heavy coat flapping around his bowed legs.

The next day's ride was uneventful, even tedious for the priest. It seemed like a constant battle against minor irritations—biting flies, hunger, and thirst.

Dust, churned up by thousands of horses, settled into everything. To Koja it seemed that his robes crackled with the stuff. Dust coated his scalp, which now bristled and itched with a stubby growth of hair; it caked on his eyelids and lined his throat. The hot afternoon sun raised tiny drops of sweat that ran like mud down his arms. All afternoon his horse thudded along in a monotonous, pounding rhythm.

With the evening came a welcome relief from the jolting, bone-breaking ride. Koja gladly turned his horse, a gray and yellow pony with an unmanageable urge to bite, over to Hodj for the night. The lama had taken to calling the horse Cham Loc, after an evil spirit who fought the mighty Furo.

Relieved of his mount, the priest decided to walk out the cramps in his muscles.

The army had camped in a bowl-shaped depression, where several streams flowed in together. Koja climbed to the top of a small sandstone promontory on the edge of a steep hill. His guards scrambled along behind him.

On the overlook, the lama sat watching the sunset, a bril iant band of red-orange topped by a sapphire-blue sky. Koja was reminded of another time, when, as a child, he sat at the edge of a towering cliff and watched the long shadows of the mountains fill his valley below.

From his vantage, Koja could see the entire campsite spread out before him. The fires clustered into small knots spaced almost evenly across the floor. In between them were occasional clumps of moving darkness, only a small part of the thousands of horses set out to graze for the night.

"Each fire is a jagun," explained one of the guards, pointing toward the shimmering lights.

Koja looked out over the plain with a greater appreciation for the size of the army. He guessed there were a thousand, perhaps several thousand fires dotting the entire valley floor. Absentmindedly he began counting the lights of the jaguns.

"We must go now," interrupted one of his guards, "before it gets too dark."

The sun had slid almost out of sight. It cast so little light that Koja could barely see his black-robed guards.

The priest climbed down from the rock, heeding the suggestion. Quietly, he made for the fires of Yamun's camp. The guards hurried after him, carefully staying as close as was their duty but no closer. As they approached Yamun's fire, the guards stopped as they always did. Koja went the rest of the way alone.

Tonight, there was a small group around Yamun's fire, just the khahan and a few of the noyans. A kaychi, a singer of stories, was sitting cross-legged near the fire. He was a young man, smooth-faced with rounded features and a carefully groomed mustache and goatee. Across his lap lay a small two-stringed violin, his khuur.

"Are you at peace?" asked Yamun when Koja was within easy speaking distance. It was a standard greeting that needed no answer. "Sit."

Koja took the seat offered him and accepted a cup of wine a quiverbearer poured. The storyteller struck the first note on his instrument and then put his bow to it, beginning his tale. He sawed at his khuur madly as he sang. His voice leaped from high, quavering notes to hoarse growlings.

In a moment between the kaychi's songs, Koja turned to Yamun. "Khahan, although I spoke rashly yesterday, I ask you to consider my request." The priest spoke softly, so only the khahan could hear.

Yamun grunted. "In time, priest, in time. I need to think about it. You'll know in time." The khahan pointed to the kaychi, commanding the man to wait.

The singer set aside his instrument. Yamun stood and raised his kumiss ladle to the other khans. "Our friendship has been raised."

The khans around the fire raised their ladles and repeated the toast. That finished, they got to their feet, stopping long enough to kneel to the khahan.

Koja rose and, after a moment's hesitation, knelt too. Before the khahan could call him back, he hurried away. Returning to his own camp, Koja crawled into the rugs and furs Hodj had laid out. Within seconds of lying down, the priest was sound asleep.

When he opened his eyes, Koja was once again on the hilltop overlooking the valley, watching the sun set over the army. The colors were splendid, more intense than he had ever seen them before. The troops formed a black, seething mass, arching and humping over the ground. The men fused and joined into a single being, a freakish thousand-legged centipede, then a dragon that coiled around and bit at itself. The fires flared up, becoming the pinpoints of its eyes. Soundlessly, it writhed and shuddered toward him. Arms, hands, and horses' heads heaved out of the mass and fell back. Koja looked down at his hands, held out in front of him. They were covered with huge droplets of sweat. He suddenly felt fear, a fear that locked every joint in his body.

"It is good to see you, clever Koja," said an emotionless voice behind him.

The fear was suddenly gone, and the priest automatically turned toward the speaker. His guards stood at the base of the rock, upright and unmoving. Beyond them, standing on the slope, was his old master. Wrinkles lined the high lama's eyes but his face was bright and clear, not ravaged by age. He was dressed in the formal vestments used on the festival days—yellow, flowing robes with a red sash over one shoulder, a white pointed cone with flaring earpieces for a hat.

"It has been some time since I saw you, Koja," the old man said.

"Greetings."

"Why, master—"

"Quiet, Koja," the old master said softly, cutting the younger man off. "Soon you must face the walls you have built, walls stronger than stone. There are secrets in walls, buried deep beneath them. Learn the secrets of your walls."

Koja came forward to grasp his teacher's hand, but the distance between them never closed. The young priest opened his mouth to speak, but the older lama droned on in a curious monotone, now suddenly a voice not his own.

"Your lord is called by one more powerful than he. This spirit that calls him seeks aid. Before you can do your part, your lord will fear you are against him.

Be ready to prove yourself." The figure turned to go.

"What? Which lord? Who? Which lord? Wait! Do not leave! Tell me what I should do!" Koja shouted toward the fading figure.

The old lama didn't answer. He only disappeared into the distance of the steppe. Just as quickly as Koja's old master came, he was gone. "The one who calls waits behind you." The master's voice came drifting out of the darkness.

Koja sat alone, staring into the ebbing light. Behind him, he could sense the creature, clawing and scrabbling its way up the hill. Its grasping hands were getting nearer, reaching for him. He wanted to turn but knew he couldn't. The fear that locked his joints had returned.

The thing had reached the top of the rock. Koja could not hear it or see it, but it was there, reaching for him. Sweat poured down his face, dripped off his fingers. Something cold and reptilian lightly brushed his shoulder.

Koja jerked awake and sat bolt upright. Hodj leaped back, terrified at the effect his simple touch had had on his master. The priest was wild-eyed and panting, his robes soaked in sweat.

Hodj stared at his master, then turned back to his work with a slight shrug.

Without comment the servant brewed tea and set a cup before the priest. He then began to prepare fresh bags of churned curd. By the time Koja finished his tea, Hodj had the horses ready for the day's ride.

That day the army marched hard. The normal pattern of riding, then grazing, was broken. They stopped only once, long enough for the men to milk their mares. Hodj tended to this task while Koja took the chance to stretch his pained legs.

The respite was over all too soon. "We go!" shouted a yurtchi. Servants hastily finished their work and ran back to their horses. Almost as suddenly as they had stopped, the horsewarriors were on the march again.

By now, it was getting quite dark, but the riders continued into the night.

With the sun gone, the warriors took to guiding themselves by the stars. They used the faint moonlight to pick their way along. Throughout the entire mass of men, only a few torches glittered.

Nothing shown as brightly as the khahan's camp. The great tent cart was illuminated for the first time since the journey began. Bright light shone through the doorway, blinking on and off as the door flap swayed. A swarm of quiverbearers rode around the wagon, carrying torches to light the way for messengers. The nightguards hovered in the shadows, ready to spring to their master's defense.

The army traveled long into the night. Moonlit shapes swayed close, then faded away into the darkness. The snorts of the horses and soft conversations drifted through the night. Occasionally there was a thud, followed by a bitter cry or curse and a burst of laughter as a dozing rider fell from his saddle to the amusement of his comrades. Koja lost track of time and place.

"Master, we stop. I've made your bed." Hodj's voice soaked through the fog, slowly bringing Koja back to consciousness. The sun burned brightly overhead, but the air still felt cold and thin. The pain of twenty-four hours in the saddle burned through every one of the priest's muscles, wracked his back, and twisted his hips. Slowly, his feet dragging over the ground, the lama tottered toward his bed.

The images of his latest nightmare came silently to Koja. Who is my lord?

he wondered. Ogandi or Yamun?

Does it matter what I do? the priest's exhaustion-numbed mind finally asked. No, came the answer, only sleep matters. The decision made and eyes closed, Koja pitched forward, snoring almost before he hit the coverlets.

* * * * *

Chanar stared at the scene in front of him. A translucent image of the army, strung out over dusty hills, filled the center of the tent. Bayalun stood, half-hidden by the moving images on the opposite side of the yurt. Between them was a small glowing crystal, the source of the magical scene. "So, Bayalun, Yamun's reached Orkhon Oasis. There—you can tell by the cairn next to the spring. Is it time?"

"Not yet. We cannot be too obvious," the second empress cautioned. "If we strike now, the suspicion will fall on me and everything will be undone. Now that we're out of the deadlands, we can watch them closely. When the right time comes—a battle or something else—then my agent will act." She walked through the image to Chanar's side and placed her hand lightly on his chest.

"Patience, brave general. Patience will reward us."

Chanar's eyes moved from the mighty army before him to Bayalun and back again. He bit his lip to restrain his impatient desire.

"Soon, very soon," Bayalun assured him. "Until then, have patience."

7

Manass

"Master" Hodj said softly in his nasal voice. "Master, the khahan wishes to see you."

Koja opened his eyes and discovered that he was looking at a broad field of night stars. He blinked and scanned the sky. In one direction the scintillating points swept as far as he could see. Looking the other way, the lights were blocked by a silver-black range of peaks, mountains outlined by the light of the waning moon.

"Lord Yamun summons you, master," Hodj repeated.

"I hear, Hodj," Koja answered. With his arms, he slowly pushed himself up.

His shoulders and back were stiff and pained, but not anything like the agony he had felt earlier. Still, he didn't think he'd be leaping and dancing about for a while. In fact, moving with as little bending as possible seemed like a good idea.

"Help me up."

Hodj slid an arm around the priest and pulled the thin lama to his feet. Koja wavered there unsteadily, lightly testing his weight on each leg before releasing the servant. Satisfied that his knees were not going to buckle underneath him, Koja took a few steps to gently stretch his cramped muscles.

While he did so, Hodj hurried into the yurt to fetch clean clothes.

It took Koja a little while to realize this camp was different. His yurt was raised. He turned in a circle, looking over the camp. All around were shadowy, moonlit domes, the rounded shapes of the felt tents. Small welcoming fires blazed on the dusty prairie among the tents. Short, squat, Tuigan men wandered among the fires.

Drifting through the night came the wail of a band of musicians, the scraping notes of the khuur and the rhythmic rattle of a yak-hide drum. A singer suddenly added to the cacophony, wailing in the two-voice style peculiar to the steppe. Somehow the man produced both a low, nasal drone and a high-pitched chant at the same time. Koja was glad the musicians were some distance away, as he had not yet learned to appreciate the finer points of Tuigan music. It all sounded like the screeching of evil spirits, or at least what Koja thought evil spirits sounded like, since he had never really heard any screech.

Hodj came out of the tent with Koja's bright orange silk robe, which the priest had packed away for the journey. Although he found his master's insistence on clean clothing odd, Hodj tried to do his best to fulfill the priest's wishes. He helped Koja pull the robe on over his travel-stained garments. It was too cold to take them off, even though the clothes were caked in dried sweat, dust, and grease. Finally somewhat presentable, the priest set out for Yamun's tent.

On his way there, Koja noticed that the soldiers seemed in a very different mood this night. On the surface they were happy and cheerful, but the priest sensed a grim and resolute mood underneath. Around many of the fires, men sprawled against their saddles, drinking ladles of kumiss and swapping stories. At one fire, a thick-mustached trooper held his sword between his legs and scraped along its length with his honing stone. A bright glint of metal caught the priest's eye at another fire. There, another soldier sat cross-legged, a suit of armor stretched out in front of him. It was a fine piece of workmanship, with the same cut as the man's kalat but made of overlapping scales of polished steel. He was carefully checking it over, testing the strength of the stitching that held each metal scale to the thick leather backing.

Yamun's camp was larger and more elaborate than the previous night's.

The tent-wagon was gone and, instead, Yamun's white-chalked yurt had been raised. The khahan's standard stood next to it. Nearby was another tent, almost as large, patterned with black and white stripes. A smaller standard, unfamiliar to Koja—a pole topped with a silver crescent and a human skull—

stood outside its door. There were more nightguards present than usual, all in full Tuigan-style armor and tensely alert.

Koja was hastily ushered into the khahan's tent. Yamun and another younger man sat at the yurt's center, leaning over a low table that had been set in front of them. Trays at their side held cups of Tuigan tea and piles of gnawed bones.

The younger man stopped talking when Koja stepped through the threshold. He turned and stared at the priest. His face, although similar to Yamun's, was more pinched and less heavily lined. His right cheek was badly pitted by the pox, and a half-moon-shaped scar made a pale mark on his forehead. Like Yamun, the stranger had a red tint to his hair. The man's locks were tied in two thick braids that dangled below his shoulders. Silver and shell ornaments capped the ends of his braids.

The stranger wore a long, tight-fitting robe of black silk, imported from Shou Lung and cut in the style of a trooper's kalat. Raised patterns woven into it gave the robe a shimmering texture. Beaded red cords, fixed in place with hammered silver bosses, hung from his shoulders. Embroidered across the front of the robe, in red and gold, was a serpentine and leaping dragon against a sea of brilliant blue and silver clouds. A saber, the scabbard covered with deep blue lapis lazuli, hung from his broad golden belt. Koja was surprised by this, for few visitors were allowed to bear weapons within the khahan's yurt.

Yamun didn't glance up as the lama entered, instead continuing the discussion with the newcomer. "Your men are too close to the river. Move your forward tumens back. Set their camps between the two hills to the south.

You'll keep your own tent here. Have your commanders report to me in the morning." The younger man sat quietly, noting all of Yamun's commands.

"You summoned me, Khahan," Koja said, kneeling on one knee with his head bowed.

"Sit," grunted the warlord, pointing to a space alongside the table. The younger man said nothing, but watched Koja carefully as he took the place indicated.

"Join us in tea, historian," Yamun said, setting his own cup on the table.

"This is Jadaran Khan, commander of the great left wing. He's been here for a day, waiting for us to arrive."

Koja realized the man sitting next to him, the commander of the great left wing, was Yamun's second son, Prince Jad. He turned and, still seated, bowed respectfully to the royal prince. "I am honored by the brilliance of the commander of the great left wing," Koja lauded, being as polite as he possibly could.

"Enough of that," interrupted Yamun. "We've been talking while you slept.

Tomorrow my army rides to Manass. You know this place?"

Koja grew pale. He nodded. "Manass is in Khazari."

"Is it strong?" Prince Jad asked. His voice was similar to Yamun's, but with a nasal twang.

Yamun raised his hand in admonition to his son. The prince instantly fell silent. "Is Manass your home?" the khahan asked casually, as if making small talk.

"No, Lord Yamun," Koja answered guardedly.

"Then none of your clan is there," Yamun said with finality. "That's good."

Jad looked to Yamun to be sure he had permission to speak. "Who rules Manass?" he asked timidly.

"Prince Ogandi, of course," answered Koja. "But he does not live there," he quickly corrected.

Jad nodded. "Who, then, is the khan of this ordu? How many tents does he have?"

"I do not know," Koja said apologetically. From Jad's words, he grasped that neither the prince nor Yamun really knew what Manass was. They thought of it as a camp, a col ection of tents.

Koja's first instinct was to inform them of their error. Just as he was about to speak he stopped, his mouth open, the words tumbling back down his throat. They would learn the truth soon enough, he decided.

"It doesn't matter," Yamun assured the priest, pouring more tea. "We'll see these things with our own eyes, hear them with our own ears. I won't ask my historian to speak against his people." He raised his cup to the priest. "Ai! I drink to my clever and wise friend."

"Ai!" toasted Prince Jad, his own cup raised. They both noisily slurped at their cups of tea.

"Ai," echoed Koja, a little less enthusiastic than the other two. He sipped slightly at his cup, drinking as little salted tea as possible.

Yamun set his cup firmly down on the table and leaned forward toward Koja. His breath reeked with the smell of sour milk. "I ask my historian, though, to go to his people and give them a message. You've seen my people and how I rule them. Tell your people how I'm generous and kind to my friends. Describe to them the wonders and riches you've seen. Count out the size of my army for your leader." A look of puzzlement crossed Koja's face.

"Don't worry, you have my blessing. 'A thief can't steal what is already given.' "

Yamun wiped a drop of tea off his chin with the sleeve of his robe, then continued. "And, when you are done, you must also tell this leader something.

Say he must recognize me as the Illustrious Emperor of All People and submit his city to me."

Koja swallowed hard when he heard the new title Yamun was claiming for himself. "They'll never do that."

"Tell the leader of Manass that if he doesn't submit, I'll have him and all the members of his family killed. Tell everyone that death is the punishment for those who defy me, but that I'll spare those who do not resist. And then you must return to me with the answer."

"If you kill them, who will rule for you, Khahan? You can conquer Khazari, but what benefit will that be?" Koja steeled himself as he spoke. "Unless you have governors of your own, you will need the rulers of Manass to keep the peace. But—"

"But nothing. The matter is decided," Yamun snapped. He sat upright, his muscles tense. Koja noticed that Jad was also stiff and hard-faced.

"Now," Yamun pronounced as he rose to his feet, "it's time for you to go and rest. This meeting is over. You may return to your tent, Koja of the Khazari."

The audience ended, the priest quietly slipped back outside and returned to his yurt. During the walk, Koja pondered the surprising outcome of the audience. Certainly the Tuigan warlord was wiser than it seemed. Still, now the khahan's mind was set on Khazari. Koja wondered if Yamun had planned beyond the conquest. Perhaps, he finally decided, I can guide Yamun and protect Khazari at the same time.

In his tent, Koja did not sleep well. All night he awoke in fits, wondering in the darkness what he should do. What should he tell his fellow Khazari?

Recommend they surrender or urge them to fight? He was a Khazari, or at least he was when he started this trip, but now he was not so sure. If he told his people to surrender, was he betraying them?

It was a puffy- and red-eyed priest who greeted the dawn the next day.

Even the brilliant golden sky that lit the jagged mountains of Khazari could not raise his spirits. Seeing the peaks of his homeland only furthered his feeling of despair. Reluctantly, Koja joined the assembled company of Yamun, Prince Jad, guards, quiverbearers, and messengers. The group mounted their horses and rode along a rising, winding trail that led them up out of the valley and onto the high plain of Khazari.

By the light of day, Koja looked down on Yamun's army. With Jad's arrival, it had swelled to almost twice its number, fifty or sixty thousand men. The yurts filled the narrow val ey floor, and dotted among the tents were herds of horses.

Rings of pickets surrounded the camp. At the head of the valley, in the direction they were going, a mass of men was forming up. Rank upon rank of mounted warriors, an entire tumen, were preparing to march on Manass.

"I brought you up here to see this. These men come as proof of my word,"

Yamun explained when he noticed Koja's worried look. "I don't think this ordu of Manass can withstand an entire tumen." The khahan spurred his horse ahead, angling to join the front of the column.

The troops assembled, the tumen set out on the route to Manass. They followed a road, little more than a rutted path, that had been used for centuries by the caravans from Shou Lung—caravans that could no longer cross through the great steppe. From what Koja was able to infer, the army was still a half-day's ride from the city. The khahan was advancing on Manass with only a part of his army, while other tumens were to cross the border at other mountain passes.

The small command group rode throughout the morning at the front of the tumen. Yamun was preoccupied with his messengers, and he gave a constant stream of orders. A scribe rode at his side, scribbling out the commands, his paper balanced precariously on a little board that, in turn, rested across his saddle. Koja wondered where the scribe came from or if the fellow knew the fate of his predecessors.

Jad rode well away from the priest, surrounded by men of his own bodyguard. At times the prince would ride over to have a word with his father, but apparently had no desire to talk to the priest. Koja didn't mind this. He was not in the mood for company. His own thoughts and concerns possessed him so much that he hardly even noticed the passage of time or the terrain they rode over.

The priest was struck with some surprise when the riders around him suddenly reined up short. The party had just cleared the top of a small ridge.

The scouts in the lead came circling back toward the khahan's dayguards.

"Priest, come forward!" Yamun shouted to Koja. This was a moment the lama dreaded. He lightly spurred his horse forward, trotting it up to Yamun.

The guards moved away, eyeing the surrounding hills suspiciously.

"There," announced the khahan, standing in his stirrups. He pointed down the slope toward the other side of the valley they had just entered. A small river ran through the val ey floor, winding in lazy oxbows through tiny, barren fields. On the near bank of the river was the city of Manass, its white limestone walls shining in the noontime sun.

Koja was surprised by what he saw of Manass. It was much larger than he expected. In tales, the town was never as great as Hsiliang, which was close to the border with Shou Lung, or Skardu where Prince Ogandi lived. Still, Manass was described as one of the guardians against the raids of the mounted bandits who sometimes boiled out of the steppe.

Apparently Prince Ogandi considered the threat of barbarian raids a serious matter, for Manass seemed well fortified. The city was enclosed entirely within a wall. Although it was difficult to be certain, Koja guessed the main wall stretched more than a quarter-mile on each side to roughly form a square. The fortifications were in good repair.

The main gate was large and closed by heavy wooden doors. A gatehouse, several stories in height, was built over the entrance. Other towers rose at the corners. The walls of these were heavily plastered with whitewashed mud, and the roofs were fireproofed by yellow-brown clay tiles. A broad walk ran across the top of the wall and connected each tower to its neighbors.

Within the wall, Koja could see a cluster of yellow-brown roofs broken by the gaps for streets. The city was laid out in a regular grid, the streets running in straight lines according to the advice of ancient geomancers, earth wizards who came long ago from the great cities of Shou Lung. Only occasionally was this orderly pattern broken, perhaps on the advice of these soothsayers or maybe just to accommodate the needs of the citizens.

As Yamun and his party studied the city, a faint sound came to their ears. It was a long, droning blast with overtones of a higher-pitched whistle. Koja recognized the sound from his years at the temple. It was the wailing note of a gandan, a huge straight horn. It took a man with strong lungs to blow one of these instruments. Outside the walls, only a few farmers were in the field, it being too early in the spring to start planting. Those few, however, began a hurried rush to the safety of the citadel.

"Well, they've seen us," Yamun declared. "Go, priest, and deliver my message. Take ten men from the dayguard as an escort." Yamun didn't wait to see his orders executed, but wheeled his horse about and set to the business of arraying his ten thousand.

There was only a little delay as the ten guards were assembled for the escort duty. Koja sincerely wished the wait could have been longer, but before long he was riding through the fields, surrounded by the bodyguard. One of them bore the yak-tail standard of Yamun Khahan.

When they reached the gate to Manass, it remained closed. A deep bass voice hailed them from the gatehouse overhead. "State your business for entering the White City of Manass." The sentry spoke in Khazarish. Koja abruptly realized it had been weeks since he'd heard the clipped sounds of his native tongue.

The bodyguard looked at Koja, waiting for him to speak. Unconsciously standing in the saddle in a futile attempt to get closer to the speaker in the gatehouse, Koja called out in his thin voice, "I am an envoy of the Brilliant Shining White Mountain, Prince Ogandi. I am Koja, lama of the Red Mountain Temple, son of Lord Biadul, son of Lord Koten. I bring a message from the one who calls himself the Illustrious Emperor of All People, the ruler of Tuigan, Hoekun Yamun Khahan. I come under a banner of truce. Open your gates so I can speak with the governor of your city."

Koja waited for the gate to swing open. The doors did not move.

"Who are the men with you?" the voice shouted back.

"They are my escort and bodyguard," explained Koja. "Surely the mighty warriors of Manass are not afraid of ten men." Koja didn't know about those in the city, but he was certainly afraid of them. He was more afraid, however, of the reception he might receive inside if the bodyguards were not present.

"Do they come in with you?" A new voice was shouting out questions now.

Koja guessed a higher-ranking officer had taken over the negotiations.

"The khahan of the Tuigan would consider it insulting if his men were made to wait outside," Koja pointed out. "In fact, he might suspect us of plotting against him." Koja looked to the guards on either side. They apparently had no understanding of what was being said—he hoped.

"Your guards must not draw their weapons. Is that understood?"

"Yes," Koja yelled back. His throat was getting sore from all the shouting.

"And there are to be no spellcasters—understood?"

"Only myself," Koja responded, sitting back in his saddle, "and I am a simple lama of the Red Mountain."

There was a period of silence. Koja shifted uneasily in the saddle, looking to see how his guards were taking all this. They sat still in their saddles, waiting for something to happen.

"Priest?" the voice called out.

"Yes?"

"Know this. Should you make the slightest sign to cast a spell, you will be killed before you can complete it. Is that understood?" The voice spoke the last with great emphasis.

"It is understood," Koja answered clearly.

There was a drawn-out scraping noise as the gates were unbarred. It ended with a loud clunk, and then the massive wooden halves began to swing open. With grunting strain, a team of soldiers pushed the gate open wide enough for the riders to pass through.

"Do not draw your weapons," Koja charged his men, "or we will all surely die. Remember, your task is not to get me killed."

Inside the gate was a company of archers, their weapons nocked and ready. The men stood tensely, lined up on one side of the street instead of both, so their arrows wouldn't accidentally kill their own men if there was a fight. The soldiers wore simple cotton robes, dyed in blues and reds. Koja suspected the robes covered armored suits of leather and mail. Each man wore a pointed cap decorated with the brilliant green plume of some strange bird or beast.

At the far end of the line stood their commander. He was easily identified by the gleaming suit of metal scales he wore. Each scale had been polished to a sheen, so that the officer sparkled wherever he went. In the noonday glare, his armor was almost blinding. "Welcome, lama of the Red Mountain,"

he said, bowing slightly.

"I am honored to be welcome," Koja replied, using his best diplomatic skills.

Koja cautiously urged his horse through the gate, not wanting to venture too far into the city. He was still very uncertain about the reception he might receive.

"You and your men will leave your horses here," instructed the gleaming commander. "Then you will accompany me to the governor."

Koja translated the officer's words. There was some grumbling from the men about leaving their horses. Koja pointed out that if they did not, they could not go any farther. Reluctantly, the troopers dismounted and handed their steeds over to grooms, who appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

"Follow me," ordered the commander with little ceremony. "Watch, fall in."

The archers slung their bows, drew heavy curved knives called krisnas— a favorite weapon of Khazari warriors—and took positions on either side of Koja and his escort. The swarthy, robed Khazari eyed the shorter Tuigan suspiciously and kept their weapons ready.

As he marched through the streets, Koja studied the city.

Although he'd never been to Manass, its houses were much like the ones of the small village he grew up in. They were larger here. Most had one or two stories and were built from carefully stacked rocks. The narrow side streets were clogged with goods left outside—jars too large to put anywhere else, half-finished baskets, even outdoor looms. Doors and windows lined the street and curious eyes watched him from the shadows.

The streets remained empty as they marched through the town, but the rickety wooden balconies that thrust out from many buildings did not. Curious children and veiled women crowded on these, threatening to bring the precarious structures crashing down with their weight. Koja saw few men until the procession rounded a corner and entered a large plaza.

This was obviously the heart of Manass. At the plaza's far side was a broad, low building, whitewashed and brightly painted with bands of sutras done in vermillion, cobalt, yellow, and green. Koja recognized the writing and the style. The scriptures were from a sect of the Yellow Temple, rivals to the Red Mountain in power. He read them to himself. "Bohda of the brilliant, five-flame heaven, master of the thirteen secret words, brought to the mountain by the King-Who-Destroyed-Bambalan, so bow to the east..." The rest of the verse continued around the building, out of sight. Koja guessed that the inscription was a charm used to ward off evil magic and the evil spirits of the mountains.

The front of the building was dominated by a low portico that ran its entire length. Men, dressed in armor—heavily padded coats of yellow and red that reached to the ankle—and carrying wicked looking staff-swords, formed a wall at its base. More men, equally armed and armored, stood in the narrow streets that entered the plaza, blocking the other routes into the city. Sitting on the portico, near the center, was a group of five men.

Koja bowed to the officials. Foremost of the five was a tall, slender man. A banner behind him portrayed a multi-armed, sword-wielding warrior—the King-Who-Destroyed-Bambalan. This ancient hero was the founder of Prince Ogandi's line and was now revered as a a savior by the people. The figure was the official seal of Khazari. Koja assumed the slender man was the town's governor.

Just behind the governor was a man in loose, draping robes of red and blue. Stains and holes marred the brilliant colors of his clothing. His hair was thick, long, black, and unwashed. In his hand he held a thin iron rod, four feet long, hung with chains and metal figurines. Koja guessed he was a dong chang, a wizard-hermit from the high mountains. Most of these men led reclusive lives, seeking only to perfect their magical craft, but sometimes they ventured out of their cold caves and returned to the civilized world. Koja shuddered slightly when he looked at the man. There were many stories about the dong chang, few of them pleasant. It was rumored they were actually dead creatures, kept alive by their own meditations and practices.

The third man was clearly a scribe, as indicated by the writing materials spread around him. Koja quickly passed over him to study the remaining men on the stand.

The last two on the porch were a surprise to Koja, even more than the dong chang had been. It was obvious to Koja that neither man was Khazari. They wore the long, tight-fitting silk robes of Shou Lung mandarins, the bureaucrats of that great empire. One seemed quite aged, while the other was more youthful, just verging on middle age. The elder had a thin mustache and a fine, wispy goatee, both carefully groomed. His hair was balding and faded, and his eyes drooped in heavy wrinkles. Age spots marked his cheeks and hands.

The younger man's features more clearly showed bis Shou heritage. His face was not swarthy like those Khazari around him. His hair was black and straight, bound in a long queue. He wore a small round hat with a long yellow tassel. His face was serious and hard.

As Koja studied these men, the guards that accompanied him from the gate slowly fell back, forming up in two lines to block the street they had all just come up. His own men moved to form a horseshoe around him, open at the front. Their hands went instinctively to their weapons.

"No fighting!" hissed Koja when he noticed their movement. "Keep your weapons sheathed."

"We shouldn't die like the staked goat before the tiger," urged one of the men under his breath. "Better we fight."

"If you do not touch your weapons, the tiger will not strike," Koja whispered back. "You will fail the khahan if we die. Wait." The troopers stood still, but not a man lowered his hand.

"You claim you are Koja of the Khazari," said the governor from his seat.

"You must be willing and able to prove this..."

"I am," Koja assured the man, standing as straight as he could.

"It will cost you your life if you're deceiving me. Manjusri, make the test,"

the governor ordered, signaling his wizard to the front.

The dong chang stepped forward and raised his hands, presenting the iron rod toward Koja. The priest's guards went for their swords. Koja grabbed the wrist of the nearest man. "Wait," he ordered. The wizard waved the rod in circles and murmured a deep chant. His eyes were closed. There was a sudden puff of wind that fluttered the magician's robes and tossed his hair about. Suddenly, it stopped. The hermit opened his eyes.

"He speaks the truth, Lord," the wild-haired wizard pronounced. The gaunt fellow returned to his place behind the governor.

"Well then, Koja of the Red Mountain, I am Sanjar al-Mulk, commander of this city in the name of Prince Ogandi. State your message to me as if it were to him." There was no tone of warmth or friendliness in the man's voice, only a faint trace of sneering contempt and disgust for the priest in front of him.

Koja swallowed nervously and crossed his hands in front of himself. "I am a Khazari—"

"Come forward. I cannot hear you," ordered Sanjar. Koja walked closer to the porch and began again, shouting a little louder.

"I am a Khazari, like those of you here. I bear you greetings from Hoekun Yamun, khahan of the Tuigan, who styles himself Illustrious Emperor of All Peoples. He has sent me to you, my people and my prince, to deliver a message. The words of the khahan of the Tuigan are this: 'Submit to me and recognize my authority over your people or I shall raze your city and destroy all those who refuse me.'"

As Koja finished those words, there was a murmur of shock and surprise from the men in the plaza. Many eyes turned to Sanjar. The governor's face was purpled with rage and indignation. "Is that all this barbarian has to say?"

he shouted in fury at Koja.

The priest wiped his sweaty palms on his robe. "No, Lord Commander. He also bids you to look over your walls from your highest tower."

"I've seen the reports from the sentries. Your khahan has gathered himself a sizable force of bandits. And now he wants to style himself Illustrious Emperor of All Peoples. He's got a lot to do before he can claim that title,"

Sanjar sneered. "Does he really think he can capture Manass with that puny force?"

"Yes, he does, Lord Commander."

Sanjar snorted in derisive, insulting laughter. The old Shou gentleman at his side joined in, though he veiled his smile behind a fan. Koja bit his lip to refrain from speaking. Sanjar was treating the whole thing like some great joke, as if the khahan were some thieving buffoon or a common raider.

Although he knew the commander was making a grave error, Koja found himself unwilling to speak up. He didn't like Sanjar al-Mulk very much and trusted the Shou mandarin even less.

"It is to be assumed that the brave khahan has chosen a time by which this insignificant city must reply?" asked the old Shou mandarin suddenly. He spoke fluent Khazari, but with a thick Shou accent.

"The khahan of the Tuigan requests his answer by sundown today,"

explained Koja. The old man nodded.

"Perhaps sometime tomorrow? After all, there is much to consider here,"

the mandarin offered. He made no effort to conceal his contempt.

"The khahan is adamant. The answer must be given today." Koja waited to see what the governor would say.

The mandarin leaned over and whispered in Sanjar's ear. The governor's smile was replaced by a grim scowl. He stood up from his chair.

"You will not have to wait so long. This is my answer: Kill them all except the lama. Leave him alive to tell his impudent bandit-lord that Prince Ogandi finds the company of civilized men more to his taste. Tell him injury to Khazari is injury to Shou Lung. Let him think on that!"

Koja was thunderstruck by Sanjar's words.

"What did he say, priest?" demanded one of the Tuigan, sensing the threat in the governor's words.

The lama roused to action. "Quickly," Koja shouted in Tuigan to his guards.

"Defend yourselves!"

His words were almost unnecessary, for the Tuigan were already in motion.

They sprang back, leaping on the guards who blocked the way back to the gate. The sergeant of the arban shouted out commands to his men, driving them like a wedge toward the wall of guards in their path. The lead warrior feinted a high cut and then suddenly shifted it, thrusting his sword under the Khazari's guard. The sharp steel slashed through the soft armor and sliced into the man's arm, shearing down to the bone. The Khazari screamed as his sword dropped, his arm now useless. The other Tuigan hurled themselves into the attack, hoping that sheer fury and surprise would carry them through.

Koja stood flat-footed as the warriors swept past him. He had never been in a real fight before. The speed of the battle stunned him.

The Tuigan slashed deeper into the ranks of the guards. Several Khazari were already down. One lay clutching at his throat, his blood soaking the ground. Another had crawled out of reach, clutching at his belly, trying to keep the gaping gash across his abdomen closed. Two others lay unmoving. Steel rang against steel; harsh gasps and pants punctuated the battle. Already the guards were starting to waver as the small band of Tuigan drove forward.

"Stop them!" shouted Sanjar, his voice screeching with rage. "Don't let them get away!"

Suddenly Koja heard a droning murmur behind him. He wheeled about just in time to see the dong chang shake his iron rod in the direction of the battle.

As the wizard finished the spell, a paralyzing force settled over the lama. He tried to fight it, calling on the inner strength his master had taught him to use.

In his mind he chanted sutras of power, focusing his thoughts to a single point.

Then, just as suddenly, the paralysis was gone—and so was the noise of battle. Looking cautiously behind him, Koja saw his Tuigan escort and some of the Khazari guards frozen like statues. Each man had been caught in the grip of a magical rigor, locking him in place. Some were lunging, others parried. A few had fallen over, their weight off-balance when the spell struck.

Not one of them twitched, blinked, or moved in any way. Around their feet was the blood of their opponents, still flowing. Koja felt his knees go weak.

"Excellently done, Manjusri," the governor said, rising from his seat. "Let the lama take the soldiers' heads back as our answer. Then hang the bodies from the gate."

Several men ran forward with their krisnas to carry out the grisly task.

8

Retreat

The screech of wood on wood signaled the closing of the main gate behind Koja. The Khazari had seated the lama backward on the horse and, with a slap on the rump, sent the beast galloping out the gate. The priest's hands were tied behind him, fastened to the pommel, and bags hanging from the saddle squished and thudded softly against his legs. In these sacks were the heads of his Tuigan escort. The blood soaked through the fabric and onto the hem of his robe.

As he watched Manass recede, Koja heard horses coming his way. There was a jerk at the reins, and the horse stopped. A knife cut away Koja's bonds.

Freed, he practically leaped from the saddle, animated by fear and anger.

While he stood there, the troopers remounted, leading his horse with them.

Before Koja could protest, one man leaned down and hauled the priest up behind him. Then, wheeling their horses, the troopers galloped back toward the Tuigan lines.

In the time it took Koja to deliver the khahan's message, Yamun had been busy. The ridge where the horsewarriors had entered was now a solid line of men and horses. The riders were packed three, sometimes four ranks deep.

The different standards—poles with banners, tails, golden ornaments, and carved totems—thrust up throughout the lines. Each marked the position of a different commander.

Koja's rescuers quickly rode past the ranks of hard-bitten campaigners. The priest marveled at the nonchalance of the men who were likely to soon be in battle. Some slept at their mounts' feet, while others drank and boasted of the great deeds they would do today. Most of the men simply watched and waited.

Galloping forward, the troopers delivered Koja to the khahan's banner, set in the center of the long line. Yamun sat on a pure white charger, his son on a white mare at his side.

The troopers opened the sacks and laid out the heads of Koja's escort for Yamun to see. Some of the dead faces stared at him, while others had their eyes closed. Yamun stared back at the heads, rage building inside him. "What happened?" the khahan demanded tersely.

Koja told of the meeting while Yamun strode up and down the line, looking carefully at each head. The priest could see the look of hatred twist Yamun's visage. The Tuigan turned to his scribe as the priest described the last moments of the battle.

"See that their widows and children are taken care of for the rest of their lives," the khahan ordered, speaking in a tight, controlled voice. The scribe took down the words and sent a runner to learn the dead men's names.

"Cover them up," Yamun ordered, and then he wheeled back on Koja.

"Where are their bodies?" Yamun demanded of the lama.

"The governor ordered them hung from the gate." Koja spoke softly, out of respect for the dead.

"Then, this is his answer?" Yamun mused grimly. The question was rhetorical, and Koja made no effort to answer it. "We attack." He turned and strode back to his couriers. "Sound the horn! Send in Shahin's minghan!"

The standard-bearer ran to the front of the line. There he dipped Yamun's war banner, with its horsetails and gold, five times to the east. At the same time another messenger blew three sharp blasts on a ram's horn. On the east flank, one of the banners, a silver disk hung with blue silk streamers, dipped five times. A line of one thousand horsemen broke from the front and trotted down the slope into the valley.

Even with his limited battle experience, Koja knew a thousand men couldn't take the walls of Manass. The thick gate was soundly closed, so the riders would not be able to gallop in, and they carried no ladders to scale the walls.

Their lances were useless against the hewed stone. In his mind, Koja could see the attack: the warriors would gallop forward, shooting their bows from horseback, aiming at the top of the wall. Few of their shots would find a target.

Most would only shatter against the stone. The archers in the towers and the battlements would wait, allowing the riders to come closer, and finally draw back their bowstrings and let loose a flight of arrows. The sharp points would cut down the riders like barley under the scythe, just as the governor had promised. Koja rode over to where Yamun was hearing the latest reports from Quaraband.

"Lord Yamun, those men are certain to die!" the priest shouted, pointing to the attackers on the valley below. They were now riding at a gallop.

"I know," he answered without looking up. "This report says Chanar hasn't left Quaraband yet. How long ago did you ride?" he queried a pock-faced messenger.

"Two days, Great Lord," answered the messenger breathlessly.

"But your men!" Koja urged in alarm, pointing toward the valley. "They're all going to die!"

"Be ready to return faster than you came. Now go eat," the khahan warned.

Yamun didn't react to Koja's words. The messenger bowed in his saddle and trotted his horse away. As he left, Yamun finally turned his attention to the lama.

"Priest, you may be wise but you have much to learn," Yamun said in irritation. "I ordered Shahin to go forward so we can count their arrows. You did very poorly at noting their strengths, so Shahin must go."

"Count their arrows? You mean he's supposed to learn the strength of Manass's garrison? How?"

"Watch," Yamun instructed. He walked his horse forward, urging Koja to come along. The pair rode to where the standard-bearer stood. From that spot they had a clear view of the valley floor. "Watch and learn how we fight."

Koja looked down on Manass. Shahin's riders had assembled just out of bowshot of the walls. The distant thumping of the minghan's war drum echoed up from the fields. The riders grouped themselves into wedge-shaped jaguns.

Shahin, marked by his standard, sat toward the center of the line. The standard waved to the right and then dipped. There was a ragged shout, and the right wing of riders broke away, galloping madly toward the walls. Koja watched in fascinated horror. The Tuigan were riding to certain doom.

Before the charging men had covered even half the ground to the walls, victims of the Khazari archers started to fall. A man swayed and wobbled in his saddle; a horse's front legs buckled, somersaulting horse and rider under the hooves of another charging steed. The bass roar of the hooves was punctuated by the faint screams of beasts and men.

The khahan watched the battle intently, his face impassive to the death below. "This is suicide!" Koja cried angrily, his own frustration at the pointlessness of the deaths welling up in his chest.

"Of course," Yamun said, not even trying to defend his actions. "But now I learn the enemy's strength's and weaknesses. See, look how many have died in the charge."

"You sent them out so you could count the dead?" Koja gasped in disbelieving horror.

"Yes. From this I'll know the skill of Manass's archers. See how many times they fire? How they stand on the wall?" Yamun turned his horse and rode back to the main camp. Koja stayed forward, unable to tear himself away from the deadly farce below. He was stunned that Yamun Khahan, the great leader of the Tuigan, a man who had conquered so much of the steppe, would use his men so callously.

On the field below, the first wave of soldiers was returning from its charge.

Dead men and horses marked the course of their attack. Wounded horses thrashed on the ground or hobbled back toward the line. Dismounted riders scrambled over the battlefield, such as is was, rounding up mounts and galloping back to their fellows. Even before the right wing had finished forming, the signal was given and the left wing charged.

The hideous cycle repeated itself. The riders galloped forward, falling as before. This time the priest watched them carry their attack to its conclusion.

Suddenly, a little over half the distance covered, the horsemen pulled up, wheeling their horses about. As they spurred their mounts back toward their lines, each man fired an arrow over his back. There was a faint, singing hum as the volley flew on its way. A few of the men on the walls tumbled and fell, some flopping over the battlements, but far too few when compared to the losses of the riders. Still, Koja could only marvel at the foolish bravery and skill of the Tuigan.

Yamun returned as the last charge straggled back from Manass. A horn blared, sounding a recall of Shahin's men. Forming into ragged groups, the riders began to gather up the wounded and straggle back to the safety of the Tuigan lines. As they withdrew from the battlefield, the gates of Manass opened and a continuous stream of riders poured out. Amazingly the Khazari raced out from the safety of the walls, chasing small knots of exhausted Tuigan, thinking the riders were broken. Shahin's warriors kept their nerve, retreating just ahead of the fresh enemy. Here and there, Khazari knights overtook their prey and overwhelmed the Tuigan troopers, but the bulk of Yamun's men avoided death. Koja marveled at the discipline and control of the troopers. There were no signs of rout or panic.

"You said the lord of Manass promised to ride us down, didn't he?" Yamun suddenly asked Koja.

"Yes, Khahan," Koja answered, shading his eyes to make out what was happening below.

"Then this lord's a fool." Yamun stroked the neck of his mare. "I need a plan. If only General Chanar were here."

Koja was surprised at the mention of the khan. "How so, Lord?" he questioned.

"Chanar's a fox, historian. He's a clever one on the battlefield. Between us, I know we'd have a plan." The khahan studied the battlefield below, stroking at his mustache as he thought. The Khazari riders had ridden well beyond the range of their bowmen on the walls. They rode helter-skelter, apparently out of the control of their commanders.

Abruptly Yamun sat up straighter in the saddle and a cold smile came to his lips. "Signal the men off the ridge, out of sight!" he shouted to the standard-bearer. "Then signal Shahin to get back here." The khahan wheeled his horse about and trotted back to the khans waiting at his camp. Koja followed, curious as to what the khahan was up to.

"Khans, I've a plan. We'll move the men off the ridge. Then we attack with three minghans." There was a gasp among the khans.

"Three thousand men cannot win," Goyuk said with a scowl across his wrinkled face. "It is not good, Yamun."

"Tomorrow is when we'll win. Remember the battle at Bitter Well?" Yamun hinted. Goyuk's face brightened. "Into the tent," the khahan ordered, bustling the surprised warriors into his yurt. Koja stepped to follow, but a pair of guards stepped into his path. Before Koja could call for the khahan to intercede, the door flap fell shut.

The meeting went on for almost an hour, during which time messengers came and went. While he waited, Koja saw the troops shift and move their lines, making a show of retreating from Manass. When the meeting finally ended, the khans hurried to their positions. Yamun and Jad were busy with reports and messages, making it impossible for Koja to question either man.

The priest could only guess what would happen next. Finally, Yamun ordered a seat prepared on the ridge. Koja followed behind, waiting for events to unfold.

"Now," ordered Yamun as he looked over the valley. A signal blared behind Koja. The standard-bearers ran forward again and waved their poles. There was a rumble of shouted commands, jingling harnesses, and drumming hooves as more troops began to stream down the slope.

The late afternoon sun was falling low in the sky by the time the three minghans, three thousand men, reached the fields outside Manass. Koja was confused and curious. He still didn't see how without siege equipment—

ladders, ropes, and the like—Yamun hoped to breach the walls of Manass.

Perhaps there was something the lama didn't know about warfare. It looked to him like a foolish waste of lives. This attack would fail, leaving more dead and wounded. What could Yamun intend by these hopeless attacks? the lama wondered.

Koja could not contain his curiosity anymore. Perhaps in his role as historian the priest could learn Yamun's plans. He strode through the throng of messengers, seeking out the khahan for some type of explanation. As he came forward, he was surprised to be greeted by the hulking Sechen and another guard of the Kashik.

"You will come with us, Khazari," said the wrestler. The guard's voice was hard and tinged with an unpleasant threat. Koja decided not to argue. "The khahan has given orders for you to be confined to a yurt. You will come with us." Sechen drew a knife meaningfully.

"But I've done nothing!" protested Koja.

"You are Khazari. Come with us or die." The guards flanked him, each taking one arm. Resigned and more than a little fearful for his safety, Koja allowed himself to be whisked away.

The guards placed him in a small empty yurt. Koja had no idea where his servant or his belongings were. Sechen and the other man took position outside the door. Koja, with little else to do, sat near the door, trying to glimpse the activity outside and listen to whatever he could hear.

For a long time, nothing in particular happened. Then, as the sun was almost set, he heard a familiar thunder. Horses, a large number of them, were on the move. Soon the noise grew louder and louder. Koja could only imagine the scene on the other side of the ridge. The minghans were advancing with the setting sun at their backs, to blind the archers on the walls. The lama strained to hear more. Faintly, echoing through the dusk, were the blasts of horns and the deep, staccato roar of war drums. A ringing, higher note rose above the lower rumble. At first, Koja could not place it, then he realized that it was the sustained cries of screaming horses and men.

The battle for Manass had been joined, and all Koja could do was listen.

The noise continued for about an hour after sunset, gradually growing fainter and less insistent. Koja sat still, rapt by every crash, cry, and wail that reached him. The battle was a failure, the lives were wasted; he was convinced of this. He imagined the ground outside Manass was strewn with gutted horses and broken men. Koja choked back an involuntary sob at the thought of the suffering pointlessly inflicted.

This was Yamun's vision of conquest. It was a dream, filled with blood, valor, and death, but nothing more. Koja wondered if this, the futile attack on Manass, was really what Yamun's god had shown the khahan in that thunderstorm. Was this what Yamun wanted?

Before today, the priest thought Yamun would conquer Khazari. He also had been sure that Yamun could somehow be persuaded to leave it unharmed and safe. Koja had tried to hint and suggest the possibilities for peaceful rule. What hope was there of that now? If the khahan was willing to send his own men to certain death, Koja knew Khazari could expect no mercy from the Tuigan warlord.

Images of the dream came back to him as he began pacing around the yurt. His old master had talked of his lord, and the strange creature claimed Koja was with the khahan. Who was his lord? Prince Ogandi had sent him as ambassador to the Tuigan. The khahan had sent him as ambassador to the Khazari. Now he was a prisoner. Koja felt lost, the events of the day casting his own actions into doubt. There was no treaty between the Tuigan and Khazari as a result of his actions. Instead, there was an army on the border of his homeland. He, as envoy, had failed his prince.

Exhausted, the lama sat back down and prayed to Furo for guidance, silently whispering his sutras as he sat huddled near the door. Finally Koja realized what he must do. As a lama of the Enlightened One, Koja must guide the khahan to be a true ruler, more than just a warlord.

His decision made, Koja strained to hear any sounds of the struggle, but the tumult of battle had ceased. Koja sat patiently, until sleep finally settled over him.

The guards came and woke the lama during the night. It was dark and bitterly cold in the thin mountain air, and Koja was shivering from the instant he awoke.

"Quickly," ordered Sechen, "come with us." The lama groggily heard the words without really understanding them. The guard grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to his feet. "It's time for you to go."

"Go where?" Koja managed to ask as the Kashik pushed him through the doorway. His bodyguards were being none too kind.

"Away. We're leaving," Sechen offered as explanation. It didn't tell Koja much. The guard pushed the priest toward a horse. Servants were already setting to the task of taking down the yurt. Indeed, the camp seemed to be astir, but in an oddly silent way. The normal sounds of breaking camp— the grunted shouts, clatter of cups, even the braying of camels—were all missing.

The men, even his guards, spoke in hushed tones. The fires, normally blazing, were damped to the lowest coals.