The Novels of the Jaran (216 page)

“And no doubt gained the backing of their discontented noblemen as well,” muttered Ilya.

“That is so,” agreed the soldier, “according to the messenger who got through to us. The jaran garrison was set upon, although some tens are still barricaded in the citadel and others escaped to the ruins in the sands which the khaja will not visit for fear of demons.”

Tess sighed, though she said nothing. Ilya listened intently. For eight years Salkh had remained a sore point in the southern Habakar district of the growing jaran empire, under jaran suzerainty but never quite yielding.

“What action has Zvertkov taken?” asked Niko.

“He has called back the advance troops from the Heaven Mountains to throw a perimeter around the city. But he has only just established himself in the city of Kalita, which lies thirty days’ ride across the wastelands from Khoyan, which itself lies twenty days’ ride across desert from Salkh, so he does not wish to withdraw any significant portion of his army back across these wastelands. By his order, I delivered these tidings as well to Prince Mitya as I passed through Hamrat in Habakar. The prince has sent two thousands south to help establish the perimeter. Otherwise he awaits your word.”

“Did Prince Mitya send word to me on how he intends to deal with Salkh?” Ilya asked, looking annoyed that such a matter had been brought to his attention rather than summarily dealt with.

The rider dipped his head, acknowledging the unspoken censure in Bakhtiian’s question. “Prince Mitya adds these words: ‘While I would otherwise simply destroy Salkh and its people for their rebellion, my wife begs that I spare the city, since in it rests a great and ancient temple to her God founded by a holy man whose daughter many daughters removed is her mother.’ ”

Ilya grunted. “Tell Prince Mitya this. ‘You will level Salkh until it is no higher than the sands which surround it. If you first set the town on fire, then the holy sanctuary may be spared if it is built of brick; if it is spared, then it alone may be allowed to stand while what remains is leveled, to show our mercy toward those who submit to the will of the gods.’ ”

“What about the inhabitants of Salkh?” Tess asked. Ilya glanced at her. Tess knew it puzzled him, her concern for a thousand, ten thousand, insignificant lives, but he was used to her quirks by now.

“Those who led and countenanced the rebellion will be executed.” He hesitated and considered Tess for a moment, frowning. “Artisans and craftsmen may be dispersed to where they will do the most good. Those with special skills will be sent to Sarai. Of the rest, they may be made servants of the empire or sold into slavery, as Prince Mitya and his wife and ministers see fit.” He nodded once, decisively, to show that the matter was ended. Tess said nothing. It was a more merciful fate than some cities had met. “The other message?”

The rider reached under his coat of bells and carefully drew out oiled cloth, which he unwound. Two thick slabs of paper lay protected within. He offered the first to Tess.

“ ‘From Kirill Zvertkov to the Prince of Jeds,’ ” he recited from memory.

“ ‘Greetings, and a treaty from the merchants of Byblos, who lay at rest in the caravansaries of Kalita and were brought before me. After two days of feasting we agreed to the following terms.’ ”

Supple with oil, the parchment unwrapped smoothly. Jaran commanders usually used foreign scribes, writing in Rhuian, to record their treaties. Tess could tell by the formality and flowing curves of the calligraphy that this was done by a Habakar scribe now in the service of the jaran conquerors. Underneath the Rhuian, a second hand had roughly traced in a translation, in the script (derived from the Jedan script) which Tess had devised for khush, the language of the jaran.

“ ‘By the authority invested in me by Ilyakoria Bakhtiian, dyan of the jaran, and by Tess Soerensen, Prince of Jeds, I, Kirill Zvertkov, commander of the Army of the Right Hand, hereby authorize this treaty. As Kalita is the northernmost city to which the merchants of Byblos travel, so shall they henceforth send detailed reports to the jaran army as they travel of the worth of the local merchants and the routes of the caravans and the strength of the princes both in soldiers and in wealth, and reports as well of the movements of any soldiers in the lands through which they travel. As well, the merchants of Byblos shall tell at every city through which they travel of the great strength of the jaran army and of the favor shown us by Mother Sun and Father Wind, such that no prince and no people can stand against us. In return, wherever the jaran ride that is south and southeast of Jeds, we will destroy any trading station that does not hold allegiance to Byblos.’ ”

When she had finished, the messenger handed her the second note. This one, a little drier, crackled as she opened it. Inside was a brief letter written in a hand Tess recognized, one she had trained herself, that of Shura Sakhalin.

“ ‘Here follows a description of the merchants of Byblos,’ ” she read aloud,

“ ‘given by Kirill Zvertkov, commander of the Army of the Right Hand and husband of Mother Veselov, and written down by Shura Sakhalin, eldest granddaughter of Mother Sakhalin. The men of Byblos are small of stature, with red-brown skin. They come from lands far to the south of Kalita. They wear loosely draped finespun cloth of white with blue or purple borders and they comment constantly on how cold it is, although it seems hot enough to me. They have no women with them. Neither do they travel with soldiers, trusting to their god, Son-of-Falcon, to protect them as he does all travelers. They wear delicate necklaces of gold and of jewels unknown to me. They all know how to read and write and tally accounts, a gift granted to their people by a goddess named Bird-Woman, whose claws left tracks in the mud, the first writing. By this veneration of birds I judge them to be civilized people.’ ”

Finishing, she made no comment. They all sat a while in silence. No wind stirred the tents at all. The heat of the sun seeped down through the grass and into the earth as if it had weight. A child’s pure voice lifted in a song, and soon a ragged chorus joined it, nearing them.

“Go to the tent of Eva Kolenin,” said Tess finally to the rider, remembering her manners. “She will feed you and give you a place to rest. Her husband is Konstans Barshai, who is the captain of Bakhtiian’s jahar. In the morning you will return to us, and we will give you messages to take back to Zvertkov.”

The rider inclined his head and took himself off, bells whispering as he walked away from them. He passed an unruly pack of children, two of whom broke away from their companions and ran over to the tent.

“Mama! Papa!” cried Natalia, dancing around under the awning in excitement. “Mother Orzhekov says there is to be a
birbas
in ten days, with ten tribes, or more!”

Yuri sat down in his mother’s lap, and then reached over and stole a sweetcake out of his father’s hand. He smiled sweetly, and Ilya let him keep it.

“Sit down, Talia,” said Niko. “You’re making my head hurt. Here, you can play a game of khot with me. At least you’re more of a challenge than your father.”

Natalia flung herself down opposite Niko, her back against her father, and transformed herself into a paragon of stillness. “I am not! He beats me all the time.”

“But you will be,” replied Niko mildly.

“Niko,” broke in Tess, “are you sure? You look tired—” Niko shot her a look that said, perhaps, more than he meant it to, or perhaps not:
Let me play khot with the child while I still can.

“What do you know of Byblos?” asked Ilya suddenly.

Tess considered. “I don’t even know if it’s a trading house, a city, or a kingdom. I confess I know very little about the lands south and southeast of Jeds, except that they must be very hot. It was clever of Kirill to word the treaty like that.”

“Indeed,” said Ilya coolly. Tess glanced over at him. Was it possible that he was
still
jealous of Kirill? Surely not. Ilya admitted few women and fewer men into his circle of absolute trust. His aunt, his female cousins and especially Sonia, his niece Nadine, a courtesan of Jeds named Mayana, Niko’s wife Juli Danov, Dr. Cara Hierakis, and Tess, of course: Nine women that made, but Tess could only think of five men. Three men had been with him since the beginning, Niko, Josef Raevsky, and Tadheus Lensky; the fourth was his first and most valuable ally, the great general and prince Yaroslav Sakhalin. But eight years ago by some invisible process impossible to understand or describe, Kirill had become the fifth.

“Yuri, you’re too hot,” said Tess, abruptly irritated that Ilya might find any praise she gave Kirill to be suspicious. Yuri opened his mouth to complain, thought better of it, and popped in the rest of the sweetcake instead. Then he pressed his sticky fingers onto her cheek and giggled. “Off!” He grinned and jumped up, unaffected by the heat, and ran out into the sun to greet Mother Orzhekov.

Ilya’s aunt Irena, etsana of the Orzhekov tribe and the most powerful woman in the jaran tribes now that Mother Sakhalin was failing, took Yuri’s hand, dropped it, and said a few words to him which immediately caused him to look abashed. He ran off in the direction of the river. Mother Orzhekov advanced without any loss of dignity, even when she licked her fingers clean.

Tess rose at once and gave her a kiss on either cheek.

“I won’t sit down,” said Irena, twitching her skirts away from the half-empty tray of sweetcakes. At sixty-two, she still had strength and vigor. “I have only come to tell you that a birbas has been arranged for ten days from now, at the great wilderness to the west of Sarai. We have not had a princely birbas for two years now.”

Ilya inclined his head, looking, before her, incongruously very like the messenger had looked before him. “That is well, my Aunt,” he agreed. “How many tribes will come?”

“Those who can,” she said. “It will be good training for the men who will return to the armies this fall, and for those young women and men who will ride out for the first time.”

“In Sarai,” added Ilya, “we can ask the merchants what they know of Byblos.”

A horrifying thought struck Tess. What if it wasn’t her praise for Kirill—the old rivalry between the two men for her love—that had annoyed Ilya? What if it was a lingering suspicion that she knew more than she would ever tell him? What if Ilya didn’t truly trust her?

And why should he, in any case?

CHAPTER SEVEN

In the Princedom of Hereti-Manas

I
N SIX DAYS THEY
came to Greater Manas, but Riasonovsky made sure to camp well upstream from the town. Even so, a delegation ventured out to pay their respects and to bring food and drink for the riders and grain for the horses, as was prudent. A jahar had been through these parts just the day before, they reported, so no doubt the khaja were unpleasantly surprised to see another one so soon.

But when the prince’s chamberlain saw Rusudani, than he sent a man back to town immediately. It was barely full dark when a new delegation emerged from the gloom, this one headed by the prince of Hereti-Manas himself.

Vasha dragged Stefan away from his self-imposed watch over the two khaja women and stood in the shadows beside Riasonovsky’s tent, where Riasonovsky and Katerina received Prince Sigismar.

“I ought to be with them,” Vasha muttered, but he stayed in the shadows, not wanting to make a scene, knowing what reception he would receive.

Sister Yvanne acted as interpreter, and when the khaja prince had acknowledged Katerina as befitted a princess of the jaran and Riasonovsky as befitted a soldier who could, at the merest breath of treason, order his head cut off, Katya allowed Rusudani to be brought forward. Her servant, Jaelle, trailed after her, looking nervous.

At once, Prince Sigismar came forward and gave Rusudani the embrace of a kinsman. They began talking in the Yossian language common to these lands.

“Sister Yvanne,” said Katerina, “you will translate all the words of the prince into Taor, and Jaelle, you will translate the words of Rusudani into Taor, so that we may understand what they say to each other. Tell them that this is what I intend.”

Sigismar knelt in front of Katerina. “I beg you, my lady,” he said through Sister Yvanne’s translation, “allow me to receive Princess Rusudani into my family, since the news I bring her is sad, that she is so recently bereft of two brothers who, alas, chose to follow a rash cousin into the war against your own people. They perished with the other Yos princes at the battle at Salho River. But Princess Rusudani has been in the convent since she was a child, so she is an unwitting accomplice to their crime. As well, her father, Prince Zakaria, gave no aid to the rebels, so she is free of taint from his side, and her mother, Helena Mirametis, has been dead these past seven years. Her father’s sister is my own wife. It is right that she be embraced in the bosom of her own kinswoman in this unhappy time. She is young, and untutored in the ways of the world. You know that I have been the faithful servant of the jaran since your people first appeared in Yos lands.”

Vasha crept forward to better examine the participants. Rusudani knelt next to her kinsman, her gaze cast toward the ground. Her face was quiet and composed. If she grieved for her brothers, Vasha could not read it in her expression. Katya stared hard at the other woman and then, looking up, caught sight of Vasha and beckoned him forward. She was seated on a pillow next to Riasonovsky, outside his tent, and Vasha knelt on one knee in order to hear her. She covered her mouth with a hand and whispered into his ear.

“Did you hear what he called her mother?” she said in khush, so that only they could understand. “Helena
Mirametis
!”

It took him a moment to register the name, but when he did, he sat back on his heels in shock. Rusudani’s face was as still, as sweetly rounded, as that of an angel carved above the doors of a khaja church. With her hands clasped in front of her and her eyes half closed, she appeared to be praying. Prince Sigismar eyed his jaran hosts uneasily.

“What have you discovered?” asked Riasonovsky of Katerina, leaning forward. He, too, was seated on a pillow.