Koja nodded.
That night, the lama returned to his own campfire. Hodj was already asleep. The nightguards sat at a small fire a little way off from Koja's. The lama dug into his bags, finally pulling out the small packet of letters he had written. He opened them and surveyed the sheets he had prepared for Prince Ogandi. Each page was covered with fine brushstrokes, column upon column of neatly arranged characters. The sheets represented hours of work in his tent, hours inking out pages of crabbed text. They were supposed to have been the sum and goal of his existence, at least while among the Tuigan.
"The prince might find these useful," he said to himself. He looked over the yellow sheets of rice paper.
"Or he may already know everything I've written," he countered. "In any case, he will know the intentions of the khahan soon enough."
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 me in and fed me. He treated me like a son."
"That's when you and Chanar became anda?" Koja ventured.
"No, that was later. Chanar didn't like me then. He was afraid his father loved me more. He was right." Yamun stopped talking and spat out a mouthful of dust. Unfastening a golden flask that hung on his saddle, he swallowed a mouthful of mare's milk.
Koja realized that his own mouth was thick and dry. Still, he didn't care to try the milk brew Hodj had prepared, and the tea was all gone. Taking the long cowl of his robe, he wrapped it over his mouth and nose, screening out some of the thick dust.
"Taidju swore to help and gave me warriors from his own people. We went back to the tents of my father. One day he was riding with some of his men and I found him. He wouldn't listen to me, so we fought. I couldn't shed his blood."
"Why not?" Koja's voice was muffled.
"The yeke-noyan was royal blood. Shedding his blood would be a bad omen," Yamun explained as if he was talking to a child.
"What happened?" Koja scratched at the top of his head, paying close attention to the words.
"I seized my father as he galloped by, and we fell to the ground and wrestled. I had to break his neck so I wouldn't spill his blood. After he was dead, I went to the Hoekun ordu with Taidju's people and declared myself the khan." Yamun unconsciously mimed the actions as he spoke.