Jaran

by Kate Elliott

  Tess halted, flushing. “You go so fast from start to finish.”

  “Tess.” Yuri laid a hand on her shoulder. The ring of firelight faded into darkness a few meters in front of them, framing the men around the fire. “You’re having a hard time of it because of things inside you, and here you are, alone with twenty-seven men. I don’t count the pilgrims, you understand. It isn’t healthy.”

  There was a silence.

  “Forgive me.” Yuri removed his hand. “I didn’t mean to offend. As your brother I thought—”

  Tess began to laugh. “Healthy!”

  “Well, I don’t see what’s so funny. It’s true.”

  “Oh, Yuri. I’m not laughing at you.”

  “You’ll see I’m right.” He headed toward the fire.

  “It’s when you’re being smug,” replied Tess, following him, “that I can really see the family resemblance between you and Bakhtiian.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  Tess grinned. “Now, didn’t you say you would teach me some of your dances?”

  “There.” Yuri pointed. The morning sun shone down on the spread of tents laid in neat lines beyond the edge of a narrow river. “I remember this tribe. Sakhalin is etsana here, and her sister’s son the dyan of their jahar. I was only a boy when we met with them last, but they are friends of our tribe. Bakhtiian says we will stay four nights with them.”

  At the jahar’s appearance on the rise, two men and two women detached themselves from the camp and walked up to them. Bakhtiian and Niko dismounted and strode forward to meet them halfway. After what seemed to Tess a long, drawn-out conversation punctuated with elaborate gesturing, Bakhtiian returned, leaving Niko to walk back into camp with them.

  Now Bakhtiian spoke with Ishii, and Tess noted with interest that Ishii’s face bore a green cast—he was displeased. But when Bakhtiian nodded and retreated from his side, Ishii sent his horse forward, down to the camp. The other Chapalii followed. Tess found Hon Garii easily enough. He rode beside another Chapalii, just behind Ishii, and behind them, the other eight rode in a mob that shifted precedence daily. In the clear light of early morning, she could discern on each of these eight the faint tattoo on the jaw beneath the right earlobe that marked these Chapalii as stewards. Born to serve, certainly, but not the lowest class by any means. Stewards alone served the nobility and had, in their turn, servants as well. That stewards made up the rest of the party, that they did work normally left to lesser castes, simply proved to Tess the importance of this expedition. Now that she had settled in with the riding, it was time to investigate, slowly, circumspectly. She had time.

  She laid a hand on the knife thrust between her trousers and her belt. As if the gesture had caught his eye, Ishii glanced back at her, and she removed her hand guiltily. But he looked away again, directing his people down and to one side of the tribe’s camp.

  “We will stay four nights,” Bakhtiian was saying to the jahar. “You will comport yourselves in a respectful and modest manner.” He looked at Kirill as he said this. Kirill returned his gaze blandly. With Vladimir riding just behind him, Bakhtiian led the jahar down into camp.

  As Tess dismounted, an elderly woman with a baby in a sling at her hip walked up to her. “Ah, my dear girl, I am Elizaveta Sakhalin. You are Terese Soerensen. Is that it?” She spoke khush slowly so that Tess could follow her words.

  “Tess, if you will.” Tess felt comfortable with her at once.

  “Yes, you will want to be with women again. My daughter—here, Konstantina!”

  A young blonde woman with an unattractive face but sharp and friendly eyes came over. “But, Mama,” she said forthrightly, “Tsara and I and the others are to go out to hunt today. There is that great—” The word was lost on Tess. “—just beyond the ford.”

  “Konstantina. A guest! Your manners.”

  “But perhaps, Mother Sakhalin,” Tess began hastily, using the only honorific she knew for a tribal etsana, and seeing immediately that Sakhalin and her daughter approved of it. “If your daughter does not—will not mind—I hunt, go hunting, with her.”

  Konstantina brightened. “Yes, Mama. You are good with the bow?”

  Tess smiled. “No. Not at all. So I am tired of no fresh meat. Traveling with men.”

  Enlightenment blossomed on both women’s faces. “Of course. Such a long journey and no herds. You will go with Konstantina. She will teach you. Then you can hunt for the jahar.”

  Konstantina hustled Tess off as quickly as if she feared that her mother would change her mind, given a moment to reconsider. And into the company of women Tess was welcomed without reservation. She strode along, finding it difficult to keep up with their pace, and was given a lecture on the behavior of herds, animals, and shooting that she understood perhaps half of. The actual hunt proved more instructive. A huge herd of bovine grazing beasts milled along the river’s edge. Tess crouched, and watched, and stalked, and waited, and was even allowed to shoot a few times, although none of her shots brought down any game. Of the seven women with her, six brought down kills, and three of those brought down two. Konstantina allowed her to drag in one of her kills, and with the slender, musty-smelling calf draped across her shoulders, Tess trudged the long walk back to camp and was grateful to collapse in the shade of Mother Sakhalin’s great tent.

  “Tomorrow,” said Konstantina, crouching beside her while they watched her brothers skin the kills, “we will have a dance. So.” She grinned slyly. Next to her, her cousin, Tsara, a pretty, dark-haired girl, dimpled and whispered into Konstantina’s ear. “Tsara wishes to know which of these riders is the best lover.”

  Tess blushed. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know! Surely—how long have you traveled with them?”

  “Six hands of days, now.” Seeing that Konstantina regarded her suspiciously out of those piercing blue eyes, Tess felt constrained to add, “In my land, it is different between men and women.”

  “Of course. You are a foreigner. I had almost forgotten.”

  Tsara sighed. “But so many of them are good-looking. And they are only here four nights. How will I choose?”

  Studying Tsara, whose cheek was clear of the scar of marriage, Tess reflected that such a pretty girl would have no trouble attracting lovers. “Well, Kirill,” said Tess, and flushed, wondering why he had come first to her mind.

  “Aha,” said Konstantina, watching Tess’s face. “A good recommendation, I think.”

  “Mikhal is quiet and still in love with his wife. Yuri is sweet.”

  “He is Bakhtiian’s cousin, is he not?”

  “Yes, and Fedya—”

  “The Singer? But who wants a sad man?”

  “He sings very sweetly,” said Tess defensively. “He has a beautiful voice.”

  “And what,” asked Tsara, “about the one with the necklaces? He is very pretty.”

  “He’s an orphan.” Then, seeing their faces, she was sorry she had said it.

  Konstantina waved one hand dismissively. “An orphan. What about the others?”

  “What about Bakhtiian?” Tsara asked in a low voice.

  Bakhtiian. Tess’s vocabulary failed her utterly. What about Bakhtiian?

  But Konstantina, either oblivious to Tess’s sudden silence, or sympathetic to it, shook her head decisively. “Tsara, men like Bakhtiian are not for girls like us. You see who comes out of Nadezhda Martov’s tent in the morning.”

  “Oh.” Tsara’s eyes went very round.

  “Who is Nadezhda Martov?” Tess asked, feeling a little disgruntled.

  “She is the finest weaver in all the tribes,” said Konstantina proudly. “She is my mother’s cousin’s cousin’s daughter, though she’s rather older than you or I. You’ll see.”

  But Tess, going back to her own tent that night, where Yuri had pitched it for her back behind the Sakhalin tents, saw Bakhtiian sitting beside Niko and some of the men from the tribe around a distant fire, talking intently. Later, dozing, she heard him speaking
with Vladimir, and she peeked outside to see him crawl, alone, into his own tent.

  She spent the next day with Konstantina and Tsara and some of the other Sakhalin cousins, preparing a flat ground for dancing. Children raced around, some helping, some playing. Tess let Tsara fit a sling to her and carried around an amiable infant until it got hungry. In the afternoon, the young women lent her women’s clothing, insisting that no woman ought to attend a dance dressed as she was. They braided her hair properly, and Tsara lent her one of her beaded headpieces to cap her hair and drew kohl around her eyes to highlight them. Tess felt terribly embarrassed, walking at dusk to where the bonfire had just been lit, with the accustomed weight of her mirror, free of its case this night, but without her saber. But the riders of Bakhtiian’s jahar had well and truly blended into the mass of riders from this tribe, and she did not have to face their scrutiny up close. Ensconced among the women, Tess found it easy to take refuge in their confidence.

  The music, as it began, sounded familiar and exciting. Tess recognized a dance Yuri had taught her, but as the women around her filtered away, seeking partners, she did not have the courage to go seek one of her own. She stood in the shadows and watched until Yuri came up to her.

  “Well.” Yuri examined her. Tess blushed. “Sonia would approve.” He left it at that. “Would you like to dance?”

  “Yes!”

  Yuri caught her up, pulling her around, and her feet moved into the pulse of their own accord. Faces, muted in the firelight, flashed past. She loved dancing perhaps more than anything except for flying, was good at it, and this firelit stage, a hall enclosed by dark, with sound echoing in the air, voices singing with pipes, bodies, skirted tunics, brushing past her, the fine taste of grass and dust on her tongue, all heightened her senses so that the steps seemed as natural as breathing.

  After two dances, Konstantina took Yuri away from her. Tess wandered to stand near the musicians, looking for a familiar face, but it seemed to her that all the men she knew were out dancing. She rubbed her hands together, feeling a little stupid. Vladimir came up to her. He smiled, looking straight at her.

  “Oh, hello, Vladimir,” she said, feeling even more stupid. If she had exchanged twenty words with him on this journey, she would have been surprised.

  He laid a hand on his necklaces, stones that winked and gleamed in the firelight. He wore bracelets on each wrist, rings on four fingers, and his eyes were unusually dark, startling against the blondness of his hair. “Neither you nor I have partners.”

  Tess lowered her gaze. She knew this dance all too well; it reminded her of Jacques. “No,” she replied faintly.

  He put out his hand, palm up.

  Flushing, she put her hand on his and let him lead her out to the circle. He was her height, slim-waisted, and he danced gracefully enough that he easily covered the mistakes she made. He did not speak much, either. She danced with him again and again. Then, catching sight of Bakhtiian to one side, he excused himself hurriedly and walked away.

  Left alone, she put her hands, warm from him, on her cold cheeks. A drum pounded out a slow, elegant rhythm, and Tsara ran up to lead her out into a line dance for women. Pipes serenaded them as they swept through the measures, the bright bells on their trousers and the brilliant headpieces of gold flashing against the firelight. But they abandoned her ruthlessly when it came time to dance with the men again—not, Tess thought, out of any selfishness, but simply because they seemed to think she could fend for herself. If only she had their confidence.

  And Vladimir came up and asked her to dance again. They stood in the farthest ring of light after the dance ended, sleeves touching, the hem of her long tunic brushing the tasseled tops of his boots, and she felt in charity with Vladi for keeping her company. Glancing at him, she caught him looking at her speculatively. She flushed again, and cursed herself silently for flushing. I’m terrible at this, she thought. I ought to just—He watched her steadily, and he smiled, as if he was aware of the way her thoughts were tending. I ought to just get it over with. God knows, he’s pretty enough.

  He laid his hand on her arm, light but intimate.

  “Why aren’t any of the other women dancing with you?” she asked.

  His hand tightened on her sleeve. “Someone said something. Kirill. I’d wager. He never has liked me.”

  “Vladimir,” she began, suddenly guilty, knowing it was herself who had spoiled his chances, and somehow they had taken a step back, out of the last ring of light, and now they stood in shadow.

  “Tess!” It was Yuri. Vladimir whirled and vanished into the darkness.

  “What is it?” Tess asked a little peevishly, as Yuri halted next to her.

  He didn’t answer for a moment, looking past her into the dark where Vladimir had disappeared. The music ended. “The next dance. The one I taught you that you liked so much. Come on.” He took her hand, hesitated. “It isn’t so bad for me to dance with you because everyone knows that by giving you my sister’s tent my mother sealed us brother and sister by every claim but blood. It’s all right for a brother to ask his sister to dance.”

  “Are you trying to tell me something?” Oh, God, she’d done something wrong. As always, with men; as always.

  “We’d better hurry. They’re forming up.” He dragged her into the circle and placed her so that her back was to the fire and he faced her. “Now don’t forget: step, behind, step, behind, step, then turn, and you’ve got the quick step-hop. And don’t forget to switch partners. But when the hold is called, you’re to stay with that partner until you’ve missed a step. That’s the contest. But don’t worry. No one will be watching you anyway.”

  The drums began, a slow, straight beat in four. Tess did not worry. Identical sets, the music starting slow and getting faster and faster, and the switch of partners; if they wanted to make this a contest—where those who made mistakes dropped out and the last pair without mistakes won—she was happy just to dance it, because she loved its complexity. No man, faced with this foreigner when the drummer called “hold,” would expect her to dance without error.

  The pipes came in with the melody. She danced the set twice with Yuri and on a double clap and turn moved right to a new partner. Spins and high steps, stamps that sounded hollow and muffled on the ground, a strong arm pulling her around, laughter across the fire. A man whistled. She loved it. She had that sense of dancing that anticipates the rhythm and so is exact, the ability to duplicate the melody in the steps. She danced, spun to a new partner, danced, moved.

  The high melody, faster now, pierced through the thick sound of feet, of breath expelled and drawn in, of the snap of fire and the slap of clothing. The lutes took up a counter-melody and the drums added an off beat. The women’s long tunics swelled out on the turns, sinking back in, swirling around legs. Tess stamped and twirled and came to Niko. He grinned, breathing hard from exertion, and swung her around. As the dance went faster, it became somehow easier for her as she lost her self-consciousness in her absorption in the music. Low drums came in, the high ones pounding out patterns above, matching the pipes. She danced, kick-hop, slide step away, clap and return, moved to the next partner, danced, stamped, and whirled into the arms of Bakhtiian.

  “Hold!” yelled the drummer: hold to this partner. The contest had begun.

  Bakhtiian glared at her, but pulled her in, and they pivoted. Where she pulled out, she felt an exact counterweight against her. His hand on her lower back signaled her steps, and when he had to turn her so fast that she got dizzy, his other arm steadied her, strong at her waist, until she got her balance back. By the end of the first set, they understood each other. By the end of the second, they could no longer tell if the music was speeding up.

  Tess laughed. Step-behind and five stamps, five stamps. She felt as if her soul were flowing out through her limbs, her fingers and her toes, her eyes and her lips. His face seemed luminous, as though sparks of fire had caught it and then spread down to burn in flashes on his shirt; he was not smil
ing. He spun, and she spun—the drummer called out, “To end!”—and she and Bakhtiian pivoted ten times and came to a perfect halt, stock-still and panting and exactly placed in the circle.

  Except there was no circle. They had won.

  “Oh, God,” said Tess in Anglais.

  “You’re a good dancer,” said Bakhtiian, releasing her and bowing as they did at the court in Jeds. His hair seemed thicker, fluffed into a luxuriant disarray by the activity, touched with moisture on the ends. For an instant she had the urge to touch it. He straightened.

  Yuri stood beyond, laughing. Beside him, Kirill had his arms crossed on his chest, grinning. Tsara stood next to him with one hand draped possessively over his arm. Konstantina clapped and cheered, egging on those around her. Niko and Mother Sakhalin stood together, smiling. Vladimir stood off to one side, alone, and he looked furious.

  “Thank you,” Tess said. Words deserted her. She stared blankly at him, and he averted his eyes. “Ah, yes,” she went on, stumbling, mortified. “You understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “Dancing.” She felt as if she were about to dive into a deep pool of murky water; something lay in the depths, and she did not know what it was. “Some people move their feet while there is music, some move their feet with the music.”

  He smiled, swiftly, like the sight of a wild animal in flight: a moment’s brilliant grace and an unfulfilled suggestion of beauty. “What you found in riding, you already knew in dancing.”

  Tess could think of nothing to say and was beginning to feel stupid again when Yuri came up.

  “Tess, I had no idea you could dance so well. Everyone knows that Ilya can dance like the grass, but he never does. I don’t know why.”

  “Yuri,” said Bakhtiian.

  “I think that was a warning,” said Tess to Yuri.

  “Excuse me,” said Bakhtiian curtly, and left them.

  Yuri took Tess’s elbow and guided her past couples forming for the next dance, past the ring of watchers, some of whom congratulated her in low voices, to the shadowy edge of the firelight. His lips were pressed together into a thin line, and his shoulders trembled with suppressed laughter. Behind them, the lutes began a slow melody, accompanied by the shuffle and drag of feet.