The Novels of the Jaran (144 page)

But even as she thought it, she saw a troop of red-shirted, armored horsemen riding out from around the city: jaran riders. What if one of them was Anatoly? She had an hour before her call for rehearsal, so she ran to the Veselov camp, hoping to get news from Arina.

The Veselov camp was settling in for what Diana could now recognize was a long stay—at least two days. Girls beat carpets and laid them out to air in the sun. Three boys dug out a huge fire pit in the center of the camp, in front of Arina’s great tent. Mira, running around with a pack of children, caught sight of Diana and ran over to greet her with a kiss. Diana hoisted her up and went in search of her mother. She found Arina at the other edge of camp, saying good-bye to her husband. Kirill rode off with a handful of other men, including the gorgeous cousin Vasil, and Arina turned and saw Diana.

“I’m so pleased to see you.” Arina kissed her on each cheek and regarded her with pleasure. They exchanged more commonplaces as they walked back into camp.

“Will the camp be staying here for long?” Diana asked.

“Yes. There’s forage and supplies to be had here. Yaroslav Sakhalin has returned.”

“With his whole army?”

“Oh, no. Evidently they’ve laid in a siege at the king’s royal city, but Sakhalin returned to see if it was true that Bakhtiian did not die. Then he’ll return. Kirill went to attend Bakhtiian.” She said it proudly. Diana thought it sweet how proud Arina was of her husband, who had done so well despite his debilitating injury. “He can use his hand again, although it’s very weak.”

“He can? How did that happen?”

“The gods graced him, I suppose. I think he’s suffered enough.” Arina paused to survey her domain and to direct some girls in the placement of an awning, two tents, and a bronze stove. “Do you think,” Arina added in a lower voice, “that I’m selfish to hope that, even if his arm does heal, Kirill won’t be able to ride with the army again?”

Which, like all of these men, was probably his greatest desire. “No,” said Diana softly, touching Arina’s hand, “I don’t think so. Is there any news of Anatoly? Did he come back with his uncle?” A surge of hope shook through her.

“I don’t know. But Kirill will know, surely, when he returns.”

Diana lingered there until it was time for rehearsal, but Kirill did not return. That night, Anatoly did not come to her tent. In the morning Owen appeared in high good humor, having managed a coup of sorts. He had convinced Bakhtiian to let the troupe ride with a jaran escort into the Habakar city and there put on a performance. He chose
The Caucasian Chalk Circle
in its untranslated, unexpurgated form, since these Habakar people could not understand them anyway and would presumably have no problem accepting a male as judge. Diana already played the leading role, and Owen and Ginny, as understudies, could cover Hyacinth’s parts.

They rode out in the wagons about noon. Members of the Veselov jahar had been assigned as their escort. Arina agreed to come along, and the excursion along a winding road past a bend in the river and to the long pontoon bridge laid out over the waters proved marvelous. It was hot, but not too hot. Trees lined the riverside, shading the road. Rushes carpeted the shore. Out on the water, with the huge inflated skins and wooden road rocking beneath them, a breeze sprang up and curled in Diana’s hair and cooled her cheeks. The muddy water flowed on, oblivious to their passing. If only Anatoly were here, this day would be perfect, but Arina had not seen Kirill since he went to council with Bakhtiian. Vasil had come back to lead the little expedition, but he had no news. However, Arina had heard from Mother Sakhalin that Anatoly was not with his uncle and that, indeed, Yaroslav Sakhalin had already ridden out at dawn, to go back to his army.

On the other side of the river, Diana felt like she had come to some fairy country. Farmers stared at them from fields turning gold in the stark, clean light of the summer sun. The people looked cautious and frightened, but their clothes were sturdy and their faces hale. Grain trembled in the wind, flowing in waves across lush acreage, bordered by dry ditches out of which green shoots and scarlet lilies poked ragged heads. The city loomed before them. With their escort around them, the company passed through the open gates without the least trouble and trundled into a city for the first time in what seemed years.

Diana stared, enchanted by the scene. Gardens flowered between orderly groups of stone and mudbrick houses. Trees overhung the streets. A marble fountain graced a courtyard, glimpsed through a latticework doorway. A white citadel rose in the center of the city; off to one side soared the delicate minarets of what she presumed was either a palace or a temple. Down side streets she saw Habakar natives dressed in bright clothing, hurrying about their business. This main thoroughfare along which they rode sat deserted, as if the populace had been warned to stay out of their way. Pale brick paved the avenue, so smooth and cunningly fitted together that the wagons did not jolt at all as they made their way in to the central marketplace. Would it, too, be deserted?

But the market colonnade bustled with activity, even when they reached it with their escort of dread jaran riders. Streamers of variegated silk hung from the sexpartite vaults that made up the colonnade, which were otherwise open to the air on all sides. Diana could see that it was gloomy underneath the vaulted colonnades, but all around on the outskirts old women in embroidered black shawls sold fruit and vegetables from the backs of painted carts and men with frogged, knee-length brocaded jackets and dyed leather shoes hawked bolts of silk and utensils of bronze and iron. The intense bustle of the marketplace slowed to a halt as Habakar merchants and buyers froze and stared. Many melted away. Others, more brazen or perhaps simply resigned, returned to their business. Veselov fanned his riders out, and they sat with their horses on a tight rein and watched this activity with perplexed expressions. Owen herded the actors out of the wagons and, in record time, they set up the platform and placed the screens for their makeshift stage.

They drew an odd sort of audience while they set up. People stared but did not linger, as if they did not want to draw attention to themselves. Children edged close to watch and were dragged away by their elders.

Owen strode up to Diana as she adjusted a screen to Joseph’s precise specifications: a 38-degree angle exactly, no more, no less. “Diana. Who is that?” He gestured. She turned.

He was looking straight at Vasil Veselov, who sat astride his horse not fifty paces from them, watching the stage assembly with interest. With that absolute instinct for an audience that he possessed, Vasil shifted his gaze to look toward Owen and Diana.

“That’s Vasil Veselov. He’s Arina Veselov’s cousin, and he’s also dyan—warleader—of their tribe.”

“Perfect.” Owen examined Veselov. “Look at the angle of the shoulders, and the tilt of the chin. He’s canted just off center, too, in his seat on the horse, which draws attention without seeming to and without imperiling his stability in the saddle. And that face. Goddess, if I’d had that face, I would have stayed an actor.”

“A good thing you didn’t have it, then,” retorted Diana, stung by his praise. It wasn’t as if Veselov was acting; he was just being himself. She had never heard Owen praise anyone so extravagantly, not even Gwyn. “Everyone says your genius is for directing.”

“So it is,” agreed Owen without a trace of arrogance. “He’s acting without knowing he’s doing it, and he’s doing it right, by and large. I’ve been watching him for the whole ride over here. He’s taught himself the art of listening and the art of connecting. Do you know how many competent actors I’ve worked with who took years to get where he is now?”

Diana wondered ungraciously if Owen counted her among their number, but then Yomi came over to chase her back to the tent set up as a dressing room behind the platform.

The performance was a disaster and yet absolutely wonderful. The setting itself could not be improved upon. Coming onstage for her first entrance, Diana felt transported to some ancient scene. They could have been any group of itinerant actors out making their way along the Silk Road, the famous Earth trade route that ran across the mountains and deserts and steppes of Asia, stopping in this medieval oriental city made glorious by its marble colonnades and gentle silk banners. Even the play, in its own way, seemed ironically appropriate: During a revolt in feudal Georgia, Grusha, a servant girl, flees to the mountains with the Governor’s small son, who has been abandoned in the panic by his mother; in the second act, a drunken village clerk named Azdak is made a judge by the rebel soldiers and tries the case to determine which of the women is the child’s true mother.

From the beginning, they attracted a hard-core audience off to the left who stayed in place for the entire play. But other than that group, and the jaran riders who patrolled the square with half an eye on the Habakar natives and half on the play, the audience shifted and grew and shrank according to some tidal schedule that Diana could not interpret. It was frustrating, and yet, it was in part for this experiment that she had come, to see what would play, what could communicate, across such a gulf of space and culture, to touch those who were open to being touched. And, inspired by the setting, by the city, by the bright colored silks or the clear blue of the afternoon sky, the acting fell into place and they worked off each other in that seamless fiction that can never be achieved except by grace, fortune, and sheer, hard repetitious work brought by a fortuitous combination of events to its fruition in transcendent art.

It worked. Diana knew it worked. They all knew it had worked. At the end, sweating and exhausted and for once sated, she took Gwyn’s hand—he had played the soldier and lover Simon—and, with the lifelike doll that represented the child tucked in the crook of her other arm, she, and he, and the others, took a single bow, which was all that they needed to take, or that the audience understood. Straightening, she flashed a grin at Gwyn and he smiled back, wiping sweat from his forehead. She turned to look toward Arina, who had watched it all from a wagon over to one side, and discovered that Vasil had dismounted to stand next to his cousin and was regarding Diana, and the stage, with uncomfortably intent interest.

“You’ve made a conquest, Di,” said Gwyn in an undertone as he turned to go back to the dressing room and strip his makeup off.

“I hope not. Wait for me.” Veselov bothered her. One of the things she so liked about Gwyn was that when he was offstage, he was off; he did not drag the one world into the other. She knew she emoted offstage, at times, but it wasn’t a habit she wanted to foster in herself, and she usually only did it when the person she was with seemed to expect it of her. A professional knew how to separate work and life. But Veselov was always on, always aware, always projecting. The Goddess knew, it ought to be tiring, going on like that all day and presumably all night. She went with Gwyn back to the awning and wiped her face clean. They took down the stage. By the time they got the wagons loaded, the afternoon had mostly passed, and the marketplace lay quiet and almost empty. They started back.

“I liked that story,” said Arina. “It was true, what the judge did, knowing which woman was the true mother. But I can tell it’s a khaja story.”

“How?”

“Well, it isn’t a man’s part to make such a judgment. That is women’s business.”

“But we changed it,” protested Diana, “when we did it at the camp. We made Azdak into an etsana.”

“I didn’t see that.” Arina smiled, looking ahead, and lifted a hand to greet a rider. “Here is Vasil.”

Vasil reined his horse in beside them, on Diana’s side of the wagon. “Why is it I’ve seen none of these songs of yours before?” he asked.

“I don’t know. We’ve—sung—them many times, and we—practice—every night, in our encampment.” She could think of no words for “perform” and “rehearse” in khush.

Veselov did not look at her directly, and yet Diana felt his attention on her as much as if he had been staring soulfully into her eyes like a besotted lover. She shifted on the hard wooden seat. He sat a horse well, and his hands were light and casual and yet masterful on the reins. For an instant, she wondered what he would be like in bed; His lips twitched up into a bare, confiding smile, as if he had read her thoughts and promised as much as she could wish for, and more.

“I would like to see more,” he said, but did he mean more plays or more of her? “You become the woman in the song, yet you remain yourself.”

“Yes,” said Diana, surprised, because Anatoly had yet to grasp the concept of acting.

A rider called to Vasil from farther down the line, and Veselov excused himself and rode away.

Arina coughed into one hand. “Although he is my cousin,” she said, “and I love him dearly, I would recommend to you, Diana, that you be wary of him.”

“I’m married, after all!”

“What has that to do with anything?”

Diana changed the subject, and they discussed other things until they got back to camp at dusk. Where Kirill waited. He came up to them immediately, Lavrenti nestled on his good arm, his other arm hanging free for once. Diana could see the fingers on his withered hand twitching and curling, but without much force or coordination.

“I beg your pardon,” said Diana to Kirill as Arina climbed down, “I must return to our camp and I just wanted to know … is there any word of my husband?”

“He wasn’t with his uncle,” Kirill assured her.

“Oh, then he’s at the besieged city?” Karkand, it was called, the seat of the Habakar kings.

Kirill shook his head. “No. Bakhtiian sent him to capture the Habakar king, who fled on beyond his city.”

“I don’t understand. Anatoly went after him?”

“Yes, with a picked troop of five thousand riders.”

“But where did the king flee to?”

Kirill shrugged. He glanced at his wife, as if for help. “To the lands beyond, I suppose.”

“Out ahead of his uncle’s army?” Diana demanded. “All by himself?”

“Well,” replied Kirill apologetically, “he did promise Bakhtiian to bring back the king’s crown, coat, and head, for the offense the king gave to Bakhtiian’s personal envoys.”