The Novels of the Jaran (129 page)

“Isn’t that patronizing? This is supposed to be an interdicted planet. We shouldn’t be here at all!”

“They can’t stay interdicted forever,” said Gwyn softly.

“They haven’t!” exclaimed Hal. He lapsed into a sullen silence.

The wagon bucked and heaved up over the line of earth that demarked the field from untilled earth. In the distance, a burned out village stood silent in dawn’s light. A few walls thrust up into the air, blackened, skeletal. Nothing stirred in the ruins.

“And you know what else?” said Quinn in a low, confiding voice. “I think Hyacinth has a boyfriend.”

Diana snorted. “According to Hyacinth, he has a thousand boyfriends, and as many girlfriends, too.”

“Hyacinth does tell a good story,” said Gwyn.

“Oh, come on,” said Quinn. “Phillippe says that Hyacinth has slept in their tent every single night since we switched tent mates. Well, he said there were three nights that Hyacinth didn’t sleep there, but he knows it was a woman Hyacinth went to because—well, anyway, he knows.”

“Because he was sleeping with her himself,” muttered Hal.

“Oh?” asked Quinn tartly, “and you haven’t been propositioned, Hal? Are you telling me that you haven’t slept with even one jaran woman since we got here?”

Hal pursed his mouth mulishly and refused the bait.

“But anyway,” continued Quinn, “Phillippe thinks Hyacinth has a real boyfriend.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Diana asked.

“Well, you have one. Hell, you have a husband.”

“Quinn.” Diana sighed, disgusted. “Don’t you use your eyes?”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” said Quinn, seeing that her audience was not prepared to amuse her. “And anyway.” Diana glanced back again to see Quinn undoing her carry. Quinn looked furtively to each side, and once behind, and then drew out her slate. “I have the first act of the recast
Lear.
Do you want your lines?”

So as they advanced across the countryside, they studied their lines and exclaimed over the twists Ginny had worked in to the basic plot. They passed a second burned village, and a third. In the early afternoon the walls of a city loomed in the distance. Carrion smells drifted to them on the breeze. A pall of smoke obscured the horizon. Diana had to concentrate on her driving as the wagon bumped and pitched across a succession of trampled fields.

“How are these people going to eat if all their crops are gone?” Hal mumbled.

“Oh, Goddess,” Quinn gasped. “Look.”

There, a stone’s throw away from the path of the wagons, lay a mound of corpses. A vulture circled lazily in and settled on a dead man’s chest, and began to feed. Rats scurried across the tumbled bodies. Diana wrenched her gaze away and kept her eyes on the back of the wagon in front of her. A blond child lay on the pillows in the bed, blissfully asleep. But the two women in the front glanced only once at the corpses and then away, as if the sight did not interest them.

More bodies littered the fields, in heaps, mostly, as if they had been rounded up and slaughtered en masse, although now and again a single body could be seen fallen in the midst of trampled corn, an arm outstretched—defiant or pleading, Diana could not tell. Quinn had her hands over her eyes. Hal stared with haunted eyes at the destruction.

“It’s been worse,” said Gwyn softly, “these last fourteen days. They must be taking revenge for that curse they say the Habakar priests put on Bakhtiian.”

Ahead, the city lay lit with fire, but as they came closer, Diana could see figures on the walls. She could see a pall like smoke sheeting the air between the walls and the vast army stretched out below. This time arrows shot out from the jaran side, too. A billow of black cloud rose up from inside the city, tinged with the stench of burning.

A crowd huddled out beyond them, in a field flattened by the advance of the jaran army. “At least there are some survivors,” said Diana, and then she saw what they were doing: jaran riders were slaughtering their captives. Mercifully, it was too far away for her to see what they were doing in detail, and she averted her eyes in any case. The wagons trundled on. Ahead, the jaran camp grew up out of range of missile fire from the city walls, but they did not stop. Their line, of wagons went on, circling the city at a safe distance and heading on. Everywhere was devastation. The army had swept through with a scythe of utter destruction, leaving nothing in its wake. Once or twice they passed a pitiful huddle of refugees, exclusively women and small, terrified children, but mostly they saw no one, as if this fertile land were uninhabited. Once a small troop of mounted women passed, herding a great mob of bleating goats and cattle and sheep—not the kind the jaran kept, but different breeds—and once again they saw a troop of riders killing prisoners. Mostly the land was empty, and emptied.

By dusk, the city was a glow on the horizon behind them. If it did not fall tomorrow, then it would fall next week, or the week after. They made camp alongside a sweetly-flowing river. Diana went down to the river to wash, as if she could somehow wash the day’s horrors from her.

A number of jaran women had flocked to the river’s edge, and many of them simply stripped and waded into the water while others took clothing downstream to wash.

“Diana!” Arina beckoned to her from the shore, where she stood watching a naked Mira splash in the shallow water.

Diana stumbled over to her, catching her boots on rocks, unsure of her footing in the dim light, unsure she could face Arina with any friendship at all. Across the river stood a village. Well, what was left of a village: it was burned out, of course. A large scrap of cloth—a shirt, perhaps—fluttered in the breeze and tumbled down an empty lane as if some unseen spirit animated it. Otherwise, the village was deserted, inhabited only by ghosts—if even ghosts had the courage to haunt it.

Arina held Lavrenti. Diana could not help herself. As she came up to the young etsana, she put out her arms for the infant. Arina handed him over. Lavrenti had grown; he wasn’t thriving, not that, but he was growing, and his tiny mouth puckered up and he gave Diana his sweet, open-mouthed, toothless smile. Diana cradled him against her chest and stood there, rocking him side to side and talking nonsense to him. He chuckled and made a bubble and reached up to grab for her silver earrings.

“A messenger came from Sakhalin’s army,” said Arina, “to his aunt. She sent her granddaughter to tell me that Anatoly sent a message to you.”

“To me!” Diana flushed, feeling ecstatic and terrified at once. Lavrenti gave up on her earrings, which were out of his reach, and turned his attention to tugging on the bronze buttons at the neck of her tunic instead.

Arina frowned, looking very like a stern etsana, and then grinned, which spoiled the whole effect. “He said to say that he loves you, which was most improper of him. He should be able to wait until you are private.” She paused. Diana could not help but wonder, bitterly, when that event was ever likely to take place. “He sent this to you.” Arina drew a necklace out of her pouch.

Diana gasped. It was made of gold, and of jewels cunningly inlaid in an ornate geometric pattern, and it was as heavy as it was rich. Then Arina drew out and displayed to Diana a pair of earrings, and two bracelets, all done in the same alien, lush style, gold and emeralds and chalcedony.

Loot. Anatoly had sent her loot from some far palace where probably two-thirds of the inhabitants were dead by now, and the rest likely to starve when winter came. And did he have a mistress there, some khaja princess who had begged him for mercy? The spoils of war. For the first time it struck her: what if Bakhtiian died, what if the khaja army regrouped and conquered this camp? Would she become one of the spoils of war? Or would she simply be killed?

“Are you cold?” Arina asked with concern. “I hope you aren’t coming down with a fever.”

“No. Just tired.” She did not want to say it, but she had to. “It was so horrible, today. Ever since we came down on this plain, it’s been horrible.”

Arina drew herself up. It was easy to forget that this pretty, petite young woman was headwoman of a tribe, an authority in her own right. “It is true that these khaja scarcely deserve as much mercy as the army has extended them. Not when their priests have witched Bakhtiian. But if he dies, I assure you that I will counsel the commanders to show no mercy at all.”

At first Diana was confused because she thought Arina was rendering her an apology. Then, an instant later, she realized that it was true: Arina
was
apologizing, because Arina thought that what Diana thought was horrible was the mercy the army was showing. Which as far as she could tell was no mercy at all.

“But—” she began, and faltered. “Then there’s still no word about Bakhtiian? He’s still the same?”

“He is still there, up on the pass. Tess refuses to move him, and she is right. He will fight best when he lies closest to the heavens. Ah, Mira, are you done, then?” She called to an older girl to come dress Mira and turned back to Diana, dressing Diana with the jewelry much as Joseph helped her when she got into a particularly elaborate costume. The gold gleamed in the dusk. Lavrenti batted at the gold earrings while Arina tucked the silver earrings into Diana’s belt-pouch. “You must wear these gifts often, Diana, so that everyone will know that your husband is fighting bravely and well.”

“Damn him,” said Diana under her breath, and she burst into tears.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

V
ASIL WOKE BEFORE DAWN.
Every morning, now, he woke even before his wife, so that he could go to Bakhtiian’s tent as soon as it was decent and stay, there until dusk, when it was no longer proper for Tess to accept male visitors not of her family—not while her husband was there, at any rate. It was dim, in the tent, and warm. In her sleep, Karolla had thrown an arm carelessly across his bare chest, and he shifted just enough to slide out from under its weight. She opened her eyes.

And just looked at him. He dropped his gaze away from hers and rummaged for his clothes.

“It’s wrong,” she said in a low voice. “It’s wrong that we didn’t go on with the tribe. The children and I are alone here, Vasil.”

He flushed, half with anger, half with shame. “They aren’t unkind to you.”

“No, they aren’t unkind to us. But they all know that I am Dmitri Mikhailov’s daughter. If Sonia Orzhekov is polite to me, it is only out of pity. I am tired of living with their pity.”

He flinched away from her tone. He had never heard her so—not angry, Karolla never raised her voice—but so stubborn.

“If you will give all the burdens of being dyan into Anton’s hands so that you can linger here, then you must by right give him back his authority. It’s wrong.” She hesitated. He turned back to kneel beside her, but her gaze did not soften. She sat up, and the covers slipped down to reveal her breasts and her belly. Her breasts were swelling again; he knew the signs—she was probably pregnant, although it was too early to be sure. “Everyone knows why you have stayed, Vasil. Have you no pride?”

He gripped a corner of the blanket and squeezed it tight into a ball. “I never lied to you, Karolla. Not before we married, and never afterward. You know that he must come first with me.”

“You will be exiled again. Then what is to become of us? You have children now, a son who will neither speak to you nor obey you, and a daughter who will obey no one but you. Or can you even think of someone besides yourself?”

The pain hit then, the overwhelming, shattering pain of his fear that Ilya was going to die. Now. Today, perhaps, or tomorrow, or the next day. “I think of
him
every moment I am awake,” he said in a choked voice.

She turned her face away and shielded her eyes from him with one hand. Her shoulders tensed. A shudder passed through her body.

“Oh, gods. Karolla, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He flung his arms around her and pulled her down with him back onto the pillows. “My sweet, you must know that you are the only woman I care for. You’re the only woman I ever wanted to marry.”

She stayed stiff in his arms. “Because you needed the refuge my father could offer you. Because you wanted my father to kill Bakhtiian for you.” Tears streaked her face. She had never been one of those women who cried well. Crying simply made her skin blotchy.

“Have I ever been unkind to you?” he demanded.

“No, not unkind. But you left us.”

“To save my own life. And I came back.”

She went still and ceased struggling to free herself from his embrace. “I know why you came back.”

“Do you?” He hated seeing her like this, suspicious, bitter. She had always loved him so unreservedly before. He was the center of her life, just as he had been the center of his mother’s life. He could not bear to lose that. He kissed her. At first she did not respond, but he knew how to persist. “Karolla. My sweet Karolla.”

She murmured something deep in her throat, a curse or a prayer, and strained against him. He rolled onto his back and swung her up on top of him. There was a rustle at the curtain.

“Mama?”

“Valentin!” snapped Vasil. “Out.”

“Won’t,” retorted Valentin.

“You get out of there or I’ll drag you,” said Ilyana from the outer chamber.

“Valentin,” said Karolla softly. “Do as your father says.”

“Yes, Mama.” It was said sullenly, but the curtain dropped back into place and swayed and stilled.

Karolla’s face had shuttered, and Vasil cursed his son silently for breaking the mood. Valentin resisted him every step of the way and grew more intransigent each day they stayed here. He should have sent the child on with the Veselov tribe and just kept Karolla and Ilyana with him.

Karolla sighed and pushed away from him. “You’d better go. They’ll be expecting you.”

But he caught her back. He could not, he would not, leave with her in this mood. He could not stand to see her devotion to him so shaken that she would begin to question him like this. And anyway, he knew how to make her love him; he always had.

“My heart, how can I leave with you hating me like this?”

She paled. “I don’t hate you. You know that!”