The Novels of the Jaran

by Kate Elliott

  The hesitation was checked. One of the guards transferred a small chest into the hands of the older foreigner, and thus burdened, the old man followed his master forward. The fire beat on them. Aleksi could see it by the way the ambassador leaned first away from the one fire and then away from the other, caught between both, purified by their raging heat, by the furnace pressure of their light. The old man staggered after him.

  The softer glow of lanterns lit them when they halted before Bakhtiian. The old man dropped the chest more than set it down, and he knelt, head bowed, as if glad of the excuse to rest. The young one stood, looking angry and impressed together, and trying to hide it.

  Bakhtiian regarded him evenly. From his seat on the wagon, he stared eye-to-eye with the ambassador. The very plainness of Bakhtiian’s clothing, red shirt embroidered on the sleeves, black trousers and boots, merely added to his dignity, compared to the ambassador’s gaudy costume. Some men did not need to display their power by displaying wealth. Like Soerensen, it occurred to Aleksi very suddenly. None of the prince’s people wore gold, none wore weapons, and yet their bearing reeked of natural confidence.

  At last, cowed by Bakhtiian’s stare, as fierce a pressure as the fires through which he had passed, the ambassador dipped to one knee.

  “I am Jiroannes Arthebathes,” he said in queerly accented Rhuian, fluid and blurred on the consonants. “I bring you greetings from your cousin the Great King of Vidiya, and these gifts, which he hopes you will graciously accept.” He gestured, and the servant struggled forward with the chest. Jiroannes’s gaze flicked to Tess, and his eyes widened as he recognized her. Then he turned his attention back to his servant.

  The chest was not just wooden, but cunningly carved and set with enameling and strips of gold into the wood. The servant opened the clasp and removed silver dishes, an amazingly lifelike bird made of bronze, two tiny jade horses, a collar of gold embossed with tiny human figures, a bolt of sheer white silk, and an arrow plated with gold and fletched with black feathers.

  Bakhtiian looked them over impassively but did not touch them. Then he gestured, and the children, with proper solemnity, came forward and took away everything except the arrow. That Bakhtiian considered at length and in silence, and at last he lifted it up and leaned back to present the arrow to Elizaveta Sakhalin. “The Great King must be complimenting your prowess in hunting, Mother Sakhalin,” he said. The old woman snorted, amused and skeptical, but she took the arrow and placed it over her knees.

  Jiroannes looked outraged, and then he bowed his head to stare with seeming humility at the ground.

  “You are welcome to our camp,” said Bakhtiian, at last addressing the young ambassador directly. “I will send for you when it is time.” He glanced around, caught Aleksi’s eye, and gestured for him to escort the ambassador away. Then he turned to talk to Niko, as if the affair was of no more interest to him.

  Leading Jiroannes away by a roundabout route, Aleksi had leisure to wonder what the young man was thinking. Nadine joined him, the Vidiyan guard marching obediently at her back, and they conducted the silent ambassador back through camp to the distant envoys’ precinct. From here, the noise of the celebration, now in full flower, reached the dark clot of tents only as faint music and fainter laughter, like a distant roar of a mountain cataract to a man trudging through the night on a desert track. Out in the deep plains, where winter met summer like a blast of snow hitting fire, where spring existed for a week, for a scant month at most, such extremes were commonplace. To these envoys, cast out to the fringe of camp, their lives dependent very much on the whim of the jaran, such contrasts must prove unsettling.

  “Ilya was too lenient,” said Nadine to Aleksi as they left, walking back to the celebration. “The man was insufferable. He was angry. He showed it in his back, in the way he stood. He showed too little respect.”

  “Bakhtiian will make him wait. Then he’ll get nervous.”

  “It could be.” Nadine sounded peevish. “He has a slave.”

  “What is a slave?”

  “Never mind. Look, the dancing has started.”

  At the celebration, they were dancing on the ground around the two bonfires. The angel was dancing with Anatoly Sakhalin. He was, shyly and modestly, showing her the steps to one of the simpler partner dances. But most of the other actors were out dancing as well, partnered with jaran men and jaran women. The dance ended and another started. Aleksi saw Tess dancing with her husband. Sonia, of all people, had somehow persuaded Soerensen out, and it appeared that Soerensen was a quick learner and adept enough to dance well. The angel was still dancing with Anatoly Sakhalin.

  “Someone had better talk to him,” said Nadine, voicing Aleksi’s thoughts out loud.

  “Surely his grandmother will speak to him,” said Aleksi. “She’s very pretty.”

  “She’s beautiful,” said Nadine. “She is also khaja. Look how the other man, Marco Burckhardt, look how he glares at them.”

  The dance ended. The angel strolled out of the ring of light with Sakhalin. She held her head cocked slightly to one side, looking at him with a provocative smile on her lips as he spoke to her. Surely she could not understand what he was saying. But perhaps the words did not matter.

  A moment later, before they could vanish into the gloom, Elizaveta Sakhalin appeared and called to her grandson. His head jerked up and he halted, hesitated visibly, and finally, reluctantly, slowly, he retreated to his grandmother’s side. The angel watched him go and with an unfathomable shrug of her delicate shoulders, she walked on out into the night, alone.

  “And that,” said Nadine, “is that. Excuse me, Aleksi. I’ve a sudden urge to dance.” She broke away from him and strode straight toward the distant figure of Feodor Grekov.

  Aleksi sighed and wandered on. He paused to watch Raysia Grekov where she sat on the now vacant wagon, playing simple songs for the amusement of a swarm of jaran men and two of the foreigners: Margaret O’Neill and the actor Gwyn Jones. The copper-haired foreign woman had her right hand on her belt buckle, and she kept toying with it, as if she was nervous. In contrast, her left hand held the bronze medallion around her throat with deliberate steadiness, canting the medallion’s onyx eye so that it faced the singer. Beside Raysia, a young man played a low accompaniment on a drum. As Aleksi listened, he caught a fainter counterpoint, a vocal one, distant, whispering on the breeze. He lifted his chin and tilted his head, sounding for direction, and drifted out into the night.

  Stars blazed above. Out beyond the awnings, the angel was cursing at Marco Burckhardt. Aleksi stopped stockstill, astonished. Burckhardt had his hands on her. He held her in a tight grip, one hand on each of her shoulders, and each time she spit words at him, he replied in an equally angry voice.

  They were not married. Nor were they related by blood. If anything, Marco Burckhardt was as interested in her as Anatoly Sakhalin was. But no jaran man would stand by and see a woman handled like this, by a man who was neither husband nor brother.

  Before Aleksi could come forward, before he could even speak to warn them, another figure burst onto the scene, materializing from the direction of the celebration. Diana gasped. Burckhardt whirled.

  Anatoly Sakhalin drew his saber.

  “No!” Diana cried in Rhuian. “Don’t hurt him!” She cast herself between the two men. There was silence. Diana took four steps forward. “Anatoly, please, put away your sword.”

  Anatoly lifted the saber to rest on her cheek. She froze, and her face went white from shock and fear. Marco shifted. In an instant, he would lunge—”

  “Stop!” shouted Aleksi. He sprinted forward.

  In that moment, with Marco hesitating, Anatoly marked Diana, cutting a line on her cheek diagonally from her cheekbone almost to her chin. Blood welled from the cut. Slowly, she lifted her hand to touch her skin. Lowering it, she stared at her fingers. They were covered with blood. She swayed. Then she collapsed to her knees.

  Aleksi hit Marco broadside and slammed him backward befo
re he could do something rash. A knife spun out of Marco’s grip and Aleksi pounced and grabbed it before Marco could react.

  Anatoly had sheathed his saber. Now he stared at Diana with concern. He knelt beside her and put his good arm, comforting, firm, around her shoulders. At his touch, she screamed and scrambled away from him, panting.

  “Damn you,” said Marco from the ground.

  Aleksi offered him a hand. Surprised, Marco took it and let Aleksi pull him up. Marco took a step toward Diana, but Aleksi held him back. “Don’t go to her,” Aleksi said.

  Anatoly climbed to his feet and fixed a threatening stare on Marco, keeping himself between Marco and Diana. He rested his good hand on his saber hilt.

  “What do you mean?” Marco demanded. “My God.”

  “He’s marked her,” Aleksi explained patiently.

  “I can see that,” said Marco caustically. “What kind of savages are you, anyway?”

  “You’re upset.” Aleksi put a hand on his shoulder just to make sure he didn’t bolt. “He’s marked her for marriage. But I suppose you khaja don’t do that.”

  Diana threw her head up. “What did you say?” she gasped. Left hand still pressed against her cheek, she rose unsteadily to her feet, flinched away from Anatoly’s awkward offer of help, and circled him warily to come stand next to Marco. But when Marco reached toward her, she jerked away from him as well. “What do you mean, he marked me for marriage?” she demanded of Aleksi.

  “When a man chooses a woman, he marks her. To show he means to marry her.”

  “That’s barbaric,” said Marco.

  “What about the woman’s choice, then?” Diana asked.

  Aleksi shook his head. “But marriage is not a woman’s choice. Someday you’ll hear Raysia sing the tale of Mekhala, and how horses came to the jaran. You see—” He hesitated, finding words in this foreign tongue of Rhuian and placing them together in a form that would make sense to these people. “—when Mekhala beseeched the wind spirit for the horses that would set her people, that would set the jaran, free, he agreed only on the condition that she marry him. But in those days, before the jaran had horses, women chose both lovers and husbands. And so the wind spirit said, ‘I will give you horses, but you must give me the choice of your husbands, and a woman may never choose her husband again.’ And the women agreed that this was a fair trade for the gift of horses. So that women may still choose their lovers, but no longer their husbands. But this was long ago, in the—” He faltered, running up against concepts he had no words for in Rhuian. “In the long ago time.”

  Marco looked appalled. Diana gaped, looking as if she was still in shock.

  “Aleksi,” said Anatoly in khush. “What are you telling her?”

  What a fool. But, of course, Aleksi was not about to say that to Mother Sakhalin’s grandson. “She didn’t know what you were doing.” He glanced at the other man, but Anatoly’s expression showed only stubborn resolve. “She thought you were trying to kill her.”

  Anatoly flushed, but he said nothing. He glared at Marco.

  “But Tess Soerensen has a mark like this on her cheek,” said Diana suddenly in a low voice. “And so does Bakhtiian. That means she is married to him.” She glanced sidelong at Anatoly Sakhalin and then away. “So why can’t I, if I love him?”

  “God help us,” Marco said. It was an oath Aleksi recognized, because Tess used it. “Diana, you can’t begin to go along with this—”

  “I can do what I want,” said Diana emphatically. She tossed her hair out of her face and walked over to Anatoly. He started, looking at her, and she tilted his chin down and kissed him on the mouth.

  Marco swore.

  “What in hell is going on?” The first person to arrive from the direction of the celebration was Dr. Hierakis. “Diana, come here. Goddess help us, child, what has happened to you?” The doctor lifted a hand to trace the cut on Diana’s cheek. A moment later Charles Soerensen appeared, and behind him, Tess and Bakhtiian.

  “Oh, God,” said Tess. Then in khush: “Anatoly, have you gone out of your mind?”

  “This is your work, then?” Bakhtiian demanded.

  Anatoly held his ground under that devastating stare. “Yes. I marked her.”

  “Gods. You will come with me, young man. We will see what your grandmother has to say about this.”

  Anatoly did not move. He was tense, but determined. “It is a man’s choice, in marriage.”

  “She is not jaran, Anatoly,” said Tess.

  He glanced at her, and she smiled slightly, ironically, since neither was she jaran. Then he returned his gaze to Bakhtiian. “If she wishes to be rid of the marriage, she can do so, but I am content.”

  “Tess,” said Charles in a calm voice, in Rhuian, “what is going on?”

  “He wants to marry me,” said Diana suddenly. “This is the way they get married.”

  “Ah,” said Charles. He studied his sister a moment, and Tess flushed and lifted a hand to brush the scar on her cheek, then lowered it again self-consciously. “I understand this is sudden, Diana. Such an action is not binding on you.”

  “No,” she said stubbornly. “I want to marry him.”

  Marco muttered something.

  “Marco, really,” said Dr. Hierakis in Rhuian. “There’s no need for such language.”

  Burckhardt’s hands were clenched into rigid fists, and he looked so angry that Aleksi wondered how long he could maintain his composure.

  “That is your choice, of course,” said Charles to Diana. If he was shocked by her pronouncement, he did not show it. “But surely, Bakhtiian, the matter can be waived for some days so that the young woman can think it over.”

  “I don’t need to think it over—”

  “Diana,” said Tess in a friendly but firm voice, “you will, by custom, have nine days to think it over. If you really want to go through with this, then you must go into seclusion for nine days, after which you will be reunited with this man and become husband and wife.”

  “Fine.”

  “What is she saying?” asked Anatoly in khush, a little desperately.

  “You young fool,” said Bakhtiian, also in khush. “Come along. I don’t envy you the tongue-lashing you are about to receive from your grandmother. Perhaps I’ll let Niko in on it as well. If your uncle Yaroslav was here…” He trailed off, letting the thought go unfinished. With a gesture, he indicated that Anatoly precede him. “Your grace,” he said to Soerensen, “perhaps you would be part of this council as well.”

  “Of course. I’ll follow in a moment.” He nodded, and Bakhtiian left.

  “Diana, Cara, perhaps you’ll come with me,” said Tess. She led the two women off on the long walk to the Soerensen enclave.

  Aleksi, silent, did not move. By now the others had forgotten him. He had that gift, to stand so still, to draw so little attention to himself, that it was as if he was invisible.

  “Marco,” said Soerensen softly.

  “Leave me alone.” Marco did not even look at the other man. He was not looking at anything, exactly, but at some sight, some vision, some pain, that only he could see.

  Soerensen sighed, but he honored the request, and left quietly.

  Aleksi dared not move. He doesn’t want me here. And Aleksi felt an odd feeling: He felt ashamed because he had intruded on another man’s anguish.

  Bells tinkled softly. A golden vision appeared out of the gloom: Sonia, laden with an ornamentation that lent grace to her features and a glow to her expression. A single glance she spared for Aleksi, a brief tilt of her chin in acknowledgment of his presence. Crescent moons spun and danced at her shoulders. She halted beside Marco Burckhardt and settled a hand on his sleeve.

  “Come,” she said. That was all. Without a word, he went with her. The bells faded.

  But Aleksi still heard the bells. Distant, but growing louder. A shout came from the far ring of tents. Another shout followed, and a lantern, two lanterns, sprang to life. They bobbed and swayed, approaching over
the grass. Two horses with two riders, but only the foremost rider rode upright. The second lay over his mount’s neck, hugging it from exhaustion. Men on foot trailed after them, a group that swelled in size and volume.

  Aleksi ran to meet them.

  “Where is Bakhtiian?” shouted the lead rider. “Gods, man, there’s been treachery from those khaja swine.”

  The man lying over the second horse looked unconscious. The horse was blown and scarcely in better condition than its rider, though it did not look wounded. A broad strip of bloodied cloth was wrapped around the rider’s head, obscuring his face, and more cloth bound his ribs and his left thigh. He slipped. Aleksi grabbed him and steadied him on the horse.

  Bakhtiian came running, Sibirin behind him. “Bring the horse up to the carpet,” someone called, and they arrived there, a ragtag procession, at the same time Bakhtiian did.

  Bakhtiian halted for one instant. A look of rage suffused his face. Then he came forward and tenderly swung the wounded man down from the horse, laying him on the pillows. The movement opened the wound in his thigh, but the blood leaking onto the fine embroidery did not seem to bother Bakhtiian.

  “Josef! Niko, go get the healer. Dr. Hierakis. Grekov, see to the horse.”

  Now that the rider was lying on his back, Aleksi could see that it was indeed Josef Raevsky, Ilya’s finest general, a man who could have been dyan of his own tribe but who gave it over into his brother’s hands many years ago in order to pledge himself to Bakhtiian and Bakhtiian’s cause. The worst blood stained the cloth bound over his eyes.

  “Ilya.” Raevsky had some life yet.

  “Who did this? The rest of your party?”

  “The Habakar king,” Raevsky gasped. “Treachery. Honored us as envoys and then at the feast, fell on us.” He panted. His face was gray. “Left me alive, to deliver this.” His hand fluttered feebly. A crumpled scroll was tucked into the sheath of his saber. His saber—was gone.