by Kate Elliott
“Don’t you have other laws as well? That a man or woman might break?”
“Yes.” Mitya frowned. “It’s true that Vera Veselov betrayed the sanctity of her tribe and was cast down from her high position to act as a servant to the Telyegin family, for so long as she may live. Although now she’s riding with the army, and is a good commander, they say. But still—”
“A slave is a servant,” said Jiroannes, grasping at this explanation. He so desperately did not want Mitya to leave with a disgust of him. “Many people in my country become slaves because they have violated our laws.”
Mitya appeared mollified. “That’s not so different.” He rose and handed the delicate cup carefully back to Lal. “I must go. Perhaps—I may visit another time?”
Jiroannes leapt to his feet and escorted Mitya out to the edge of the encampment. “Assuredly. I would welcome it.” And followed with other effusions, until the boy took his leave and walked out into the night, away into the jaran camp. Jiroannes returned to his chair and sank down into it with a sigh of contentment. Perhaps there was hope for this friendship after all.
“Eminence.” Lal touched his head to the carpet and waited for Jiroannes to notice him.
“You may speak.”
“Eminence, I beg your pardon for this indecent request, but the girl insisted I bring it to your attention.”
“The girl?” He thought for an instant the Habakar captive had importuned Lal. “Did you discover anything more about her?”
Lal was quick. “About the Javani? Nothing, eminence, except that it is a title, not her name. It is Samae who demanded I ask of you if you wish her to go to the young prince tonight.”
The young prince. Jiroannes could not for an instant imagine what Samae meant by this puzzling request. Then, of course, he knew exactly what she meant. The damned whore wanted to go to Mitya. In the four years he had owned her, she had never once come to him without being commanded to. Never. And now she begged for permission—no, for an order—to go to a damned barbarian. He felt a red rage building in him. How dare she make her first request of him now, she who had refused her freedom in order to stay his slave, and make it this? She mocked him. She preferred a half-grown boy to him, who had proven his manhood many times over, with her, with all his concubines, with the quickness of his intellect in the palace school, with his prowess on the hunt and even, once, in battle.
“Tell Samae that the women who run this camp have decreed that she may do what she wishes,” he snarled. He got to his feet in one sharp movement and stalked over to the entrance to his tent. “Send the Javani to me.”
Lal bowed with his hands crossed over his chest and scurried away. Jiroannes thrust the curtained entrance aside and strode into the seclusion of his tent. There he paced up and down, up and down, along the thick carpets that cushioned the interior. When the Javani came at last, she was still afraid of him, but her fear only whetted his appetite.
CHAPTER FOUR
DEPRESSION HUNG OVER THE Company’s camp like a miasmal fog. Each day they traveled with the wagon train farther on through the devastated Habakar lands. Each evening Owen drove them through rehearsals, rearranging parts to cover for Hyacinth’s absence, doubling lines, changing bits of stage direction, but there was no spark. Each day took them that much farther from the place where Hyacinth had left them and that much farther from any hope of seeing Hyacinth alive again.
Gwyn flung a tangle of ropes and stakes down onto the ground in disgust. “Who packed these?” he demanded of Diana as she unrolled the Company tent.
She glanced incuriously at the shapeless mass. “Phillippe.”
Gwyn shook his head, frowning. “At least he remains a professional with his music.”
“Oh, he’d never be that sloppy with music, Gwyn. You know that. There is a point beyond which one can’t go, as an artist.” She managed to draw a smile from him, which was astonishing, considering the mood everyone had been in since Hyacinth had fled over twenty days ago.
“Anahita is sick again.” He crouched and began the laborious task of unraveling the tangled skein. “She spent all day throwing up over the side of the wagon. Yomi took her to see Dr. Hierakis. Diana.” Hearing an odd note in his voice, she looked up at him. His gaze measured her. “You ought to ask Owen if you can take over the leading roles.”
“But—”
“Don’t protest that you don’t want them.”
“Of course I want them! But—”
“But—?”
“I’m too young. I’m not experienced enough.”
“You’re still young to the craft, it’s true, but you’re good enough, and you have more than enough room to grow. You have to make the leap. Otherwise you’ll never be anything but a supporting player. Is that what you want?”
She dropped her eyes away from his gaze, unwilling to let him see the extent of the sheer driven ambition in them. “No. You know it isn’t.”
“That’s why you must take advantage when the opportunity presents itself.”
“But it just seems—unethical, somehow.”
“This isn’t politics, Diana, it’s art.”
“Does that mean that simple standards of human decency don’t count for us, because we’re artists? That we’re beyond ethical considerations because art is a higher form of discourse? I don’t think so. Quite the reverse, I’d say.”
He laughed. “That’s not what I meant. I meant that in politics there may be times when it’s expedient to leave someone in power who’s become incompetent, because in a web like that, there are ways to circumvent the damage that person might do. But not on stage. Her work is suffering.”
It was true. Anahita’s work was suffering. Diana felt it impolite, as a junior member, to agree with Gwyn.
Gwyn added, “And that impacts on all of our work.”
“But to be fair, Gwyn, it’s not just her. We’re all suffering. I never imagined what a catastrophe it would be to lose an actor like this. Not to mention what a catastrophe it must be for Hyacinth, if he’s even still alive.”
“I can’t imagine anyone less suited to wilderness survival than Hyacinth. But he made the choice. Here, I’ve got this all in order now.”
While they raised the tent, Owen came by. “Diana.” He blinked owlishly at her as she struggled to lift the canvas up over the pole. “You’ll be taking over the leading roles starting tonight. We’ll have our first performance with you in that capacity as soon as the army halts for longer than a single night.”
If Diana had not been so well-trained, she would have let the entire edifice, balanced precariously between her and Gwyn, collapse on top of her. “Of course, Owen,” she said, her voice muffled by fabric. She wanted to ask about Anahita, but felt it impolite to do so. It might seem too much like crowing.
“How is Anahita?” Gwyn asked.
“Doctor says she has an ulcer, and some other unspecified complaints. She’s agreed to take supporting roles until her health is better.”
“She agreed to it?” Gwyn asked.
Owen wore his vague look. “She understands professional necessity. Rehearsal in thirty minutes, then, and I’ll need extra time with you afterward, Diana.” He left.
“I wish I’d been able to eavesdrop on that conversation,” said Gwyn. “I wonder what he threatened her with? Hyacinth’s fate?”
“Owen wouldn’t threaten anyone—” Diana trailed off, seeing that Gwyn was laughing at her.
“Di, the man is as ruthless as Bakhtiian when it comes to his domain. You’re being sentimental.”
“Goddess,” she swore. “The leading roles.” She fell silent. He honored her silence, and they finished setting up the tent without another word.
That evening, at their rehearsal on the flat square of ground in between the company tents—there not being time enough to set up the platform and screens—they walked through King Lear, which necessitated few changes except those Ginny wrote in as they worked. Ginny had already recast the play so that S
eshat played Lear as an etsana, rather than Dejhuti playing him as the old king. Ginny had as well conflated the parts of the half brothers Edgar and Edmund with those of Goneril’s and Regan’s husbands. Diana played both Cordelia and the Fool. For whatever reason, rehearsal went well; Owen was pleased. For the first time since Hyacinth’s disappearance, the mood in camp felt optimistic.
Thirty days after Hyacinth’s disappearance, which was also twenty days after Bakhtiian’s return to the army, they came to a great river that wound through the land. There, like a vision on the other side of the river, Diana saw a city with gleaming white walls and silver towers and goats grazing peaceably outside the walls amid the sprawl of huts and hovels where, presumably, the poorest people lived. The city astonished her, all marble and colored tile, a romantic’s dream. Beyond the city, grain ripened in the sun, and farther still, orchards blanketed the gentle slopes of surrounding hills. This was a beautiful countryside, rich, fertile, and handsome. And yet, on this side of the river, the army arranged its camp on fields long since trampled and withered by the summer’s heat. She felt a sudden, sharp sympathy for the Habakar people and for their lands. What a horrible thing it was, to destroy such beauty. How had this piece survived? Had the jaran army been unable to cross the river?
But even as she thought it, she saw a troop of red-shirted, armored horsemen riding out from around the city: jaran riders. What if one of them was Anatoly? She had an hour before her call for rehearsal, so she ran to the Veselov camp, hoping to get news from Arina.
The Veselov camp was settling in for what Diana could now recognize was a long stay—at least two days. Girls beat carpets and laid them out to air in the sun. Three boys dug out a huge fire pit in the center of the camp, in front of Arina’s great tent. Mira, running around with a pack of children, caught sight of Diana and ran over to greet her with a kiss. Diana hoisted her up and went in search of her mother. She found Arina at the other edge of camp, saying good-bye to her husband. Kirill rode off with a handful of other men, including the gorgeous cousin Vasil, and Arina turned and saw Diana.
“I’m so pleased to see you.” Arina kissed her on each cheek and regarded her with pleasure. They exchanged more commonplaces as they walked back into camp.
“Will the camp be staying here for long?” Diana asked.
“Yes. There’s forage and supplies to be had here. Yaroslav Sakhalin has returned.”
“With his whole army?”
“Oh, no. Evidently they’ve laid in a siege at the king’s royal city, but Sakhalin returned to see if it was true that Bakhtiian did not die. Then he’ll return. Kirill went to attend Bakhtiian.” She said it proudly. Diana thought it sweet how proud Arina was of her husband, who had done so well despite his debilitating injury. “He can use his hand again, although it’s very weak.”
“He can? How did that happen?”
“The gods graced him, I suppose. I think he’s suffered enough.” Arina paused to survey her domain and to direct some girls in the placement of an awning, two tents, and a bronze stove. “Do you think,” Arina added in a lower voice, “that I’m selfish to hope that, even if his arm does heal, Kirill won’t be able to ride with the army again?”
Which, like all of these men, was probably his greatest desire. “No,” said Diana softly, touching Arina’s hand, “I don’t think so. Is there any news of Anatoly? Did he come back with his uncle?” A surge of hope shook through her.
“I don’t know. But Kirill will know, surely, when he returns.”
Diana lingered there until it was time for rehearsal, but Kirill did not return. That night, Anatoly did not come to her tent. In the morning Owen appeared in high good humor, having managed a coup of sorts. He had convinced Bakhtiian to let the troupe ride with a jaran escort into the Habakar city and there put on a performance. He chose The Caucasian Chalk Circle in its untranslated, unexpurgated form, since these Habakar people could not understand them anyway and would presumably have no problem accepting a male as judge. Diana already played the leading role, and Owen and Ginny, as understudies, could cover Hyacinth’s parts.
They rode out in the wagons about noon. Members of the Veselov jahar had been assigned as their escort. Arina agreed to come along, and the excursion along a winding road past a bend in the river and to the long pontoon bridge laid out over the waters proved marvelous. It was hot, but not too hot. Trees lined the riverside, shading the road. Rushes carpeted the shore. Out on the water, with the huge inflated skins and wooden road rocking beneath them, a breeze sprang up and curled in Diana’s hair and cooled her cheeks. The muddy water flowed on, oblivious to their passing. If only Anatoly were here, this day would be perfect, but Arina had not seen Kirill since he went to council with Bakhtiian. Vasil had come back to lead the little expedition, but he had no news. However, Arina had heard from Mother Sakhalin that Anatoly was not with his uncle and that, indeed, Yaroslav Sakhalin had already ridden out at dawn, to go back to his army.
On the other side of the river, Diana felt like she had come to some fairy country. Farmers stared at them from fields turning gold in the stark, clean light of the summer sun. The people looked cautious and frightened, but their clothes were sturdy and their faces hale. Grain trembled in the wind, flowing in waves across lush acreage, bordered by dry ditches out of which green shoots and scarlet lilies poked ragged heads. The city loomed before them. With their escort around them, the company passed through the open gates without the least trouble and trundled into a city for the first time in what seemed years.
Diana stared, enchanted by the scene. Gardens flowered between orderly groups of stone and mudbrick houses. Trees overhung the streets. A marble fountain graced a courtyard, glimpsed through a latticework doorway. A white citadel rose in the center of the city; off to one side soared the delicate minarets of what she presumed was either a palace or a temple. Down side streets she saw Habakar natives dressed in bright clothing, hurrying about their business. This main thoroughfare along which they rode sat deserted, as if the populace had been warned to stay out of their way. Pale brick paved the avenue, so smooth and cunningly fitted together that the wagons did not jolt at all as they made their way in to the central marketplace. Would it, too, be deserted?
But the market colonnade bustled with activity, even when they reached it with their escort of dread jaran riders. Streamers of variegated silk hung from the sexpartite vaults that made up the colonnade, which were otherwise open to the air on all sides. Diana could see that it was gloomy underneath the vaulted colonnades, but all around on the outskirts old women in embroidered black shawls sold fruit and vegetables from the backs of painted carts and men with frogged, knee-length brocaded jackets and dyed leather shoes hawked bolts of silk and utensils of bronze and iron. The intense bustle of the marketplace slowed to a halt as Habakar merchants and buyers froze and stared. Many melted away. Others, more brazen or perhaps simply resigned, returned to their business. Veselov fanned his riders out, and they sat with their horses on a tight rein and watched this activity with perplexed expressions. Owen herded the actors out of the wagons and, in record time, they set up the platform and placed the screens for their makeshift stage.
They drew an odd sort of audience while they set up. People stared but did not linger, as if they did not want to draw attention to themselves. Children edged close to watch and were dragged away by their elders.
Owen strode up to Diana as she adjusted a screen to Joseph’s precise specifications: a 38-degree angle exactly, no more, no less. “Diana. Who is that?” He gestured. She turned.
He was looking straight at Vasil Veselov, who sat astride his horse not fifty paces from them, watching the stage assembly with interest. With that absolute instinct for an audience that he possessed, Vasil shifted his gaze to look toward Owen and Diana.
“That’s Vasil Veselov. He’s Arina Veselov’s cousin, and he’s also dyan—warleader—of their tribe.”
“Perfect.” Owen examined Veselov. “Look at the angle of the
shoulders, and the tilt of the chin. He’s canted just off center, too, in his seat on the horse, which draws attention without seeming to and without imperiling his stability in the saddle. And that face. Goddess, if I’d had that face, I would have stayed an actor.”
“A good thing you didn’t have it, then,” retorted Diana, stung by his praise. It wasn’t as if Veselov was acting; he was just being himself. She had never heard Owen praise anyone so extravagantly, not even Gwyn. “Everyone says your genius is for directing.”
“So it is,” agreed Owen without a trace of arrogance. “He’s acting without knowing he’s doing it, and he’s doing it right, by and large. I’ve been watching him for the whole ride over here. He’s taught himself the art of listening and the art of connecting. Do you know how many competent actors I’ve worked with who took years to get where he is now?”
Diana wondered ungraciously if Owen counted her among their number, but then Yomi came over to chase her back to the tent set up as a dressing room behind the platform.
The performance was a disaster and yet absolutely wonderful. The setting itself could not be improved upon. Coming onstage for her first entrance, Diana felt transported to some ancient scene. They could have been any group of itinerant actors out making their way along the Silk Road, the famous Earth trade route that ran across the mountains and deserts and steppes of Asia, stopping in this medieval oriental city made glorious by its marble colonnades and gentle silk banners. Even the play, in its own way, seemed ironically appropriate: During a revolt in feudal Georgia, Grusha, a servant girl, flees to the mountains with the Governor’s small son, who has been abandoned in the panic by his mother; in the second act, a drunken village clerk named Azdak is made a judge by the rebel soldiers and tries the case to determine which of the women is the child’s true mother.
From the beginning, they attracted a hard-core audience off to the left who stayed in place for the entire play. But other than that group, and the jaran riders who patrolled the square with half an eye on the Habakar natives and half on the play, the audience shifted and grew and shrank according to some tidal schedule that Diana could not interpret. It was frustrating, and yet, it was in part for this experiment that she had come, to see what would play, what could communicate, across such a gulf of space and culture, to touch those who were open to being touched. And, inspired by the setting, by the city, by the bright colored silks or the clear blue of the afternoon sky, the acting fell into place and they worked off each other in that seamless fiction that can never be achieved except by grace, fortune, and sheer, hard repetitious work brought by a fortuitous combination of events to its fruition in transcendent art.