"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."