by Kate Elliott
Surely he would. He had said that he loved her. “May I sit down, my lady?” she said weakly.
“What is wrong? You’ve not taken ill have you?” Katerina led her to a chair. “You mustn’t take ill, Jaelle. You’re all I have.”
You’re all I have. “He said he loved me,” Jaelle whispered, then cursed herself for saying it.
“Oh, yes,” said Katerina blithely. “Stefan’s been pining after you for months. I would have thought you’d noticed it before. I thought you must not care for him, since you never asked him to become your lover.”
“A woman does not ask—What do you mean? You knew?”
“Stefan told me. We grew up together. We’re almost like cousins, really, although, well, he’s very sweet, Stefan, and he’ll become a great healer just like his grandfather Niko is, in time.”
It was too much. Jaelle began to cry quietly. “What does he have to gain by it?”
“Who?”
“Stefan. To say that he loves me.”
“He has nothing to gain by it! He just loves you, that’s all. Why is that so strange?”
Because no man had ever before said, ‘I love you.’ And truly, no one had ever said those words. No one, ever in her life. She did not know what to think, what to say, what to do, what to feel. So, being practical, she wiped her cheeks dry and sniffed down the last few sobs.
“I beg your pardon, my lady.”
“Ah! You khaja are impossible. Here, we’ll heat some of that water and you can wash your—”
They both heard the footsteps coming up the stairs at the same time. Katerina pulled Jaelle to her feet and like comrades they turned together to face the door. Janos entered. He dismissed his two guards as soon as they had set a new flask of wine down on the table beside the board and set torches burning in the wall sconces.
“We will play again,” he announced, and sat down.
Katerina, amazingly, laughed and took her place. Janos made the first move. Katerina countered.
“You are a skilled player, Princess Katherine,” said the prince after a bit, “and bold, for a woman.”
“You are immodest, for a man, Prince Janos, and like most khaja men your brash manners have done nothing to improve your game.”
“We shall see whose game is stronger.”
It grew so quiet in the chamber that the pop of the fire was the loudest sound in the room, that and the faint jingle of Katerina’s bracelets and anklets and the tumble of wine into the cups as Janos poured, and poured again. He concentrated more on the game now, but after a time it became obvious even to Jaelle that Katerina was winning.
The princess sat back after she took his castle and tilted her chin back arrogantly. “If you would not drink so much, you would play better, Prince Janos. But I would still win.”
He jumped to his feet and scattered the pieces with a sweep of one hand. “It is not the wine that confuses me.” That quickly he circled the table and grabbed Katerina by the shoulders before she realized what was happening. “You are the most glorious woman I have ever seen.” Her mouth dropped open. She looked confounded. He pulled her to her feet and kissed her hard on the mouth.
She wedged her hands in between them and shoved him away, but he pulled her back into him. She jerked her head to one side so that his kiss touched her eye.
“How dare you! You swore to your mother that I would be treated with honor.”
He looked genuinely surprised. “I have treated you with honor! Be thankful I didn’t send you to my father.”
“And what might your father have done? Surely he would not have treated me this improperly.” She half twisted out of his grasp.
He let her go, and she staggered back, looking a little stunned. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I forgot that you are an unmarried woman and not accustomed to a man’s advances.” Now he took her hands in his. “My father has a rare and terrible temper, Lady Katherine. You will do much better with me, although it’s true I can’t offer you marriage now that I am married to Princess Rusudani.” He looked over at Jaelle and signed to her to turn down the bed.
This speech had the effect of rendering Katerina speechless. She was, finally, beginning to look nervous.
“Our children will be raised as if they were legitimate, and since any sons I have by Rusudani will inherit her portion, there is no reason I can’t settle some of the lands and vassalage I received through my mother onto the sons you bear.”
The truth was, Jaelle thought, that Katerina appeared struck dumb, as if she simply could not comprehend what he was saying to her. It was an incredibly generous settlement, although, of course, words meant nothing. A pragmatic woman at this point would demand that he set down these promises in writing, so that she could hold him to them should his infatuation wane. She wanted to tell Katerina so but dared not speak.
He took Katerina’s silence for assent and bent to kiss her.
She elbowed him hard in the stomach and tore away from him. “I have not given you permission to touch me!”
Gasping for breath, he straightened up. “I don’t need permission! You are my concubine now.”
“I am not a concubine. You will leave my tent—my chamber—now. I wish to see no more of you tonight.”
“You wish—” He grasped her elbows and dragged her toward the bed, while she kicked at his legs, pulled free, only to have him wrestle her down onto the coverlet. She was strong, but not as strong as he was.
“Jaelle!” she called, as if expecting Jaelle to aid her.
Janos stood, one knee on the bed, pressing her down, but he looked up and found Jaelle, who stood immobile by the fire. It took only a glimpse of his face to see that he was headed into a rare fury. “Go!”
Jaelle fled the room.
Just as she reached the lower landing she heard a crash, and she flinched as if she had been hit. She ran back up the stairs but halted on the landing. Through the closed door she listened, feeling sick inside. Grunts, a hollow thud, a woman’s gasp; he cursed; something banged loudly to the floor. The unmistakable crack of a slap to the face. Katerina swore at him in labored gasps. Fabric ripped. Something was dragged over the floor, followed by another thud, and then Janos swore again, sounding even angrier.
The struggle went on and on and on. Why didn’t she just give in? How could she be so foolish? Janos wanted to treat her well, that was clear; Jaelle knew that his offer was unbelievably lavish, torn from him no doubt by his desire for her and, as it was with so many men, the ridiculous belief that the one thing he could not have was worth more than the treasures he held in his hands.
After a while Jaelle could not stand to listen anymore, and anyway, the two torches in the stairwell were failing. She picked her way carefully down the stairs and waited.
And waited.
It was dark in the lower chamber. Sounds from above were muffled by the plank flooring and the carpet. Torchlight flickered under the door to the outer stair. It was cold. She heard the guards talking outside. Mildew wafted out of the shadows, and she coughed. The damp air of coming winter seeped in through her kirtle. She had not thought to take her cloak. She sneezed and wiped her nose.
Upstairs, the door scraped open. Light gleamed on the stairwell, pooling and expanding as someone came downstairs. When Janos, holding one of the torches, came into the lower chamber, Jaelle gasped. The play of shadows gave him a grim look. His lower lip bled. It looked bitten through. His clothes hung all at random, and his fine tunic was not belted now; as he passed Jaelle, she realized that it was torn, a gash on the left side. His hair looked as if a storm had blown through it. His left ear trickled blood, and he favored one leg. He pounded on the door.
“Open up! Get me some wine!”
The door opened. He stamped out, his fury a palpable force that lingered even after he was gone. The door shut, and the bar grated down, thunking into place. Jaelle groped back up the stairwell, which was now black as pitch.
In the upper chamber, two torches threw inco
nstant light over the room, which lay in shambles. Katerina lay on the bed, dressed only in her undershift, silent, staring at the dark cloud of the bed canopy above her. At first Jaelle thought the shadows marked her face with peculiar shapes, but it was a bruise, already purpling, on her cheek. She had a black eye. Soft noises came from the bed. After a moment, Jaelle recognized them: Katerina was weeping with rage.
Jaelle brought water and a cloth and dabbed down Katerina’s swollen face, washed her hands and arms, and lay a cool cloth over her blackened eye. Then, from all over the room, she gathered up Katerina’s clothing, most of it torn, some just scattered as wind scatters leaves over the ground. She set the chairs and table upright and searched out the game board and pieces, counting them off. Two were lost: one had gotten flung into the fire and was scorched. She pushed a new log onto the fire and let the heat warm her face.
Behind her, the bed creaked. Jaelle started up, but Katerina had only heaved herself up onto her elbows. Moving stiffly, she rolled off the bed and stood up. She moaned and swore softly in her own language, then limped toward the fire. She made it as far as the carpet before she sank down into a despondent heap on the floor. There was no mark of virginity on the coverlet. The chamber smelled of sweat and exertion. Outside, a hound yelped and stilled. One of the torches guttered out, smoke steaming into the chamber and dissipating.
Half of Katerina’s hair hung down loose, the kind of hair that gives pleasure to the hands and skin. The other half was still braided.
Jaelle took a comb from the chest. “Let me fix your hair,” she said softly. Kneeling behind Katerina, Jaelle tentatively touched the end of the last braid, then, more bravely, un-braided it and began to comb out Katerina’s long, thick hair. Katerina sighed and leaned back against her. She was no longer crying and slowly she relaxed. The heat of her skin through the thin undershift warmed Jaelle far more than did the heat of the fire.
There was no hurry. Slowly, Jaelle combed it out, breathing in its scent, like the distant grass of the plains. Katerina found one of the game pieces, a bold knight, stamped down in the fringe of the carpet. The firelight flickered over them, and all the while as Jaelle rebraided her hair, Katya scraped the beautifully carved piece on the plank floor, back and forth, back and forth, until its face was obliterated.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Fierce Dance of Bliss
“I AM SORRY,” KAROLLA announced as the family sat under the awning eating supper together, “that Anatoly Sakhalin has gone.”
Ilyana stiffened, but for once her mother’s comment didn’t seemed directed at her. Instead, Karolla watched Valentin, who sat playing with his meat but not eating any. The skin under his eyes looked bruised, it was so dark. Twice in the past six days Ilyana had caught him in the middle of the night at the latticework nesh, but she didn’t wake up every night.
“I’ll eat his if he doesn’t want it,” said Anton, and grabbed for the meat.
“Pig.” Valentin swatted his hand, and Anton wailed. Evdokia stuck her thumb in her mouth and began sucking determinedly. The baby slept in a sling against Nipper’s chest, but even so, the khaja woman leaned over and pulled Valentin’s hand away from his brother.
“Now now,” she said in her most irritating remonstrative voice, “your brother is quite right, Valentin. If you won’t eat your food, it mustn’t go to waste.”
Valentin jerked away from her and scuttled back. “Don’t touch me!”
“Valentin!” said Karolla. “Your manners.”
“What gives her the right to tell me what to do? She isn’t even part of the tribe, except I guess he porks her once or twice a month to keep her happy.”
Nipper gasped and flushed.
Vasil, who had been ignoring the interplay, as he usually did, turned right around and slapped Valentin on the face, hard. “Get out. Don’t come back until you’ve learned some manners. Never speak to a woman in that way. You’re a disgrace.”
Valentin leapt to his feet. “You’re the disgrace! I hate you! I’m never coming back, ever.” He spun and ran off around the tent.
Ilyana began to get to her feet.
“Yana,” said her father softly, “we’re not through eating yet.”
“But, Papa—”
He just looked at her. She sank back down and ate. The food tasted like ashes in her mouth. Anton ate every scrap on Valentin’s plate as well as his own, and Evdi sucked her thumb. Karolla discussed making felt for rugs with Nipper, and the baby woke up and demanded to nurse. Ilyana felt sick to her stomach.
She gathered up the wooden platters and took Evdokia aside to help her clean them. Karolla only expected them to be scraped clean before they were put back in the chest, but Ilyana had eaten meals over at Kori and other friend’s houses too many times now not to find that embarrassing. They went to the washroom, where they found Diana, Portia, and the lighting designer, a broad-shouldered man with a gorgeous mahogany complexion and old-fashioned glasses.
“Good evening, Yana,” said Diana cheerfully. She didn’t seem very despondent over Anatoly’s absence. Portia sat on a stool clutching her pillow, and Evdi sidled over next to her and just stood there, sucking her thumb. “They’re a morose pair, aren’t they?”
“Uh, can I leave Evdi with you for a little bit?”
“Of course. But don’t forget I’ve got rehearsal at oh twenty hundred.”
“I won’t. I’ll come get both of them before then. Thank you.”
The lighting designer smiled kindly at her, and as she left with the platters she heard him say to Diana: “I feel sorry for that girl.”
Ilyana flushed, horrified by his sympathy, and stopped outside the door to catch her breath.
“Her father’s a criminal. He ought to be confined to the madhouse.”
“Hush,” said Diana. “Don’t forget Evdi is over there. And I think it’s unfair. Vasil is self-absorbed and tiresome, but—”
“He treats his children horribly.”
“I know he neglects them…”
“Sells them off to the highest bidder, you mean. Surely you know about the boy.”
“Yassir, this isn’t the sort of thing we should talk about in front of the girls.” A pause. “Valentin, do you mean? You forget I knew them back when they were with the tribes. Valentin’s never gotten on very well here, but that isn’t just because of his father. What about him?”
“Di! You live in the same house as them! He was practically being raped by that perverted old financier from the Hoover Institute of Interactive Studies.”
“I don’t believe it! He’s barely thirteen years old.”
“I don’t have any proof. But I by damned almost caught her at it once, that was when they were doing the prototypes for the actie the Hoover wanted Veselov to do on Genghis Khan and he’d asked me to come in and do the lighting on the set pieces. Anyway, I laid plans to try to get evidence so I could file a third-party complaint, but then she got called away on something, the whole project got put on hiatus, and we came here. You really didn’t notice anything wrong?”
“Hyacinth complained about a lot of the people who went over to their flat. I admit that some of them were the kind of people who made you want to wash your hands after you shook hands with them, but…really, Yassir, I don’t…not that I don’t believe you, but….”
“We techies sometimes hear and see things other people might not notice. Did I ever tell you about the time that I overheard Veselov offering his daughter’s virginity to—Goddess, what was his name?—that cultural minister assigned to Soerensen’s entourage by the protocol office, a lecher if I ever met one, in return for getting Veselov secretly onto… what’s the name of the planet they come from?”
“Rhui,” said Diana in a hollow voice. “He couldn’t have said that.”
“Neh. Not straight out. But there were a lot of unspoken things being said. Something about a traditional ritual for a girl coming into womanhood and how one man was picked for the honor, that kind of thing. I a
ssume the minister never managed to complete the transaction.”
There was a silence.
Bathed in shame, Ilyana fled. She was too furious, too humiliated, to go back to her mother’s tent, so she ran out to the ruined caravansary instead, a haven now that Anatoly Sakhalin wasn’t around anymore to make it unsafe.
Oh, gods, was it true? Had her father really betrayed her like that? How much worse than what her mother had done… at least her mother had been trying to help her, however awkward and disgracefully it had been done. At least she had picked someone like Anatoly Sakhalin.
Shuddering, Ilyana recalled the minister: He stank of oil, and his hair always looked greasy, and his skin had the same bloated, pasty white film as uncooked rolls glazed with egg. And now—oh, gods—now she understood why he had spent so much time looming over her for that month—what was it? a year ago now—when the interactive institute Veselov was working for had done that adventure actie on Tau Ceti Tierce at the same time Soerensen was in residence.
Pebbles skittered. Sand crunched under boots. She whirled around, but saw nothing. Movement flashed in the corner of an eye, and she spun. She heard him panting.
“Valentin! Come out here.”
Nothing. Silence. But she knew he was there. She could feel him watching her from his hiding place along one of the walls.
“Oh, Valentin, what good does it do you to hide out here?”
But why should he go home?
“I wish I had gone with Sakhalin,” he said from the shadows, and she ran toward the sound of his voice only to have him dart away from her and vanish into the underground entrance to the storage rooms, cluttered with fallen brick and huge, immovable pithoi.
If they had been with the jaran, it would have been the next step in his education, that he ride out under the supervision of an officer, in the train of the army, to care for the horses and the gear of the soldiers.
She leaned into the cavernous opening. “I promise you, Valentin. When he comes back, I’ll tell Mother and Papa—” Faltered. That was no good. “I’ll talk to Sakhalin himself, really I will. I’ll tell him you need to go, anywhere, to get away.”