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needed to be done. Leaning on the pommel of his saddle, Yamun turned to General Chanar beside him. “Chanar Ong Kho, this man and his arban are to ride with all haste to the Katakoro Mountains with as many men as you think wise to send. I want to know the numbers, strengths, and weaknesses of the Khazari. See that the scouts have fresh horses and passes. They must return in five weeks, no later.” Chanar nodded in understanding.
    Just as he was about to go, Yamun turned back. “And send someone from my Kashik who can count. Make him their commander. Let all who disobey you know this is by the word of the khahan.” Yamun added the last automatically, a formula that signified his orders.
    “By your word, it shall be done,” responded Chanar mechanically, according to the formula of etiquette. “Is that all my men are to do?” the general asked.
    Yamun stopped his horse and stared back at Chanar. “You, General Chanar, will ride to the ordu of my son, Tomke, and observe his camp. I want to know if his men are ready. Take the men you need and go immediately. Teylas will protect you.”
    “By your word, it shall be done” Chanar responded. The discussion finished, Yamun tugged his mount’s reins and galloped off.
    The trooper still cowered at the feet of Chanar’s horse.
    “Get going!” the general bellowed. The terrified Hulagu leaped to his feet and scrambled back toward his camp. With his boot, the trooper roused the men of his arban, sending them tumbling after their gear.
    “See to the details,” Chanar ordered an aide nearby. With his own preparations to make, General Chanar wheeled his horse around and galloped away, headed toward his own yurt.

    In his tent, Koja brought out his papers and began to make notes of the day’s events and sights. He had only added a few pages since his arrival in Quaraband. Looking at the meager letters only reminded him of how little he knew of the khahan. Undiscouraged, he took up the writing brush and with quick practiced strokes started another letter.
    My lord, Prince Ogandi of the Khazari. Greetings from your most humble servant, Koja, envoy to the Tuigan court.
    For two days I have awaited the word of the khahan of the Tuigan. There has been no communication from him. He has received your offers, but gives no sign of his opinion toward a treaty. I can do little but wait.
    During this time, I have ridden about Quaraband, as the Tuigan call this city of tents, attempting to learn more about their numbers and their way of life. Using the paitza given me by the khahan, I have been able to go where I wish, with one exception—the royal yurt.
    Koja stopped to ink his brush and lay out another sheet of paper. He paused before touching the brush to paper again. That morning he had gone to Yamun’s tent. There he was stopped by the Kashik dayguard stationed by the gates. Showing his paitza had had no effect on the man and all his protests had been in vain. The guard, in his black kalat, made it clear that Koja was not to be admitted, since the priest’s pass bore only the tiger seal. This was apparently the pass used by low-ranking officials. Koja thought about penning the story down, then decided against it.
    Perhaps no one was allowed within the royal palace except by invitation.
    Traveling elsewhere in the camp, I had no such difficulty, though I have been in the constant company of an armed escort, a precaution of the khahan. I carefully counted tents, making a knot in a string for every ten. By now the cord is short, twisted with little knots. There are more than one hundred knots on the cord, and I still have not ridden the extent of the camp. The Tuigan are a numerous people, O Prince.
    In crafts and arts, the people are more than mere barbaric savages. They have men skilled in working gold and silver, and from the wool of sheep make a wondrously warm and soft fabric called felt. At the same time, they are among the smelliest and most abhorrent people for their personal