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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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]