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shamans came and unfurled their white sheet and set out their offerings to
Teylas. Beating their drums and howling out chants, they cast spells to heal
and fortify him. Every day, after they left, Koja would sink into deep
concentration, praying to Furo for strength and forgiveness. Though he told no
one, the priest was mortified, fearful that Furo and the Enlightened One would
shun him for having accepted the healing of another deity.
By the fourth day, the shamans were marveling at Koja's speedy recovery
and priding themselves on the efficacy of their spells. To their minds, Teylas
clearly favored them by accomplishing the healing of this foreign priest. The
shamans told the khahan of this wondrous progress, explaining that the priest
must somehow be special.
Four days also gave Koja time to learn his new servant's qualities. Although
Hodj was a slave, Koja refused to treat him like one, and, instead, gave him
the liberties and confidence of a trusted servant. Hodj responded to this and
seemed to care for his new master. The first morning Hodj made tea in the
Tuigan style thick with milk and salt. Koja almost choked, and a tea-brewing
lesson immediately followed. Thereafter, Hodj brewed tea Khazari-style thick
with butter although he made an awful face as he set it out for his master.
While recovering; Koja had little to do with his days but listen. Hodj rarely
spoke, but the shamans were another matter. Their lengthy conversations
usually centered on beliefs, but ranged across a variety of subjects.
Soon, Koja had enough new information to add to his letters. He lit the oil
lamp that sat on his small desk and unfolded a thin sheet of paper, the page
softly crackling as he smoothed it out on the top of the desk. The white paper
appeared straw yellow in the dim circle of light from the lamp. Taking up his
brush, Koja began to write in tight, controlled strokes.
The khahan claims to command more than one hundred thousand men, in
four different armies. I know too little to say if he is a boastful man. Three of
his armies are led by his sons. The fourth commander is Chanar Ong Kho. He
is a vain and proud man. There are also many lesser khans among the
Tuigan. Most of these I have had no chance to meet.
The khahan has a wife, the Second Empress Eke Bayalun, his own
stepmother. She surrounds herself with sorcerers and holy men, and seems
to have sway over the shamans of the people. That she does not love her
husband is clear, and her feelings may be even stronger. There is some
chance that overtures to her would drive a wedge between the khahan and
his wizards.
Having written everything he could, Koja was left with nothing to do but
brood. In particular, he was worried how to get his letters to Prince Ogandi. In
Semphar, trusted messengers carried them by the Silk Road to Khazari. Here,
his only choice was the khahan's riders, and Koja certainly did not trust them
with his messages. He wished he could send the letters safely back, but that
was not possible. However, there was little Koja could do, since he had to
stay until the khahan at least gave some answer to Ogandi's offer. Am I doing
the right thing, he worried, in serving as Yamun's scribe in the meantime?
After four days of rest, Koja was fit enough to get about. He was still weak,
but Yamun pressed him to return to the royal compound. The khahan needed
his scribe. So, reluctantly, Koja returned to Quaraband and assumed his
duties as the khahan's court scribe.
There was not much to these duties, mostly sitting quietly to the side during
the khahan's audiences, noting any orders or proclamations Yamun made. It
was quiet work, indeed so much so that Koja learned little more about the
khahan than he already knew. Two weeks of that drudgery passed before
anything of note happened.
It was very late at night, almost midnight, and the three men remaining in
the royal yurt were almost exhausted. Yamun sat half-sprawled on his throne,
drinking wine and resting. Koja, still only two weeks at his new duties, yawned
as he patiently worked with a pile of papers. In the darkness at the side of the
yurt was one of Yamun's nightguards. In his black kalat, the man almost
disappeared into the gloom. He sat still, trying to remain bright and alert,
knowing he would be beaten if he fell asleep.
His writing table pulled up in front of him, Koja sat transcribing the day's
judgments and pronouncements. As he worked, the priest stopped to listen to
the hammering roars of thunder and staccato pounding of rain against felt.
The thunderstorm raging outside made him start each time a new crash shook
the yurt. Such storms were the distant battles of the god Furo against the evil
spirits of the earth at least that was what he had been taught. Still, this
storm, the first since Koja had arrived in Quaraband, was greater than any the
priest had ever heard before.
All day the sky had been gray, promising a storm of swelling power. While
the khans had watched the sky fearfully, the khahan had been edgy, waiting
for the rain to come. In the early evening, the storm broke. Abruptly, Yamun
dismissed the khans and the servants, sending them out into the downpour.
Since then, Yamun had been sitting, drinking wine and occasionally issuing
orders, but his tension had not subsided. By this hour, the khahan moved
wearily and his temper was short.
Yamun swallowed a gulp of wine from a chased silver cup. "Write out this
order, scribe," he said brusquely. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]