Oktai was somebody’s nephew, somebody wealthy. Maybe he was compensating for his uncle’s greed and cruelty. He didn’t cut his hair or wash his shirt or face. When he had money, he gave it away. When he could, he spent it on airag, fermented mare’s milk, and this he gladly shared. He said he was doing research on the history of the province, so he asked many questions, and the fermented drink loosened all tongues except his own.