Temur had to glance out the window to remind himself that he was not in Song. They did not build this way there, and nothing in that far kingdom matched the shadow of the Steles mounting above the garden walls.
The far door opened, and a woman younger than Temur had anticipated stepped within. Not young, of course, but perhaps only ten years or so beyond Samarkar’s age, with white strands brushed from her temples into the elaborate coils of her hair. Perhaps she was a sister or a servant, he thought. He would have been expected to be relieved of his knife before he met the Dowager Khatun herself.
But no, this woman wore an ivory gown of Song silk, brocaded with a motif of tiny dragons in gold and green. It was fit for a queen, and this woman carried herself like one.
She was tall and broad-hipped, well proportioned to Temur’s eye, built more like a Qersnyk woman than the willowy western princesses he recollected from Qarash. She had a face that showed some Rasan or Qersnyk descent—almond eyes with smooth eyelids, oval cheeks—but her skin was the pale olive-wood color of the southern Song—or, Temur supposed, the Uthman mountain people.
She carried herself straight as a wand. The top seams of her sleeves had been left open, so graceful swags of fabric swung from shoulder to wrist and left her arms largely bare, showing the strong cables of tendons in her forearms, the firm curve of her upper arms. Qersnyk women who hunted had arms like that, and the delicate scar that curved like a lash around her left wrist was the mark of a bowstring snapped under pressure.
Temur bowed from the waist, not quite willing to prostrate himself. He was aware of Samarkar at his side, also bowing so the sweep of her travel-worn coat fell about her legs, and of Payma and Hrahima making their obeisances behind, though Hrahima’s was little more than a shallow bow.
He said, “Nilufer Khatun. I am Re Temur. I have come from Qarash and Tsarepheth with grave news of our family, and to beg a boon of you.”
Nilufer gestured to the cushions and the low tables. “Sit, please,” she said, her eyes on Payma, who rocked from one swollen foot to the other as subtly as she could. “I’ll send for tea.”
She did not seem to issue any such command, just seating herself at one of the low tables and leaving her guests to sort themselves as they saw fit. But by the time Temur had seen to Payma’s comfort and Hrahima reclined against a bolster, there was tea and some small dry cakes and a bowl of peeled boiled eggs cooked in spiced tea. He took a cake and an egg, to be polite, and passed the bowl to Hrahima. She sniffed the eggs dubiously but took one.
Temur tasted the cake—sweet and sharp with honey and spices—and washed it down with tea that smelled of roses. “Perhaps you have heard,” he began, “that the Khaganate is at war with itself? It seems the unrest is spreading.…”
Awkwardly, he spoke for almost an hour—with occasional interruptions for clarification from the others or questions from Nilufer. When he was done, he sat back and cradled a fresh bowl of tea. His mouth ached.
“So this woman, Payma—you, dear—bears an heir to the Rasan throne?”
“I do,” Payma said. “And it’s worth my life and the babe’s if I go back there.”
“I believe you,” Nilufer said. She passed a plump hand across the low table, gesturing Payma to eat. “I know you probably have no appetite, but you need to eat. Eat and move and stay strong, so you have stamina for the birthing.”
“I feel like I can’t get a breath,” Payma admitted, the first complaint Temur had heard her utter. “Let alone eat a bite of food.”
“You’re full up with babe,” Nilufer said. Jade bracelets clinked on her wrist as she gestured. “It’s only to be expected. Is this your first?”
Payma picked up a cake and soaked it in her tea while she nodded. Nilufer smiled, but it did not touch her eyes.
“You’re safe here,” she said. “Unless they come with an army. This is still the Khagan’s land.”
“For what that’s worth,” Temur said, half numb as the words pressed his lips apart. “What has the Khagan ever done for you?”
Nilufer’s smile was mysterious. Intentionally so, he thought. “He let me reign in peace,” she said. “Sent me a fine husband. Gave me the strength of arms to defend my land from bandits and mercenaries, and never demanded more in tribute than I could pay. He was a decent lord.”
“Every lord who offers a modicum of safety in exchange for the bribe money he extracts is a decent lord. If you can make the peasant believe it matters who collects his taxes,” Temur said with a shrug, “then you have all but won the war.”