[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
"Then I'll conquer them, and they'll be the slaves of my khans." Yamun
leaned slightly against the doorframe of the yurt. "And you'll tell the story of
my life."
"What?" Koja gasped in astonishment.
"You will write the history of my rule. I will be a great emperor. As my
historian, you will be honored by many." Yamun stepped inside the yurt, and
Koja followed him, still arguing.
"But but I am just an envoy, Great Lord. Surely there must be someone
better."
The nightguard, the same man who was in the yurt when they left, ran up to
the door and dropped to one knee alongside the khahan. "Great Khan!" he
said in surprised relief. "You live! I will tell my brothers that you have safely
returned."
"You'll stay until I dismiss you," Yamun countered as he walked past. "Koja
of Khazari, you will write the history of my life starting from right now. No one
else will do."
"Great Lord, I serve Prince Ogandi. It would not be right." Koja hurried
across the yurt.
"I don't care. You'll write it because I need you who else would write the
truth? Mother Bayalun? Her wizards? I wouldn't trust them. My generals?
They're like me they don't know this magic of writing. You " He wagged his
finger at Koja. "You, I trust. And that is why I choose you."
"Lord Yamun, I am very flattered, but you barely know me. I have a
responsibility to my prince. I cannot serve you." Koja realized he was knotting
his fingers.
"You're in my tent, in my land. You will do what I say," Yamun commanded.
He began unwrapping the wet sash from around his waist.
"And if Prince Ogandi bids me otherwise?" asked Koja as he nervously
squeezed the water from his cuffs.
"Then I will deal with your prince." Yamun spoke in slow, measured words.
"I'm loyal to Khazari," Koja pressed, his throat getting dry with tension.
"It doesn't matter. I trust you. There's no more discussion to be had of this."
Yamun tossed his wet sash aside and settled himself on his throne.
Koja rubbed his head in frustration. He was stymied. In desperation he tried
another ploy. "Isn't there a saying of your people about a man who tells the
truth?"
Yamun looked about for his wine cup. " 'A man who tells the truth should
have one foot in the stirrup,'" he quoted. "It's good advice. You should
remember it."
Koja finally gave up and spoke his mind. "I do not want to be your
chronicler, Yamun Khahan."
"I know."
"Then why do you make me do it? Why do you need a biographer?"
"Because Teylas revealed that I should," Yamun said testily as he pulled at
one of his sodden boots.
"But why? What good would I do you?"
"This is no longer amusing, scribe. There will be no more argument,"
Yamun snapped, his voice rising in volume. "You will write the history of my
great deeds because I am the khahan of the Tuigan and I say you will. Every
king and every emperor has someone to make songs about them. You will
write mine. Now leave until you are called for!" With a jerk Yamun pulled the
boot off and threw it aside.
Stiffly, Koja walked out of the tent, giving only a slight bow and turning his
back to the khahan upon leaving. The tent flap slapped shut with a wet flop.
After the priest left, Yamun sat brooding, staring into his glass. The wind
whistled around through the small gaps in the smoke hole. Drips fell in the
corners where the rainwater had soaked through the seams of the tent.
After the nightguard had laced up the flap of the tent, Yamun spoke. "What
do you think?"
"Me, Great Lord?" the guard asked in surprise.
"What do you think of the Khazari priest?" Yamun said, pointing to the door.
"It's not for me to say, Great Lord," the guard deferred.
"I'm asking, so it is. Come closer and tell me."
Intimidated by the khahan, the man hesitantly came forward. "Noble
khahan, I apologize for speaking so boldly, but I speak because you have
ordered it. The foreigner is disrespectful."
"Oh," Yamun commented as he began tugging at his other boot.
The guard became more confident. "He argues and does not heed your
word. He is only a foreigner, yet he dares challenge you."
"And what should I do?" Yamun asked, jerking on the stubborn shoe.
"He should be flogged. If a man in my tumen spoke as he did, our
commander would have him beaten!"
"Your commander is a fool," Yamun observed, adding a loud grunt as the
boot came off with a thick pop.
The guard looked up, his eyes wide with astonishment.
Yamun continued. "What if everyone obeyed me and never questioned my
word? Where would I get my wise advisors? They'd be no better than a worn
boot." The khahan held up his own mud-caked boot and then tossed it aside.
Humbled, the guard nodded automatically.
"Why do you think the truthful man has one foot in the stirrup? Truth is not
always what people want to hear. Learn and someday I will make you a
commander," Yamun finished, suppressing a yawn. He struggled to his feet
and began unfastening the toggles of his robes. "Now, I'm tired and will sleep
alone tonight. See that my guards are in order and send someone to the
women's tent. Tell the ladies they won't be needed. You will sleep at my
doorstep."
"By your word, it shall be done," said the guard, touching his head to the
floor, acknowledging the duty the khahan had given him. He ran to the
doorway and loosened the laces enough to bark out his orders.
Before the guard finished, the khahan had struggled out of his clothes and
collapsed, exhausted, onto the hard wooden bed set up behind his throne.
4
Chanar
It was late the next morning when an escort of black-robed dayguards
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]