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Tuigan hospitality.
    Koja returned to his yurt to work on his reports. Since leaving Khazari, the priest had tried to maintain a careful account of his mission by writing his observations in letters to Prince Ogandi. Although Koja had sent a few missives from Semphar, he had not had the chance since. Pulling out a bundle of sheets, the priest began to carefully add the recollections of last night and today to the papers. He quickly became engrossed in the work.
    It was dark when Yamun summoned Koja back to his yurt. The khahan sat alone on the dais. The scribe was seated at his little table. A wick floating in a bowl of oil provided the man with light. Other lamps were lit, casting a dim illumination against the dark. Koja was ushered in with little ceremony.
    “Sit, priest,” Yamun said, dispensing with formalities. Koja took his seat on the cushions in the center of the floor. “No, here.” Yamun pointed at his feet. “You will look at my hand.”
    “As you wish, Khahan.” Koja reached into the front of his robe, getting his charm pouch.
    “Priest, will you join me in drink?” Yamun asked while he watched the Koja rummage through the bag.
    “You are most gracious, Khahan. I will take wine.”
    Yamun clapped his hands, taking care not to strike his bandage. “Bring hot wine and kumiss for me. It’s a better drink than wine,” he said, pointing a finger at Koja. “Kumiss reminds us of who we are. It is our blood. But,” he concluded with a grin, “it is an acquired taste.”
    The servants appeared and poured the drink into silver goblets. As they did so, Koja carefully unwrapped the bandage on Yamun’s hand. The skin around the edge of the wound was black and crusty, but there was no sign of swelling. Already it had started to knit properly. “Let the wound air,” Koja advised the khahan.
    “Very well. Now, for the sake of formality, read me your prince’s words,” Yamun requested. Reaching into his robe, the khahan produced the letters and tossed them to Koja. He leaned forward, intent on Koja’s words.
    The priest unfolded the sheet and squinted, trying to make out the words in the dim light.
    ” ‘To the gracious lord of the steppe from Prince Ogandi, ruler of Khazari, son of Tulwakan the Mighty:
    ” ‘Long have we heard of your people, and great are they in their lands! Mighty is your valor. Greatly it pleases us to have so stalwart a neighbor—’ “
    “What does it say?” Yamun interrupted impatiently, tapping his fingertips together.
    “Great Lord?”
    “What does your prince say? Tell me. Don’t read anymore. Just tell me.”
    “Well…” Koja paused as he scanned the rest of the letter. “Prince Ogandi offers his hand in friendship, hoping that you will enter into peaceful trade with him. And then, later on, he proposes a treaty of friendship and defense.”
    “And the other letter, what does it say?”
    Koja unfolded it and scanned through the lines. “My prince has outlined this proposed treaty for you to consider. It calls for recognizing the borders of the Khazari and Tuigan lands. He says that, ‘Your enemies shall be our enemies’ ” Koja stopped to see if the khahan had understood. “It’s a promise to assist each other against attackers.”
    “He does not threaten war?” Yamun asked sternly.
    Koja looked at the letter again. “No, Great Lord!”
    “Does he state that assassins will be sent to slay me?” Yamun fingered at the baubles in his mustache.
    Koja wonder just what Yamun was getting at. “Not at all.”
    “Hmmm…” Yamun stroked his mustache. “Then why would someone tell me these things?” he wondered out loud as his gaze settled on the old scribe. The man went pale, sweat beading out on his forehead. “Why would someone tell me lies?”
    “I did not lie, Lord! I only read what was there!” the scribe babbled as he frantically pressed his face into the carpets. His voice muffled, he continued to plead. “I swear by the lightning, by the might of