Horselords (26 page)

“You have no proof she do this,” Goyuk said, tapping the carpet where he sat to emphasize his point. “Think like your father. She has many relatives, many friends. You must have proof, not suspicions. Besides, the wizards and shamans protect her.”

“Then what do I do?” Jad cried in frustration. “I need proof before I can act, but this viper works freely against us. I need to find Yamun’s killer!”

“Wait, Jad. Be like the tiger hunting for the deer. Whoever it is will make a mistake. It will happen soon,” Goyuk advised. “Ambition will cause them to blunder. We must wait until that happens.”

“How long can we keep the army together, just waiting? We need to do something.” Jad squatted beside Goyuk, looking to the old khan for guidance.

It was Koja, however, who spoke, from the side of Yamun’s sickbed. “A funeral. If the khahan is supposed to be dead, there must be a funeral.”

Jad glared over at the lama. “What good will that do, priest? It will only remind them the khahan is dead.”

Koja stood and moved to where the two men sat. “It will keep the khans busy—and keep them following your orders. And it may give your father time to get well.”

Jad stopped and considered Koja’s words. He glanced to Goyuk, and the old khan nodded in agreement.

“If you give orders for the funeral,” Koja continued, “the khans still listen to your words. They will grow used to following your commands. It will keep them from grumbling and give the men an outlet for their pain.”

Jad, chin sunk to his chest, watched Koja while the priest explained his plan. As he finished, the prince raised his head and spoke. “You are much more than a simple lama. I see why father has seen fit to name you his anda.”

Bayalun stood in front of her yurt with Chanar at her side. Surrounding both of them were Bayalun’s guards. The troopers stood tensely alert as the khadun read from an ancient scrap of yellow paper. Chanar peeked at it over her shoulder. He could read—a little anyway—and wasn’t about to miss a chance to show off his meager skill to Bayalun. To his dismay, what he saw was unintelligible, a strange and twisted script. Worse still for his pride, Bayalun read from the unrolled sheet with ease, her tongue tripping over the tortured phrases.

As she spoke, a gloom settled over them and the colors leached away from everything. Chanar tensed with fear as the world went gray—the white robes of the guards, Bayalun’s black hair, the red silks of his own shirt, even the orange glow of the fire. Then, there was nothing.

Abruptly, there was something. Solid ground slammed up under his feet, wiping away the brief feeling of floating. Chanar staggered, but several of the guards stumbled and fell. Bayalun managed to remain on her feet with ease. At any rate, they had arrived in Yamun’s camp.

And apparently they were not welcome.

The men of Yamun’s Kashik who surrounded them held drawn swords ready. The guards were a grizzled group, seasoned campaigners wearing dirty black kalats stained with blood. They watched the newcomers with hard stares. Black beards and braids were thick and foul with grease.

Only their scarred cheeks were free of the filth. Chanar recognized many and knew their names from previous battles. Watching them, the general moved slowly and carefully. These guards were poised to strike. It was clear in the way they stood, the way they held their swords, and the friendless look in their eyes.

Bayalun’s guards stood no less at the ready, their sword tips wavering in anticipation. Chanar slowly drew himself up. He was a khan, a prince of the Tuigan, not some thief. Looking his imposing best in a red robe and gold vest embroidered with blue dragons, Chanar glowered at the Kashik around him.

“Let me pass! I bring the khadun of the Tuigan to see the body of her husband,” Chanar shouted. His face was clouded and dark, and his eyes narrowed to hard, unfriendly slits. The battle-hardened, bloodthirsty old brawler in him rose to the fore. “Clear the way or die!” he bellowed, drawing his sword with a menacing flourish. The general’s shoulders heaved as he pumped himself up with fury and courage.

The Kashik shifted on the balls of their feet, preparing to meet his charge. They had their orders, and Chanar’s threats were not about to make them falter.

“General Chanar, you cannot teach asses courtesy,” Bayalun said softly. The general glared at her for having the audacity to interfere at such a critical point. “Put away your sword. These ugly mules haven’t the wit to be frightened. You—” She pointed at the largest guard with a flick of her finger. “Go and ask Yamun’s son if the khadun must change his guards into the asses they truly are. Then he can bray out his orders to them.” She smiled wickedly, an easy feat for her.

The fellow, whom Chanar recognized as an old, tough sergeant named Jali-bukha, went dead white at Bayalun’s words. Eyes wide open with fear, the sergeant nodded and quickly ran toward the khahan’s yurt. Bayalun looked at Chanar with a triumphant smile. “It will not be long,” she confidently predicted.

With difficulty, Chanar swallowed his pride. He was one of Yamun’s seven valiant men. He didn’t need a woman to tell common warriors to get out of his way. Someday, he knew, there would come a time when her words and threats would no longer suffice. Then she would have to come to him for support.

Behind his back, Mother Bayalun hid her contemptuous smile. The general believes he can do this alone, she thought. But, she reminded herself, the dear general is necessary. The wizards and some of the people might follow her, but the rest of the army would never accept Bayalun’s commands. She needed General Chanar to keep Yamun’s—her—empire intact.

The sergeant reached the door of the khahan’s yurt, less than one hundred yards away. Barely waiting to be announced, he threw open the tent flap and breathlessly stood in the doorway. Seeing the prince glaring at him for the intrusion, the sergeant flung himself to the ground. “Prince Jadaran, I bring a message,” he declared while gasping for breath. “Eke Bayalun and General Chanar, they have just arrived!”

“What?” the prince exclaimed. “Here?” He clenched his fists in frustration. With a curt wave, he dismissed the sergeant and then spun back to the others. “What are we going to do?” He whirled on Goyuk, expecting the advisor to instantly provide an answer.

“Show them … in,” came a weak voice from the other side of the tent. Astonished, Jad turned slowly toward the source. There, on his sickbed, was Yamun. Somehow, he had struggled up onto one elbow, raising his head enough to look at them. His face was hollow and pale. A tic quivered his cheek, a small sign of the massive effort he was expending. “Get me up,” he whispered hoarsely. “I will meet with my… wife.” Koja hurried to his side, quickly mounding pillows for Yamun to lean on.

“Father, you’re not strong enough!” Jad protested. “There must be something else we can do.”

“No. Bayalun must know I live. Otherwise, she will make trouble. And Chanar deserves to know the truth.” His voice trailed off weakly. The khahan rested for a little before speaking again. “Go. Greet them. Give me some time, but don’t tell them I live …. I will be ready.”

Jad stood still, uncertain if he should obey these orders. Koja looked up, firmly meeting Jad’s gaze. “We will make sure Yamun is ready.”

“Let all who disobey you know this is by the word of the khahan.” Yamun mumbled, reciting the formula. Even in his weak voice, there was no uncertainty.

Resigned, Jad bowed to his father and turned to go.

“And order the Kashik to double their guard,” Yamun added as his son departed.

Accompanied by the sergeant, Jad marched the short distance to where Bayalun and Chanar waited. The Kashik stepped aside to let the prince pass.

“Greetings, Mother,” Jad said with forced civility. There was little warmth in his voice, although nothing in his expression noted anything less than filial love. “You should have warned of your coming. A proper reception could’ve—well—been prepared.” His smile was broad and utterly heartless.

“I am sure your preparations would have been most complete,” Bayalun parried. She did not even bother to pretend friendship to her stepson. “We did not want to put you to such trouble.”

Using her staff, Bayalun pushed her way past Jad and began marching toward the khahan’s tent, ignoring everyone around her. She continued to talk, unconcerned whether Jad was following her or not. “In Quaraband, there are rumors that Yamun is slain. I came to investigate these. Now I see the mourning banner in front of my husband’s tent. Why was I not informed?”

The prince quick-stepped to fall in beside Bayalun, avoiding the backswing of her staff as he did so. “We had no one who could reach you quickly. We’ve sent a messenger.” It was a part lie; he and Goyuk had carefully avoided letting the news travel beyond the camp.

“What about Afrasib, my wizard? He could have reached me,” the khadun asked warily.

“I think not. He died in yesterday’s battle, slain by the Khazari,” Jad lied.

The old sorceress stopped suddenly, taken aback by her stepson’s announcement. “Afrasib is dead?” she asked in sad disbelief. “It is not possible.”

“Most certainly, he’s dead. His body was brought back from the field of battle.” Jad couched his words carefully this time.

“I shall see his body later,” Bayalun decided, brushing an errant gray hair from her face.

As Bayalun came to the doorway, two more Kashik stepped in front of her, blocking the way with crossed swords. Irritated, the khadun poked at them with the gold head of her staff. Although they flinched as she thrust it forward, neither man moved.

“Unless you want me to hurt these men,” she snapped at the prince, “you should order them to move.” She squinted at the guards with mock ferocity and wagged her staff under their noses.

“They only want to protect you from evil spirits. There is death here,” the prince explained, reminding her of the old taboos. “The yurt is ill-omened. Yamun’s body lies inside.” Jad carefully avoided making eye contact with his stepmother.

“I have seen enough death that this will do me no harm,” Bayalun informed her stepson. Taking up her staff, the khadun thrust it forward. The sleeve on her arm fell back, revealing the smooth, golden skin that belied her age. Bayalun pushed the guards aside and stooped through the doorframe.

Jad waited for Chanar to enter, then brought up the rear, trying to suppress his panic. Had he stalled long enough?

Was the khahan ready to receive them? He edged his hand to his sword, in case things went badly.

Bayalun took only a single step through the door and stopped. Chanar, his head bowed to get through the door, bumped into the khadun and stepped back in surprise. Looking over Bayalun’s shoulder, he lurched back farther in greater astonishment. Jad easily slid to the side, out of the way, his eyes goggling at Yamun’s throne.

Bayalun let out a sharp gasp of incredulity, and her staff almost slipped from her grasp. General Chanar simply gaped in shock. There, opposite them, was Yamun, alive and sitting on his throne. His legs were spread, his hands resting on his knees, his head held upright, chin jutting forward. He was dressed in his finest armor, a bribe the emperor of Shou Lung had sent a year ago. The metal gleamed in the dim light—a golden breastplate sculpted with muscles, a pair of flaring silver shoulder-guards, a skirt of the finest metal chain, and a helm of gem-encrusted brass and gold, tapered and fluted to a point. A pure white horsetail, braided with ribbons of red silk, hung down from the helmet’s tip.

Under all the trappings it was difficult, almost impossible, to see Yamun’s face. The lamps were hung far and high from the khahan’s seat, casting his features into darkness. His hands were covered with thick gauntlets.

At the head of the men’s seats, close to the khahan, sat Koja, cross-legged. The hollow-eyed priest studied the pair who had just entered with anxious curiosity. Beside him was Goyuk, still dressed in the filthy robes from yesterday’s battle. The old khan had dug out his pipe and was carefully tamping it full of tobacco. He glanced toward Bayalun and Chanar, and then returned his attention to his pipe, scarcely giving them any notice. Behind the khahan were the nightguards. At their head stood Sechen, his arms hidden in the folds of his kalat. The guards stood stiffly erect, their eyes boring in on the visitors. They made no attempt to hide their hatred.

“Come forward,” the khahan said softly. His resonant voice carried clearly across the room. Cautiously, eyeing all those around her, Bayalun walked forward. Chanar strode beside her, though his gait was less swaggering than normal.

Bayalun was the first to gather her wits. She cleverly composed in a simple refrain, chanting it in a droning melody.

“Greetings, honorable son who rises again.

Your grieving mother is pleased to see you.

Your grieving wife is pleased to see you.

Double blessings flow like water upon me.”

Yamun bowed his head slightly toward his stepmother. “Sit,” he whispered, pointing to a seat about halfway up the women’s row. Bayalun obediently took the seat, accepting the slight insult the position implied without comment.

“Sit,” the khahan said in a stronger voice, indicating a seat for Chanar beside Goyuk. Chanar hesitated, for the seat put him at a lower rank than the priest. He started to protest, then thought better of it.

There was a strained silence and, for a moment, Yamun’s head sagged. The illustrious second wife watched the khahan with keen interest. Prince Jad, near the door of the yurt, silently drew his sword and caught the eyes of Sechen. The giant nodded slightly, indicating his readiness.

“Have this pipe, Great Lord,” old Goyuk said brazenly, sliding forward to hand Yamun the bowl he had prepared. Abruptly the khahan’s head snapped up.

“I’ll smoke,” Yamun answered, his voice sounding a little hollow. Taking the pipe, he lit it and took several long puffs, enjoying the sharp flavor of the exotic tobacco. Koja offered a silent prayer to the Ten-Thousand Protective Images of Furo. At the back of the yurt, the prince once again relaxed his stance.

“You’ve heard evil rumors, no doubt,” Yamun finally said. “Rumors that assassins were sent to kill me. So, no doubt, you hurried here to prove to your own minds how wrong these rumors were.”