The Novels of the Jaran (91 page)

“Of course I’ve heard of them. I saw them in Berlin, performing the
Mahabharata.
I don’t recall if you were with them then.” She considered a moment and as if by habit glanced back toward her two jaran companions, still waiting fifty paces out. “Oh, hell,” she said under her breath.

Charles Soerensen was a quiet man, holding his power in reserve, hoarding it, concealing it from a power greater than his own—the power of the Chapalii Empire. Waiting for a chance to strike again, to free humanity from the yoke of the alien Empire. Even his entrances, such as the one Diana had just witnessed, were subtle, small entrances, perfectly timed but not showy, and never ostentatious.

From the camp, entering stage left, came an altogether different kind of leader. He walked with only two attendants, and yet the two could as well have been one hundred, they endowed him with so much state.

Bakhtiian looked furious. His fury radiated so far that even though Diana could barely distinguish his features, she could read anger in every line of his body.

“Excuse me,” said Tess, turning to leave.

“Where are you going, Tess?” asked her brother quietly.

Tess cast a rueful grin back over her shoulder. “To head him off at the pass.”

“No,” said Charles.

Tess halted as if she had been pulled short by a rope. She did not move at all for a moment, then she spun back. “Charles, let me go.” She sounded—angry? scared? shocked?—Diana could not tell.

“We will wait here,” he replied calmly.

Tess dropped her chin and stared at the ground, for all the world like a scolded child.

Bakhtiian paused for long enough beside Aleksi and the female soldier to add them to his train. Their obedience, like Tess’s to her brother, was absolute and immediate. Bakhtiian advanced on Soerensen’s tent. Diana looked behind to see the jaran healers and Anatoly Sakhalin watching also.

With curt politeness, Bakhtiian halted five paces outside the awning of the tent and inclined his head toward Charles Soerensen. “I trust you have set up your camp to your satisfaction,” he said in Rhuian. He did not look at Tess Soerensen. No, it was more than that. He was forcefully not looking at her, as if the action of not looking at her was as deliberate as if he had chosen to look at her.

“Indeed, we have,” replied Charles Soerensen. “It is a good stretch of ground, and suitable to our purpose here. The actors are especially pleased with the terrain, since it provides them with a natural amphitheater.”

“I hope my people will be able to enjoy their performances soon. We will have a proper celebration to honor your arrival at our camp tomorrow evening. I would be pleased to escort you and any of your party around our camp tomorrow morning, if it pleases you. Now, if you will excuse me, there are military matters which I must discuss with my generals.”

He took one step back, turned, and then turned back. “Soerensen?” he said, to Tess. It meant: of course you will attend me as well. Now.

Standing with one foot on, one foot off, the carpet, at the edge of the awning, Tess stood equidistant between the two men. Everyone was watching her. They were waiting for her decision.

She lifted her chin finally, clearly aware that she was the focus of all attention. She looked angry and embarrassed and irresolute and even slightly amused. But she did not say anything. The silence stretched out until it became painful.

Soerensen waited. Bakhtiian waited. In fact, Diana realized, they were both waiting for Tess to capitulate to them, knowing that she could not capitulate to both. In a sudden rush of insight, of compassion, Diana realized that Tess could not make that decision. Not now, at any rate. What had led her to wear jaran clothing and ride with jaran soldiers Diana did not know. What led Bakhtiian to order her around as if she were one of his people was also a mystery. Even if Tess wanted to disobey her brother’s deceptively mild command, Diana was not sure that she could.

Murmuring rose in the huddle of jaran healers only fifteen paces to their backs. Marco Burckhardt slipped a hand inside his belt, reaching for something. David took an impulsive step forward, blindly trying to protect—Tess? Or Charles? Anatoly Sakhalin appeared to the side, stepping into the group flanking Bakhtiian. Although his arm still rested in a sling, he wore a saber. His good hand brushed its hilt.

Things were going to get ugly very quickly. Battle lines had been drawn, and if someone didn’t intervene—well, Diana now knew what the aftermath of a battle looked like. And neither Bakhtiian nor Soerensen looked ready or willing to back down.

So Diana did the first thing that came to mind. She gave a gasp, flung the back of her left hand up to her forehead, and collapsed to the carpet in a faint.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I
N THE CONFUSION, TESS
escaped. She backed up, spun, and sprinted for her horse, which had been left with reins dangling to wait for her return. Bracing her left foot in the stirrup, she swung on and urged the mare away. She shook with rage and self-disgust.

How dare they reduce her to a pawn? How dare they try to force her to choose between them? And, oh God, she hated herself for letting them. She had just stood there, gaping like an idiot, paralyzed. Charles had not changed, not one bit, and she was still terrified of him. And Ilya! She thought her heart might well burst with anger.

She was out of sight of camp by now, and she slowed the mare to a halt and dismounted to lean against her shoulder. Zhashi nuzzled her cheek and then nosed at her belt, trying to pry her shirt loose.

“Stop that, you miserable beast,” Tess said with affection. “I don’t have anything for you.” She rubbed Zhashi’s forehead with her knuckles and then found a tangled stretch of mane and combed it free with her fingers. Distracted, she fished in her pouch and brought out a length of ribbon, which she braided into Zhashi’s mane. Zhashi submitted to this attention with the patience of the vain.

It was soothing work. The bitter truth was, she was still running away. She was still afraid to face Charles. And Ilya—

“The other bitter truth is, Zhashi, that I love him too much. He’s been gone for a month, and when I saw him walking across to us, it was like seeing the sun rising. Lord, I sound like any love-sick adolescent. But he’s so beautiful.” Zhashi snorted in disgust and bent her head to rip up a clump of grass. “Oh, certainly not more beautiful than you, my dear. How could I ever have said such a thing?” Tess chuckled, then sobered, tying off the ribbon. “Oh, Zhash, I don’t know what to do.”

Zhashi resumed grazing. The indistinct gold of the plain extended without interruption to the sharp line that separated grass and sky. Thin strings of cloud laced one half of the sky, trailing down below the horizon. The wind blew—the wind always blew here—whipping the tall grass into a frenzy. At the horizon, she could see the amorphous mass of a herd of horses, out grazing. The sun hung a handbreadth above the horizon, sinking, and the moon already shone, pale, in the deepening blue of the sky.

She had to go back, of course. She mounted and headed back toward camp, back toward Charles’s encampment. An hour or two with Charles, then back to her own tent for the reunion with Ilya. That ought to satisfy both of them, as a beginning.

But as she came into sight of camp, a rider intercepted her. It was Ilya. She considered for an instant trying to avoid him, but it was undignified, for one thing, and for the other, he could outride her without thinking about it, and he was mounted on his stallion, Kriye. She pulled up instead and waited.

Kriye began to prance, showing off for Zhashi as Bakhtiian reined him in beside Tess. With a ruthless tug on the reins, Bakhtiian brought the black to an abrupt halt. “Damned horse,” Bakhtiian muttered. Then he looked up at her.

More than any other feature, it was his eyes that Tess loved. They burned. They were lit, pervaded by an intensity that was perhaps, just perhaps, a little mad. Obsessed, at the very least, but no more so than Charles was obsessed. Charles just hid it better.

“Tess.” His voice sounded hoarse. He reached out and took hold of her left hand, gripping it tightly.

“Oh, Ilya,” she said impulsively. “I missed you.”

From her hand, it was but a turn of the wrist for him to take hold of her reins and commandeer them for himself. Zhashi minced, objecting to this kidnapping. “You’re coming with me,” said Ilya, and started back for camp, leading Zhashi.

“Damn you.” Tess went red. “Give me back my reins.”

“You’re coming with me.”

“I won’t have you leading me through camp like this.”

He did not reply. His trail led away from the distant Soerensen enclave, around the fringe of tents. But she saw quickly enough what he was doing. Vladimir and Anatoly Sakhalin stood waiting at the edge of camp to receive the horses. Tess was damned if she’d make a scene in front of them. She dismounted, handed Zhashi over to Sakhalin, and hoped like hell that the chestnut mare would kick him.

Then she relented. Seeing Anatoly’s arm in a sling reminded her too bitterly of Kirill Zvertkov, who had never regained use of his injured arm. “What happened?” she asked Anatoly.

“Speared and trampled,” he said cheerfully. He wiggled the fingers of his left hand. “But you see, the prince’s healer says I’ll be free of this sling in a hand of days.”

“Ah. Dr. Hierakis looked at you. I’m glad.” She smiled at the young man, whom she liked well enough, except for his doglike devotion to Bakhtiian. “But then again,” she remarked aloud, walking alongside Ilya into the darkening expanse of camp, “they’re all besotted with you.”

He had a good grip on her wrist, but he walked so close to her that anyone passing them might not mark that he was forcing her to go along with him. “Not all of them,” he replied. “I’m sending Suvorin and his jahar to the coast. His sister’s son died in the battle. I’m keeping his son with my thousand, now.”

“A hostage for Suvorin’s good behavior.”

“It’s a great honor, to ride with my jahar.”

“It’s a great honor to ride in any of the first rank jahars. Like Yaroslav Sakhalin’s jahar. Those that are allowed to, that is.”

His fingers tightened convulsively on her wrist, but he did not rise to the bait. Fuming, Tess kept silent. They walked the rest of the way without saying one single word. At last they came to the clearing in the center of camp that housed her tent. Its colors had already gone dull in the deepening twilight. The golden banner of the army that graced its peak fluttered and sank in the dying wind. No one accosted them here, as if the camp had been emptied out before their arrival. Around the great tent in a crescent stood the other tents of the Orzhekov family, those who remained here with the army: Sonia’s tent, Nadine’s tent, Aleksi’s little tent and those of a few female cousins. At the very edge of the crescent stood the tent of Juli Danov and her husband Nikolai Sibirin, bridging the gap between the tents of the Orzhekov family and those surrounding the center of camp who were of the Orzhekov tribe. Beyond them, in the same kind of clusters, spread the tents of the other tribes of the first rank, Sakhalin and Grekov, Suvorin and Arkhanov, Velinya and Raevsky and Vershinin and Fedoseyev. And beyond them, their daughter tribes, and their daughters’ daughter tribes, the army of the jaran.

Three figures waited under the awning of Tess’s tent. Ilya did not let go of her even after they crossed onto the carpet. “Out,” he said to the occupants.

Sonia Orzhekov rose. Her blonde hair was braided with ribbons and beads, giving her a festive look, but her normally cheerful expression was stern. “Cousin,” she said to Ilya, “I expect better manners from you.”

“I beg your pardon, cousin.” He bent at once and kissed her on either cheek, and for an instant his expression softened. “Where are the little ones?”

“Well away,” said Sonia ominously.

“Then,” he said stiffly, “if you please, I would like a word alone with my wife.”

Sonia crossed over to Tess and gave her adopted sister a hug. “Well,” she said, “I’m glad to see you home safely, at any rate.” She flashed a glance back at Bakhtiian, but did not elaborate on her statement. “Come along, Aleksi.” Aleksi followed her away.

Nadine rose as well, heading after them.

“You’ll stay,” said Ilya abruptly. “I want your report.”

Nadine halted and turned to face her uncle. “You don’t really want my report. You’re just exacting vengeance because I took Tess with me despite what you wanted.”

“Orzhekov, you are a jahar leader because of your skill, not because you are my niece. I expect you to behave accordingly. Now, your report.”

Like her uncle, Nadine had the ability to make her face go still, revealing no emotion. In a tight voice, she delivered her report of their journey.

“And the ambassador?” Ilya asked. “Where is he now?”

“I installed him in the northeastern corner with the other foreign embassies. May I make a suggestion?”

“You may.”

“When you receive him, I suggest you put the fear of the gods into him.”

“Ah,” said Ilya, looking for an instant thoughtful rather than angry. “I understand. You may go.”

“Thank you.” With a curt nod, Nadine left.

“That certainly was both comprehensive and enlightening,” said Tess in Rhuian, drawling slightly. “I have nothing to add to her edifying report. Now, I’ll join Nadine.” She did not move, however, because he still had hold of her wrist.

In khush, without looking at her, he said: “I haven’t given you permission to leave.”

“Haven’t you? I wasn’t aware that I required your permission to leave.”

Now he turned. “I expressly told you not to leave camp.”

“Yes, you did, and it finally occurred to me that since you won’t trust me as a soldier, then I might as well act as your wife. And by the gods, Ilya, as your wife, you have no authority over me whatsoever.” She twisted her wrist in his hand and jerked herself free of his grip. But as she started away, he caught her arm. “People are staring,” she snapped.

“Let them stare.” He flung his other arm around her waist and with no warning dragged her bodily backward and into the tent. Pressed this close against him, she could feel that he was shaking. Inside, two lanterns burned, casting a glow across the interior: the table and chair, khaja work, to one side, where she wrote; an empty bronze cauldron with a smaller cauldron nested inside; a small bronze stove with two handles; a wooden chest carved with stylized horses; a standing cabinet with hinged doors, another piece of khaja work; and the tapestry that concealed the sleeping area.