because they starve, then what is the purpose? I say let us harvest all the cattle—let us worry about what we eat in the future when the future comes."
Muzta turned away with a snort of disdain.
"He is right, my Qarth." It was Suba, leader of the Merkat clan.
Muzta looked back over his shoulder. So you have turned too, he thought quietly.
"Before we always followed the dictates of our forefathers, who spread the cattle that came to us throughout the world," Suba said softly, rising up to stand by Tula. "We harvested the cattle that had spawned, and those who were not of prime stock. When we rode about the world and returned there would be another generation of food. But that was before the spotted sickness struck the cattle.
"For all we know, the spotted sickness might slay them all. It is a pestilence of fear, my lord. Since first we saw it at Constan, it has swept into a fire, slaying the cattle by the tens of thousands. And since they die, my lord, we starve."
"So slaughter them all, eat now, and then starve later, is that it?" Muzta barked.
"At least then we'll have a chance. We can worry about finding more cattle when we ride back this way again, or sweep into Merki lands and take their cattle."
"And if I say no?" Muzta said coldly.
The room was silent. If there was to be a breaking of the clan it would be now. He already had his plan, had formed it days ago, but he wanted to see what Tula and any of his followers would do.
"Do you want war, then?" Muzta said coldly, fixing each in turn with his gaze.
It was a delicate balance, and he spared a quick glance to Qubata, and could see the concern in the old warrior's eyes.
"If our confederation should break," Qubata said quietly, "know that word shall fly to the Merki horde. For remember what Jemugta, father of Muzta, taught us. If we are but single reeds, scattered to the winds, we shall each be broken, but together we are strength," and as he spoke he pointed to the ceremonial bundle of reeds tied by Jemugta's own hands and lashed to the center post.
"A starving bundle," Tula growled.
"But hear first what it is my lord wishes before you vote," Qubata interjected. And walking to the far side of the tent, he pulled open the sacred scroll, the great map first forged by Hugala.
"We are here, encamped east of Mempus," Qubata stated. "Normally we pass at our leisure to where the cattle of Ninva await us. It is the wish of Muzta that we not stop there for the winter. Rather we shall march quickly, sparing not our mounts, sweeping up to Maya by the end of the season. From the western kingdom of the Maya we move the following spring to their eastern realm of Tultac and then winter the following year here."
And he stabbed at the map with his finger.
"The realm of the Rus."
"But that is four seasons' march in two," Tula retorted.
"Exactly," Qubata replied.
"Our old ones, our young, cannot make that," Suba protested.
"They will have to. Perhaps in doing that we can outrace this spotted sickness and feed to our fill once it is left behind."
"And it will also place us two seasons' march ahead of the Merki to the south," Muzta said softly, his features alighting with a smile as he moved to Qubata's side. "If needs be we can dip southward and grab something extra for our larders."
A number of chieftains smiled at that part of the plan.
The room was silent. He was asking for two tough seasons ahead, four years' ride compressed into two. But if it succeeded they could feed, and yet still preserve the cattle of the northern steppe for when next they rode through here again in twenty seasons.
Muzta looked back at Tula, a smile still lighting his features. His rival was silent. So the trap had worked. He had lured out a clan leader whom he had suspected of wishing to break the confederation, and the information that Suba was behind him was of even greater value. Jemugta had taught him well how to ferret out possible challenges to the golden clan of the Tugars.
"Is
Muzta turned away with a snort of disdain.
"He is right, my Qarth." It was Suba, leader of the Merkat clan.
Muzta looked back over his shoulder. So you have turned too, he thought quietly.
"Before we always followed the dictates of our forefathers, who spread the cattle that came to us throughout the world," Suba said softly, rising up to stand by Tula. "We harvested the cattle that had spawned, and those who were not of prime stock. When we rode about the world and returned there would be another generation of food. But that was before the spotted sickness struck the cattle.
"For all we know, the spotted sickness might slay them all. It is a pestilence of fear, my lord. Since first we saw it at Constan, it has swept into a fire, slaying the cattle by the tens of thousands. And since they die, my lord, we starve."
"So slaughter them all, eat now, and then starve later, is that it?" Muzta barked.
"At least then we'll have a chance. We can worry about finding more cattle when we ride back this way again, or sweep into Merki lands and take their cattle."
"And if I say no?" Muzta said coldly.
The room was silent. If there was to be a breaking of the clan it would be now. He already had his plan, had formed it days ago, but he wanted to see what Tula and any of his followers would do.
"Do you want war, then?" Muzta said coldly, fixing each in turn with his gaze.
It was a delicate balance, and he spared a quick glance to Qubata, and could see the concern in the old warrior's eyes.
"If our confederation should break," Qubata said quietly, "know that word shall fly to the Merki horde. For remember what Jemugta, father of Muzta, taught us. If we are but single reeds, scattered to the winds, we shall each be broken, but together we are strength," and as he spoke he pointed to the ceremonial bundle of reeds tied by Jemugta's own hands and lashed to the center post.
"A starving bundle," Tula growled.
"But hear first what it is my lord wishes before you vote," Qubata interjected. And walking to the far side of the tent, he pulled open the sacred scroll, the great map first forged by Hugala.
"We are here, encamped east of Mempus," Qubata stated. "Normally we pass at our leisure to where the cattle of Ninva await us. It is the wish of Muzta that we not stop there for the winter. Rather we shall march quickly, sparing not our mounts, sweeping up to Maya by the end of the season. From the western kingdom of the Maya we move the following spring to their eastern realm of Tultac and then winter the following year here."
And he stabbed at the map with his finger.
"The realm of the Rus."
"But that is four seasons' march in two," Tula retorted.
"Exactly," Qubata replied.
"Our old ones, our young, cannot make that," Suba protested.
"They will have to. Perhaps in doing that we can outrace this spotted sickness and feed to our fill once it is left behind."
"And it will also place us two seasons' march ahead of the Merki to the south," Muzta said softly, his features alighting with a smile as he moved to Qubata's side. "If needs be we can dip southward and grab something extra for our larders."
A number of chieftains smiled at that part of the plan.
The room was silent. He was asking for two tough seasons ahead, four years' ride compressed into two. But if it succeeded they could feed, and yet still preserve the cattle of the northern steppe for when next they rode through here again in twenty seasons.
Muzta looked back at Tula, a smile still lighting his features. His rival was silent. So the trap had worked. He had lured out a clan leader whom he had suspected of wishing to break the confederation, and the information that Suba was behind him was of even greater value. Jemugta had taught him well how to ferret out possible challenges to the golden clan of the Tugars.
"Is
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