The Novels of the Jaran (13 page)

“We need more knowledge. Once Tess is done with her thesis, I’ll send her to Chapal. They’ll have to let her go there. Only the emperor could forbid it. With her linguistic skills, she should be able to gain solid data that we haven’t had access to before.”

“But she’s female.”

“She’s my heir. Legitimized by the emperor. He probably thought it was an amusingly eccentric quirk in his token human duke. So they can’t sequester her.”

“Charles.” Marco hesitated. Not because he was afraid of Soerensen’s power, of his temper, of losing his friendship by speaking his mind, but because he knew how useless it was to attempt to steer Charles in any direction but the one he had already decided to go.

“Charles. The few times I’ve spoken with her, I didn’t get the impression Tess wanted to use her language skills in such a way. I’m not sure she’s ready to be involved in building the next—” But here, by unspoken consent, he halted.

The star chart vanished, and the stars outside bathed the bleak mud flats in their pale light. The bright tails of flitterbugs wove aimless patterns among the tules.

“It doesn’t matter what Tess wants.” Charles said it matter-of-factly, without rancor, without exasperation, in that same level voice he always used, quiet and commanding. “Through no fault of her own, she was conceived because my parents wanted a child who was theirs alone. Except, of course, they no longer could have a child who was anything but my sibling.”

“Poor thing. And so much younger than you, too.”

“Nevertheless, it doesn’t matter what Tess wants. She is my heir, and as such, she has a duty to me. And more important, a duty to humanity. We will not remain slaves.” He flipped the holo back on and started the program again, searching for flaws, for the hidden key that would make the next rebellion succeed.

“Nevertheless,” muttered Marco, knowing very well that Charles would not hear him. “Poor thing.”

Yuri shook Tess awake. She ached all over. She brushed grass from her face and sneezed. Pain woke and shot like fire through her arms. It was chilly, and cold damp seeped through and stiffened her muscles. The sun nosed at the horizon. Light spread out along the grass tips, gilding their green shoots golden. Tess shivered and yawned.

“Hurry, Tess. I saddled a horse, and here is some bread—”

Behind, a figure loomed, Bakhtiian on his horse. In the distance, Tess heard men talking and horses snorting and blowing. She struggled to her feet. Her legs and thighs were in spasms. She leaned to bend, to roll up her blanket, and could not, simply could not. The pain brought tears to her eyes. Yuri knelt and rolled up the blanket, handing it to her.

“Yurinya,” said Bakhtiian, “Fedya has already left. You were to be with him.”

Yuri touched Tess on the arm and palmed a stick of dried meat into her hand. He handed her the reins of a horse, one of the stocky tarpans, then mounted and rode away.

“This isn’t my bay.” Tess regarded the restless tarpan with suspicion.

“You can’t ride the same horse day after day,” said Bakhtiian, “unless you want to ruin it. I’m leaving now.”

She did not reply. Tying the bedroll on to the back of the saddle hurt. Her back was sore, her shoulders ached. Biting her lip, she lifted her left foot to the stirrup. Tears streamed down her face. Beyond, Bakhtiian had paused to watch her. She swore under her breath and pushed off. Every muscle screamed. But she refused to give up now. Grimly, she rode after Bakhtiian.

This day passed much the same as the one before. But at dusk, when they arrived in camp, Yuri brought her food and Mikhal cared for her horse. Niko gave her a salve for her chafed skin. In the morning the bay mare was already saddled. That night, Kirill took the horse when she rode in, and the next night, Konstans shyly brought her yoghurt and cheese and fresh, sweet roots to eat. The fifth morning she saddled her bay mare with Yuri’s help. Though she was still sore everywhere, it was an ache and not outright pain.

On the sixth day she managed to ride beside Bakhtiian, not behind him, for most of the day. Yuri and Mikhal and Kirill and Konstans met her when she rode in, and a few new faces, young men she barely knew by name, joined the group as well. The Chapalii remained in their tents. She had not spoken to Cha Ishii in days. What Bakhtiian thought of her partisans she could not tell; in six days she had exchanged perhaps ten sentences with him, and his overwhelming attitude seemed to her to be one of annoyance that she had gotten so far. On the eighth night she unsaddled and brushed down her horse by herself and had enough energy left to ask Yuri for a lesson in khush.

But on the tenth morning, setting out with the sun on their left, she found herself examining the grass, the tiny nuggets of grain piled one atop the other, the leaves as broad as a finger touched with green, the reed-thin stalks golden, and glimpses of earth, as brown as Bakhtiian’s eyes, in worn patches. She no longer felt that riding was merely a battle between her muscles and the horse. The grass barely touched her boots. When she had been walking, starved and thirsty, it had dragged constantly at her calves and thighs. She laughed aloud at the sheer joy of it and felt a shift of tension between her and the bay, the mare in that instant responding to her as if they had come to know one another. She leaned down to kiss its silky neck, its clean scent faint in her nostrils, thought through all the words of khush Yuri had taught her and christened the horse—her witnesses the sun and the wind and the unending grass—
myshla,
which in that tongue meant “freed of the earth.”

To her surprise, at midday they circled in to take the break with the main group. She was happy to stand for a bit, stretching out her muscles. When Bakhtiian dismounted next to her, she turned from checking Myshla’s hooves to look at him. Behind them, the horses, alone or in pairs, had scattered across the grass, their riders in small groups between them like the bright centers of flowers.

Bakhtiian watched her sidelong for an uncomfortable moment, but then, with decision, he looked at her directly. “The spirit has found you.” He lifted a hand to trace a brief figure in the air. A wind touched her face, as if echoing his gesture.

“Is that meant to be a compliment?” she asked, a little sarcastically, and regretted it instantly. He turned and with that breathtaking sweep of grace mounted and cantered away to speak to Niko Sibirin.

Later, when the call came to ride, in khush, she understood it, mounting before it was repeated in Rhuian for the Chapalii. She fell in beside Bakhtiian.

“You learn our tongue,” he said in khush.

“Only a small portion,” she replied in the same. “Only a gentle breeze yet.” She smiled, loving language and the way in which each language grew out of its environment.

“You learn,” said Bakhtiian.

That afternoon when they paused just below the top of a rise and Bakhtiian simply sat, staring at the expanse of grass and sky that surrounded them, Tess grew impatient with his silence.

“What do you see?”

He looked at her. “What do you see?”

Tess laughed, unable not to in acknowledgment of her own ignorance. “I see grass, and more grass, a few low rises but mostly flat land, and a very blue, almost purple-blue sky. And the sun.”

“What about the clouds, there?”

“There at the edge of the horizon? Yes, those, too.”

“Clouds can mean rain.”

She refused to take his bait. “I suppose they can, if you know what kind of clouds bring rain, and how fast the wind is traveling, and in what direction. I don’t know those things.”

His lips tugged upward slightly, but he did not smile. “A jahar, about twelve men, passed this way two days ago. They camped down below us. Do you see how the grass hasn’t yet risen to its full height there? A piece of leather was left behind. No fire. They’re riding for speed or secrecy.”

Tess stared down, but she could not see any of these signs. Except—perhaps—she could see the slight depression in the tall grass, grass that, in a rough semicircle, was not quite as high as the surrounding stems.

“There,” he continued, “you see that khoen.”

“Khoen?”

“The rocks at the top of the rise.”

She looked again, and there, now that she was looking, she saw a pile of rocks half hidden by the grass. Such a structure could not be natural, three flat rocks arranged in a triangle, with six smaller stones, chipped into rough shapes, placed in a cross pattern in the center. “What is it?”

“The passing jaran build these, to mark their way for themselves and to record their passing for others. This one—” He hesitated. Tess waited. His mouth turned down, giving him a severe, stubborn expression. “We’d better return to the jahar.”

“Why?”

For an instant she thought he meant to chastise her for questioning his orders, but he was merely leaning forward to stare at the sky where a flock of birds wheeled and drove, chattering, for the sun. His lips moved. She knew enough khush to recognize that he was counting under his breath. “There is a dyan called Doroskayev,” he said aloud, settling back into his saddle and starting forward. “He wants to prevent me from uniting the jaran. This was his jahar, or part of his jahar, that rode this way. That means we are near each other. I had hoped to avoid anyone so far north this early in the year.”

Tess urged Myshla after him. “If you meet him, what will happen?”

“We will fight, his riders and mine.”

He said it matter-of-factly. Tess felt as if a stone had dropped into her stomach. They would fight—and where would she be? Lord, and what would Cha Ishii do, faced with such a battle? “I’ve been a fool,” she muttered under her breath.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I just wondered,” she said quickly. “You said before that you’d gotten these horses to make war. Is this the war you meant?”

“Not at all. Doroskayev, and a few other men, are simply obstacles in my path.” The flock of birds, still screaming, swept back over them, low, their tiny shadows dotting the earth. His eyes followed them again, and he smiled to himself. “My war is against all the khaja. All the settled people. I mean to sweep them off the plains forever. And once they are driven off the plains, once all the khaja lands bordering the plains are subject to us, then we need fear the khaja no more.”

“Do you fear them now?”

“My people fear them.” He glanced at her. “But I do not. I have been to Jeds, and I have seen that even the best and the wisest of the khaja are no different than us. What they have, we can have as well.”

That night no fire was built, and double guards were posted. Tess and Yuri watched the Chapalii putting up their tents, and caught the tail end of an exchange in which Bakhtiian attempted to convince Ishii that speed and stealth necessitated no tents at all. The tents went up, but when Bakhtiian left, Tess thought he looked more thoughtful than annoyed. She strolled over and greeted Ishii in formal Chapalii. Yuri tagged at her heels.

Ishii bowed. “Your endurance is commendable, Lady Terese.”

“I welcome your compliments, Cha Ishii. But I am surprised that you set your tents under such circumstances.”

He bowed again. “We cannot sleep in this open air, Lady Terese. Surely you appreciate the physiological differences that demand we maintain some period of rest in atmospheres altered to suit our metabolism.”

“Within those tents?” Tess asked, suddenly acutely curious to go inside one. The four tents looked common enough—a heavy cotton or canvas, something unremarkable to the natives—but what had the Chapalii built into them?

It was too dark to see what color his skin flushed, though she thought it changed slightly. His voice continued imperturbably. “We have mechanisms, Lady Terese.”

“What if this other party attacks? Are you not concerned for your life and the lives of your party, Cha Ishii?”

“I am not concerned, Lady Terese. If I may be excused?”

She nodded. He beat a strategic retreat into the nearest tent. One Chapalii stood outside the second tent, watching her attentively. He was clearly not of the steward class; their deference to her was so complete as to render them almost invisible. Then, bowing directly to her—a slightly arrogant breach of manners, since she had not formally recognized him—he, too, turned and vanished into his tent.

“Why do they bow to you?” Yuri asked. “I never saw people bow except in Jeds, when what they called—what is that word?—the nobility went past.”

“I think that Bakhtiian would like to be bowed to.”

Yuri grinned. “I’ll just bet he would.” Then, either distracted from his question or letting it go, he changed the subject. “We should start teaching you to use that saber. Just in case. Kirill will help. He’s a good teacher, though he doesn’t act it. And Mikhal and Konstans and Nikita and Fedya. I suppose we ought to ask Vladimir to join, too.” He took her over to where the youngest men in the jahar had gathered, and they showed her how to hold and balance her saber, and how to take simple backward and forward cuts.

In the morning, Niko Sibirin rode out to scout with Bakhtiian and Tess. For a while, he and Bakhtiian spoke rapidly together in khush. Tess caught the name Doroskayev many times, and other words and phrases in bits and pieces, but not enough to string together into understanding. Then Bakhtiian rode off by himself, leaving Tess with Niko.

“How are you getting on?” Sibirin asked in Rhuian.

“I’m still here.”

“Yes. I’m glad to see it. I’ve seen others fail this test.”

“Does he do this to every new rider?”

Niko chuckled. The lines on his face softened when he smiled, gentling the sharpness of his eyes. “Oh, no, my dear. Only those he does not trust yet for one reason or another. Poor Vladi had enough trouble from the young men when Ilyakoria took him in to foster so that he took it doubly hard when he was run into the ground his first ride out. I suppose he thought that Bakhtiian taking him in assured him a place. It did not.”

“He must have passed the test.”

“Well enough.” He glanced to his right. A moment later Bakhtiian appeared around the low swell of a rise. Here the plains still rose and fell like waves, slopes that hid the near ground but revealed what was in the distance.