The Novels of the Jaran

by Kate Elliott

  Katerina looked down on Ilya, her face pinched with worry. Then her expression smoothed, infusing with purpose. “He’s not strong enough to survive any other way. Not yet.” She glanced up at Vasha. “You did well, this morning, getting him into the wagon. You acted very much the prince.”

  Her praised heartened him. At midday he demanded wine and food, and they got it. That night, when they stopped to camp, he demanded blankets and more food, double the amount they had had last night, and wine more suitable to a prince’s taste. And they got it.

  They traveled on through a wooded countryside leavened by villages and fields. Each day the army rose before dawn and marched until sunset. Prince Janos was intent on reaching the safety of his court and drove his men forward at a blistering pace. Vasha could not imagine walking for so long every day at such a pace. In the evenings he often glimpsed Stefan and Nikita and Mikhail in the distance, carrying water, setting up tents, currying horses, but after the first three days he stopped seeing Stanislav Vershinin. They never came close enough to speak with him, but now and again one would lift a hand, seeing him across camp, and he would wave back, to show that Ilya was still alive.

  His father was still alive. For ten days he did not speak, barely moved, but progressively ate a bit more each day. Katya fussed over him in the privacy of the tent. She ripped her inner skirt into strips to change the dressing on his ribs, using some of the wine to daub clean me wound. In public, she ignored him, except to surreptitiously make sure he wasn’t being jarred too badly as the wagon jolted over the ruts in the ground that the khaja called a road.

  “The Habakar had better roads,” Katya observed one day after a particularly bad jolt pitched Ilya into me side of the wagon. His lips thinned, but he did not cry out against the pain. Vasha admired his endurance.

  “Damn it,” said Ilya suddenly, eyes still closed. His hands fumbled at his belt buckle. “Where is the ribbon?”

  A breath caught in Vasha’s throat and he glanced toward Katya. His heart pounded fiercely. Ilya opened his eyes. Even clouded by pain, his gaze still had the power to sear Vasha through.

  “I have it here, Cousin,” said Katya. Her voice shook. “It began to fray, with all the rubbing, so I tied it around my neck.”

  “I want it,” gasped Ilya.

  Katya glanced around. The soldiers driving the wagons had long since come to ignore her conversations with Vasha, conducted in a language foreign to them, but now, with the addition of a third, unfamiliar voice, the man not driving turned right round and looked straight at Ilya, whose eyes were still open. The khaja soldier grunted and said something to his companion, and a flurry of talk spread in the ranks of men surrounding the wagon. Katya glared helplessly as a number of soldiers broke ranks and came over to peer into the back of the wagon. Vasha saw coins changing hands, and he suddenly realized that the khaja soldiers had been betting on whether or not the jaran priest would live. Probably the odds had now changed. He almost laughed, the thought struck him as so funny; he almost wept, out of relief, seeing that some of the khaja soldiers were angry, thinking now that they would lose their bet.

  When at last the interest died down and the new round of wagering took its course and quieted, Katya undid the green ribbon and gave it to Ilya. His fingers closed over it in a grip so strong that his skin went white at the knuckles. Finally, after ages, he relaxed and tried, without success, to lace the ribbon back into his belt buckle.

  “Here, let me help you,” said Vasha, bending over him.

  Ilya looked up and registered him, as if for the first time. “You weren’t killed.”

  Vasha blinked back tears. “I wasn’t even scratched.”

  “How many… are left?” The words came out staggered, as if it was hard for Ilya to voice them.

  “Not many. Listen, Father—” Vasha leaned farther over him, twining the ribbon into the buckle and speaking in a whisper. “What do you remember?”

  “Kriye. Nothing. Andrei Sakhalin must have betrayed us. That’s all.”

  “Then remember this. The khaja who took us prisoner, Prince Janos, believes that Bakhtiian is dead, and believes that you are a Singer, a priest. That is why you have survived so far.”

  Ilya coughed, but perhaps it was meant to be a laugh. “Under the protection of the gods.”

  “Yes. We’re headed west, but—”

  “Let him rest,” said Katya. “That’s enough to absorb for now.”

  They let him rest, but over the next five days he improved so rapidly that it was almost as if, before, he had been struggling more over the question of whether to live or die than over his actual injuries. He still spoke rarely, but he ate voraciously, and finally the guards bound his wrists in rope and took him before Prince Janos. Vasha demanded to be taken as well, since the prince had ignored them since that one visit the first night of their journey, and Captain Osman bowed before him and offered to personally escort him and Katya to Prince Janos.

  Janos waited inside the plain white campaign tent he used as his headquarters. It rose first of all the tents each night and came down last in the morning. The prince sat on a carved chair, with Rusudani seated beside him on a chair that bore the seal of the presbyter of Urosh Monastery on its back. Vasha recognized it from the church.

  They were stopped just inside the tent, waiting while an unarmed man read to the prince from some kind of list. Behind the chairs, an inner curtain had been drawn back somewhat, revealing a wide four-posted bed covered with a quilt embroidered with gold thread. Rusudani, sitting with a book open on her lap, glanced up at their entrance. Her eyes widened with surprise and curiosity. Daringly, Vasha met her gaze briefly, but she looked beyond him and saw Bakhtiian. Her face lit; as quickly, she bent her head down to hide her expression.

  When the khaja servant had finished, Janos motioned him aside. “I give you greetings, Prince Vasil’ii, Princess Katherine,” he said with ominous politeness. He looked expectantly at Captain Osman, asking him a question. Osman pushed Ilya forward.

  “Kneel before the prince,” Osman said in Taor.

  Ilya looked weak, pale, and stubborn. “I kneel before no man, only before the gods.”

  Vasha wanted to kick him. He slid one boot over and nudged him, but Ilya either did not feel it or, more likely, ignored it.

  Janos folded his arms across his chest. His expression, a mask of icy patience, did not change.

  Rusudani closed the book in her lap and handed it to Jaelle, gesturing toward Bakhtiian. Hesitantly, Jaelle walked forward. “My lady wishes this returned to you.” She offered the book to Ilya. He took it, glanced at it, and tucked it under one arm.

  “I could have you killed for your arrogance,” said Prince Janos conversationally, “but my wife owns you now, and it is her will that you be allowed to live, so that she may instruct you in the true faith.”

  Ilya was a master at controlling his expression. Standing so close to his father, Vasha felt more than saw the surprise register when Janos referred to Rusudani so casually as his wife.

  “I am beholden to the princess,” Ilya replied.

  “How comes it that a man such as yourself has learned to speak Taor so well?”

  “I have been called by the gods to learn many new things.”

  Janos lifted a hand and spoke a few words to one of his attendants. A moment later, Konstans’ helmet was given into his hands, the white plume a beacon in the lantern-lit tent. “I wonder,” said Janos, standing and walking over to him, “if this would fit you.”

  Ilya blanched, and Vasha cursed himself silently. It was a terrible way to learn of Konstans’s death. Ilya lifted his bound hands abruptly and warded off the helmet. “It is not mine to wear,” he said hoarsely. “That helmet belongs to the man who earned the right to wear it.”

  “That man is dead,” said Janos, but he smiled, slightly, and went back to his chair and gave the helmet back to an attendant, evidently satisfied by what he had seen. “Osman, remove him. He may take food and drink to the p
rince and princess in the evenings, and pray with them, but otherwise, he will labor and travel with the other slaves.”

  Rusudani watched him go and then, as if his absence galvanized her, she beckoned to Katerina.

  “Princess Rusudani asks that you come forward,” translated Jaelle. “She hopes you have been well treated so far in your journey.”

  “I would be better treated were I to be freed,” responded Katerina, coming forward to kneel before Rusudani. Janos coughed, looking amused. Katya shot him a glare and turned a softer gaze on Rusudani, who leaned down and took her hands in hers. “But I thank you for your concern.”

  “Tell me, Prince Vasil’ii,” said Janos, dismissing the women’s conversation as if it were of no interest to him, “do you play dars?”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Lord Belos, the board.” The man addressed brought forward a table, a stool, and a leather case, which he opened to reveal a board painted with white and red squares and a carved wooden box which contained small carved pieces in either white or red representing castles, infantrymen, mounted soldiers, churchmen, and princes.

  Vasha ventured forward. “Yes, I know this game. In Jeds they call it castles.”

  “Sit.” Janos waved to the stool. “Did the Prince of Jeds teach you this, as well?”

  Vasha sat. “No. I learned it from her court physician, Dokhtor Hierakis. She also taught me a game much like this, called chess, but in chess the etsana—the queen—is the most powerful piece on the board.”

  “It must come from a barbarian land. Lord Belos, bring us wine.” Janos placed one white and one red castle on the board. “Which do you choose?”

  Vasha chose red. “How did you learn Taor, Prince Janos?” he asked as he set up his pieces. Lord Belos put down two cups of wine on the little table, beside the board. The wine was steaming, pungent.

  “I also learned it from a woman, from my mother.”

  “How did she come to know Taor?”

  Janos smiled a small, secret smile. “My father’s first wife was a princess from Hereti-Manas. After she died in childbed, he needed funds more than bloodlines, since Dushan had already fallen from its preeminent position among the Yos principalities. So he married my mother, who brought with her the greatest fortune in all the Yos principalities, a fortune gained by her ancestors in the caravan trade. He ennobled her father and convinced her mother to convert from her heretical faith, but nevertheless, like you, Prince Vasil’ii, my right to the title of prince has always remained suspect because of her birth.”

  Surprised by this confession, Vasha glanced up and met Janos’s gaze. It was even, unclouded by petulance, and permanently marked by ambition. Despite himself, Vasha could not dislike him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Garden of the Thousand Petals of Gold

  THEY HELD A WAR council. Anatoly was surprised at how many people attended it: David, of course, Gwyn Jones, Wingtuck Lien, Owen and Ginny, a pretty young woman named Annet who was one of the actors but evidently also in on the conspiracy, Joseph, and the etsana of the company, Yomi. Anatoly had insisted that Diana attend, though she didn’t want to. The story had thrown her into a belligerent mood that troubled Anatoly.

  They sat in a circle in Owen and Ginny’s room, and Anatoly waited politely for Yomi to open the council. A tap sounded on the wall outside. Without waiting for an answer, Hyacinth pushed aside the curtain and came in.

  “Goddess,” he said, having the nerve to sit down right next to Anatoly, squeezing in between him and David, “why did you all give me the job of throwing Veselov off the scent?”

  “I didn’t know he was on the scent,” remarked Gwyn Jones, the actor whose quiet mien Anatoly had long since recognized as a cloud concealing a bright light.

  Anatoly waited for someone to challenge Hyacinth’s right to be here, but no one did.

  “Veselov’s not stupid.” Hyacinth snorted. “He knows there’s something going on that he’s not part of. He hates that.”

  “Listen,” said David. “I move we all formally recognize Hyacinth for his services in leading Veselov off the scent. Now, the question: Can we afford to pass up this opportunity?”

  They began to debate. Anatoly quickly identified two factions: Owen and Ginny were against anything that might upset the delicate accommodation they had reached with Duke Naroshi; David and Wingtuck and Gwyn wanted Anatoly to meet with Duke Naroshi as soon as possible, to follow up on this promising lead.

  “Only Charles has ever met with any member of the Chapalii nobility,” said David. “We can’t pass this up. Think of what we could learn.”

  “Surely Terese Soerensen has met with Chapalii nobility,” objected Owen. “Earth diplomats have as well.”

  “Tess is on interdiction on Rhui. She is officially dead. How will that help us? Earth diplomats as far as we can tell have the approximate status of Chapalii merchants and ship captains: above servants, but definitely beneath the nobility. Anatoly, you haven’t spoken yet.”

  Anatoly had been wondering why Hyacinth was here. Was it possible Hyacinth was part of the conspiracy? It seemed unlikely. Yet it was true that sidetracking as persistent a person as Vasil Veselov away from a meeting like this was no small feat. “The etsana I met did not ask, she said that her brother would attend me. If that is her command, then as a guest in her camp, I must obey her.”

  A silence followed this comment.

  “I don’t understand,” said Diana suddenly, speaking for the first time. “I thought Chapalii women were in purdah or something, that they were restricted. That they had no rights under the Chapalii legal system. Isn’t it true that a female who marries loses all her status, wealth, and position from her father’s house and becomes the property of her husband? So how could she—that is, Duke Naroshi’s sister, if that’s even who it was—claim to know what her brother will or won’t do?”

  Hurt, Anatoly flinched back from her tone. “You don’t believe my account of our meeting?”

  “You said she spoke khush! Where would a Chapalii learn khush?”

  David coughed. “Diana, it’s possible that that is merely how Anatoly experienced her speech.”

  “I’m just saying,” continued Diana stubbornly, “that either Anatoly didn’t understand her and the intent of the encounter, or else we’ve been misunderstanding something major about Chapalii culture all this time.”

  “Diana,” said Yomi gently, “the best human and league xenologists and diplomats and anthropologists have been studying the Chapalii for two hundred years. Anatoly met—if we can use that term—this purported female Chapalii in nesh for minutes, at most. Begging your pardon, Anatoly, but I’m not sure we can give your account the same credence.”

  Everyone looked at Anatoly, but he steeled himself to remain impassive.

  Beside him, Diana caught her fair hair in one hand and pulled it back over her shoulder, looking disgruntled by this criticism.

  “Maybe so, but Anatoly was trained in a harsh school. In his world, if you didn’t observe correctly, the most likely outcome was death. Even with all the prejudices he brought with him, I’m not sure he might not observe with a fresher and less prejudiced eye than all our experts.”

  Everyone began to argue at once. Finally, disgusted, Anatoly stood up. When he saw he had their attention, he spoke. “I beg your pardon,” he said politely, “but as a commander in the vanguard of Bakhtiian’s army, it is my duty to go.”

  “Who is Bakhtiian?” Annet whispered.

  Owen swore. Loudly. “What nonsense is this! I demand we bring the matter before Soerensen—”

  “Now, Owen,” David began.

  Anatoly pulled Diana to her feet. “We’ll go get Portia and go now. I see no reason to delay.”

  “We? I’m not going. Portia is certainly not!”

  “Of course we will go together. It would not be polite otherwise.” Tired of all the bickering—gods, these khaja spent most of their time discussing and debating inst
ead of acting—Anatoly took her by the wrist and tugged her outside the room. David winked at him as he left and fluidly continued the argument with Owen.

  Outside, Anatoly turned to his wife. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For defending me to Yomi.”

  Diana colored slightly. “They don’t know you. They don’t know your strengths. I know how precisely you can observe. I trust you to see things as they are. Well, most things. But you’re not taking Portia!”

  “I’ll thank you to understand that I would not take my daughter into any situation that I judged dangerous, Diana. You khaja do not know how to conduct a war. Any fool can see that the Chapalii are more powerful. If they have not harmed us yet, then why should they harm us now? They would have acted long ago if they meant to destroy humans. In a strong line of defense, you must probe for weakness. If a scout can’t sneak in, then you walk in openly, with respect, but keeping your eyes open. Every army has a weakness.”

  “Ha!” said Diana sarcastically. “Then what is Bakhtiian’s weakness?”

  They stopped in the courtyard, where they found Veselov sitting on the gazebo bench beside his two sons. They were all embroidering. Vasil glanced up and smiled winningly at them, then bent back to answer one of Anton’s questions. As if he didn’t care where they had come from or where they were going now. Valentin looked up and saw Anatoly. He bit at his lower lip and cocked his head to one side, seeming to ask if he could have permission to leave.

  “I suppose,” said Anatoly slowly, “that Bakhtiian’s weakness is that he doesn’t know that anything—that all this—exists outside of himself and his vision.”

  “He can’t know. Rhui is interdicted.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh, Anatoly.” Her hand, resting so gently on his upper arm, felt pitying more than comforting. “You never should have come.”

  “I should have been kept ignorant, too?” He watched the words make her wince. “Well, perhaps I have thought that myself, but don’t you see? This opportunity is what I came for. I can feel it.” He clenched one hand and saw, beyond the open caravansary gates, Portia and Evdokia running past, following by a laughing Ilyana. “Something is about to happen. And we’re going….” He trailed off.