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Occasionally one would leave his fire and slowly approach the center, where
the khahan sat. However, even the khans took care not to alarm the
nightguards who stood around Yamun's camp.
"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." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl akte20.pev.pl
Occasionally one would leave his fire and slowly approach the center, where
the khahan sat. However, even the khans took care not to alarm the
nightguards who stood around Yamun's camp.
"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." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]