by Kate Elliott
Without a word, without looking at her, he placed her hand back in her lap and left.
“Oh, God,” she said to herself as she watched him walk away. As she watched him as any woman watches a man she is attracted to, measuring the set of his shoulders and the line of his hips and the promise of his hands. No wonder Sonia had warned her against him.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
TESS REFUSED TO GO on the next day. Ilya raged at her, but she simply smiled and kissed him, and Sonia backed her up. So he rested. The day after, she agreed to go on only if he would ride in the wagon all day. Furious but trapped, he submitted.
That day they came down onto the Habakar plain, and scouts and patrols came by in increasing numbers just to get a look at him. The next day, and the next, and the next, he grew stronger in stages. They journeyed at a leisurely pace, attended by his jahar and visited by an ever-growing number of riders. Bakhtiian, they would say, pointing at him from a distance. Some came forward to pay their respects. He gave brief audiences in the evening. Tess always had to cut them short before he was ready to quit, but he was pushing himself constantly, and Cara shook her head and disapproved.
Tess was shocked at the wasteland the army had made of these lands. She could tell they had been rich, once, that they had been rich just a month before—before the jaran army had descended on them. They passed no village, no city, that was not torn by war or deserted. They passed no field that was not trampled into dust. Once they passed a pasture strewn with corpses rotting in the sun. Tess saw not one living person, except for the jaran. Ilya muttered to himself and that evening he sent messengers forward to prepare the main camp to receive him. He sent a messenger to Mother Sakhalin, asking that he and she hold an audience once he had arrived.
Riders lined the path of their train’s progress, to watch him go by. The closer they came to the main camp, each day that passed, the more riders appeared along their route. Three more days passed. At midday on the fourth day—twelve days after he had emerged from his coma—they made their triumphal entrance to the main camp.
It was noisy, both the camp and their reception. Over the protests of almost everyone, Ilya mounted his black stallion and rode at the head of the procession, Tess on his left, Josef and Mitya on his right. Tess knew well enough that Josef’s presence served to remind them all of why they were here in Habakar territory, and Mitya’s to remind them that Bakhtiian had heirs. Vladimir, bearing the gold banner, rode behind, and after him came Bakhtiian’s personal guard, the members of the Orzhekov jahar, resplendent in their armor. After them came Sonia, driving a cart in whose back sat the other Orzhekov children who were with the tribe. Then rode the rest of his jahar, followed by the wagon train and the rearguard.
The members of the camp and the army had assembled, making an avenue between them down which Bakhtiian rode. The way was straight and clear through the huge camp, angling in to the center where lay the Sakhalin encampment and a broad empty field reserved for the Orzhekov tribe. Sonia had sent a wagon ahead in the night, with Aleksi and Ursula, containing the great tent. Now it stood alone in the center of the field. Ilya was glad enough to dismount and recline on the pillows lying there for his use. He was tired, but not as tired as he had been, and his face shone. Tess sank down beside him. They watched as the wagons trundled in and made their spiraling ring around the central tent. The camp grew up around them.
Mitya and Galina brought them food and drink. Ilya dozed a little. When he woke, he gazed at Tess with a quizzical look in his eyes.
“What is it?” she asked. She smiled. She felt deliriously happy. She had gambled, and it had paid off. It made her feel reckless. He looked stronger already, In another ten or twenty days, it would seem as if the entire episode had not happened at all.
“I haven’t seen you wear jahar clothes since—” He shrugged. “Since I don’t know when.”
“Men’s clothes don’t fit a pregnant belly.”
He smiled suddenly, “A child, Tess. Think of it.”
“My bladder thinks of it constantly. We need better plumbing.”
“What you wish, you shall have, my wife. But, ah, do you have any designs in mind?”
“I wish David was here. He’s the engineer. He could design something simple and efficient.”
His eyes narrowed. “David ben Unbutu. Tess.” He hesitated.
“Yes?”
“Never mind.” He shook his head. “I’m hungry.”
“Still?”
But his expression changed, and an entirely new gleam lit his eyes as he examined her. “Just now.” He reached out to take her hand, caught it up, and hastily dropped it again. “Tess. We’ll go to our bed early tonight.”
Demurely, she straightened out the folds in her tunic so that the brocade lay smooth over her crossed legs. “Whatever you say, my husband,” she replied, smiling. “Are you sure you won’t have some important audience to attend?”
“Quite sure.” He propped himself up on one elbow. “There is Mother Sakhalin. You see, after I’ve seen her, then there’s no one else I need see, no one but you.” He got to his feet carefully and walked across to greet Mother Sakhalin and to escort her to a pillow next to him. She came attended by a huge retinue: etsanas, dyans, ambassadors, and even, to Tess’s surprise, several members of the acting troupe.
“Bakhtiian,” said Mother Sakhalin, acknowledging him. “Well met. It is with joy that I greet you this day.”
He accepted her benediction with becoming modesty. Pleasantries, sweet cakes, and tea were passed around. “Most of the news of the army I have heard,” he said, after a decent interval had passed. “Is there other news I ought to hear?”
Tess enjoyed watching Mother Sakhalin and Ilya together. They respected each other, and yet they remained wary, too, of the power the other one wielded. Mother Sakhalin had a vicious sense of humor and Ilya enough aplomb to match her. Tess suspected that they were the kind of pair who, had they been of an age, might have been lovers but never, ever, husband and wife. Sakhalin presented Ilya with various events, and he exclaimed over her wisdom and adroitness in handling them.
“The barbarian ambassador, the one with the slave, may yet learn wisdom,” she said finally. “He has asked that his guardsmen be allowed to marry khaja women and bring them into camp.”
“Has he, indeed?”
She considered him with amusement. “Of course, that is not how he asked, but he did his best to bring the matter forward modestly and with good manners. I told him that as long as they treated the women as they would treat their own wives, I might allow it.”
“That was generous of you, Mother Sakhalin. But can you be sure they treat their own wives well?”
She looked affronted. “Surely any wife is treated with respect? Even savages must know such simple courtesies.”
“Is this all that has happened in camp in my absence, Mother Sakhalin?”
For an instant, and no longer than that, the old woman hesitated. Then she went on. “There is nothing more that needs to be brought to your attention. Six horses were stolen. We have sent out a jahar to look for the thieves.”
“Horses stolen? In the midst of this army? The thieves must be desperate souls, indeed.”
But instead of answering, Mother Sakhalin took her leave, and her retinue departed with her. Except for the actors. They tarried. Tess waved them forward: an embassy of four, Ginny Arbha, Yomi Applegate-Hito, Diana Brooke-Holt, and Gwyn Jones.
“Well met,” Tess rose to greet them, but their sober faces told her immediately that all was not well. “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”
“Mother Sakhalin didn’t tell you?” began Diana, and then broke off, looking embarrassed.
“Is something wrong?” asked Ilya in Rhuian. “May I help?”
Ginny turned to Tess. “There’s been a disaster,” she said in Anglais. “Hyacinth has run off with a man and his sister, and he stole things from our camp.”
“Oh, God,” said Tess. “What di
d he take?”
“His own gear, which included a little solar-celled heating unit and his computer slate, a thermal blanket, some other things.” She faltered and looked to Yomi.
“A water purifier. A frying pan. Some rope. A tent, which has heating coils in the fabric, as you know. One hundred bags of tea. A lantern, solar-celled. A medical kit. A permanent match.” Yomi faltered as well.
“And a knife,” finished Ginny, “with an emergency transmitter and broad field stun capability built in.”
“Oh, God,” repeated Tess. “Have you let my brother know?”
“Immediately.”
“What did he say?”
“He said to contain the damage, if we could. He said to leave the problem in your hands for now.”
“I’ll have to thank him,” said Tess wryly, “when I see him again.” She glanced down and surprised a peculiar expression on Ilya’s face. “I beg your pardon,” she said in Rhuian, and immediately all the actors begged pardon as well.
“Not at all,” said Ilya, so softly and politely that she knew he was furious. “I beg your pardon for disturbing your reunion.”
“One of the actors has run off,” Tess explained. “But you never did explain why,” she added, glancing at Ginny.
“Tess,” said Ginny, again in Anglais, “evidently they have some kind of taboo on same-sex relationships in this culture. Poor stupid Hyacinth was caught with one of the young men, the young man was exiled, and his sister and Hyacinth ran off with him, to share his exile, no doubt. The Goddess knows, the only thing they’ll share is an ugly death. We’re heartsick about it, but what can we say? It’s their taboo. Perhaps you would like to explain this story to your husband. Evidently Mother Sakhalin did not.”
Tess said, “You’d better go. Let me know if you hear anything. I’ll have to think about this.”
They made polite farewells and hurried away.
“It is one thing,” said Ilya in a low, taut voice, “to go to their tents and speak with them in their own tongue. It is quite another to speak it in front of me so that I can’t understand what you’re saying. Couldn’t you have been more discreet? At least gone aside. Gods, Tess! How do you think I felt sitting here like a damned idiot? I’ll thank you to treat me with more respect in the future.”
“Ilya.” She sat down. “Now listen. You must recall that they come from another land, and they didn’t know whether what we were discussing might embarrass or offend you.”
“Well? Surely Mother Sakhalin gave me the entire report. There was nothing offensive there. Why did the actor run off?”
She hesitated. “He was caught with another man.”
Ilya went red with anger. “So Mother Sakhalin has yet to forgive me for Vasil. We will see about this. I suppose they’re the ones who stole the horses.” He struggled to his feet.
“Ilya, I don’t think—”
“By the gods,” he said, brushing her hand away, “I’ll lead the damned search party myself.”
“Ilya!” She jumped up. “Don’t be a fool. You idiot—!” But he stalked off. “Aleksi!” Aleksi appeared from around the corner of the tent, his hands grimed from greasing down an axle. “Send Mitya after him, damn it!” He nodded and obeyed.
Ilya did not come back that evening. Mitya did. What had passed between Bakhtiian and Mother Sakhalin he did not know, but Bakhtiian had ridden off to see the nearby city which had fallen. The last remnant of its city garrison was holed up in the citadel and in the neighboring temple, still fighting. Bakhtiian, Mitya said, had been in a rare foul mood and had ordered his jahar to ride out with him to end the siege once and for all.
Tess felt sick. Physically sick. Her abdomen cramped all evening. Cara fussed over her and made her drink lots of tea and ran a scan over her, but her signs remained positive. The next day dragged by. Ilya did not return. They received no news except that renewed fighting had begun at the city, spurred on by Bakhtiian’s arrival. Tess slept poorly. Another day dragged by; another night came. At Cara’s insistence she went to bed, but now her back ached. She dozed. Then, starting awake, she heard him walk quietly through the outer chamber and push the curtain aside to come in to her.
“Ilya? Ilya, please don’t be mad at me.”
He sank down beside her and reached, groping a little in the darkness, and found her face, and kissed her. “I’m not mad at you.”
It was not Ilya.
“Vasil!” She broke away from him. “Who gave you leave to come in here?”
“I heard that your back is hurting you.” With no more invitation that that, he slid the blanket down off her bare back and stroked his hands along the curve of her lower back while she lay on her side.
“That feels good.” Tess relaxed suddenly against his hands.
“I learned to do this for Karolla. Her back always aches her when she’s pregnant, especially when there’s a little one to be carried about. She said it helps.”
“It does help.” It did help. He worked without hurry, slowly, up her back to her shoulders and her neck. She sighed and shut her eyes—not that it mattered; it was pitch black, and he worked solely by touch—until he ran his hands over her shoulders and started down her front. “Vasil.”
“If you tell me to leave, I will leave,” he said, and she knew he was telling the truth. In this one matter, she was certain of it.
“Vasil, you shouldn’t be here.” His hands had retreated to her shoulders.
“I’m alone in a tent with a woman whose husband is gone. What is wrong with that?”
“Well, I didn’t invite you here, for one thing.”
“Yes, but I’m sure you would have, if only I’d put myself in your way this afternoon. I do beg your pardon for forgetting to do so.”
She chuckled. “Not convincing enough.”
“Your back hurts. Admit I’ve made you feel better.”
“You’ve made me feel better.”
“Do you like sleeping alone?” he asked, curious.
“No.”
“Well, then—”
“You have a wife,” said Tess. “Does she like to sleep alone?”
“She has children to share her pillows with.”
Tess laughed. “I’m not sure if this is any more convincing, but you’re certainly persistent.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
She knew she should say yes. She knew it very well. But she was cold, and lonely, and out of sorts, and, according to jaran custom, quite within her rights to entertain a lover in her husband’s absence. Indeed, Sonia thought her rather odd for not having taken any lovers since her marriage, but then, much was forgiven her because of her khaja birth and upbringing. “I don’t know,” she said at last, unwilling to say no, unwilling to say yes.
And then, of course, she heard voices outside and footsteps through the outer chamber.
“You bastard,” she said softly, “you knew he’d just come back tonight, didn’t you?”
The curtain swept aside and Ilya appeared there, holding a lantern. In the glow, Tess saw that Vasil was smiling.
The silence drew out so long that at last Tess sat up, drawing the blanket up to cover her breasts. The dim light made Ilya seem as pale as wax. He did not speak, he only stared. Vasil simply sat, a half smile frozen on his face. Tess watched them.
Ilya’s voice was low and sharp. “If you try to steal her from me, I promise you, Veselov, I will kill you. Get out.”
“I was not aware,” said Vasil, even softer, “that it was your tent to order me about in. She has not asked me to leave.”
Ilya did not take his gaze off Vasil, as if he feared that once he did so, some disaster would occur. “Tess, tell him to leave.”
“No,” said Tess. She saw how Ilya started, how his gaze leapt to her. He was astonished. “No,” she repeated, and drew in a breath to tell him—to tell him that she was tired of watching him run away from his fear, whatever his fear was, whatever he feared Vasil for. That she had to know, finally, what Vasil
meant to him.
“Damn you,” he said. “Damn you.” But he wasn’t talking to her at all. He was talking to Vasil. “This is how you revenge yourself on me, isn’t it, Vasil? By stealing her love from me. Did you think I doubted that you could do it? Of course I did everything in my power to keep you away from her. But you waited until I was helpless, didn’t you? And now…” He was shaking, and Tess realized to her horror that he was about to start weeping from sheer, hopeless grief. “Grandmother Night is laughing at me. Gods, how bitter her bargains are. She means to take everything from me that I love except what I was willing to give to her in the first place.”
“Ilya,” Tess began, horrified that she had forced him to this. She started up to her feet.
“He’s drunk,” said Vasil, stopping her with his words. She sank back down. “He never goes on like this unless he’s drunk.”
“And he’d know,” said Ilya in a hostile voice. “You’d know, wouldn’t you, Vasil? You’ve seen me drunk often enough.”
“I’ve never seen you drunk,” said Tess. “Never.” Except once, when Dr. Hierakis had gotten him drunk—but she’d seen him more under the influence of anesthesia than alcohol.
Ilya took one step and then another, and Tess could not tell whether the steps were unsteady because he was indeed drunk or simply because he was exhausted. He fumbled with the lantern, hoisting it up to tie it to the thong dangling from the pole above. Vasil rose at once, to stand next to him, close to him, and took the lantern from his hands and deftly hung it up. Then he turned and caught Ilya’s face between his hands, and kissed him on the lips. For an instant, an hour, no more than two seconds, they kissed. Then Ilya twisted away from Vasil and stumbled over his own feet and collapsed beside Tess on the pillows.
A strange mood enveloped Tess, that outside this ring of light cast by the lantern nothing else existed.
“You are drunk,” she said finally, smelling the distinctive aroma of fermented milk on him.
Vasil towered above them. “Rough work, that battle?”
“Miserable,” said Ilya. He stared at his hands, whether because of what they had done at the battle or because he did not want to look at her and Vasil, Tess could not tell. “Five women were killed.”