The Novels of the Jaran

by Kate Elliott

  “Well. Not as bad as I feared. Not quite so good as I hoped. But you will do, my child. You will do.”

  “Can I move?”

  “In a few days, we’ll see.”

  “Unless I die of frustration before then. Niko, I don’t even remember getting hit.”

  “You weren’t hit. That is, you have two saber cuts, one on your back and one on your thigh, but they’re healing neatly. No, you were stabbed with a knife. What man would do that to a woman, I cannot imagine.”

  She shut her eyes. She saw things in a haze, blurred by pain and grief and blessed oblivion. “I don’t know. I don’t know. It wasn’t Mikhailov. And Vasil pulled him off me, whoever he was.”

  “Vasil!”

  “Yes, Vasil. Vera’s brother.”

  “I know who Vasil is. Was he party to Yuri’s death?”

  “No. No. He told Mikhailov to let Yuri go. It must have been Leotich.”

  “Leotich. One of Doroskayev’s riders, I think. I might believe that he would—well, he’s dead, Tess. We found him on the field.”

  “Who else?” she asked, not wanting to. “Who else died, Niko?”

  “Come, child, let’s not speak of that now.”

  “Tell me.”

  “We had to put Myshla down, Tess. I’m sorry. Four riders from Mikhailov’s jahar. I don’t even know their names. Three from Veselov’s: Ivan Charnov, Matvey Stassov, and Leonid Telyegin. But perhaps you didn’t know them.”

  “Who else, Niko? Oh, God, not Kirill?”

  “No, Tess, no. Last I saw Kirill, he was badly hurt but alive. Konstans, too.”

  “Not Mikhal? Oh, gods, what will I tell Sonia?” She began to cry.

  “Tess. Tess. Don’t cry. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Yes, it was my fault, damn you, and you know it. If I hadn’t made Garii take me there, Ishii wouldn’t have found us, and he wouldn’t have killed Garii, and he wouldn’t have wanted to kill me, and then Ilya wouldn’t have made us wait and come after and we wouldn’t have run into Mikhailov and then Yuri wouldn’t be dead. And now Mikhal. It is my fault. It is my fault.” She began to sob, noisy, awkward, painful sobs that wracked her body.

  Niko settled back and did nothing: Soon enough she exhausted herself and, with tears still seeping down her face, she fell asleep.

  When she woke again, she was alone. She called out Niko’s name once, softly, but he did not answer. Well, it was all she deserved. As if the memory had been seared into her, she could see Yuri falling from his horse, ever so slowly. If she could only catch him, then perhaps he might live—but Yuri was dead. Mikhal was dead. The ache of her wound paled beside the ache of her loss.

  Niko came then, but she would not speak to him and only mechanically obeyed his injunctions to eat and drink. After a while, having tried stories and songs and one-sided conversation, and even reading aloud from the volume of Casiara, he left.

  It was better that way. Yuri would have cajoled her into crying, teased her, laughed her into it. She hated herself for not dying with him, hated herself more for wanting to live, a coward afraid of the dark. How could she ever face Sonia? Sonia, the one person with that same open confidence that Yuri had, whom she had deprived of a brother and a husband in a single swift stroke. Sonia would never look at her again with anything but loathing. And Ilya. He would know very well whose fault this was. Her thoughts wound down in this manner and left her in desolation.

  It rained for hours, for days, perhaps; she neither knew nor cared. She submitted listlessly to Niko’s care.

  “It’s clearing,” he said finally. She did not know whether it was morning or afternoon, only that where the flap lay askew a thin line of light lanced across the dark floor. She refused to ask how many days it had been. “Today we are moving you to Veselov’s tribe.”

  She stared at the shadowed roof. Although he kept her scrupulously clean, still her back itched, a constant, damp prickling. Mold was surely growing in the blankets. The air was overpowering, dank. Her legs chafed where they rubbed the coarse bedding.

  He sighed. “Your wounds are showing some progress, girl, but your spirits aren’t.”

  He knelt close to her, filling all her space. Before his entrance she had been remembering Yuri demonstrating, to her immense delight, how not to use a saber, with Kirill acting as his willing and hilarious foil. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  “To what? To die? I believe you promised Bakhtiian that you would live.”

  “Did I?”

  “Don’t you remember?”

  “I don’t care.” And then, perhaps because his words had triggered it, she did remember. She flung an arm across her eyes so that she wouldn’t have to look at Niko. “He doesn’t care anyway. Why should he? I killed Yuri and Mikhal.”

  “You are a difficult child. Why do you suppose Ilya wants you to live?”

  “To torment me.”

  “Tess, I am getting rather tired of you. I’m leaving now, and when I return, it will be to take you out of this tent and move you to Veselov’s tribe. Do you understand?”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “You haven’t a choice.” He left.

  She lowered her arm and stared at the canvas above her, recalling Ilya in all his moods and depressing herself further. Then, so soon it startled her, Niko threw the tent flap unceremoniously back. She had to cover her eyes with her hands until they could adjust to the unaccustomed light.

  “Now. You are coming out. Here, Tasha, help me, please.”

  They pulled her out on the blanket and bundled her onto one of the light wagons that the women used to transport their tents. It hurt, but not as much as the sight of Petya, with his damned beautiful face, without the slightest visible scar from the battle. And he was riding Yuri’s Khani. Tess was filled with such a vicious, burning wish that Petya could have died instead of Yuri that she was horrified at the depth of her own hatred.

  “Tess, I’m so glad you’re alive.” Tess glanced up to see that Arina Veselov was driving the wagon. Arina looked at Tess’s expression, and looked away again, questioningly to Niko. Tasha and Vladimir were taking down her tent. No one spoke. When they finished and brought the tent and gear to put in beside her, she pulled the blanket up over her face and ignored them.

  For three days, she ignored them. After the first day, only Niko and Arina spoke to her, both unfailingly kind. Tess grew sick of their kindness. She could not look at Petya without feeling that same sickening jealousy, that hatred, so she did not look at any of them. The jolting of the wagon hurt, every bump, every jar, but not enough, not enough to make up for everyone who had died.

  When they rode into Veselov’s camp, she hid herself, buried herself in blankets, and wished with all her strength that they would leave her alone. The wagon halted. Their voices spoke together, low, conspiring. She could hear in the distance the noises of the camp, and could gauge fairly enough that they had stopped some ways away. Thank God.

  Then: “Ah, here you are,” said Niko with relief. “I can do nothing with her. She has given up, I think. She blames herself for what happened.”

  Weight rocked the wagon. A moment later, a strong hand yanked the blanket away from her face. She shut her eyes.

  “Tess, look at me.”

  Because his voice surprised her, she opened her eyes. “Kirill.”

  “Well?” he asked. He bore a pink scar on his forehead and past his ear, down to his jaw. His right arm and shoulder were swathed in a sling.

  “Go away,” Tess said, acutely embarrassed by his presence, staring at her with such knowing eyes.

  He lifted his left hand, and the figures behind him moved away. “So, my heart, is this how you repay Yuri’s sacrifice?”

  She flushed, trapped here under his gaze because she could not move. “How dare you scold me!”

  “How dare I? How dare you pretend you’re the only one who loved Yuri? Who cared for Mikhal? Don’t you think Petya hates himself, wondering why his best friend is dead and he�
��s still alive? Don’t you think the rest of us would give our own lives to bring them back? But we can’t because we’re alive and they’re dead. Nothing will bring them back, Tess, and you might as well be dead, too, if all you care for is your own grief.”

  She stared at him. She felt stripped of words.

  “Tomorrow Niko says he’ll let you sit up,” he added, softer now. “By the gods, Tess, if you aren’t walking by the time Bakhtiian gets back, you aren’t the one who’ll get the worst edge of Ilya’s tongue. So think of the rest of us, if you please.”

  Then he walked away. Limped away. He favored one side, and his right arm and shoulder were stiff and lifeless. Arina Veselov met him twenty paces out, and he allowed her, small as she was, to support him with an arm at his elbow.

  Tess began to cry, but silently. When Niko came up, she simply reached for his hand and held it tightly, while Tasha and Vladimir put up her tent, and Niko and Tasha carried her over to it.

  “Might I lie outside for just a little bit?” she asked.

  “Yes, child. Set her down here, Tasha.”

  It was afternoon. Beyond, she saw the tents of Veselov’s camp. Women talked, but quietly, and children played, more quietly still. She saw a few riders, but not many, and most of them she did not recognize.

  “Where is Petya?” she asked.

  “Here. Petya!”

  A moment later, Petya arrived, looking pale. He wore three necklaces, one of them the amber one she had given him.

  “Petya,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  He ducked his head, paling even more. “Tess,” he said, and then he turned away abruptly and she realized that he was crying. He strode away quickly, out into the grass.

  “Inside now,” said Niko. “Rain is coming on.” They hauled her in, and Tasha retreated. “Well, child, have you decided to live?”

  “I thought I made a promise. Oh, Niko, I remember the last thing he said to me. He said, ‘Don’t cry. Live.’ Oh, Niko.” The wind rustled the tent flap. A light spatter of rain fell. “Will it always be this painful?”

  “Not always, child, but we will sit with you, those of us whom you care to see, as often as you wish, if that will comfort you.”

  “Please.” She brought his hand to rest on her cheek. Presently, she fell asleep.

  Sometimes, Marco Burckhardt reflected, your luck was out, and sometimes it was in. Sometimes things seemed too damned easy, given all the trouble and worry that had come before.

  He sat in the cleanest inn in Abala Port, a filthy port town well up the inland sea, about thirty days’ sailing north of Jeds. The winds had been good. His luck was in.

  A Chapalii dressed in native-looking clothing, tattooed on his left jaw with the mark of the steward class, was haggling with the innkeeper. Just ten paces from Marco. Just as, right on the edge of town in an old barracks and corral, three more Chapalii stewards watched over a veritable fleet of the most beautiful Kuhaylan Arabians Marco had seen in a good long time. Right there, at the second of Karima’s modeled landing points, he had—what was the old phrase—struck gold.

  He had sent one scrambled analog burst back to Jeds to inform Dr. Hierakis of the situation. More than that, not knowing what kind of communications equipment the Chapalii had hidden in their gear, he dared not attempt.

  A bearded man dressed in a silkily smooth scarlet shirt tucked into black trousers came down the stairs and paused, staying back in the shadows, watching the Chapalii. The steward counted out eleven copper coins and received in his turn five loaves of bread and a slab of cheese. With this bounty, he left. The man came in to the room and, with a nod toward the innkeeper, strolled over to Marco’s table.

  Marco eyed him with interest. This was the other foreigner in town, a man who had, so the innkeeper informed him, ridden in from the northeast some days before Marco’s arrival.

  “May I sit down?” asked the man in passable Taor.

  Marco gestured. The man sat. He carried himself easily, confidently, yet warily, and he wore a saber at his belt.

  “My name is Josef Raevsky. You are from Jeds, I think. I have been watching you these past few days.”

  “Yes, you have.” Marco smiled. “And I you. You’re also a foreigner in these parts.”

  “But you are from Jeds. A merchant, perhaps?”

  “I have made no secret of who I am.”

  “No,” said Raevsky. “You are Marko Burkhhart, an emissary from the Prince of Jeds. Seeking new trade. So you say. And you are interested in the khepelli and their horses. You are waiting to see what becomes of them.”

  The way he said the word alerted Marco instantly. Here, the townsfolk called them chepalis. This was their name in a different tongue; this was a man who was interested in them as well. Of course, Marco had heard gossip: even in a port town, to have three entirely different foreign visitors—the Chapalii counting as a group of one—at one time was a marvel and much discussed at the inns and around the harbor. An emissary from the Prince of Jeds; strange-looking foreigners from over the seas with their cargo of fine horses; and this man, who was, said the old innkeep, a man from that people called the zherawn, savages from out in the wilderness.

  “Say, lad,” called the innkeeper, interrupting them. Over the last five days he had decided that he liked Marco, foreigner though he was. The quality of Marco’s gold and Marco’s gossip had won him over. “I laid that money you said down on them spices, and sure enough, when the Queen Aireon sailed in this morning, that was the first cargo they picked.”

  “I’m pleased for you, old man,” replied Marco. The old man’s very young wife came in from the back, carrying two buckets of water, and she smiled shyly and meaningfully at Marco and then slipped back outside. Marco turned back to the bearded man. “Why, Raevsky? Do you know what will become of them?” Then, on a sudden impulse, he went on. “The truth is, I’m also looking for a woman. A Jedan woman.” He had already manufactured the story to give her importance but not too much importance. “A merchant’s sister. Her ship was lost but the merchant believes she may still be alive.”

  Josef Raevsky examined him, and Marco felt abruptly that he was being measured and judged by a man whose judgments were worth something. “You mean,” said Raevsky, “the sister of the Prince.”

  Marco was rarely too astonished to be at a loss for words. But the sudden euphoria that overwhelmed him now obliterated everything else. A moment later, he realized that he was grinning.

  Josef Raevsky stood up. “Come with me.” He went to the door without looking back, and walked outside.

  Marco rose to follow him.

  “Say, lad,” said the innkeeper. “My wife heard a bit of interesting news last night from the captain.” The old man’s wife was not only young but unexpectedly good-looking, and Marco had quickly ascertained that her favors were for the asking, if one was willing to pay. It was the other reason the innkeeper liked him: that he had paid well and the young woman had enjoyed herself. “Yea. A warband of them damned zherawn rode into town late last night. We see them every second year or thereabouts, in here, trading and such like. But the captain said they’ve some of them chepalis with them as well.” Then, either because Marco’s expression betrayed him or because the old man was keener than he looked, he went on. “That’s what you’ve been waiting here for, in’t it? More of them foreigners. And it looks like now we know why all these strangers have come into our port this late in the year.”

  “Thank you,” said Marco. He went outside. Josef Raevsky was waiting for him. “Where are we going?” Marco asked.

  “There’s someone who wishes to see you.”

  They walked to the outskirts of town. The rains had not come in great force yet, so the roads and tracks were still dry. But it was getting cold at night. Barefoot children stared at him from doorways. An old woman carded wool. Heat swelled out from a blacksmith’s forge.

  Within sight of the barracks, Josef halted. Marco stared. What had been a quiet outpost before was now bustli
ng with activity. Scarlet-shirted men examined the horses while Chapalii, clearly more Chapalii than the four who had been here all along, spoke to each other and to a trio of red-shirted men over to one side.

  “Have you seen enough?” Josef asked.

  “What does this mean? Why are they here, and who are you?”

  “We are jaran. We have escorted these pilgrims from the issledova tel shore to this port, where they will set sail for their own lands across the seas.”

  “The horses are for you,” said Marco, suddenly understanding something the innkeeper had said. “You must be—” There was no word in Taor that he knew for nomads.

  “We are not khaja, if that is what you mean. The ones who settle in one place. We ride.”

  One question answered, a million sprouting to take its place. “Who wants to talk with me?”

  “Come. We will go down to the port to see the khepelli to their ship.”

  Marco followed and Josef led him down to the docks. As he waited, Marco chatted with the ship’s master of the Queen Aireon, which was returning to Jeds the next day. The ship he had come in on eight days before had already sailed on northward. As he watched, a sail cleared the horizon and banked toward the harbor.

  It took until midday for the ship to anchor within rowing distance from the docks. By that time, fifteen Chapalii with an escort of fifteen brilliantly clad riders arrived at the dock. Marco realized quickly enough that he himself was being escorted by Josef. Being watched so that he did not interfere with their leave-taking. The Chapalii were being sent home. Well, being put on the ship, at least. Marco was wild to know how they intended to get off-planet from here, but he had a healthy respect for the saber riding on Josef Raevsky’s hip.

  Boats came. The Chapalii loaded gear into them. In all this, Marco quickly discerned that two people—one Chapalii, one jaran—were being deferred to here. One Chapalii lord. The jaran man—from this distance, it was hard to tell, except that he was clearly in charge. The Chapalii clambered awkwardly into the boats. Final respects were paid, and the human sailors at the oars began the long stroke out to the ship.