Khwarazm

By Nathaniel H.C. Kim

In the year 1218 A.D., Khwarazm was a flourishing kingdom of culture, trade and wealth. Not even the neighboring empire of the Abbasid Caliphate could challenge it. Through its lands pass the routes of the legendary Silk Road where the great cities of Samarkand and Bokhara thrived. Over this mighty kingdom ruled the Shah Mohammed, Sultan Ala ad Deen and his Queen Mother, Terken Qatun. From their palace at Afrasiab in the city of Samarkand, the Sultan, his Queen Mother and two children, the Princess Aisha and Prince Jalal, spent their days in luxury and culture. Days that were fated to change.

Greed and arrogance, jealousy and fear invariably lead to lapses in judgment or perhaps, clarity of mind. Whatever the reasons, distinct but related events ignite a powderkeg that brings the hordes of Cinggis Qan like a jada out of the high steppes of Central Asia. Soon, the beautiful Princess Aisha, her love, Qafar of the Shahs Imperial Guard and her brother, Prince Jalal find themselves swept up in a whirlpool of blood and intrigue that threatens not only the love of the Princess and Qafar but the very survival of the kingdom of Khwarazm as well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 23, 2002
• ISBN: 9781462837786

Nathaniel H.C. Kim

Sarai is the third and final installment of the Qans Triology. Nathaniel Kim resides in Kaneohe, Hawaii with his two sons and is presently working on a fourth novel based on the legend of Chinggis Qan’s return eight hundred years after his death.

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Copyright © 2002 by Nathaniel H.C. Kim.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

chapter fifteen

chapter sixteen

chapter seventeen

chapter eighteen

chapter nineteen

chapter twenty

chapter twenty-one

chapter twenty-two

chapter twenty-three

chapter twenty-four

chapter twenty-five

chapter twenty-six

From the Author

DEDICATION

To my sons, Trevor and Tyler and their mother, Kari:

Let life be your friend, your mind full of dreams,

And your heart always true.

"I have seen the Fates stamp like a camel in the dark;

those they touch they kill, and those they miss live on to grow old."

—al-Majani al-haditha

chapter one

IF NOT A KING THEN A SLAVE, MY SON. TO THE ABBASID CALIPHATE.

Shah Muhammad, Sultan Ala ad Deen turned from the window in the imperial palace of Afrasiab and gazed behind him into the cool recesses of the royal room. Amidst patterns of light and shadow, a woman lounged atop a succulent spread of silk and satin pillows, watching him stride toward her, royal robes of silver and gold thread rustling with each step.

You know the Caliph would like nothing better than to see you and me dead, the woman said. He’s tried often enough.

Ala ad Deen snorted. And failed each time. He took a sip of wine from a golden goblet. Khwarazm’s stronger and mightier than all the lands of the Caliphate. It’s a fact al-Nasir can’t stand and he’s been choking on it for years.

The light, sweet ring of bells drifted up into the room. Ala ad Deen crossed the carpeted floor to the east windows and looked out.

Come, Mother. Come see this, he said, motioning to her.

The woman slowly rose and strode over to stand beside her son. In the light of day, her features were more distinct. Deep-

set grey eyes peered over the height of cheekbones, the nose long and thin like the shape of her mouth. Terken Qatun was the daughter of a Kipchak nobleman, Akran, and ruled with her son as the Queen Mother of Khwarazm. At fifty years of age, she looked a decade younger.

Thirty feet below a train of Bactrian camels plodded beneath the stone and brick archway of the eastern gate, guided by men with thick, dark beards and sweat-stained turbans, heading to the caravanserai in the western quarter of the city. Each step of the long-legged beasts rang with the sweet sound of copper bells. Veiled women in billowing chadors and children in tattered clothes scurried along the cobbled street, chattering excitedly, trying to guess what marvels this caravan brought from the lands beyond the eastern mountains of the Chin Shan.

Their burdens always look so heavy, the Queen Mother said, hands glittering with rings of gold and silver. Do you know what these bring? She asked. A surprise for the Queen Mother, perhaps?

Ala ad Deen smiled. Indeed, Mother. Beautiful things from the land of the Chin.

You’re such a good son, Ala ad Deen.

And, Sultan.

I find it amazing how such treasures keep coming from a land of infidels.

Ala ad Deen glanced over at her, frowning. You speak of … ?

Cinggis Qan.

His left hand tightened around the bowl of his goblet as though to crush it. The muscles of his jaws rippled like steel cord. That name! Oh, how he’d come to hate that name. A plague on mankind. A curse on civilization. A year ago, he reluctantly agreed to trade relations with the infidel barbarians of the east in an effort to squelch the greedy, vociferous demands of the merchants of Samarkand who threatened boycotts if he did not accede. A trade arrangement I’ve come to regret, he ruminated aloud.

The Queen Mother looked at him. Why? I’d say it’s a good arrangement . More for us than him.

Really? Ala ad Deen took another sip of wine. I’m told, the Devil King calls himself ruler of the east, and I, ruler of the west. Do you believe that? A filthy, ignorant barbarian thinks he’s my equal, yet knows nothing about me. I vomit at the thought. He drained the last of the wine. Allah should unleash a pestilence on him and his kind and cleanse the earth of them. We don’t need any more demons.

The Queen Mother reached out and gently stroked the sleeve of her son’s robe. Let the Mongol believe what he wants. He’s nothing to us.

Ala ad Deen gazed into his empty goblet.

Look. The Queen Mother stretched her right arm toward the window. Out there lies the wonder and beauty of Samarkand. Your creation. It exists because you exist. You brought life to it, just as you did Bokhara, Herat and Urgench. The herdsmen of the steppes have nothing. Only wasteland and dung. You’ve all this!

Ala ad Deen turned away and refilled his goblet from a gold-rimmed bottle of blown glass.

You don’t agree? the Queen Mother said.

Agree? He lowered himself into a brocaded chair and stared at the leather sandals on his feet. I wholeheartedly agree. The rim of the goblet paused at his lips. But the man still thinks himself my equal. He swallowed a mouthful of wine.

Then, perhaps, things must change.

Such as?

That the sun rises and sets on two kingdoms.

What’re you suggesting, Mother?

The Queen Mother smiled. Opportunity, Ala ad Deen. Only opportunity. One must always be ready to take advantage of it. You never know when it may come.

Let’s hope so. Ala ad Deen finished his drink and set the goblet down. He stood and glanced around. Where’s Aisha?

In the palace garden, last I saw her.

Not with that peasant, I hope.

You mean Lieutenant Qafar of your Imperial Guard? A handsome young man—

From a peasant’s family, Ala ad Deen snapped. He clapped his hands. A guard appeared, wearing the fine white linen, colored vest and chain mail of the house guard. Find the Princess Aisha, he said. Check in the palace garden. Bring her to me. We journey to Otrar at sunset.

The guard bowed and hurried away.

She’s twenty years old, Ala ad Deen. She’s a woman now.

Who’ll marry someone of my choosing, he said. I’ve plans for her.

Why are you going to Otrar? What’s there but rock and dust?

I’ve a meeting with Governor Inaljuk. He has a son who’s twenty-one.

Inaljuk’s a pig.

A smile spread through Ala ad Deen’s lips. A wealthy pig.

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I love you, Aisha.

And I, you, Qafar.

The two leaned their foreheads against each other, then turned and stared out at the flowing waters of the royal garden. Crystal streams of water arced out from the mouths of sculpted babes and fishes, splashing like beads of glass into deep, reflecting pools of carp and water lilies. A light breeze fluttered the velvet branches of the willow above them and swooped down to play with the long, rich strands of the Princess’s hair.

At twenty, Princess Aisha was known throughout Khwarazm as a beauty of beauties. Possessed of a spirit as fine and fiery as an Arabian horse, her attraction to the handsome lieutenant of the Imperial Guard was no secret. He was intelligent, dark eyed and tall.

Qafar absently plucked at blades of grass. Aisha slapped his hand.

Stop that. You kill the grass.

He smiled sheepishly. Sorry. I’m sure it’s something your father would like to do to me. He gazed at a blade stuck between his fingers and blew it away.

My father doesn’t kill officers of his Imperial Guard.

Oh, no? He considers me no better than a beggar when it comes to you. He gazed at her, heart palpitating. The fine, smooth features of her face and small nose reminded him of a doe. The thick, dark lashes framing green eyes sensual as the richest jade with lips perfect to kiss and a spirit full of pride and courage. Once, he had the privilege of escorting her on a hunt and, in awe, witnessed her face down a tusked boar before filling it full of arrows. A display they were fortunate her father never found out.

Patience, Qafar, Aisha said, gently grasping his hand and looking into his eyes. My father will come around in time. He’ll see you’re not just a good officer but will make a good husband as well. She smiled and leaned toward him. A fact I already know.

Their lips drew close.

Excuse me, sir—

In an instant, both were on their feet, facing the guard standing behind them. Aisha quickly veiled herself. Qafar briskly stepped forward.

What is it, guard? he said.

The young man bowed. Many pardons, sir. But the Shah Muhammad has summoned his daughter to the palace. She must come now.

Qafar glanced back at her.

For what reason? Aisha asked, dark green eyes above the veil enthralling to the young recruit.

You travel to Otrar with His Majesty this evening, Princess.

Otrar? Her eyes darted over to Qafar and then back to the guard. What for?

I don’t know, Princess.

Aisha didn’t move.

Please, Princess. We must go. The Shah awaits you.

She looked once more at Qafar and then obediently followed the guard back up the marble path to the palace. Qafar quietly watched them go, wondering why the Shah would take his daughter to Otrar, a city post near the Silk Road. It wasn’t a large city. Of moderate size, it was nothing as remarkable as Samarkand or Bokhara. He started back to his barracks on the eastern side of the palace grounds, passing through grand arches and gardens of fountains, absorbed in thought.

Qafar!

The lieutenant looked up. Across an inner courtyard rose the wood and stone stables of the Imperial Guard and there, beneath a spreading shade tree, sat his friend, Ahmed. They’d grown up together in the province of Mashad amidst fields of wheat and corn, the only boys of twelve children in their village.

Ahmed was grooming a jet-black stallion belonging to the Captain of the Guard, Abdullah Valli. The horse had been a gift from an emir to the Shah in appreciation for the Shah’s help. In turn, the Shah had given the horse to Abdullah as reward for his loyalty and dutifulness over the years.

You look as though you’re pondering imponderables, Ahmed said, laughing as Qafar walked up. What’s so engrossing? Your miserable life, or your poverty?

Qafar shook his head and took a seat on a large, gnarled root of the tree. You wouldn’t understand, he said, wiping sweat from his brow. Go back to your grooming. That you understand.

The world’s a big place, Qafar. There’s much I don’t understand at my tender age. And neither do you.

Didn’t you visit Otrar recently? Qafar asked, watching an eddy of dust whirl across the dirt yard.

Ahmed nodded. Last week. With Prince Jalal. A worthless errand. The Queen Mother wanted herbs only grown there. I could find but a handful.

Tell me about the place. What does it look like?

Ahmed stared at his friend a moment. Since when did you become the tourist?

Qafar shrugged. I’m curious. Tell me.

Ahmed continued grooming. Nothing special. Maybe, a third the size of Samarkand. It sits astride the river Syr Darya. Has a garrison of about ten thousand men. And the Governor is a man by the name of Inaljuk. A fat, greasy Turk.

Does Inaljuk have any sons?

Ahmed scratched the dark locks of his hair. One, I think. His eyes narrowed. Why this sudden interest in Otrar and a fat Turk?

Qafar glanced furtively around then leaned toward Ahmed. The Shah’s going there with Aisha tonight.

I knew it!

Qafar grimaced. Hold it down. You don’t have to announce it to the world.

What? Your romance with her—such that it isn’t? It’s no secret. The whole Guard knows of your love for the Princess. We all pity you. Ahmed chuckled.

Pity?

You’re like a goat in love with a mare. It can never be.

You’re such a good friend. Qafar said. So encouraging. He stood up and stopped as Ahmed grasped his arm.

I am your friend, Qafar. Your good friend and brother. I don’t want to see you get hurt.

I hurt already, Qafar thought, walking away.

Image406.PNG

We leave at sunset.

I’m not going.

Ala ad Deen plucked a grape from a bowl and slowly placed it in his mouth and chewed. He didn’t turn around nor answer.

Did you hear me, Father? I’m not going.

He reached down for another grape.

Blood tinged Aisha’s cheeks. She hated it when her father didn’t answer or pretended not to hear. She just hated it. I know why you want me to go to Otrar. You intend that I meet the son of the Governor. Well, I tell you now, I’ve no desire to meet him. So, I’m not going.

You remind me of a little child, Ala ad Deen finally said, turning around. If I have to truss you like a goat, I will. But you’re accompanying me. And that’s the end to it.

With a growl or a curse, Ala ad Deen wasn’t certain which, Aisha whirled on her heels and stormed from the room, the clacking of her thongs loud down the hallway.

She’s headstrong like her mother, the Queen Mother said. She had been quietly watching from a corner of the room.

I’d no idea she knew the Governor had a son.

One of her handmaidens is from there.

Ala ad Deen gazed out the window of the palace. The sun was already low on the horizon. He summoned the guards and gave them orders.

Let me talk to her, the Queen Mother said. She walked crisply down the hallway to a door at the end on the left. Lifting up a silk sleeve, she knocked on the soft wood then entered.

Oil lamps cast a warm, flickering glow about the room of damask and tapestry. The fragrant smell of frankincense filled the air. Aisha sat on the edge of her bed, staring down at the carpeted floor. She didn’t look up as the Queen Mother entered.

You’ve done the room nicely, the Queen Mother said, admiring a lacquer tray full of delicate vials of blown glass from Fustat on a sideboard. She drifted pass an ornate standing mirror of gold and silver plate from Alexandria, a table of scented candles and teak settee from Cathay, and found herself at the foot of the bed.

May I sit? She asked. Aisha nodded without looking up. The Queen Mother lowered herself down, one hand feeling the smooth satin weave of the white cover. She gazed a moment at the soft curves of her granddaughter’s profile. Such a beautiful child, she thought. And so stubborn.

You know, your father means well, Aisha, she said. His only concern’s for your future and welfare. You’re his only daughter. He worries about you.

He needn’t. I already know who I want to marry. A tear dropped into her lap. She quickly brushed others away before they could fall. Qafar’s the only one I want.

The lieutenant?

She nodded. The heave of breath from the Queen Mother drew Aisha’s eyes to the woman’s face.

We live in a world of reality, Princess. Not love. He’s from a family of farmers.

So? I love him. Not his family.

You must eat well. You must have beautiful clothes and a strong, solid roof over your head. Dinar to buy things that catch your fancy. Soldiers to protect you. Love alone can’t do that, Princess.

He’s an officer in the Imperial Guard. He’d provide for me.

But, how well, my dear? Your father’s a king, the Shah Muhammad of Khwarazm. You’ve been raised very differently from others. You’re used to a certain style of living. Of desire. Of possessions. Things not even a captain in the Imperial Guard or a general of the jaysh could afford.

I’d adjust.

The Queen Mother laughed. For those who were young and in love, anything was possible, she supposed. She could still remember when she was the Princess’s age. She reached out and laid a hand on Aisha’s, who drew hers away. The Queen Mother stared at her.

Be a good daughter and princess, Aisha. Your father’s been good to you and your brother, especially after the death of your mother. He’s tried to be many things to the two of you. Show some gratitude. She stared a few more moments at Aisha, then slowly stood and walked out, gently closing the door behind her. Aisha fell backwards on the bed, gazing up at the ceiling of damask cloth hanging above her.

Gratitude. Yes, her father had been good to her and her brother, Jalal, after her mother’s death. Very good. It seemed to soften him a bit; though it didn’t change the way he valued things. He was still demanding. Maybe not as picky as he had once been; but still demanding, with high expectations.

Someone knocked on the door. She rolled her eyes and sat up, wondering if it was the Queen Mother returned to lash her with more lectures.

Who’s there?

Jalal.

Speak of the jinn, Aisha thought. She stood as the door opened.

Into the room strode a young man of sinewy build and curly, black hair. If ever Aisha wondered what her father looked like as a young man, she need only gaze upon her older brother. His facial features were strong and bold, beard thick and neatly trimmed. His teeth straight and white.

I hear we’re off to Otrar, he said, throwing himself on the bed.

Don’t do that, she scolded, smoothing over the wrinkles. Who invited you? She lifted the lid of a sandalwood trunk, took out a traveling case and laid it on the bed. From a dresser drawer of teak, she took out a few clothes and placed them inside the case. Where’re you been all day, anyway, Jalal? She asked as he watched her.

An impish glint filled his eyes. Spying on you. He cocked his head, looked up and feigned a lonesome sigh. Aisha threw a small pillow at him. He laughed.

I saw you and—what’s his name—Lafar—

Qafar.

Whatever. I saw you and him kissing. He puckered his lips and made wet, sucking sounds.

She blushed. We didn’t.

Yes, you did.

We didn’t.

In the garden, beneath the willow tree.

Aisha’s eyes widened. You were spying on me!

Father told me to keep an eye on you.

You … you … She glanced around for something else to throw at him. He sprang off the bed.

What’re you so embarrassed about? The whole city knows you’re in love with the boy.

He’s a man. Not a boy, Jalal.

Whatever. So why be embarrassed? It’s no secret.

It’s nobody’s business but my own—that’s why.

And what will you do if Father decides to marry you off to someone else?

Her shoulders slumped. She plopped down on the bed. I’ll … I’ll run away … She started to cry. Jalal put an arm around her shoulders.

C’mon, Aisha. I was just teasing. He won’t do that.

Like a camel’s hump, he won’t. Why do you think he’s taking me to Otrar?

To meet Ullah.

That’s right, she said, drying her eyes.

I met him last week. While Ahmed was off getting herbs for jedda—Grandmother—I ran into this strapping, young fellow. Said his name was Ullah and he was the eldest son of Inaljuk. Chest big as a horse. Thighs like an ox. Face like a dog. Jalal started laughing. Aisha pushed him away.

Don’t be so serious, Jalal said. I can tell you now, Father wouldn’t want Ullah as a son-in-law and I certainly wouldn’t want him as a brother.

His words lightened her heart for a moment. It was good to hear that her brother had already passed judgment on the fellow and didn’t like him. Maybe, her father would feel the same way.

Does this Inaljuk have any other sons of marrying age? She asked.

No. Only Ullah.

A tiny smile crept across Aisha’s lips. Perhaps, there wasn’t anything to worry about after all.

Princess …

They turned to find one of the house servants standing in the doorway.

The Shah’s ready to leave.

She motioned for him to come and take her traveling case. She walked out with Jalal.

It was a cool, clear night. The stars formed a diamond canopy above their heads. To the east, a full moon had risen, bathing the land in a soft, gauzy glow. The royal coach stood waiting for her. In front and back stood a regiment of armed horsemen of the Imperial Guard. Qafar was not among them, though she saw Captain Abdullah near the front and waved to him. Jalal shut the carriage door behind her. She nodded at her father, sitting across from her, and then leaned out.

I thought you were coming.

Someone has to watch the Queen Mother and the city, Jalal said. He lowered his voice. Don’t worry. Just do as Father says. It’ll work out. He kissed her lightly on the forehead. The carriage began to move.

I’ll tell Qafar you said ‘good-bye’, he called out. And I’ll be sure to watch over him too!

She waved as the carriage moved through the north gate and out into the night.

chapter two

PUFFING LOUDLY AND SWEATING LIKE MORNING DEW ON A MELON, GOVERnor Inaljuk Khwadir Khan pulled a cloth from his tunic and wiped his thickjowls and fleshy forehead. Above him, the flames of a torch flapped like a sheet in the desert breeze.

They arrived just a few minutes ago, Governor, said Hamid. A thin man, he was Inaljuk’s assistant and in charge of accounting for fees collected at the eastern gate. They refused to pay the entry fee. So the shurta barred their way. They demanded to see the Governor.

Inaljuk nodded, wheezing. This was the part of the job he hated—dealing with stubborn merchants. They always argued and sometimes got out of hand. He was expecting the Shah in a few hours. Damn these people!

Just inside the eastern gate a crowd of people stood loosely around a group of men in flowing, dusty robes and fur caps. Beneath the light of torches one stood out, a full head above all the others, with broad shoulders and dark skin. The bone ivory handle of a large dagger protruded above his red sash. A few feet away, a half-dozen shurtas—police—spears at the ready, warily watched the group. They seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when they saw Inaljuk approaching. The crowd drew in closer.

What caravan is this? Inaljuk asked Hamid, who, in turn, asked someone in the group. The tall man came forward and answered. Hamid’s face grew morose.

They’re … Mongols, Governor.

Inaljuk’s heart sank as he stared at the tall fellow. Mongols. He hated Mongols. Filthy, dangerous and stupid. His dog was smarter than a whole litter of them. Without question, these caravans from the Far East were the richest in the goods and treasures they brought. But he hated the Mongols who brought them.

Is he in charge? he asked.

Hamid translated, addressing the tall one.

Yes, the man answered, thumbs hooked in his sash. He bowed. I am Uguna of Kashmir.

Inaljuk perfunctorily returned the bow. I’m the Governor of Otrar, Inaljuk Khwadir Khan, he said. You’re from … ?

Uguna gestured behind him toward the gate where a train of camels, carts and donkeys waited on the other side. We’ve been sent by the great Qa Qan of the East, Cinggis Qan. We seek shelter and food, good Governor.

Inaljuk stared at the big fellow. An ugly scar ran down his right cheek and neck. The man reeked of camel and dung. Be firm and brave, Inaljuk told himself.

As Governor of Otrar, I welcome the caravan from the King of the Mongols. We’ve plenty of shelter and food. But, in Otrar, there’s a surcharge for entry into the city. A flat rate which all must pay. He waited for Hamid to finish translating. The price is one hundred bezants, he said. Hamid translated. The thick brows of Uguna narrowed, and then the mouth opened and burst into laughter. He said something to his companions, who began to laugh as well. Inaljuk frowned.

What’s so funny, Hamid?

Hamid lowered his head.

He nudged Hamid with an elbow. Well!

Hamid’s head shook. He said, ‘The fat Turk wants to fuck us for a hundred bezants’.

Blood rushed to Inaljuk’s face. You filthy, despicable dung-eating bastard!

Hamid started to translate. Inaljuk slapped him on the head.

Fool! Silence! He motioned for one of the shurtas to come closer and whispered into his ear. The shurta hurried off. Uguna’s brows rose.

We don’t want trouble, Governor, he said. We’d gladly pay the hundred bezants if we had it. But we haven’t had time to trade and we’ve only fifty amongst us. Surely, the great Governor of Otrar will take pity on tired and weary merchants. The great Qa Qan of the East will be most appreciative.

Inaljuk dipped his head. Surely, the caravan of the great Cinggis Qan can afford a pittance unless, of course, the Qan isn’t as wealthy as we’ve been led to believe.

The words brought an ominous look to Uguna’s dark features, and Inaljuk noticed the man’s big right hand slide toward the handle of the dagger in his sash. He sighed with relief as a dozen more shurtas with bows arrived, arrows notched and ready. The man’s hand dropped to the side.

Is this any way to greet the merchants of the Qa Qan? Uguna said.

If you were merchants of the Shah Muhammad himself, it’d be the same, Inaljuk said. The surcharge is applied to all caravans that seek to do business in Otrar. It’s the Shah’s fatwa.

With a sharp laugh, Uguna spun in his boots and motioned his companions to follow him. They went out the gate and began going through saddlebags and pouches. For a moment, the tension eased.

Hamid rolled yellow-tinged eyes. I hate Mongols. They’re too damn unpredictable.

A hateful people, Inaljuk agreed. A few more minutes passed and then Uguna strode back, holding a leather pouch full of bezants. He opened the top to show Inaljuk. Gold gleamed in the light of the torches.

A hundred bezants, Governor. He held the pouch out. Inaljuk reached for it. The pouch dropped to the ground, spilling some of its contents. Without looking up at the man, Inaljuk bent over and picked up the pouch and scattered coins, swearing to himself. He handed the pouch to Hamid. Be calm, he told himself. There’re more important things at the moment. He motioned the guards to lower their arrows, then bowed and swept the air with a thick arm, forcing the words from his throat.

Welcome to Otrar, fairest city in eastern Khwarazm and the lands of the Shah Muhammad. The shurta will show you the way.

He and Hamid watched as the train was led down a side street to the caravanserai, the bells of the camels ringing clearly in the night air.

Let’s go. We haven’t finished preparing for the Shah’s arrival, Inaljuk said, heading back to his house. Hamid followed close behind.

I wish Mongols never existed, Hamid said, stepping quickly to keep up with Inaljuk. That was a very disrespectful thing he did to you back there.

For which he’ll be very sorry. Inaljuk wiped the brows of his forehead, thoughts moving ahead to the arrival of the Shah. He’d been informed of the visit only this afternoon by messenger, and then spent most of the day getting his eldest son, Ullah, brushed up on the protocol and niceties of meeting the great Shah Muhammad and his beautiful daughter, Aisha, a fine, young woman, he’d been told. A thought occurred to him and kindled a sinister gleam in his eyes; but he kept quiet, not wishing to share it with Hamid or anyone but the Shah when they were alone.

When he arrived at his two-story home, he found his head maid, Ghata, helping Ullah into his finest evening clothes of silk and polished cotton. Inaljuk nodded. So long as the boy didn’t open his mouth, he always made a favorable impression with his tan skin, strong face and wide shoulders. He possessed a prowess that drew attention and admiration in a crowd. Unfortunately, what lay between the ears was not quite as strong as the rest of him. How that happened, only Allah knew. He had to hope the princess was of a nature where such a flaw was not important. He sighed. One could always hope.

The sash’s too tight, Ghata, Ullah said in a high-pitched whine. It hurts my stomach.

Then eat less dates, she scolded and pulled hard on the sash in emphasis. Ullah grunted and noticed his father standing just inside the doorway.

Father, he said, has the Shah arrived?

Not for another few hours, Inaljuk said. He looked at Ghata. Are the guest rooms ready?

Yes, Governor. They’ve been ready since this afternoon. She took a deep breath and stood back, gesturing at the young man. Turn around.

Ullah quietly obeyed.

Indeed, he looks striking, Inaljuk thought.

Now, go upstairs to your room, sit and wait, Ghata said. Don’t disturb your dress.

The good-looking young man was about to voice a protest until he saw the look on his father’s face. The prominent jaw snapped shut and he walked off, mumbling something. Inaljuk took a seat in a chair. Ghata plopped her stout frame down in another across from him. Strands of grey and white hair lay across her high forehead. She looked tired.

Sometimes, he’s so helpless, she said.

That’s why he has you, Ghata. You’re like the mother he lost. And that’s why he needs a wife, Inaljuk said. Tea, please.

Eyes narrowed, Ghata stood up and went into another room, returning a few moments later with a cup of hot tea which she set on the table beside him. Anything else?

Inaljuk shook his head, blowing on the wisps of steam curling over the rim of the cup. I hate Mongols, he said. I hate them with a passion. I’ll never understand why Allah made such a despicable and dirty people to roam this earth. They’re absolutely worthless. They’ve no value. They contribute nothing to mankind but foul natures.

So the problem at the gate was Mongols, Ghata said, sitting down again.

A caravan from their King, Cinggis Qan. Or so they said. They refused to pay the entry fee.

So you barred their entry?

He shook his head. They paid in the end. His voice lowered, eyes watching the steam rise from the cup. They’re offensive and disrespectful. Purposefully so. Fortunately, I was able to keep my temper in check.

You’ll have them flogged?

Inaljuk didn’t answer. Flogging wasn’t sufficient. Not this time. Three months ago another caravan of Mongols had come to Otrar and the merchants had also been disrespectful and arrogant. He let it go. But not this time. Twice in a row was too much for any reasonable man, let alone a Governor of Khwarazm. Time to punish; time for a real demonstration of authority.

For the next two hours, Inaljuk passed the time inspecting the guest rooms and house to make sure everything was in order. Fresh linen