The Novels of the Jaran (105 page)

“What?”

“You did start puberty here, on Rhui. That might—”

“That might what? God, Cara, you must know how badly Ilya wants children.”

“What about what you want?”

Tess hung her head, and her voice shook. “I want something of him, after he’s dead. But that’s only part of it. I never thought about children before. There was never any urgency in it. But I
want
children with him, Cara. Can’t you understand that?”

“Since I have no children of my own?”

“I didn’t mean it as an accusation.”

Cara finished transferring blood from one tube to another and pressed a few buttons, and then came to sit on the table beside Tess. She put an arm around Tess, and Tess felt safe with her. Tess trusted her. “Tess, I will study the matter. When did you take the implant out?”

“Three months ago.”

“That should give us time. It usually takes a year until ovulation resumes. Meanwhile, I want you to take some of this rather primitive birth control method I have with me. Goddess, child, I will take no chances with you. Do you understand that?”

“But, Cara—”

“No. No chances with you. I’ll run a fuller test on you once I’ve gone through these preliminary results, and once I do a study of Bakhtiian, I’ll see if I can make any kind of prediction based on blood type and other factors. That’s as far as I’ll go, Tess. If you won’t promise me now to use this contraception, then I will forcibly insert an implant in you where you can’t dig it out. Do you understand me?”

There was no compromise in Cara’s voice, and little enough hope. Tess’s throat felt all choked, and a moment later she felt the rush of tears. She buried her face in her hands to cover the tears, to hide them. She squeezed her eyes, as if that could stop them, but the devastation she felt was stronger than her self-control.

“Oh, Tess.” Cara wrapped both arms around her and held her as if she were a child. “I’m sorry.”

A foot scuffed at the entrance. “Cara? Tess?” It was Charles. Tess looked up in time to see him push the inner hanging aside and stand there in the gap, watching her. “Ah. You’ve told her about the dangers of pregnancy, haven’t you?”

“You’re glad of this, aren’t you?” Tess broke out of Cara’s embrace and jumped to her feet. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I won’t leave him anyway.”

Charles stiffened. “I hope you think better of me than that.”

Tess stared at him, smitten with the sudden and astonishing realization that he actually cared what she thought of him. That it mattered to him.

A beep sounded, low and brief, from the counter behind them.

“What the hell?” muttered Cara. She slipped off the table and hurried around to the counter.

“I’m sorry, Charles,” said Tess slowly. “I didn’t mean it. You aren’t petty.”

“Thank you.” He chuckled. “But don’t overestimate me, Tess. Sainthood is a heavy burden to bear. However, I don’t think my pettiness extends to
that.”
He hesitated. “Knowing what it means to you.”

The words came hard to him. She could hear that and it touched her that he would open up to her like this. “Charles,” she began tentatively, “I know—we’ve always been far apart in years, but—”

“Oh. Shit.” Cara turned. In the glare of artificial light, she looked grim, angry, and scared. “Damn you, girl. What have you done?”

Tess looked at Charles, but he simply shrugged, puzzled. “What have I done?” she asked.

“This alters things considerably,” said Cara. “Clearly, whatever else may happen, I’m not leaving your side for the next nine months.”

Tess went white and sank down onto the table, clutching at the edge with her hands to steady herself.

“What’s going on?” asked Charles. An instant later, his face altered as the realization hit him. “But surely, if it’s so dangerous—Cara!” The expression of helplessness on his face looked totally out of place. “Perhaps a surgical abortion—”

“No!” yelled Tess, even as she realized she might have no choice.

Cara shook her head. “No. We’d still have an antigenic reaction to deal with.”

“She’s all I have left, Cara,” he said, his voice so low that Tess barely heard him. She didn’t know how to respond; Charles wasn’t supposed to be so vulnerable.

“I’m well aware of that, Charles,” said Cara coolly, as if she were offended. “I think it would be safer if I instead applied my skills and some testing to bring her safely to term.”

The vulnerability in Charles’s expression vanished, smoothing into the mask worn by a duke in the Empire. “Very well,” he said, and he left the tent.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

J
IROANNES PACED FROM ONE
edge of the carpet to the other, turning with precise anger at the very fringed border, right before he would otherwise step out onto the grass, and then stalking back to the other side. Above him, the awning sighed lazily in the breeze.

“What are they doing?” he demanded of Syrannus. “Obviously they are breaking camp. Is everyone going? Only some of them?” Off in the distance, a contingent of jaran soldiers rode by, their red shirts gleaming like blood in the early morning sunlight. “Why weren’t we told? This is a deliberate insult to me, and thus to the Great King, may his sons multiply to the ends of the earth. It is intolerable. Samae, I
said
that I wanted my green sash now.” He cuffed her across the cheek. She dipped her head and vanished with ethereal grace into his tent.

His guards sat watching the upheaval in the jaran camp. Usually they sat at their ease, gambling, polishing their swords and armor, mending blouses and trousers and boots, gossiping among themselves. But now they sat uneasily. Once or twice they glanced his way, and that annoyed him. Didn’t they trust him? Did they think he was unequal to this task?

He sank down into his chair and regarded the six gold and jeweled rings that studded his fingers. Anger boiled inside him, at this impossible situation, at these primitive and squalid surroundings, at these savages. And yet, at the same time, deep down inside himself, he was beginning to wonder if it wasn’t true: perhaps he was unsuited for the role of an ambassador. Wouldn’t a better man have been called before Bakhtiian again and not left waiting here for ten interminable days? Wouldn’t an older man have made a better impression in that one brief audience he had been allowed? Had he really lost his temper? Had it showed? Had Bakhtiian scorned him? Or worse, dismissed him as an inexperienced and ridiculous boy?

Samae appeared. She knelt before him, head bowed, her arms extended with the emerald sash laid out across them for his approval. Her coarse black hair was pulled back tightly today, just long enough now to twine the ends into a short braid.

A braid? When had she ever worn a braid? Before he had made her cut it, she had worn it in many exotic styles, but never like this. Where had she gotten such a notion, to wear her hair in a braid? The innovation irritated him. He slapped the sash to the ground.

“No. Not that one. You are impossible.” He stood so quickly that he clipped her leg with his stride, and she shrank away from him and then straightened as he paced out to the edge of the carpet again. Another troop of horsemen rode by, heading south. “Syrannus.”

“Yes, eminence,” Syrannus knelt before him.

“I must know what is going on. What they mean for us to do. Surely they don’t intend to leave us here?” But even as he said it, he looked out along the row of tents that housed the other ambassadors and envoys, and he could see that they, too, were striking their camps. Knowledge had been granted them but denied him. Clearly, the snub was deliberate. One set of features leapt to mind immediately: Bakhtiian’s arrogant niece was surely responsible for this, influencing her uncle to insult him despite the fact that he was the ambassador of the Great King himself. If she and her uncle only understood the power of the Great King, they would not dare to treat his ambassador in this fashion. Then, as if by thinking of her he made her flesh, he saw her ride past with a troop of about one hundred horsemen, but she neither paused nor looked his way.

“Your eminence,” said Syrannus, warningly. The old man stood up. Jiroannes turned.

A boy approached them. Not yet old enough to wear soldier’s clothing, still, he wore riches: a blue shirt and gold necklaces and a girdle of golden plates. He bore no trace of beard on his cheek. A child, sent as envoy. Jiroannes was furious, knowing how deep the insult ran, and he began to turn away again, to ignore the boy. But Syrannus put a hand on his elbow, daring much, and in that instant Jiroannes remembered caution, and waited.

The boy was nervous. He halted at the edge of the carpet, not quite under the awning, waiting to be invited in. He stared at Jiroannes, at his clothes, curious, and then recalled himself and straightened his back.

“I am Mitya Orzhekov,” he said slowly, in labored Rhuian. “My cousin Bakhtiian sent me to…” Here he faltered, as if he had learned his message by rote and forgotten it between there and here.

Abruptly Jiroannes remembered being this age himself. It had not been so very long ago. This child was no mere messenger but a male child of Bakhtiian’s own family, sent off on an errand too important to be left to any lackey. He could afford to be generous. “Please.” He met the boy’s gaze with a friendly smile. “Please come in.”

Mitya returned the smile tremulously. “I am Mitya Orzhekov,” he said, starting over. “My cousin Bakhtiian sent me to give you this letter.” He produced a scrap of parchment from his belt and held it out.

“Eminence,” said Syrannus, “he does not understand Rhuian. That was memorized. I can hear it.” The old man hesitated, clearly unsure of how his master would react.

The boy’s eyes skipped past Jiroannes and settled on Samae. He stared, astonished, and then wrenched his gaze back to the letter, flushing as he fixed his stare on the parchment instead of the slave. He wore his hair short, an affectation of the jaran riders that Jiroannes had yet to comprehend. Surely one test of a man’s beauty was in the fineness and length and sheen of his hair. The boy coughed, jerking Jiroannes’s attention back to him, and began his little speech again.

“I understand,” said Jiroannes, “and I thank you.” He took the parchment from the boy and unrolled it. As he read, he was aware of the boy sneaking glances at Samae, as if this child were aware that he ought not to covet another man’s property and so was trying to hide his interest. The text itself was unremarkable. The army was riding south, toward the Habakar kingdom. The ambassadors were free to move along with the main camp, which would travel in the army’s wake. Bakhtiian had assigned his cousin’s son as an escort, and he trusted that the ambassador would treat the boy with the honor he deserved.

“A threat,” said Jiroannes, handing the letter to Syrannus, “and a promise. Tell the guards to strike camp. You must learn khush, Syrannus.”

“Yes, eminence. I have learned what I can these past days. I will learn more.”

Jiroannes motioned the boy in to sit in one of the chairs, and watched as Mitya shifted, trying to find a comfortable seat, as if he were unaccustomed to such a structure. Then he had Samae serve them tea and cakes while they watched the guards strike the camp, everything but the awning and the carpet under which the two sat. Mitya stared, awed by his surroundings, and his gaze flashed again and again toward Samae, and away as swiftly.

When the wagons were loaded, Mitya went away and returned with a string of three horses, one laden, one saddled, and the other barebacked. Jiroannes allowed the boy to introduce him to the saddled chestnut mare, and he saw that this was a fine, elegant horse, a superior creature. At once he coveted her for himself. How fine a gift a herd of such horses would make for the Great King! The boy was proud of her; that was evident. He mounted. Jiroannes mounted his gelding, and they rode.

The entire plain seemed on the move. Troops cantered by them. Lone riders galloped back the way they had come. A belled messenger passed, heading south. Wagons trundled along in the distance. The whole thing seemed like chaos to Jiroannes, but come late afternoon they rolled into a makeshift camp that rose up out of the grass. Jiroannes recognized the tents: this was the same ambassadors’ row they had inhabited before, set up in the same order, and Mitya directed them to the far end, as if the order of tents had some meaning, some hierarchy. Mitya left them then, but only to pitch a small tent for himself about one hundred paces outside of Jiroannes’s camp, and there he sat, alone, until Jiroannes took pity on him and sent Syrannus to ask him in to dine. The two dined alone, Syrannus and Samae serving them. The boy ate with surprisingly good manners, cleanly and precisely, making no mess. He flushed every time Samae paused beside him. He even rose, after he was finished, as if to help clean up, but Jiroannes motioned him to sit again. One of the guards ventured over with his flute, and he played sorrowful tunes as the light faded and darkness fell.

Mitya rose. He spoke, to Jiroannes first, then to Syrannus.

“Eminence, the boy says that he must go to bed now, as we must rise early and be on our way. He thanks you for the dinner. Or at least, some of these words I recognized, and I believe that is what he said.”

Jiroannes rose and watched the boy walk away to the solitude of his tent. Beardless still, but already by his height and his walk half a man.

“Samae.” She appeared, sinking to her knees before him. “You will go to the boy tonight.” Her head jerked up and for an astonishing instant she stared straight at him. She shook her head roughly. He slapped her. Red burned on the fine pale parchment of her cheek. “I
said
you will go to him,” Jiroannes repeated, offended and infuriated by her defiance.

She sat there, head bowed, for long enough that he thought he was going to have to hit her again. Then she rose and padded away across the grass. Jiroannes watched as she paused before the tent. She glanced back, once, to see him looking at her, and then she knelt and a moment later she had vanished into the small tent.

“Was that wisely done, eminence?” Syrannus asked in a soft voice.