The Novels of the Jaran

by Kate Elliott

  “I don’t know.”

  “Ah,” said the doctor, reading something from Diana’s expression. She stood up. “Here. Come with me.”

  Diana followed her to a knot of people standing beyond the wagons. Yomi was there, but she made good-byes and started walking away, then stopped as she caught sight of Diana. “There you are, Diana. I need you now. Will you be loading your new tent in with our wagons? Also—” She paused, seeing the doctor lift a hand.

  “I’ll send her in a moment,” said Dr. Hierakis. “If I may.”

  “Certainly.” Yomi strode away.

  Marco was there. He had half turned to look at her, and Diana flushed and bit her lip and kept walking without missing a beat, sticking close to Dr. Hierakis. The others—Soerensen, Tess, Bakhtiian, and the silver-haired jaran man called Niko—all smiled at the same instant, seeing her.

  “Ah,” said Bakhtiian. He looked embarrassed. “I do apologize for taking Anatoly away like that. But I needed to send him on ahead to his uncle. He should be back soon.”

  “Oh,” replied Diana, feeling stupid, and wondering if they all knew in what condition she and Anatoly had been interrupted this morning. “This afternoon? Or this evening, that’s not so bad.”

  “He means a few days, Diana,” said Tess softly. “I’m sorry. Ten, twenty at the most, I should think.”

  “Twenty days!” To her horror, Diana burst into tears. Abandoned, just like that. Not that Anatoly had had any choice, which almost made it worse. Yet she could not believe that Bakhtiian had sent him off for any ulterior motive—to get him away from her, to get her away from him. She had just begun to feel easy with him, to find a way to talk. Goddess, they would have to start all over again, after twenty days apart. She sniffed hard, trying to stop her tears. Her nose was running.

  “Here, Diana.” Surprisingly, it was Marco who offered her the handkerchief. She glanced up at him, grateful. He was red in the face, and he would not look at her.

  “Well, then,” said Soerensen, neatly throwing focus away from her, “it’s settled, although I don’t like it much.”

  “I’m sorry, Charles,” said Tess. “But I know you understand why I have to travel with the army right now.”

  Diana looked up, hearing a peculiar note in Tess’s voice, something being communicated in the tone, not in the words. Tess was pale, and her husband frowned, resting a hand possessively on her lower back.

  Charles looked past her to Dr. Hierakis. “Cara, I’d like Ursula to accompany you. I’ll send a messenger if I need anything from you.”

  “Here is my niece,” said Bakhtiian as a contingent of riders came up. “As soon as your wagons are ready, she will escort you north to the shrine of Morava.”

  Soerensen smiled enigmatically. “You honor me with your choice of escort.”

  Bakhtiian did not smile. “She is my closest relative. For you, I would do no less.”

  Like a trade, Diana thought, distracted for a moment from her own pain by the curious dealings going on here. Soerensen took the niece, Bakhtiian took Tess.

  “Damn,” muttered Marco under his breath, in Anglais, “but they’re playing a delicate game, indeed. I can’t believe Tess isn’t coming with us.”

  “Do you think he’s stopping her somehow?” Diana whispered.

  Marco shook his head. “If Charles thought that was true, then he wouldn’t stand for it. No, it’s been agreed between them. That’s what puzzles me.” He hesitated. “Diana.”

  “Are you going, too?” she asked. She hadn’t been this close to him since the night Anatoly marked her, since the night Marco had said such awful things to her—and she felt shy, suddenly, wondering if he still thought well of her.

  “Yes, with Charles. Diana.” He made a movement toward her but checked it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry he had to leave so suddenly. I know it must be difficult. It’s obvious you care for him. I’m sorry I—expressed myself so poorly, before.”

  “Stop it,” she said under her breath. She stared at her feet. She did not want to think kindly of Marco; that was too dangerous. His booted feet rested on the ground near hers. She saw how they shifted. He murmured something unintelligible—not angry but perhaps despairing, and then he moved away. She forced herself not to look up after him. An instant later, she realized she still clutched his handkerchief.

  “Tess, I leave you in the best of hands,” said Soerensen. “Cara.” Diana looked up to see Soerensen nod at the doctor, and the doctor nod, coolly, back. “Bakhtiian.” This farewell was cooler still, reserved, almost disapproving.

  Bakhtiian acknowledged Soerensen with an equally reticent nod. Diana would have thought that Bakhtiian would have looked overjoyed that Tess had chosen to go with him rather than with her brother, but he only looked troubled and perplexed. And why was Dr. Hierakis going with the army, not with Soerensen? But Diana knew well enough that she was not in the confidence of any of these people, and so as they parted, she trailed away alone, back toward her tent.

  Quinn came jogging to meet her. “Di! Yomi sent me over to help you with your tent and your things. So? Well? What was he like?”

  Diana stopped outside the tent. She could not help but smile. “He was sweet.”

  “But—how else? Come on, Di. The jaran men are so shy, so reserved. Are they that way in bed, too?”

  “I’m hardly an expert. You’d have to talk to Hyacinth about that.”

  “Oh, Hyacinth. You know as well as I do that you can’t trust anything he says.”

  “Then find out for yourself.”

  “Not if I have to marry one! Begging your pardon.”

  Diana flushed. “I don’t think—Tess Soerensen said that you don’t. Have to marry one, that is.” She brightened suddenly. “That’s one thing I can do, though.”

  “What? Find out what the rules are for sleeping around? I thought all barbarians were prudes. That’s what you say, anyway.” Then Quinn laughed. “Oh-ho, Diana. You’re blushing.”

  Diana flung the tent flap back hastily, distracting Quinn’s attention. Light streamed into the interior of the tent, dappling the scattered pillows, the blankets and fur in disarray, some clothing thrown down to one side and left in a heap.

  “Well!” Quinn sounded gratified by this revealing sight.

  The pounding of horses startled Diana, coming from close by. She started around. Perhaps it was Anatoly…But the troop cantered past and went on, oblivious to her. She felt helpless. Never in her life had she felt as superfluous as she did now. The jaran were off to war—War! She could not imagine it, except the glimpse she had received that one day, salving the wounded, the day she had met Anatoly. Was this the true measure of the barbarity of the jaran culture? That the men—the soldiers—rode off, leaving their women and children, their families, behind? Did the women always follow in their wake? Was there no true comradeship? She could not imagine her parents, her uncles and aunts—the little clan of a family she had grown up in—separating for such an arbitrary reason, or if they did have to separate, separating on this rigid, artificial line of sex.

  “I hate it here,” said Diana.

  “What?” Quinn had already gone into the tent without asking permission, which offended Diana even more, as if her intimacy with Anatoly had been violated. “Oh, Di, you don’t want to lose this.” She lifted up the gold necklace. “And look here.” She giggled, crouching. “I see he must have taken off those beautifully decorated boots rather quickly.” She held up a gold braided tassel, one of the braids that had rimmed Anatoly’s black boots.

  Diana grabbed the tassel out of Quinn’s hand and pressed it against her heart. “Stop it, Quinn. You can collect my things if you want, but I’ll pack his. Do you understand?”

  Quinn arched an expressive eyebrow. “What? Do you love him that much already?”

  “Would that be so strange?” murmured Diana, but Quinn had lapsed into an obscene song by whose rhythm she folded up the blankets, and she did not reply.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE<
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  VASIL STOOD LISTENING TO his cousin Anton boring on about their family and tribe, little details of who had married whom, who had borne a child, and what girls and boys had shown unusual aptitudes for important skills. Such gossip fascinated Anton, whose eldest daughter, just married to a respectable blacksmith, was showing talent for dyeing. Vasil swallowed a yawn and smiled and nodded and Anton happily went on, assuming that Vasil must be hungry for news of the tribe he had deserted many years ago in order to ride with Ilyakoria Bakhtiian.

  Anton, Vasil reflected, was the perfect etsana’s brother: he could support the headwoman by keeping abreast of all the niggling day-to-day details and so help her in her task of keeping the tribe running smoothly. An etsana’s husband needed the same skills and interests, and back when Vasil was still young, less than two cycles of the calendar old, back when Bakhtiian had left the tribes to travel south to that half-mythical city called Jeds, Vasil had considered finding an etsana’s elder daughter to marry. Actually, he had found three, any one of whom would have been thrilled to have him. But, gods, he could not stand to hear about other people’s affairs, to listen to the petty complaints, the disputes, the women and men droning on and on about their concerns. The three young women in question had gone on to find other husbands, presumably better suited for the task, and Vasil hoped they were happy, when he thought about them at all.

  Relief from Anton’s recital came in the form of Yevgeni riding in from scout to meet up with the main group as they took their midday rest for the horses. With him rode an entire troop of horsemen, impressively armored. They wore sleeveless, knee-length silk robes, slit for riding, over their armor. Some wore gold cloth, some red, all of it embroidered in black and gold and silver.

  “Mount,” said Vasil, and he and Anton mounted and rode out to greet them.

  “Anton Veselov!” The greeting came from the jahar’s captain, a young blond man with a handsome face, very blue eyes, and an ambitious set to his shoulders. “Well met.” The young man’s glance settled on Vasil a moment, questioning, and then flashed back to Anton. Clearly he thought that this was where the authority lay.

  “Well met,” said Vasil, forestalling Anton’s greeting. “I am Vasil Veselov.”

  “Well met,” replied the young man politely, obviously recognizing nothing special in the name. “I am Anatoly Sakhalin. Yaroslav Sakhalin’s nephew and Elizaveta Sakhalin’s eldest grandson. Are you one of Anton’s kin?”

  Vasil was so furious that for a moment he could not speak. How dare this boy not know who he was?

  “Vasil is my cousin,” said Anton. “Sergei Veselov’s son.”

  “I didn’t know Veselov had a son. He died some three years past, didn’t he?”

  “I just learned of my father’s death,” said Vasil, cutting in before Anton could say any more. “I decided it was time I reunited with my tribe and take on my responsibilities.”

  Sakhalin regarded him and his black arenabekh clothing, and suddenly comprehension bloomed in his face. “Ah. Now I recall the story. You must have been one of the men riding with Dmitri Mikhailov. Do you think Bakhtiian will welcome you back?”

  Vasil smiled. “Yes. I do. Indeed, I am sure of it.”

  “Ah,” said Sakhalin, and then, to Vasil’s disgust, he shifted his attention back to Anton. “We rode past your tribe. You can reach them by sundown if you go at a good pace.”

  “Where is the main army?” Vasil asked.

  The arrogant young pup actually hesitated before answering. “Behind us. We’ve orders from Bakhtiian to take ahead to my uncle.” He said that proudly enough, pleased that he had been chosen for such an honor. “Do you have khaja prisoners?”

  “Only a Habakar general and his son.”

  “No doubt Bakhtiian will be pleased. Now, we must be riding on.” He made farewells and his troop rode on, south.

  Vasil snorted. “A boy in on the intimate counsels of Bakhtiian? Or so he would have it sound.”

  “He’s not much older than Ilya was when he came back from Jeds,” said Anton mildly, “and he’s ambitious, and he’s a Sakhalin, so perhaps it’s no surprise that he feels he’s important. Though he is young to have a command of his own, and I don’t think Bakhtiian gives out such an honor casually. Even to a Sakhalin.”

  “There’s more,” said Yevgeni, breaking in. “One of his men told me he’s just married a khaja woman, a Singer—no, he had a different word for it. They tell tales, but with their entire bodies and their words…well, it was a khaja art, he said. I’ve never heard of anything like it. What do you think of that? A khaja wife!”

  “What of Bakhtiian’s khaja wife?” asked Vasil abruptly. “Is she with the tribes still?”

  Anton motioned to Yevgeni with a lift of his chin, and the young rider reined his horse aside to leave the cousins some privacy. “Vasil.” Anton spoke slowly, weighing his words. “Bakhtiian still has a wife. Perhaps you didn’t know that. It’s something you might want to keep in mind.”

  Dear, good Anton—so right-minded and so honest. “My dear cousin,” said Vasil ingenuously, “I also have a wife. Have you forgotten that? And two children.”

  “That’s true.” Reminded of this, Anton appeared mollified. “And Sakhalin said—”

  “Yes. Let us hasten our reunion.”

  They made good time. It was still light when they came in sight of the wagons and tents marking the Veselov tribe. A scout greeted them, an adolescent boy who flushed bright red when he saw Vasil and called to him by name before he even greeted Anton. Vasil did not remember the boy’s name, or whose child he was, but he greeted him warmly nevertheless. The child was gratified to be allowed to lead them in.

  “Vasil!”

  “Look, it’s Vasilley.”

  “Gods, Veselov, I thought you were dead.”

  “Where have you come from?”

  “Let me get Arina.”

  Vasil slowed his horse to the barest walk, letting the exclamations, the surprise, the warmth, and, to be sure, the adulation wash over him. Here and there he saw a disapproving grimace, a finger pointed, and he noted who they were; they could be won over later. He did not want speed: he wanted his reunion with Karolla and the children to be blindingly public.

  He caught sight of Karolla just before she saw him. She was so very plain—that was the first thing he noticed—and she had certainly grown no better looking in their three years apart. Then a child nudged her and pointed, and she spun around. Her hand covered her mouth, and she went dead pale. Another woman might have burst into tears, might have acted rashly or stupidly or made a scene, but not Karolla. She had far too much courage, combined with a huge portion of common sense. She set down her spindle with dignity and shook out her skirts, then called into her tent. Vasil admired her for that self-control. A moment later, two children appeared.

  Vasil pulled up his horse. Gods, they were older. Little Valentin had perhaps doubled in size, and Ilyana was a stunning girl, tall, slender, and serious. Vasil dismounted and walked across the last bit of ground separating them.

  “Father!” Yana launched herself at him, and he laughed and crouched down to receive her embrace. She clutched him, hugging herself against him. Not sobbing, never that, not Karolla’s child. And she was strong, too, for being so young—about eight winters old. She let go of him and grabbed him by the hand, tugging him. “Come, Papa. Come see Mama. And here is Valentin, but I expect he doesn’t remember you.”

  Vasil let her drag him forward. Karolla was staring at him as if he was a spirit, or an angel. She did not move. So he let go of Yana’s hand and took his wife by the waist and, well aware that everyone was watching, embraced her and kissed her rather more intimately than was proper for so public a place. The crowd murmured appreciatively. When he released her, her face shone. A few tears slid from her eyes, but she brushed them back impatiently and turned to call the boy to her.

  “Valentin, come greet your papa.”

  Valentin did not move. His mouth set into a
sullen frown and he closed his hands into fists. He stared at his father, and then looked up beyond him. “Uncle Anton!” he exclaimed, and darted past Vasil to greet the other man.

  Vasil stiffened. “Give him time,” said Karolla. Her hand brushed one of his hands, tightened on it, and then let go.

  Ilyana came to hang on his other arm. “Are you going to stay, father? Or are you going away again?”

  “Hush, Yana,” said Karolla.

  “No, it’s all right. I have every intention of staying.” Karolla bit at her lower lip, and Vasil could see that it was only with an immense effort that she refrained from bursting into tears. “But where is my cousin Arina? She is etsana now, is she not? I must have her permission to enter camp, surely.”

  “Rather late to get that,” said a cool voice behind him.

  He spun, and was shocked to see his little cousin Arina looking very composed and at her ease, and prettier than he had ever seen her. She held herself with surprising authority, and next to her stood a man Vasil recognized instantly.

  “I am happy to see you, cousin,” said Arina formally, “and I am pleased to receive you back into the tribe. This is my husband, Kirill Zvertkov. But I’m sure you know each other.”

  Zvertkov was a good-looking man, fair-haired, but his appearance was hopelessly marred by one lifeless arm that hung loose at his side, as if it were, like an ill-made saber, a mere dead appendage. In his other, his good, arm, he held a tiny baby, and a child somewhat younger than Valentin peeked out shyly from behind his legs.

  “No longer riding with Bakhtiian?” Vasil asked, but smoothly and without glancing at the useless arm.

  “No, I am an etsana’s husband now,” replied Zvertkov, with a touch of ironic pride. Vasil did not recall that Zvertkov’s family had ever had high enough standing that Kirill could have expected to marry so well—but perhaps there was more to it than that. So often there was. “And I have other duties as well.”

  Arina smiled, not disguising her pride in her husband. “Many young men come here to train, to find places in the army, and Kirill is in charge of all of them. He oversees their fighting and what jahar they are assigned to. Since Kerchaniia Bakhalo died, Bakhtiian gave the entire command into Kirill’s hands.”