The Novels of the Jaran

by Kate Elliott

  Tess followed the shifting red of flame up and across and found that her gaze had drawn and met Fedya’s where he sat next to Mikhal. He smiled in return and looked away, the smile lingering on his face as if he had forgotten it. Tess ran her knuckles over her lips thoughtfully, focusing on the darkness beyond so that her knuckles separated into two exact duplicates, one solid, one shadow. She rose, bidding Yuri good night, and wandered out toward the Chapalii tents.

  But what if Yuri had meant his comment literally—what if the Chapalii had known exactly where they wanted to go and had chosen this way, riding cross-country, to get there as unobtrusively as possible?

  The four tents stood isolated beyond the fire and the casual clutter of the jahar. Three stood dark against the night sky. In the second, the tent of Hon Garii and his companion, Hon Rakii Makokan, another son of a merchant house, a low gleam of steady light filtered from the tent. But shouldn’t a light inside canvas reveal silhouettes? This one did not. She shook her head, impatient with herself. What could she do, alone on this journey, except keep an eye on them for Charles? Spy on them. She ought to at least use the correct word. Someone coughed nearby. She turned to see a figure standing about twenty paces from her, a tall, slender form traced dimly against the spread of stars. She knew that it was Bakhtiian. Watching her. Watching her spy.

  “Damn him.” She stalked off to bed.

  In the morning, she felt nauseated with hunger. Bakhtiian’s pace as they scouted only emphasized the hollow jolting, and now and then, when he wasn’t looking, she would put her hand over her mouth. To her unspeakable relief, they reached the sacred hill in the early afternoon.

  The hills they had seen on the horizon the day before now rose abruptly out of the plain as if the earth had frozen in the act of bubbling. The grass here, more brown than gold, grew sparsely enough that soil showed through in patches. The zhapolaya was distinguishable from its companions only by the standing stone at its peak, a dark rectangle whose angularity and solid mass looked unnatural against the fluid hills. A standing stone—some kind of marker, perhaps, like the milestones the Romans had used.

  “There is a hollow for a camp,” said Bakhtiian, and they found it out of sight of the sacred hill. These were weak-soiled, low hills, crumbled in spots from the winter rains. Several dry watercourses ran through the hollow, but there were no clouds, no danger of a washout.

  “No storms. Not yet.” Bakhtiian laughed. Some tone in his laugh caught at her, made her shiver all the way down her spine, made her warm. The jahar rode in and she watched them, acutely aware of the lines of their bodies, their movements as they dismounted and walked and stretched and glanced—one or two—at her, quickly and then away. She turned away to hide her blush, and she knew: the long drought had caught up with her at last. Some tone in his laugh: remembered pleasure, or anticipation. She dismounted, glad to unsaddle the horse.

  She took as long as she could caring for Myshla, checked her hooves twice over, brushed her until her coat gleamed, talked to her. The Chapalii retired early to their tents. The jaran men settled down around the fire, their tents a close wall behind them. Tess walked over reluctantly and sat down beside Yuri, aware of their glances, their bodies, their presence. Niko scattered herbs over the flames, and a sweet, strangely harsh scent drifted out to them.

  “What is that?” Tess asked, not sure that she liked the powerful tang.

  “Ulyan,” whispered Yuri. “All the men carry some.” He shifted so that she could see a tiny pouch snuggled up against the hilt of his saber, looped to his belt.

  “Why?”

  “To greet the gods. A man who dies in battle, or a woman in childbirth, is welcomed to the gods’ lands, and we burn ulyan with him on his pyre, so the gods’ messengers will come to carry away his spirit. Jahar riders and pregnant women always keep a pouch of ulyan with them.”

  “I can’t stand the scent. It’s so strong. I’m going to take a walk.”

  Yuri patted her hand. “It also covers the smell.”

  Tess left, walking aimlessly out into the gathering darkness, the hollow lost behind her, the sacred hill hidden behind the hill to her right. She touched her belt in four places, a little ritual: saber, knife, mirror, and Chapalii knife. Covered the smell, he had said. Of burning flesh? With any luck at all, I’ll never find out.

  The moon, large and bright and not yet half full, rose like a cautious animal over the horizon and began its leisurely circuit of the sky. Stars appeared here and there.

  Beneath her feet the ground sloped upward. Tess followed it, letting other forces dictate her movements. She came upon him unexpectedly, sitting on a rock embedded in an overhanging lip of hill. The view was of nothing, except the formless shape of hills. He was, perhaps, watching the moon.

  “Hello, Fedya.”

  “He is happy tonight,” he answered, by way of greeting. He did not look at her.

  “Do you mean the moon?” She sat beside him, cross-legged, her hands on her knees.

  “Of course.” He looked at her fleetingly.

  “Do you call the moon a man, a male, in the jaran?”

  “What a strange question. Yes.”

  “In my land, we call her a maiden or, sometimes, an old woman.”

  “But the moon is not nearly as bright as the sun.” Fedya considered the moon, tilting his head to one side. He had a soft profile, blurred by his mustache and thick lashes, and by the clean, round line of his jaw.

  “Then what is the sun?”

  “A woman.” He looked at her, puzzled. “Of course.”

  She looked down. It smelled of soil here rather than grass, a heavy scent unstirred by wind. “There is so much that is different.”

  “Between a man and a woman, do you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  Fedya shook his head. “There is nothing different.”

  “You haven’t been in my land.”

  “What is a land but people? Your ways may be different, but people are the same.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if I believe you.”

  “How can you not believe me?” he asked, fixing her with a stare so intimate that she felt her face warm with a flush.

  “Fedya, will you—do you want to—” She almost laughed, but it came out a half-strangled, tiny sound. “I don’t know what to say, how to ask.”

  “You already have.” He put his hand on her shoulder and drew it down, slow and caressing, down along her sleeve to her wrist. She had to hold her breath to stop from sighing, and she was suddenly aware of every inch of skin, tingling, aching. “Tess.” His voice was gentle. “I must tell you this first. I can only think of my wife, or of what comfort there is in lying with a woman.”

  “But it’s only—comfort I want. I can’t—not men who want more—” Her hand lifted to touch her own lips, lowered. “—than I can give them. Than I have. I’m not explaining myself.”

  “But you are.” His hand lay steady on hers. He looked up at the moon. “The soul is cold and alone when darkness comes. It needs comfort. But the other things, possession, passion, love—ah, they bring hurt.”

  “Betrayal. Betraying the confidence you give, between a man and a woman.”

  “Betrayal,” Fedya echoed. Her hand warmed now where his touched it. “Perhaps I felt she betrayed me when she died, like the sun, always deserting the moon to the darkness.” The light of the moon shadowed his eyes.

  “No confidences,” said Tess. “Only comfort.”

  He lifted one hand to cup her face. “Below this rock it is dry.”

  He was gentle, and quiet, and he knew how to laugh when it was appropriate. He fell asleep afterward, half in her arms, and Tess saw that when he slept he looked much younger, almost as if he were a child again. The roughness of his cloak tickled her skin, but pleasantly, softly, as if it meant to remind her that contentment was all very well, but there was work still to be done. They lay in darkness, the moon far gone on his nightly path.

  Something that had been k
icking in her had calmed; another alarm now took its place. Work to be done. She slipped on her clothing and wrapped him in his cloak, carefully tucking the cloth around his feet. He did not wake. It was chilly. She reached the crest of the hill, yawning.

  A light lit the sacred hill opposite. Shadowy forms, thin and awkward in their movements, clustered around the standing stone, limned by the glow. Tess dropped to her knees and waited and watched.

  For a long time they simply stood there, as if they were examining the megalith. She surveyed the ground all around, but she could detect no other watchers. Just as she decided to make a careful circuit, to be sure that no one, especially not Bakhtiian, was also observing this scene, the light cut off.

  She scuttled down the hill, keeping low, and at the base of the zhapolaya crouched and stared up. A rectangle of oblivion, drowning out the stars, marked the standing stone. She knew her eyes had adjusted, but she could see no one, no forms, no shapes, nothing but the stone, above her. The Chapalii could not have moved so fast and disappeared so utterly. On the dark face of the stone, a red light winked and vanished. She ducked, expecting laser fire, but none came. The light winked and vanished again, and she waited, and it winked and vanished yet again. A signal.

  She crept up the hill. No one shouted. Nothing moved. The light blinked on and off, on and off, beckoning her.

  A beacon. The thought struck her forcibly as she reached the top and cautiously stood next to the stone. The megalith dwarfed her, standing three times her width and twice her height. Just above her eye level, embedded within the stone, gleamed the blood-red point. She placed her hand on the stone, next to it, and felt the roughened texture of rock on her skin. But the rock was warm, and the barest pulse throbbed through it, blending with the beat of her heart. She slid her hand across its surface until she covered over the tiny depression within which the point of light lay winking.

  The stone gave off an exhalation, like an old woman’s tired sigh. Warm air brushed her face. She felt dizzy, disoriented, until she realized that the rock face was pulling away from her, opening. The ground moved, and she stared down into the earth, down a flight of stairs that led—

  That led wherever the Chapalii had gone. A ghostly blue light emanated up from the depths.

  Tess put a foot on the first step. A hand closed on her shoulder from behind, and she froze. A thin, hard hand, preternaturally strong, and with it, the scent of cinnamon, distinctive and strong. She knew it was a Chapalii before she even attempted to turn.

  From below, drifting on the warm draft that rode up the stairs, she heard the low double chime of “signal received,” Chapalii standard, and then a voice.

  “Progress received. Continue observation of Soerensen. Proceed with caution. Do not act rashly.”

  A shadow obscured the light from below. “Wa-sen. You were ordered to eliminate intruders.” The voice was harsh but inflected as merchant to steward.

  “Honorable. I beg to ask pardon, but—”

  “Who is this?” The Chapalii halted three steps below Tess and stared.

  “Who is this?” asked Tess, coldly formal.

  “I beg a thousand pardons, Lady Terese. A thousand, thousand pardons. Your welfare alone precipitated my arrival. I beg you to allow me to escort you away before—”

  “Garii? What is this commotion?”

  Under his breath, Garii cursed.

  “Move aside,” said the third Chapalii, who could only be Ishii. Tess laid a hand over her Chapalii knife and backed up, forcing the steward behind her to back up as well, until all four of them stood in the chill air of midnight. The stone closed behind them as soon as they were free of the threshold.

  “My God. This is a transmitting station. How did this get here?”

  No one replied. The steward kept his hand on her shoulder. His sweet-smelling breath tickled her cheek. In the distance, a bird shrieked, and a rodent’s squeal arced and cut off.

  “Lady Terese,” said Ishii. “I solicit your permission to speak.”

  “I want an explanation. When did you build this? Why is it here?”

  “I regret that I am not at liberty to speak further on this matter, Lady Terese.”

  “You are not at liberty? I command you, Cha Ishii.”

  “I regret, Lady Terese, that I am commanded by a higher authority than your own on this matter.”

  “If that is so, then why did this higher authority not request permission of the duke to travel on this planet?”

  “I submit, Lady Terese, that such permission would have been denied.”

  “If that is so, Cha Ishii, then why did this higher authority not command permission to travel?”

  Another Chapalii appeared out of the dark. They surrounded her on all sides now. The hand gripping her shoulder relaxed and released her, but even standing without restraint, she knew they had her trapped.

  “I regret, Lady Terese,” replied Ishii, his tone so well-modulated that she could detect no emotion in it at all, “that I am unable to unravel the thinking of those who station outranks my own. I beg you to leave now, and to believe that both your suspicion and your fear of us remain unfounded, and to recall that your own actions brought you to this pass, not any act of ours. Perhaps you will permit Hon Garii to escort you back to the camp.”

  What could she do? Charge past them down the stairs? What if this confrontation had already attracted notice? Rhui’s interdiction was already breached. To draw the jahar’s attention now was to compromise the interdiction even further, and in a more fundamental way. And what had Garii said, “to eliminate intruders?” What if Fedya came looking for her? If Yuri was on watch?

  “I will go, Ishii.” She dropped the honorific to let him know she was displeased. Lord, what choice did she have? His face was a pale shadow in front of her, the standing stone a huge blot behind him. All four Chapalii bore knives at their belts. Behind Ishii, the red light blinked on, and off, and on, and off—and did not come on again.

  “Transmission has ceased,” said a faint, disembodied voice that emanated from the stone itself.

  “Hon Garii.” Tess inclined her head, acknowledging him. The stewards retreated, and Ishii clasped his hands in front of himself in that arrangement known as Lord’s Obedience.

  She let Garii escort her to the base of the hill. “I will go alone,” she said, not wanting to be seen with any Chapalii.

  “Lady Terese.” Garii hesitated. “I beg of you to let me offer you my thanks. Cha Ishii—” Hearing his hesitation, again, Tess wondered what color his face was, what emotion his level voice hid. “You concealed the knife.”

  “I did.”

  “My gratitude is yours, Lady Terese, if you will accept it. More than that—”

  “Garii.” From above, Ishii’s voice called, carrying on the breeze.

  “I accept,” said Tess. Garii bowed and backed away up the hill. “I accept,” Tess murmured, and wondered what it was she had accepted. “You speak the language well enough,” she said to herself in Anglais, “but you don’t understand a damned thing about their culture, not really.”

  A blue glow cast a faint nimbus of light around the stone, and then, like mist, dissipated into the cold darkness. Tess shivered. Would they really kill to protect their secrets? The knife felt warm against her fingers, storing energy within. The night was utterly still.

  She skirted the hill, walked halfway around it, looking up, before she turned her steps back to camp. Darkness curled in around her, and she felt suddenly alone, isolated, lost beyond finding. It had stood before her, an illegal transmitter station built by the Chapalii on a planet on which they were prohibited from setting foot, a planet deeded to the human they could never trust. Some conspiracy against Charles—that must be their purpose here. But to what end? What did they hope to accomplish? And she had failed to investigate this transmitter, been caught at it like the merest amateur.

  Why couldn’t Charles understand? Why couldn’t he adopt a new heir, someone suited to the task? Th
e Chapalii recognized adoption; it was legal, it was binding. She would never shirk her duty. But surely there was some other way for her to serve the cause. Why couldn’t he see how unsuited she was? What if she was forced to take over from him? She would destroy everything he had accomplished so far.

  Around the curve of the next hill, with the megalith hidden behind her, the distant glint of the campfire drew her eye. Her feet caught on some imperfection of ground, and she stumbled.

  The watcher rose from where he had been crouched, an abrupt shadow blocking her path. Startled, rising, she lost her balance again and caught herself on one hand and one knee on the ground, frozen, staring up, unable to catch her breath.

  “We are going to have a talk,” said Bakhtiian.

  Chapter Ten

  “The eagle has black bones.”

  —DEMOCRITUS OF ABDERA

  A CLOUD, TRAILING UP from the horizon, hid the moon. She could not see his face, only the shadowed opacity of his form and a slash of darkness swinging out from his hip—his saber. Behind him, remote shapes moved by the far gleam of campfire. Tess sat down so precipitously that he almost dived for her, checking his movement just in time to make him seem high-strung and timorous.

  “What do you want?” she demanded, too angry at herself, at the Chapalii, at him for startling her, for following her, to care how her words sounded now. Leave diplomacy to Charles.

  He sank down beside her. “I don’t understand you,” he said, more conversational than accusing. “How can you claim that you are not a spy, and then be caught by the khepelli in the act of spying on them?”

  The absurdity of the situation struck her suddenly, sitting here, brushed by the soft night breeze, being cross-examined by the light of the stars and the moon. She chuckled. He said nothing. “Oh, all right,” she said, tired of trying to play this game. “I was spying on them, but I’m not a spy.”

  “I fail to see how you can make that distinction.”

  “Intent. I really did get lost. I really was on my way to Jeds. I really was surprised to find the khepelli with you.”