"In the name of Kara Yussuf, supreme lord of the Black Sheep Turkomans, declare thy name and thy errand."
Mangali snatched a treasure bag from his belt and emptied it into the path, a shower of gleaming coins.
"Gold from the sacking of great cities," he answered scornfully. "It is Mangali, friend of Timur, rides through."
The wool-wrapped Turkomans glared stonily from their brightly dyed sheepskin bonnets. "Pass, friend of Lord Timur," they said.
When Mangali and his warriors had moved on through the pines, the guards swooped down with hungry eyes and scraped up the bloodstained fortune.
The Tatars threaded the blinding fires until they sighted the khan in his jubba.
"Ulluh yarin! God with thee!" Mangali saluted the khan.
The khan rose. "Khosh geldin! Thou art welcome, Mangali. Alight. Tarry here. Thou art even in time for the feast of the singing bakshi."
"The feast of the singing bakshi—and no women to sing?" said Mangali.
"Nay, we sing much better without them. Thou shalt stay and judge it thyself."
"Nay, Kara Yussuf, 'tis better for thee to judge the tone of thy people. I haste from the hunt back to Samarkand where Lord Timur hath need of loyal spears and shafts to drive the Jat into the sea. We shall drink a gourd of chaal with thee and thy friends, since thou art at peace with Timur."
Yussuf sent a slave for camel's milk, spicy with Kopet wines.
"At peace—with Timur," he toasted, his fiery black eyes a riddle.
Out through the lofty valley, among the odorous fires and the black felt tents of the flat-nosed Turkomans, Mangali set forth again. His hunting falcon was on his shoulder. The falcon's eyes were not more keen than the eyes of the tawny warrior. Ten thousand sheep could be shepherded in those dark bristling ravines; four or five thousand ponies.
"Ha! feast of the bakshi!" he rumbled. "They sing better, they do, without women!"
They were passing the campfire where Guchee stood, a gourd of mare's milk in his hand. Mangali checked his horse sharply.
"By the beard of my grandsire!" He turned in his saddle to stare back at the khan's pavilion.
Guchee beamed and grimaced, delighted; but the warriors about the fire laughed.
"Nay, stranger," the dried cackling Uncle explained, "Guchee is not commander of the Black Sheep Turkomans, though he knows well enough how to ape him."
"Then he must be sardar of a meeng, commander of a thousand," Mangali suggested in mock innocence.
Guchee's comrades laughed roundly. "Nay, not of a thousand; nor five hundred; nor yet a hare-chasing hundred."
"Fifty," declared Guchee, with offended pride.
"Ha ya! Fifty yaboos of the packmule train. Tell the Tatar lord how thou didst win thy scar, Guchee."
"In battle," the man answered haughtily, posing his face to the firelight so the stranger could get the effect.
"Yea, a most famous battle," drawled the leather-faced cynic. "The battle
