The Novels of the Jaran

by Kate Elliott

  “Here comes Sakhalin.” Mitya sounded disgusted. “It’s a little disgraceful, how he shows off that he has a khaja wife.”

  A young man rode up from below. He stopped to pay his respects to the crone first, but left her quickly and rode over to the actors. The beautiful one rose to greet him, with a smile on her face.

  “Do you say,” Jiroannes asked, “that these two are married?” He was astounded. But perhaps he had misunderstood the word. More and more, he saw that he understood very little about the jaran. That Bakhtiian had married the sister of the prince of Jeds—that was political expediency, and wise in a ruler. The Great King’s third wife was a daughter of the Elenti king. But if this young man was a prince of the jaran, how could he be married to a common entertainer?

  “Yes,” agreed Mitya, “Mother Sakhalin was not pleased with the marriage, and Anatoly certainly did not consult her, as he should have. But she’s very sweet. Diana, that is.” He grinned slyly and glanced at the crone, who ignored the spectacle of her grandson publicly flirting with his wife. But soon enough the captain left to go back to his troop, and the actors left, and the crone left, and Jiroannes began to feel restless.

  In the distance, a thin line of smoke rose from inside the high walls of Qurat. A sea of tents covered the ground all around the city, a billowing ocean. Beyond the tents, herds of horses grazed, and farther still, herds of other beasts, though these herds grew smaller every day as the forage gave out and they were slaughtered. A long line of khaja slaves trudged by, sacks of grain balanced across their shoulders.

  “Oh,” said Mitya suddenly, “I was to tell you that you may have an audience this afternoon with Bakhtiian, if you wish it.”

  If he wished it. Jiroannes flushed half with elation and half with annoyance. To the boy, an audience was evidently a trivial affair. “I am honored that Bakhtiian has deigned at last to hear my appeals for an audience. But if that is the case, then I must return and prepare.”

  “We can just ride over now, if you’d like,” said the child naively.

  “Certainly not! I beg your pardon, but I cannot appear like this.” He gestured at his clothing—a plain sash, not of the highest quality, and his second-best trousers, and he wore no gold at all, except for his ambassador’s ring.

  Mitya shrugged. “Very well. I’ll ride back with you.”

  They rode back across the huge expanse of the camp, which lay quiet under the midday sun. The fortress stood alone and isolated up at the edge of the hills. Jiroannes wondered how the city folk dared resist Bakhtiian, seeing how vast his army was and how no one had yet stood against him.

  “Oh, look,” said Mitya as they neared the ivory and emerald flags that marked the Vidiyan camp, “there’s Aunt Sonia. What’s she doing at your camp?”

  Six jaran women waited at the edge of his camp. No, they did not wait: two stood, four sat, while they watched Samae. Samae! As bold as you please, the slave girl demonstrated a Tadesh dance for them. Her lithe movements, her elegant carriage, gave her an air of nobility and of utter self-possession. Her face bore a mask of concentration, but also an expression of peace. Mitya cast down his eyes to stare at his saddle. He was blushing furiously.

  One of the jaran women looked back over her shoulder, hearing the horses. Samae, attuned to the slightest distraction, glanced up and saw Jiroannes. At once she broke off her dance. Her face shuttered, and she dropped to her knees, bowed her head, and clasped her hands subserviently across her chest. Her shoulders hunched, just slightly, bracing for a blow. Beyond, under the awning of Jiroannes’s tent, Syrannus stood wringing his hands.

  “Mitya!” One of the jaran women spoke. Her anger carried clearly in her tone, and she spun around, flashed an enraged glance up at Jiroannes, and gestured to the other women. “You will leave with us. Now.”

  “Yes, Aunt Sonia.” So meekly, without even the courtesy of a good-bye, Mitya rode off with them. The boy’s head was bowed, and he cast one anguished glance back over his shoulder at Samae, but she continued to stare at the ground.

  How dare the woman speak to him like that? Jiroannes dismounted. A guard ran up to relieve him of the gelding. He walked across to Samae and slapped her. She rocked back, absorbing the blow, but did not otherwise respond.

  “How dare you perform in public like that? Without my permission? And for a group of shameless women, at that, and out where anyone could see you?” She said nothing, of course.

  “Eminence.” It was Syrannus, still wringing his hands. He hurried out to Jiroannes. “I beg you—”

  “Of course you warned me, Syrannus, but you should have had better sense than to even think of sending her out of camp, when you knew that something like this might happen. They will think I have no control whatsoever over my own slaves. How can they respect me?” Then, with a flash of irritation, he noticed that she still wore her coarse hair caught back in a braid. The black ends curled down over the collar of her tunic.

  “Give me a knife,” he said to Syrannus.

  “Eminence!”

  “A knife!” That even Syrannus should begin to question him was the outside of enough.

  Syrannus quailed before his anger and ran to fetch him a knife. “But, eminence, surely the girl has not deserved any punishment—?”

  Jiroannes grabbed the braid and pulled it out, tight. He held the knife against the base of the braid. And Samae jerked away from him.

  He was so shocked by her rebellion that he did not at first react. She had resisted him. She had resisted him.

  “Eminence,” Syrannus hissed. “People are watching.” For once, in the white heat of his anger, he remembered prudence. “You will come with me,” he said in a furious undertone. She obeyed submissively enough now and followed him into his tent. She stood silent and unmoving while he hacked off her hair, leaving it a ragged mess.

  “Now,” he said. “I need my emerald sash and my best clothing. The brocaded boots.” While she dressed him, he called Syrannus in. “What else have we to bring as gifts? Something small but delicate. The spinning birds, perhaps? Yes.” Thus fortified, he left Samae to clean up the ruins of her hair and with Syrannus and four guards as escort, made his way to the center of camp, where Bakhtiian held audience.

  Two soldiers stopped him outside the center ring of tents, and he waited for what seemed ages. Even then, allowed to proceed, he had to leave his own guards behind and go on alone, with only Syrannus as escort. The ground lay clear before Bakhtiian’s tent although a fair number of people, many of them jaran, some of them foreigners, stood along either side. An elderly man signed to Jiroannes to approach, and he walked forward and knelt about twenty steps out from the awning.

  The prince sat on an overturned wagon, on a pillow, with his chief wife beside him. The austerity of Bakhtiian’s dress surprised Jiroannes, especially compared to that of his attendants, both male and female, who wore gold and riches in profusion and fine silk and brocaded clothing. Bakhtiian wore what any common rider wore: the red shirt, the black trousers and boots, with a plain-hilted saber at his belt and a wooden staff bound together with horse-tails across his knees. Deep in conversation with the woman Jiroannes recognized as Mitya’s “Aunt Sonia,” Bakhtiian ignored the ambassador. After a long while, the elderly man tapped Jiroannes’s leg and indicated to him that he should move to one side. So he was not going to be recognized, but he was being allowed to stay. After so long confined to his camp, Jiroannes felt that this, at least, was a small victory. He settled cross-legged on the ground to wait, uncomfortable without a chair to sit on. Syrannus stood behind him, holding the box with the mechanical birds.

  A new foreigner was escorted in, a man in a gold surcoat with two unarmed soldiers in attendance as well as an elderly woman in a plain dress. Bakhtiian looked up. The man knelt before him.

  “Bakhtiian.” So the envoy addressed him, with no other title than that, translated through the woman. “I come from His Majesty, Aronal-sur, King of Habakar and all its subject lands. His Majesty comman
ds me to tell you that he is merciful, and disposed to be kind in this matter. He says this to you: Leave my kingdom and my lands, and I will trouble you no further.”

  Bakhtiian said nothing. He simply sat, examining the envoy without the least sign of fear. With contempt, perhaps. The envoy shifted restlessly under the fierce gaze, looking nervous at first and then frightened.

  “Indeed,” said Bakhtiian at last, in such a low voice that Jiroannes had to strain to hear him, “the king will trouble us no further once he is dead. He made war on us by his own actions. Does he not know that our gods make easy what was difficult? That they make near, what was far? I know what my power is, and soon he shall regret that he angered me. Go. Do not come before me again, unless it is to serve me.”

  Red in the face, the envoy retreated in disorder. A new deputation was brought in, a trio of men dressed in similar robes. Habakar priests, they were, with a complaint: evidently a Farisa wisewoman had come into Habakar territories with the jaran army and was even now proselytizing her religion among the peasants, especially the women. Surely Bakhtiian would not let this outrage continue?

  “I have brought this Farisa wisewoman here as well.” Bakhtiian beckoned forward a plain but intense woman of indeterminate years. Then he sat back and, with the barest glint of a smile on his face, he listened as the priests and the wisewoman argued doctrine. Each side appealed to him at intervals, they with righteousness, she with rather more desperation, but he refused to intervene. His wife rose and left, escorted by Mitya’s aunt. When she returned a little while later, the debaters were still going at it.

  “Enough,” said Bakhtiian after seeing that his wife was settled in comfortably. “You will never agree, so I will make a decision. You will not interfere with each other just as I will not interfere with you unless you violate our laws. But I will say this.” He leaned forward and directed his stern gaze on the three priests. “You suggest to me that I have this woman whipped for her presumption. For your presumption, I order you whipped. If you ever suggest such a practice again, I will have you killed. Take them off.”

  They were led off. And if the Habakar priests looked startled, the Farisa woman looked more startled still.

  The elders of the city of Puranan came forward with five chests of tribute. A party of envoys from another city begged clemency for their citizens and offered to surrender. Three men—one no older than Mitya—were dragged forward in chains. A sobbing woman trailed behind them.

  “What is this?” asked Bakhtiian.

  “These khaja were caught stealing and killing two glariss calves from the Vershinin tribe.”

  “Why have you brought this to me? Of course they must be executed.”

  The woman dashed forward and threw herself prostrate at Bakhtiian’s feet. Sobbing, she spoke in bursts. The plain-dressed woman translated. “Bakhtiian, she says that if you kill these three men, then she will have no more family, because these are her husband, her son, and her brother.”

  “Indeed. Well, then, I do not wish to rob her of every man in her tent. For her sake, one may be spared.”

  The woman clasped her hands together, laying her forehead on them, and spoke toward the ground.

  “She says that she can find another husband, God willing, and that He may also provide her with more children, but for the brother there is no substitute.”

  To Jiroannes’s surprise, Bakhtiian laughed. “It’s quite true, what she says. For her wisdom, I will spare all their lives.” The woman broke out sobbing all over again, and the men cast themselves to the ground in gratitude. “Gods,” said Bakhtiian, looking uncomfortable, “take them away. And fine them for the calves. What is it, Anatoly?”

  Yes, it was he, the handsome young prince with the golden-haired foreign beauty for a wife. But his aspect was quite altered now from what Jiroannes had seen this morning. He strode in looking grim, with a phalanx of armed men walking behind him, escorting a dark-haired jaran man who went pale and flushed by turns. Behind them, escorted by two women, one foreign, one jaran, walked a very young foreign woman. The girl wore Habakar clothing, a shabby gown laced with coils of bronze sewn into an overskirt, and she was pretty, for her kind, if one ignored the terror on her face.

  The one called Anatoly halted before Bakhtiian. He bowed his head. “I am ashamed that I bring this matter before you, that one of my own men has brought this disgrace on our jahar. I ask that you punish me as you would him.” Bakhtiian raised his eyebrows, looking curious, and nodded at Anatoly to continue. “The woman accuses him of robbery, and of—” he hesitated, clearly reluctant to say what came next, “—of forcing her.”

  Jiroannes could not help but smile. What could a woman expect? She was probably a whore trying to get revenge for not being paid. Surely she understood that a conquering army did not expect to pay for conquered women’s services.

  “Bring him forward.” Bakhtiian spoke quietly, but the anger in his voice radiated like fire, scorching. The man came forward and dropped to his knees in front of the prince. “What is your name?”

  “Grigory Zhensky.”

  “You have ridden with the army for—?”

  “Four years, Bakhtiian. First with Yaroslav Sakhalin, and now with Anatoly Sakhalin.”

  “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “Bakhtiian.” The man threw his head back and looked up at his prince. “I would never force a woman.” He said it with distaste, and he looked anguished enough. Jiroannes was utterly confused. What were these men talking about, and apologizing for? “She came to me two nights past, and asked if I wanted to lie with her. There’s been nothing said—no orders have come down the line that we aren’t to touch any khaja women—I thought since she came to me that—” He faltered and lapsed into silence.

  Bakhtiian sighed. He glanced at his wife. She shook her head. Then, as if to bewilder Jiroannes even more, she spoke. “Bring the woman forward.” The woman came forward and knelt in the dirt, shivering. “What is your name?” Tess Soerensen asked, kindly enough. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  The woman spoke through the translator. “I am Qissa, daughter of the merchant Oldrai. It is true that I came to this man and offered him my—my favors; but he took them and then refused to pay me. By the merchant’s code, which I learned at my father’s knee, this is robbery, to take goods without paying for them. And to cast me aside then, that is—”

  The girl spoke the word easily enough, but the translator faltered. “To force a woman. I do not know this word in your tongue, Bakhtiian. I beg you will forgive my ignorance.”

  “You are forgiven,” said Bakhtiian’s wife. “There is no word in khush for forcing a woman against her will.” But the translator shook her head, not understanding her, and Tess Soerensen sighed and returned her attention to the Habakar girl. “You’re a bold thing. Most women would account themselves lucky to be alive. Why did you bring this case forward?”

  The girl clasped her hands so tightly in front of herself that her knuckles faded to white. She looked very young, younger than Mitya. She shuddered convulsively, but she managed to speak. “I have young brothers and sisters. My family lost everything, and now we have nothing to feed them with. So I…we could think of no other way—” She faltered and suddenly, as if fear seized her, she cast herself onto the ground and just lay there, awaiting her fate. The two young riders looked enormously embarrassed; ashamed, even.

  “Gods,” said Bakhtiian. He cast a glance at his wife, as if expecting her to untangle the situation.

  She switched abruptly to Rhuian, and though her voice was low, Jiroannes could still hear her. He leaned forward, listening avidly. “This is what you get, Ilya, when you bring two cultures together. They will misunderstand each other, and if you can’t control it, then you will earn chaos.”

  “Then what do you suggest I do? It is by right a woman’s matter, and should be directed to Mother Sakhalin.”

  “Who, if she is wise, will throw it right back to you. It is all very
well to hold jaran to jaran laws, and to let the khaja hold to khaja laws, but what will you hold them to when they mix? As they will.”

  The principals waited, the two young men with resignation, the girl—well, who could know what she was thinking, with her face hidden in the dirt? And Jiroannes experienced a revelation: Bakhtiian was listening to his wife because he respected her opinion and might well act on it. Like an epiphany, or the climax of sex, it all poured out, all the little hints, the strange behavior, the things he had observed and ignored, all these months he had been with the jaran, and he saw now how thoroughly he had misunderstood them. They were worse than barbarians. As in the ancient tale where the Devil turned the world upside down, forcing people to wear their clothing inside-out, soldiers to till and farmers to fight, women to rule and men to serve them, they were an abomination.

  “Where is the Vidiyan ambassador?” Bakhtiian asked.

  Syrannus had to nudge Jiroannes in the back before he reacted. Jolted out of his thoughts, he started up and stumbled over his own feet before recovering himself. Savages they might be, but his duty demanded that he deal wisely with them. And after all, Mitya was jaran. With dignity, he drew himself up and walked forward and, fastidiously, stepped around the prostrate girl to kneel on one knee before the prince.

  “What should I do, ambassador?” Bakhtiian asked. “The man acted rightly, and yet the woman was wronged. The woman acted out of necessity, and with good faith for the exchange, and yet falsely accused the man.”

  Jiroannes realized that his hands trembled. Thank the Everlasting God that the long dagged sleeves of his bloused tunic covered his hands to the knuckles.

  Then a woman hissed between her teeth. She stood just behind Bakhtiian’s wife, and it took a moment for Jiroannes to recognize her, all decked out in finery: it was indeed Mitya’s Aunt Sonia. “You ask this one to judge?” she demanded of Bakhtiian. “When he is the worst offender of all? He keeps a woman as a slave in our camp!”