Its smoothness was broken here and there by conical earth mounds girded and surmounted by standing stones. As they passed between the mounds, Temur saw that the stelae were carved with crude reliefs, representations of men and women with their hands folded before them or holding cups or weapons.
Hsiung, of course, rode with his partner in silence. Off to his left, Samarkar was holding a conversation in low tones with her guide, but Temur could not pick out more than the occasional word. He tried Qersnyk and Uthman greetings on the man he rode behind, getting a nod and a grunt on the second.
“What are these?” he asked, gesturing to the mounds. He suspected he knew, but—
“Kurgans.” The man craned over his shoulder to see if Temur understood. When Temur frowned and shook his head, the man’s brow furrowed. “Graves,” he said. “Spirit houses. The dead live in there.”
“I see,” Temur said. He hoped he hid his shudder.
* * *
Before long, they came up on a stockade of heavy tree boles set in the earth and lashed together, their tips axe-hewn to sharp points. Temur imagined the logs hauled from a forested slope or river valley, the labor to set them in place. It would not stand long against a concerted Qersnyk army or even a raiding band—but it was proof against most bandits, and the fact that it stood and was so well maintained proved without a doubt that they needed it.
The borders of the Uthman Caliphate suffered the same neglect as the hinterlands of any empire.
There was a conversation at the gates when the patrol approached. Temur would not have been surprised if he and his companions were bound before they were brought inside. But after a brief conference, they were led within, with the horses. Temur moved to take charge of Bansh; the patrol leader intercepted him with the same gesture of warning he’d made to his own man earlier.
“The mare will stay here. I don’t suppose she’s one of the things you are interested in trading? She looks to have good blood behind her.”
“Steppe ponies are not for sale,” Temur said, careful to keep the insult from his voice. These people could know no better, and his years with the army had taught him that not all peoples were as cosmopolitan—or as open to the beliefs and cultures of others—as the Qersnyk were.
It was the difference between an empire and a village, he supposed. He changed the subject. “I am Temur,” he said again. “If it is not impolite to ask, I would know what you are called?”
The man blinked at him. Temur was struck by his leathery appearance: skin so similar to a Qersnyk’s, but western features, with a high-bridged nose and bright, light eyes like an eagle’s almost buried in his squint.
“My name is Saura,” he said, as if Temur had honored him with the request.
Then he nodded and folded his hands over his horse-hoof breastplate. Close up, the armor did look as smooth and flexible as the scales of a snake, and Temur could see the care that had gone into arranging it in patterns of dark and light.
Idly—professionally—rather than with belligerence, he wondered how it would stand up to an arrow.
“Come,” Saura said, pulling his helm from a gray-streaked mane of hair. “It is not wise to keep the Queen Dragon waiting.”
Temur felt his companions closing around him as they marched into the hall—Samarkar on his right, Hsiung behind. On the ground, now, he realized that these westerners were tall. Not by the towering standards of the moon-white Kyivvin traders who sometimes came to Qarash, but most of them had half a head on him, if a bit less on Samarkar.
“They are very polite,” Samarkar said, in Rasan. “Should that worry me?”
“Guests are treasured on the steppe,” Temur answered, in the same language—so much more easily now, after months of practice, than before. “Perhaps by these people as much as by mine.”
She made a noise of discontent, until Hrahima leaned between them. “Rudeness is a weak person’s imitation of strength. If we are in their power, what need have they to be rude?”
Samarkar subsided, seeming somehow more comforted by Hrahima’s statement than worried. Given the politics of the court she must have grown up in, Temur tried not to be surprised.
If the white-houses on the steppe outside had seemed cozy and familiar, this structure was like nothing he had experienced. It was a great wooden hall, big as a temple in Song, with a sod roof pierced at intervals by covered apertures to allow smoke to escape. The doors were in the middle of the long side, which—judging by the unpainted planks of the wall—was the height of three tall trees taken together.
It would have sounded terribly plain had Temur tried to describe it to one of his own folk, but standing before it he could see the care and craftsmanship with which every plank dovetailed the next and how they had been sanded and oiled until they gleamed like a mirror-colored horse’s hide.