Concerns stew in the back of Khatar’s churning mind. The Emperor and Empress are due to journey with royal counsel any day now and he wonders how many allies they will gain along the way.

Batu is correct in that regard. Satriya could never be an ally, not when they value gold, sapphire and exotic wines from afar more than they would a steady trade of horses, of meat, of an army of soldiers.

Khatar settles in the grass, the Khaan’s words filling the umber man with a familiar resentment. His own clan, destroyed by another, far more rowdy and of many more men than Angarag. Forgiveness would be thin for them, but he had none for the royals and political court of Tianlong, who had sanctioned violence if they got the scraps of rewards.

We could offer safe passage for those who come here. Give them pelts, meat, koumis. Everyone’s happier with a full stomach. It is rudimentary, but on long journeys, who cares for studded jewelry or perfumes if the pelt is thin and the belly growls? And for those who steal, or would attack. . .

He needs not say it. Absentmindedly, he turns head to groom down his shoulder, glancing again at Oyun. Khatun. If anyone is built for it, it is her!

I should spend some time in Tianlong and see if anyone is unhappy, he says plainly. Granted, they may not be so easy to sway. They’re awfully full of pride.