The Novels of the Jaran

by Kate Elliott

  Stefan clenched his hands and refused to reply.

  “Have you been talking to her?” Vasha whispered in his ear.

  “A man is allowed to talk to a woman!” Stefan lapsed into an indignant silence.

  The soldiers settled in for a long wait as the congregation alternated singing and listening. The three on foot hunkered down; Berezin whittled at a stick of wood. The riders dismounted and led their horses around the periphery, reappearing at intervals. Dusk bled to twilight and twilight faded into night. Stars filled the sky. Brother Saghir circled the congregation with a lit lantern bobbing up and down in front of him like a beacon, and when he returned to the altar he spoke rhythmic words to the congregation which they repeated back to him.

  Vasha could not help but stare at Rusudani. She swayed in time to Brother Saghir’s speaking, and he had a feeling that she alone of the gathered was speaking the words to herself along with the priest. Her dark head was bent submissively, her hands clasped and pressed against her breast. Vasha felt uncomfortable all of a sudden, and he walked around a little bit to work off his nerves.

  Finally, Brother Saghir poured a full cup of red wine out on the ground and first Rusudani and after her the others in turn came forward to touch the damp earth, their way lighted by Brother Saghir with the lantern. Then Brother Saghir opened the wooden box and lifted out a loaf of bread, they sang a final song, and that seemed to signal the end of their worship.

  The townspeople filtered away toward Sarai. Rusudani’s escort reassembled and she walked with dignity back into their guard. Jaelle, behind her, glanced toward Stefan and away. Poor Stefan looked pathetically gratified by that scrap of attention.

  Suddenly, Rusudani looked straight toward Vasha. “Brother Saghir tells me you spoke with him about the word of God,” she said; that is, she spoke the words in her tongue and Jaelle translated them into Taor.

  Vasha was horrified and ecstatic together. “Yes,” he managed to reply. By the light of the lanterns held by her escort, Rusudani’s face glowed mysteriously.

  “What does she say?” asked Berezin. Vasha was so thrilled by the old soldier’s interest that he could hardly reply for fear of saying something stupid.

  “She says, she saw, that I spoke with her priest about their God.”

  “And did you speak with him?”

  “I did.” On this ground, Vasha felt sure of himself. “It is always wise to learn the ways of the khaja, so that we may rule them more wisely.”

  Berezin lifted an expressive eyebrow. “That is true, and sensibly said.”

  Vasha felt the fierce pain of hope, like Brother Saghir’s promised salvation. If a soldier like Berezin spoke in his favor…but Berezin was already moving off, saying something to one of his riders about some of the straggling townspeople.

  Rusudani was talking again, and Jaelle translated. “Princess Rusudani says that she had heard that there were followers of the True Faith among the jaran, but that when she came among you she saw that it was not so. For this reason she feared you.” Jaelle looked nervous saying these words. Vasha, risking a glance full at Rusudani’s face, did not think the princess looked afraid. She looked more annoyed than anything, as if she wasn’t sure she could trust her servant to translate correctly. “But Sister Yvanne brought her to a fuller knowledge of God’s will, and if that means that she must follow the path of the Pilgrim, Our Holy Sister, then so will she follow that path.”

  Berezin signaled, and the guard formed around Rusudani, herding her away. She went without a backward glance for Vasha. Vasha wanted to follow her, to speak to her again, but he did not dare to. What if Berezin did not approve? What did it matter what Berezin thought, anyway, if Bakhtiian had already turned against him?

  “What am I going to do?” he asked the air, wanting to cry, but he could not.

  From the altar, Brother Saghir looked up at him, hearing his tone if not understanding the words. “I will pray with you, if you wish, Prince Vasil’ii,” he said sympathetically, and Vasha winced away from the title, knowing he had no right to it.

  “Come on,” said Stefan. “I know an inn in Sarai where we can get drunk in peace.” He took Vasha by the arm and drew him away.

  But Vasha shook loose of him and went over to Brother Saghir first. “I thank you,” he said, not sure whether he was thanking the khaja priest for his sympathy or for his kind-hearted ignorance, giving Vasha the title he so badly wished for, that of prince, a true prince, acknowledged as such by khaja and jaran.

  Then, because it seemed the best solution to his pain, he went with Stefan and got blindingly drunk.

  After three days, a delegation of older men requested permission, through Konstans Barshai, who diligently maintained the ring of guards around the tent, to see Bakhtiian. Tess could not quite bring herself to go directly in with them, but she could not stand to miss the confrontation, so she simply let herself into the inner chamber through the un-sewn back flap and peeked through the curtain.

  There were five men, Niko Sibirin, Sonia’s husband Josef Raevsky, Kira and Stassia’s husbands, and Gennady Berezin. They sat, as was their right, and Josef refused help in finding a pillow to sit on until Ilya himself, shamed by Josef’s blind groping, helped him. Niko acted as spokesman.

  “Why have you grown angry, Bakhtiian?” he asked.

  Ilya glowered at them and did not answer.

  “The Habakar king fled from your wrath and came to a bad end, and now his cities and his people belong to the tribes. Our armies are rich, and with each day they continue to advance southward. People of three different faiths bow to our governors. How can you remain angry?”

  Still Ilya did not reply, but his hands shifted restlessly on his knees.

  “The child knows he has done wrong,” continued Niko, “but now he is afraid of your anger. If you continue in this way, you will break his spirit. Let him see you.”

  The other men nodded in agreement. The silence lasted a long time, but these were men who were both willing and able to wait Ilya out. After a while, Niko unfolded a khot board and got out some stones and he and Josef commenced playing a game.

  Yuri poked his head through the back flap, and Tess, with a hand over her mouth, waved him away. Ilya had responded to the provocation of the game by pressing his mouth together more firmly and refusing to be drawn, but like the others he could not help but watch. Josef was the finest khot player in the Orzhekov tribe. He used an unpolished set of stones, and he played by touch, his fingers fluttering across the board, lightly marking each stone as it was laid down in order to memorize its position. When the game ended, with Josef winning as usual, Ilya stirred.

  “Very well.”

  When Niko brought him before the tent, and Konstans Barshai pulled back his spear in order to let Vasha through, Vassily shuddered, a shock wave passing through him so hard and fast that at first he could not step forward.

  He heard Bakhtiian’s voice say, “Send him in,” and he felt for an instant as if he had never heard that voice before. Memory hit him, staggering him: Eight years ago he had stood before this tent a tribeless, kinless child of eleven, thrown on the mercy of the Orzhekov tribe, and been called in to stand before the man who would pass judgment on him with those same sharp words.

  Except that in the end Tess Soerensen, not Bakhtiian, had made a choice whose repercussions had, perhaps inevitably, led him to this moment when Bakhtiian would repudiate him once and for all.

  Niko nudged him, and with the old man beside him, he forced himself to push past the entrance flap and go inside. Konstans Barshai followed them in, as if to guard Bakhtiian against the threat Vasha posed, and after him a handful of other men. Vasha did not really see them.

  Bakhtiian sat on a pillow, a closed book balanced on his left knee, covered by a hand, and his other hand in a fist on the carpet beside him. Vasha scarcely had time to draw breath before Bakhtiian started in.

  “I have satisfied myself that the report I have heard of your behavior is true. Do
you dispute it?”

  Vasha shook his head numbly.

  “Is this the way a child of the Orzhekov tribe is expected to conduct himself? Do we train our boys to grow up into men who will steal women out of the sanctity of the tents—”

  That was too much. “We didn’t steal her! She ran to us—”

  “Silence! I did not ask you to speak. Can an army march when the soldiers will not obey their captain? Truly, ‘the boy who does not respect his uncle will never learn to fight.’ Is a boy’s judgment to be honored above that of a man? If the children of the jaran refuse to respect the wisdom of their elders, why should the gods grant us their favor any longer?”

  The force of Bakhtiian’s anger felt like heat, melting him. The worst of it was, this was just the beginning.

  “When the tribes first came to earth and their tents spread from the west to the east, there were two brothers, Mstislav and Daniil. Now Daniil had but a single eye in the middle of his forehead, and with this eye he could see as far distant a place as would take a man three days to ride. One day he saw a tribe riding toward them, and he spied a young woman riding in their midst who was as fair as the dawn. At once he asked his brother to ride down and see what this tribe was, so that he might marry the young woman. Mstislav agreed, and he rode down to the tribe, but coming before her, he fell in love with her as well. But because he had given his brother his sworn word, he did not mark the woman, but instead marked her older sister, who was also unmarried. Daniil rode into the tribe as well, and he marked the younger sister. So came the brothers into the tribe.”

  Vasha could not have moved even if he had wanted to. Although, outside, the season was turning, he found it inexplicably stuffy in the tent, and he sweated and sweated.

  “Mstislav’s wife bore two daughters and four sons, and Daniil’s wife bore four daughters and two sons, but all those years Mstislav nursed his jealousy against his brother, and this jealousy he passed down into his sons’ hearts.

  “In time Mstislav passed away, but his sons nursed their father’s resentment against their uncle Daniil. They did not leave to marry women in other tribes because their grievance had blinded them to their duty.”

  Vasha was beginning to feel faint. Sweat trickled down the small of his back. His feet felt so hot and swollen that it hurt to stand on them.

  “One day when the jahar rode out to scout, Daniil saw a jahar of an enemy tribe riding toward them, still three days off. He alerted the jahar and they turned and rode into the broken lands to protect themselves. The four brothers refused to believe him. They had seen no signs of a large force nearby. They remained in the valley where the grass was sweet and plentiful. The other jahar arrived at dawn on the third day and killed them.

  “Any man I name dyan in my armies is as an uncle to you, and any boy who will not heed the word of his uncle is as good as dead to his tribe.”

  The tirade went on. Vasha lost track of words and then phrases and then whole portions as he concentrated more and more on simply not toppling over. He began to hear, not the words, but the spate of words and the pauses during which Bakhtiian took breath to start in again.

  During a pause, a new voice broke in, staggering Vasha with its placidity.

  “All of these words are true,” said Niko slowly, “but what is the point of abusing the boy at such length? If you end by putting fear in his heart, then how will he ever learn what to do in war? He is young. Like an immature eagle, his first strike may fail to capture his chosen prey.”

  Then Konstans spoke. “Why strike with your anger against the boy? We have enemies enough. Set us loose against them, and the gods will give us greater strength, greater riches, and many more people to rule. You need only to ask, ‘Which people?’ and I would tell you that the king of Mircassia and the prince of Filis alone prevent us from ruling all the lands between the plains and Jeds. Let us strike at them now and with such fury that they will scatter and run and beg to become our servants.”

  There was a long silence.

  Bakhtiian stirred finally. For the first time his gaze shifted away from Vasha. Vasha’s knees almost gave out. “It is past time for me to rejoin the army, and to call in Zvertkov’s army to join with Sakhalin’s in the attack against Mircassia and Filis. Between those two swords, the khaja will fall.” He paused. “The boy can go to Kirill Zvertkov, providing he behaves himself. He may ride with us southward until we meet up with Zvertkov’s jahar.”

  He lifted a hand, to signal that the audience was over.

  Vasha gaped. So casually came the reprieve. At first he was too stunned to feel anything. Hard on that came shame: Shame, that Katya had been right. Bakhtiian coddled him, in the wrong way, making things easy for him because, perhaps…well, how could he know why? A real father would have been less lenient.

  But I will prove myself worthy, he said, voicing the words soundlessly. Aware that the other men watched him, he accepted the pronouncement with a cool nod, turned without haste, and walked out of the tent on steady legs. But it was too much to have to face the crowd that greeted him outside.

  Tess saved him, as usual.

  “Come, Vasha. I want you and Stefan to attend me at Princess Rusudani’s tent.”

  The thought of Rusudani calmed him at once. With her serene face and composed voice as a promise held before him, he could press through the assembly without quailing.

  In the end, Tess did nothing more on that visit than establish the language Rusudani spoke, a dialect of the Yos language, confirm the princess’s pedigree, and listen politely while Rusudani, through Jaelle, begged leave to bring the word of her God to the attention of Bakhtiian and the elders and women of the jaran.

  Vasha needed to do nothing but sit in respectful silence. Slowly the weight of tension sloughed off him. He was surprised by the revelation that he felt more at ease sitting here with khaja women than with the women of his own people.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Duke Naroshi’s Palace

  FROM THE SHIP, ILYANA and the rest of the company boarded a shuttle that took them down not to the surface but to a platform, like a thin sheet of glass, that floated high above Duke Naroshi’s palace. Stepping out from the interior of the shuttle, she felt exposed and dizzy. It was a long long way to the ground.

  “This is amazing,” David ben Unbutu was saying to Maggie O’Neill. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Any idea how it levitates?” she asked nervously. About the size of a soccer field, the “plate” on which they stood seemed no thicker than a hand, and there were no railings along the sides.

  “None. Goddess, if I only had access to their technology—”

  Ilyana clutched Anton’s wrist with a strong grip and told Valentin in a voice made brusque by fear to pick Evdokia up. It was just the kind of awful accident that might happen, one of the children plunging off the side. To her right, Diana Brooke-Holt had already grabbed hold of both Evdi and Portia.

  The air smelled funny, but it was breathable.

  The palace spread out below and before them, but they were still nightside and all she saw were pinprick lights and vast contours of shadow. The platform glowed with a silver tinge that echoed distant clusters of subdued and delicate lights.

  One of the actors whistled, low, marveling. “Can you tell how high up we are?”

  “Pretty damned far.”

  The musician Phillippe swore: “Tupping hells, I hate heights! Let me sit down!”

  “Here, hold on to my legs,” said Hyacinth to Anatoly Sakhalin. Hyacinth lay down on his stomach and inched forward until he got to the edge.

  “Oh, Goddess,” wailed Phillippe, sitting in the very center of the crowd, hair clutched in his hands. “Don’t do that, Hyacinth. You’re making me sick.”

  Hyacinth grinned. Sticking his hand out, he groped forward with it, kept going until his shoulders and head were out over… nothing. “Yeah, yeah, you can pull me back now,” he said, laughing with nervous excitement. When Anatoly had dragged
him a body’s length back, he sat up, smiling madly. “There seems to be a beacon, like a lighthouse, underneath us. But there’s nothing around or below the platform, no forcefield, nothing.”

  Anatoly walked up to the edge of the platform, right up so that the tips of his boots edged the rim, and stared down into the gulf of air. Nipper shrieked and fainted. “He’s right,” said Anatoly calmly. “Is there some tool that can measure the space between air and land?”

  No one spoke.

  “Oh,” said Anatoly suddenly. “The transit,” He unclipped his hand-sized computer slate from his belt, keyed a command into it, and held it out. Ilyana caught in her breath. With his arm extended he seemed even less stable, as if the merest touch of breeze could push him over. Nipper revived, but catching sight of Anatoly poised as if to plummet, she began hyperventilating until, mercifully, the company medic rummaged through his bag and slapped a patch on her skin. Her head lolled back, and her breathing slowed.

  Anatoly drew the slate in and puzzled out the letters on the screen. The pale light turned his hair to spun gold, and Ilyana saw his lips move, sounding out the terms. “One thousand three hundred and six meters.” He clipped the slate on his belt and stepped back.

  The others had already clustered at the center, except for Hyacinth, on his knees an arm’s length behind Anatoly. Ilyana heard the group give a collective sigh, whether at Anatoly retreating from the brink or at the appalling height at which they now stood. Without warning, the shuttle retracted its landing ramp and banked away from the platform, stranding them there. Its leaving did not rock the flat surface at all. They watched it go until the darkness swallowed it up and the last red and blue lights were lost to distance.

  “Damned lucky we can breathe the atmosphere,” said one of the women sardonically. Wind gusted and died and rose again more gently. A thin strip of cloud drifted beneath the platform. It was cool, but not cold. And it was weirdly quiet.