by Kate Elliott
“This isn’t his tent,” said a man, his voice pitched so low that Tess would not have heard him if he hadn’t been standing a hand’s breadth away from her, separated from her only by the cloth of her tent. “This is a woman’s pattern.”
A foot dragged along the fabric, pushing the wall in ever so slightly. Grass rustled, the barest sound, as he crept away. A word exhaled, farther away, so she heard the breath but not the meaning. She reached to pull her tent flap aside to look out.
“Stahar linaya!”
The force of the words—Battle! Night! Treachery!—ringing out in—in Fedya’s voice?—sent her forward without thinking, responding to his piercing cry for help. She tumbled out of her tent and ran right into a body crouched outside. The figure stumbled forward, reaching for his saber. She caught a flash of white face as she reached for her own saber, only to recall that she was in women’s clothing. The man took off running.
A confusion of figures clustered around Bakhtiian’s solitary tent. A man screamed in rage. Suddenly, sabers winked pale in the hazy predawn dimness.
Two men—Vladimir and Fedya—faced off against three, their shapes shifting in a delicate dance around Bakhtiian’s tent.
“Get back, Tess!” A hand pressed her back against her tent, and she looked up to see Kirill beside her. He clutched a blanket around his waist with one hand. His torso was utterly naked, and for a wildly improbable moment, she simply stared, at his arms, at the pale down of fine hair on his chest—
“—your saber!” he hissed urgently.
She swallowed hard and reached back into her tent and pulled out her saber. He grabbed it from her one-handed, slipping the blade free with a deft twist, and ran forward into the fight. “Vladi! Disarm him now! Fedya, to me. Yuri, Konstans, to their backs.”
With a blur of strokes, Vladimir disarmed one man and then without pausing flung himself on the other and wrestled him to the ground. Faced with Fedya and Kirill, and the appearance of several other men in various stages of undress, the third man threw down his saber. Yuri darted forward and picked up the three sabers. He wore only trousers and no boots. A man cried out in pain, and then Bakhtiian appeared at the same moment as the first swell of light, the disk of the sun cresting the horizon, flooded the scene with dawn’s pale light. He was, of course, impeccably dressed, shirt tucked in, trousers straight, saber held with light command in his right hand—but he was barefoot.
“Vladi,” he said in a calm voice that carried easily in the hush of the moment, “let him up.”
Vladi sat atop the second man, knife pressed against the edge of the man’s eye. Blood welled and trickled down the man’s cheek, and he whimpered in fear. Some of the older riders had taken over, holding the other two men captive. Now many of the tribe filtered in to form a rough circle around this altercation. Vladi sat back reluctantly and withdrew his knife. The man did not move from the ground, but he lifted a hand to cover his eye.
“What is this?” Elizaveta Sakhalin and her nephew arrived. “What men have breached the peace of this tribe?”
Niko and Josef yanked the man from the ground and hustled him over to stand by his compatriots. In the light, the raiders looked a sorry bunch, ill-fed, sallow, and peevish.
“I don’t recognize them,” said Bakhtiian.
One man lifted his head and spat in Bakhtiian’s direction. “I’m only sorry we didn’t kill you.”
“You will be sorrier when we are done with you,” said Elizaveta Sakhalin, favoring the three captives with a withering stare.
“This is men’s business,” the bold one snapped.
“Conducted within our tents? I think not. Yaroslav.” She nodded to her nephew. “You will confine them until the Elders have discussed their fate.”
“There,” said Konstantina, startling Tess by coming up quietly beside her. “You see, Tsara.” She angled her neck to include her cousin, who had trailed after her, both hands holding a blanket demurely around herself. “I was right. There is Nadezhda Martov.”
Tess was distracted from watching the captives being led away by the sight of Martov arriving some steps behind Bakhtiian, decently dressed in a shift and skirt. Bakhtiian glanced back at her, aware of her presence, and then moved forward to speak with Niko and Fedya and Vladimir.
“And get some clothes on,” he said to the other men.
Konstantina chuckled. “You see. All the women have arrived to take a look.”
Glancing around, Tess realized that a disproportionate number of the younger women of the tribe had arrived. A few whistled as Kirill came back over to her tent. His eyes were lowered in a becoming fashion, but there was no doubting the slight sauntering display in his walk.
“You, too, Kirill,” said Bakhtiian. “Fedya, was it you caught the intruders? I thought as much. And you did well, Vladi.”
“Thank you,” said Kirill as he returned Tess’s saber. Tsara laid a hand on his arm and led him away, looking smug.
“What will happen to the captives?” Tess asked Konstantina, who still hovered at her elbow. Sakhalin and her nephew reappeared to consult with Bakhtiian.
“Oh, I should think that we’ll leave them for the birds. Ah, there he is. If you’ll excuse me.” Konstantina strode away straight toward Yuri, Tess noted with interest, as he retreated hastily from the fray.
“No,” Bakhtiian was saying, “I take full responsibility for this act. Had I not been here, this would never have happened. I do not want to bring further trouble for your tribe, Mother Sakhalin. We will leave today.”
Sakhalin considered and spoke with her nephew, and then they all walked off together. Vladimir trailed in their wake. Only Fedya remained, standing quite still, head tilted slightly, as if he was trying to hear or taste something on the wind. He turned slowly and walked off, toward Tess at first, and then veering away toward the edge of camp, tracking some unseen path.
“It is a beautiful tent.” Tess looked round to see Nadezhda Martov standing four paces away from her.
“It is,” agreed Tess cautiously. “It was gifted me by Mother Orzhekov. It used to be her daughter’s.”
“Then you are, by her decree, Ilyakoria Bakhtiian’s cousin,” said the woman pleasantly. “Mother Orzhekov is a renowned weaver. Her niece wove the finest patterns I have ever seen.”
“Her niece?”
“Bakhtiian’s elder sister. I knew her before she died.”
“Ah,” said Tess, not knowing what else to say.
“You are from—a long ways away?”
“I am from a—city—a place of many stone tents—Jeds…”
“Yes, I have heard of it. Ilyakoria speaks of it.”
For an instant, Tess had an uncomfortably vivid image of just when he spoke of such things to Nadezhda Martov. She suppressed it and smiled instead.
“Those are borrowed clothes, are they not?” asked Martov. When Tess nodded, she nodded in return. “Come. Though you must ride in men’s clothing, I think you will benefit from having women’s clothing of your own, as well. And with your coloring—” A gleam of challenge lit her eyes. “I know just what will suit you.”
They did not leave until midday. Bakhtiian gave them one of his khuhaylan mares, and most of the tarpans were exchanged for fresh mounts. Tess was forced to consult with Yuri on how to add her burgeoning possessions to her saddle roll: a fine suit of women’s clothing gathered by Martov from women throughout the tribe. Tsara gave Tess a fine silver bracelet. Yuri managed to fit the roll of clothing on to one of the ten horses now burdened with the generous provisions given to the jahar by the women of the tribe.
“So, Yuri,” asked Tess as they rode out of the tribe, “how did you find Konstantina Sakhalin?”
Yuri blushed crimson.
“Poor Kirill. He’s sorry to be going.” Kirill was half turned in his saddle, gazing back at the cluster of women who had gathered to bid them heartfelt farewells. “Are you?”
Yuri set his lips and refused to be drawn.
“Soeren
sen.” Bakhtiian pulled in beside them. He did not glance back at the tribe. “We’ll be riding forward scout.”
Tess laughed.
“Why are you laughing?” he asked suspiciously.
“I don’t know,” she said truthfully, but she whistled as she urged Myshla forward to ride out with him.
Chapter Nine
“The eyes are more exact witnesses than the ears.”
—HERACLEITUS OF EPHESUS
THE SWEEP OF GRASS, the clear air, the high sun; these were her day. Summer surprised them. Now the plain flowered a second time, the stalks of the flowering plants hidden, engulfed in the grass, only the petals showing like brilliant spots of emerald and turquoise, ruby and amethyst. Occasionally it rained. Herds of khey, deerlike animals that proved more placid than the migrating antelopes, provided meat.
One day, when they stopped early to take advantage of a good campsite, Tess convinced Fedya to take her hunting and was rewarded with her first kill, though she made Fedya cut its throat once she had brought it down. Together they brought back her kill and the one Fedya brought down, and so great a fuss was made over her that Tess finally escaped all the attention by going to pitch her tent with Yuri, an act no man but a brother would ever suggest overseeing.
“Fedya is almost as good a hunter as the women,” Tess said as she rolled out her tent. “Is that why he rides scout so often? Even Bakhtiian doesn’t ride scout every day.”
Yuri shrugged. “He likes to be alone. And he has sharp eyes.”
“Yes.” Tess paused in her work to gaze at the distant fire and the figures gathered around it. “He’s so melancholy, but not sorry for himself. And he’s kind.”
Yuri smiled but said nothing.
Bakhtiian now spoke very little Rhuian with her as they rode scout, using khush almost exclusively. But when they talked about Jeds and the disciplines studied at the University there, he lapsed back into Rhuian. Tess began to appreciate the breadth of his learning: conversant with all the things a jaran man must know, he had also taken full advantage of his three years at the University in Jeds. Gallio and Oleana, Narronias and the great legalist, Sister Casiara of Jedina Cloister, these Tess knew because she had read their works on Earth in order to keep her Rhuian fresh. But Bakhtiian’s knowledge took surprising turns at times.
“Aristotle!”
“Well, you pronounce it rather differently. Surely you’ve read his works on natural history?”
“I suppose you’ve read Plato, too?”
“Pla—? Oh, yes, Playtok. But I never found his arguments convincing. I find his dialogue form too self-conscious.”
“Ah,” said Tess wisely, beginning to wonder what her brother had been up to these past ten years since she had last set foot on Rhui. But then, she had been too young those three years she had spent in Jeds with Charles and Dr. Hierakis, too shocked by the death of her parents, to be aware of what they might have been doing in the midst of the burgeoning renaissance of the city.
“But perhaps…” He hesitated, and then, decisively, he reached into his saddlebag and withdrew a leather-bound volume and opened it. “Perhaps you can help me understand this.” He read aloud. “‘Every body perseveres in its state of rest, or of uniform motion in a right line, unless it is compelled to change that state—’”
“Let me see that,” she demanded, and he handed the book to her without a word. “My God. This is Newton’s Principia.”
“So you have heard of him.”
“Ah, yes, I have. I suppose you have a volume of Descartes back there as well.”
“Dhaykhart? No, I have not heard of this philosopher.”
“Thank God. Where did you get this?” She gave the book back to him, and he tucked it neatly back into his pouch.
“I have a—a friend in Jeds. We arranged, before I left, that this friend would send books to a certain port and a certain inn proprietor. Every other year or so, we journey near that port—this year, we will put the khepelli to ship there—and then I collect the books.”
“Oh. I wondered how you and Niko got books. But where did that book come from, the Newton?”
He shrugged, mystified by the intent of her question. “One of the printing houses in Jeds. I have only had it one year. My friend writes that this Newton lives overseas, but Jedan traders have brought in many new philosophic volumes to the University in recent years.”
“Overseas,” muttered Tess. “Of course.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“No, I was merely surprised because I studied overseas near…where this man lives—”
“Have you met him?”
“Ah, no, no, but I was simply surprised because his works were so swiftly translated and sent to Jeds.”
“Perhaps your brother was the one responsible,” said Bakhtiian, watching her far too closely. “Soerensen…the name is familiar, but I can’t place it. He must trade extensively to have chosen to send his only sister so far away to study.”
“Perhaps he was,” said Tess, not liking the measuring way in which Bakhtiian examined her. It was easy enough to forget that the Chapalii had accused her of spying, and that Bakhtiian had told Sonia he thought Tess was lying about herself, about her merchant brother and her reasons for being here, about how much else, she could not guess. “But,” she added a little sharply, “he is not the only man to have sent his relatives a great distance to go to a university.”
And Bakhtiian remembered that he was, after all, speaking with a woman, and he looked away from her to scan the level plain and the arching sky.
“Look,” said Tess suddenly, “look there! A khoen.”
“You are learning to use your eyes.” They brought their horses up next to it, a small mound layered with an elaborate arrangement of rocks, mostly hidden in the grass. He stared down. His shoulders tensed and his lips thinned. “Damn them,” he said softly, followed by a word Tess did not know. He twisted his reins twice around one fist, unsheathed his knife, looked at it, sheathed it again. Tess waited. He untwisted the reins and his horse put its head down to graze. “So.” He squinted briefly at the horizon. “The last three dyans are combining forces against me. Now that I’m on a long journey with a small jahar, they think this time they can kill me because they know that once I have those horses, it will be too late. You chose a poor time to accompany us.”
“Who’s combining? Isn’t Doroskayev’s group behind us? Yuri says you still don’t know which dyan those men call loyalty to, the ones who tried to kill you in Sakhalin’s tribe. And how can you read all that from these rocks?”
“Why are women always so damnably curious?” asked Bakhtiian. He smiled.
“Because men keep everything from them, of course.”
He laughed. “Very well. I relent. I’ll show you.” He glanced around before dismounting to explain the intricacies of this language of stone and stick and earth. When they were riding again, he said, “The jaran have no language that is set down, unlike Rhuian. Our poetry and songs live in all our memories. Only the stone mounds have meaning.”
“No written language at all?”
“Some priests carve in stone, but few know the secret of that tongue.”
“Do you?”
“I cannot say.”
“Then you do.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
“Why are men always so damnably evasive?” asked Tess. She smiled.
“Because of women,” said Bakhtiian.
For some reason, this produced a silence. A bird called loudly overhead. Tess gazed up at the sky. It had a slate color, a tinge of gray, as if one storm cloud had been ripped to pieces and mixed in with the blue. In Jeds it had the blue of turquoise, but in Jeds the other colors had not seemed so bright. A torn wisp of cloud clung to the horizon.
“Why did your brother send you overseas?” he asked.
She turned, astonished and irritated, to stare directly at him. “You don’t trust me.”
His lips tightened, and he rein
ed his horse away from her so abruptly that it shied under the hard rein. He turned it downslope and let it have its head, Tess trailing behind.
She retreated immediately to the company of the young men that evening, and sat at the fire watching Mikhal and Fedya across from her as they sang a riddle song to an appreciative audience.
“Yuri, I’m hungry,” she said peevishly, still annoyed and troubled by her afternoon’s conversation. “Why can’t we eat?”
Yuri sat with his arms curled around his one upright knee, staring morosely into the fire. “Didn’t Ilya tell you? Tomorrow we come to zhapolaya, the sacred hill. We have many laws that we must follow at a holy place.”
“Including starving? Have the khepelli been out of their tents at all since you set up camp?”
“How should I know? Do you think I care?”
“Well at least you’re hungry, too.” Yuri made a face at her, but it was a half-hearted attempt. “What is this zhapolaya?”
“The stone that crowns the sacred hill. Something the gods left us.”
“How nice of Bakhtiian to tell me,” Tess muttered.
“What?”
“Is this one of the sacred places the khepelli want to see?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“Wait. Are you saying that they knew it was here?”
“But everyone who knows this land knows of it. Why shouldn’t they?”
Of course they would have asked Bakhtiian to direct them to holy sites. Something the gods had left. Could it be the relic of some star-faring civilization? But this planet had been discovered by the League Exploratory Survey, annexed at the same time the League had been annexed by the Chapalii Empire, and then deeded to her brother when the emperor had honored him with the dukedom. Perhaps some ancient Rhuian empire had laid tracks across this trackless plain and then vanished. Perhaps. It was the easiest explanation.