Horselords

of the Tuigan. Still, he had hoped for better.

For a time Koja was content to study the men in his escort. They might have been young men, but their faces were so heavily weather-beaten that their actual ages were impossible to determine. Long, thin mustaches were the favored style among these warriors. They had no beards and a few of the older-looking men had long ago taken knives to their cheeks, scarring them so badly that their beards could not grow. Most wore their hair in long braids that hung down in front of their ears. This was not unusual, but the way they shaved the crowns of their heads was quite distinctive.

After the priest waited for an hour or more, dusk fell.

Koja roamed a little, slowly at first to see if the guards would notice. He walked a short way up the slope, toward the banner that stood halfway between the gate and the largest yurt. It was a pole, fifteen feet tall with a crossbrace at the top. From the arms hung nine long black horsetail plumes. Affixed on the very top was a human skull. Below the skull was a golden plaque, while small dolls made of red cloth stood at the pole's base. Bits of hair and leather were stuck to these. Koja studied the standard, guessing at its significance.

A man came down from the large yurt, dressed in a black robe with silk trim, clearly an officer. He stopped directly in front of Koja. 'Koja of Khazari-come. But first, you must kneel to the khahan's standard.'

Koja looked at the dolls. They were idols, he realized-some shaman's spirit guardians, probably the powers of earth and sky. However, they were certainly not any of the gods he knew from his training at the Red Mountain Temple.

'I cannot,' Koja said softly. 'I am a priest of Furo. These are not my gods.'

The officer looked at him darkly, his hand sliding toward the sword at his side. 'You must. It is the khahan's standard.'

'I mean no disrespect to your khahan, but I cannot kneel to these gods,' Koja said flatly. He crossed his arms and stood firm, gambling that the guard would not strike him.

'I cannot take you to the khahan's yurt until you kneel,' protested the officer. 'You must kneel.'

'Then I shall not see the khahan,' answered Koja. A strained look crossed the officer's face.

The black-garbed officer stood in indecision. The other guards came up to see what was happening. The men and the officer fell into a heated, whispered conversation. Koja discreetly pretended not to notice, returning to his examination of the idols.

Finally, the officer gave in. Turning to Koja, he said, 'You will come, but the khahan will be told.'

'Your courage is great,' Koja praised, allowing the officer to save face. The priest pointed to the skull at the top of the pole. 'What does that represent?'

'That is the khan of the Oigurs,' the officer said with relish. 'He attempted to slay the khahan by luring him into a trap. The Oigurs were the first people Yamun Khahan conquered, so he honored them by placing their khan there.'

'Does he treat everyone in this way?' Koja asked as he eyed the dubious honor.

'No, only a fortunate few,' said the officer. The other guards broke into laughter as they led the priest up the hill.

When he reached the khahan's yurt, Koja looked down to the plain below. From the doorway the priest had a clear view of the entire Tuigan encampment. It was clear why the khahan had chosen this hill as the site for his yurt. The squat yurts of Quaraband stretched out below in a rough oval, following the course of river.

The tent flap was pulled open as the officer beckoned Koja to enter. Ducking his head through the opening, the priest carefully stepped inside. The khahan's chamberlain tugged at Koja, carefully making sure the priest did not accidentally step on the jamb, a sure sign of evil luck. Inside, it was dark. Koja willingly allowed himself to be led to a seat. As he padded across the heavily carpeted floor, the priest tried to focus his eyes in the gloom.

The Illustrious Emperor to the Tuigan, Yamun Khahan, leaned forward on his seat of cushions at the back of the yurt. His face was lit by the flickering flames of oil lamps hung from the roof poles of the Great Yurt. The light barely revealed his reddish hair, bound into long braids. Occasionally light glinted off the pale, jagged scar that ran across the bridge of his nose and over his cheek. A second old scar gave the khahan's upper lip a slight curl.

Not far from the khahan, General Chanar sat on the rugs, only a single cushion beneath him. The warrior sipped at the hot cup of tea he cradled in his hands. As Koja settled into his seat, Chanar leaned over to the khahan and spoke softly. The khahan listened, then shook his head gently, apparently vetoing the general's suggestion.

'So, envoy of the Khazari, what did you think of the grand council of Semphar?' boomed out Yamun Khahan from the far side of the yurt. Koja was surprised by the khahan's directness, but quickly regained his composure.

'Surely, Khahan of the Tuigan, General Chanar has told you about the conference. I am only an ambassador of the Khazari,' Koja protested.

'You're going to tell me about this great conference at Semphar,' the khahan ordered bluntly, scratching at his cheek. 'I have already heard the general speak. What did the Sempharans have to say?'

'Well, Lord Yamun, the caliph of Semphar was, uh, surprised.' Koja shifted his legs, trying to find a comfortable position.

Yamun Khahan snorted with laughter and drained his silver goblet, setting it down on the thick woolen rugs with a muffled thump. 'Surprised? I send my best general with ten thousand men, a complete tumen, and the caliph is only 'surprised.' Do you hear this?' He leaned toward Chanar, who was sitting stone-faced while Koja talked. A servant came out of the shadows to pour the khahan another goblet of heated wine and dropped a pierced silver ball filled with herbs into it. Yamun, his face stern and unsmiling, turned back to the envoy. 'This caliph didn't tremble in fear at the sight of General Chanar?'

'Perhaps he did, Khahan of the Tuigan, but never that I saw.' Koja found his gaze locked with the khahan's. In the dim light, the ruler's eyes were black and riveting. Flustered, Koja could feel his blood reddening his face, even making his bald scalp tingle. The priest suddenly wondered if the khahan was some type of sorcerer. Unconsciously, his fingers fumbled with one of the small scripture lockets that hung around his neck.

Chanar cocked an eyebrow, noticing what the envoy was doing. 'Your charms and spells won't help you here, Khazari. No magic functions within this valley.'

Koja stopped in surprise, slightly embarrassed when he realized what he was doing. 'No magic? How is that possible?' He looked to Chanar for an answer, but it was Yamun who replied.

'Teylas, the Sky God, banished the magic-or that's what the Second Empress Bayalun Khadun tells me. I don't care how it happened. No magic makes this a good place for my capital, a safe place,' answered Yamun Khahan between swallows of wine.

'Isn't life difficult without magic?' Koja asked softly.

'If Teylas wanted life to be easy he wouldn't have given us the steppe for a home. And he would have given me an easier people to rule,' commented Yamun as he finished off another goblet of wine. 'Enough of this. Was the council impressed when General Chanar told them my demands? Will they pay a tax for the caravans? Do they recognize me as ruler of the whole world?'

Koja thought carefully about the answer. 'They were outraged by your … boldness, Lord Khahan. Many of them took exception to your claims. As the king of Cormyr pointed out, 'You do not rule the entire world.' ' Koja heard a soft, irritated snort from Chanar.

The khahan slowly stood, stretching his legs. He was not a tall man, but was still imposing. His chest was broad and his neck was thick with corded muscles. He slowly walked with a bowlegged swagger toward the door of the tent. All the while he kept his eyes on the seated priest, the same way a desert cat watches its prey. 'Cor- meer? I've never heard of such a place.'

Koja, still seated on the woolen rugs that covered the floor, scuttled around to keep facing the khahan. Although the evening was chill, the lama was sweating in the stuffy tent. His orange robes were damp and clammy. Slightly frosty breezes slipped in through the minute gaps in the felt walls of the yurt.

'Is it far?' quizzed Yamun, tugging at his mustache.

'Great Lord?' asked Koja, confused by the sudden shift of the conversation.

'This place, Cor-meer-is it far away?'

'I don't know. It is a land far to the west, even far from Semphar. I have never been there.'

'But this king, he talks bravely. What is he like?'

'The king is named Azoun. He is a strange-looking man, with pale skin and thick hair on his face-'