by Kate Elliott
They pulled her out on the blanket and bundled her onto one of the light wagons that the women used to transport their tents. It hurt, but not as much as the sight of Petya, with his damned beautiful face, without the slightest visible scar from the battle. And he was riding Yuri’s Khani. Tess was filled with such a vicious, burning wish that Petya could have died instead of Yuri that she was horrified at the depth of her own hatred.
“Tess, I’m so glad you’re alive.” Tess glanced up to see that Arina Veselov was driving the wagon. Arina looked at Tess’s expression, and looked away again, questioningly to Niko. Tasha and Vladimir were taking down her tent. No one spoke. When they finished and brought the tent and gear to put in beside her, she pulled the blanket up over her face and ignored them.
For three days, she ignored them. After the first day, only Niko and Arina spoke to her, both unfailingly kind. Tess grew sick of their kindness. She could not look at Petya without feeling that same sickening jealousy, that hatred, so she did not look at any of them. The jolting of the wagon hurt, every bump, every jar, but not enough, not enough to make up for everyone who had died.
When they rode into Veselov’s camp, she hid herself, buried herself in blankets, and wished with all her strength that they would leave her alone. The wagon halted. Their voices spoke together, low, conspiring. She could hear in the distance the noises of the camp, and could gauge fairly enough that they had stopped some ways away. Thank God.
Then: “Ah, here you are,” said Niko with relief. “I can do nothing with her. She has given up, I think. She blames herself for what happened.”
Weight rocked the wagon. A moment later, a strong hand yanked the blanket away from her face. She shut her eyes.
“Tess, look at me.”
Because his voice surprised her, she opened her eyes. “Kirill.”
“Well?” he asked. He bore a pink scar on his forehead and past his ear, down to his jaw. His right arm and shoulder were swathed in a sling.
“Go away,” Tess said, acutely embarrassed by his presence, staring at her with such knowing eyes.
He lifted his left hand, and the figures behind him moved away. “So, my heart, is this how you repay Yuri’s sacrifice?”
She flushed, trapped here under his gaze because she could not move. “How dare you scold me!”
“How dare I? How dare you pretend you’re the only one who loved Yuri? Who cared for Mikhal? Don’t you think Petya hates himself, wondering why his best friend is dead and he’s still alive? Don’t you think the rest of us would give our own lives to bring them back? But we can’t because we’re alive and they’re dead. Nothing will bring them back, Tess, and you might as well be dead, too, if all you care for is your own grief.”
She stared at him. She felt stripped of words.
“Tomorrow Niko says he’ll let you sit up,” he added, softer now. “By the gods, Tess, if you aren’t walking by the time Bakhtiian gets back, you aren’t the one who’ll get the worst edge of Ilya’s tongue. So think of the rest of us, if you please.”
Then he walked away. Limped away. He favored one side, and his right arm and shoulder were stiff and lifeless. Arina Veselov met him twenty paces out, and he allowed her, small as she was, to support him with an arm at his elbow.
Tess began to cry, but silently. When Niko came up, she simply reached for his hand and held it tightly, while Tasha and Vladimir put up her tent, and Niko and Tasha carried her over to it.
“Might I lie outside for just a little bit?” she asked.
“Yes, child. Set her down here, Tasha.”
It was afternoon. Beyond, she saw the tents of Veselov’s camp. Women talked, but quietly, and children played, more quietly still. She saw a few riders, but not many, and most of them she did not recognize.
“Where is Petya?” she asked.
“Here. Petya!”
A moment later, Petya arrived, looking pale. He wore three necklaces, one of them the amber one she had given him.
“Petya,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
He ducked his head, paling even more. “Tess,” he said, and then he turned away abruptly and she realized that he was crying. He strode away quickly, out into the grass.
“Inside now,” said Niko. “Rain is coming on.” They hauled her in, and Tasha retreated. “Well, child, have you decided to live?”
“I thought I made a promise. Oh, Niko, I remember the last thing he said to me. He said, ‘Don’t cry. Live.’ Oh, Niko.” The wind rustled the tent flap. A light spatter of rain fell. “Will it always be this painful?”
“Not always, child, but we will sit with you, those of us whom you care to see, as often as you wish, if that will comfort you.”
“Please.” She brought his hand to rest on her cheek. Presently, she fell asleep.
Sometimes, Marco Burckhardt reflected, your luck was out, and sometimes it was in. Sometimes things seemed too damned easy, given all the trouble and worry that had come before.
He sat in the cleanest inn in Abala Port, a filthy port town well up the inland sea, about thirty days’ sailing north of Jeds. The winds had been good. His luck was in.
A Chapalii dressed in native-looking clothing, tattooed on his left jaw with the mark of the steward class, was haggling with the innkeeper. Just ten paces from Marco. Just as, right on the edge of town in an old barracks and corral, three more Chapalii stewards watched over a veritable fleet of the most beautiful Kuhaylan Arabians Marco had seen in a good long time. Right there, at the second of Karima’s modeled landing points, he had—what was the old phrase—struck gold.
He had sent one scrambled analog burst back to Jeds to inform Dr. Hierakis of the situation. More than that, not knowing what kind of communications equipment the Chapalii had hidden in their gear, he dared not attempt.
A bearded man dressed in a silkily smooth scarlet shirt tucked into black trousers came down the stairs and paused, staying back in the shadows, watching the Chapalii. The steward counted out eleven copper coins and received in his turn five loaves of bread and a slab of cheese. With this bounty, he left. The man came in to the room and, with a nod toward the innkeeper, strolled over to Marco’s table.
Marco eyed him with interest. This was the other foreigner in town, a man who had, so the innkeeper informed him, ridden in from the northeast some days before Marco’s arrival.
“May I sit down?” asked the man in passable Taor.
Marco gestured. The man sat. He carried himself easily, confidently, yet warily, and he wore a saber at his belt.
“My name is Josef Raevsky. You are from Jeds, I think. I have been watching you these past few days.”
“Yes, you have.” Marco smiled. “And I you. You’re also a foreigner in these parts.”
“But you are from Jeds. A merchant, perhaps?”
“I have made no secret of who I am.”
“No,” said Raevsky. “You are Marko Burkhhart, an emissary from the Prince of Jeds. Seeking new trade. So you say. And you are interested in the khepelli and their horses. You are waiting to see what becomes of them.”
The way he said the word alerted Marco instantly. Here, the townsfolk called them chepalis. This was their name in a different tongue; this was a man who was interested in them as well. Of course, Marco had heard gossip: even in a port town, to have three entirely different foreign visitors—the Chapalii counting as a group of one—at one time was a marvel and much discussed at the inns and around the harbor. An emissary from the Prince of Jeds; strange-looking foreigners from over the seas with their cargo of fine horses; and this man, who was, said the old innkeep, a man from that people called the zherawn, savages from out in the wilderness.
“Say, lad,” called the innkeeper, interrupting them. Over the last five days he had decided that he liked Marco, foreigner though he was. The quality of Marco’s gold and Marco’s gossip had won him over. “I laid that money you said down on them spices, and sure enough, when the Queen Aireon sailed in this morning, that was the first c
argo they picked.”
“I’m pleased for you, old man,” replied Marco. The old man’s very young wife came in from the back, carrying two buckets of water, and she smiled shyly and meaningfully at Marco and then slipped back outside. Marco turned back to the bearded man. “Why, Raevsky? Do you know what will become of them?” Then, on a sudden impulse, he went on. “The truth is, I’m also looking for a woman. A Jedan woman.” He had already manufactured the story to give her importance but not too much importance. “A merchant’s sister. Her ship was lost but the merchant believes she may still be alive.”
Josef Raevsky examined him, and Marco felt abruptly that he was being measured and judged by a man whose judgments were worth something. “You mean,” said Raevsky, “the sister of the Prince.”
Marco was rarely too astonished to be at a loss for words. But the sudden euphoria that overwhelmed him now obliterated everything else. A moment later, he realized that he was grinning.
Josef Raevsky stood up. “Come with me.” He went to the door without looking back, and walked outside.
Marco rose to follow him.
“Say, lad,” said the innkeeper. “My wife heard a bit of interesting news last night from the captain.” The old man’s wife was not only young but unexpectedly good-looking, and Marco had quickly ascertained that her favors were for the asking, if one was willing to pay. It was the other reason the innkeeper liked him: that he had paid well and the young woman had enjoyed herself. “Yea. A warband of them damned zherawn rode into town late last night. We see them every second year or thereabouts, in here, trading and such like. But the captain said they’ve some of them chepalis with them as well.” Then, either because Marco’s expression betrayed him or because the old man was keener than he looked, he went on. “That’s what you’ve been waiting here for, in’t it? More of them foreigners. And it looks like now we know why all these strangers have come into our port this late in the year.”
“Thank you,” said Marco. He went outside. Josef Raevsky was waiting for him. “Where are we going?” Marco asked.
“There’s someone who wishes to see you.”
They walked to the outskirts of town. The rains had not come in great force yet, so the roads and tracks were still dry. But it was getting cold at night. Barefoot children stared at him from doorways. An old woman carded wool. Heat swelled out from a blacksmith’s forge.
Within sight of the barracks, Josef halted. Marco stared. What had been a quiet outpost before was now bustling with activity. Scarlet-shirted men examined the horses while Chapalii, clearly more Chapalii than the four who had been here all along, spoke to each other and to a trio of red-shirted men over to one side.
“Have you seen enough?” Josef asked.
“What does this mean? Why are they here, and who are you?”
“We are jaran. We have escorted these pilgrims from the issledova tel shore to this port, where they will set sail for their own lands across the seas.”
“The horses are for you,” said Marco, suddenly understanding something the innkeeper had said. “You must be—” There was no word in Taor that he knew for nomads.
“We are not khaja, if that is what you mean. The ones who settle in one place. We ride.”
One question answered, a million sprouting to take its place. “Who wants to talk with me?”
“Come. We will go down to the port to see the khepelli to their ship.”
Marco followed and Josef led him down to the docks. As he waited, Marco chatted with the ship’s master of the Queen Aireon, which was returning to Jeds the next day. The ship he had come in on eight days before had already sailed on northward. As he watched, a sail cleared the horizon and banked toward the harbor.
It took until midday for the ship to anchor within rowing distance from the docks. By that time, fifteen Chapalii with an escort of fifteen brilliantly clad riders arrived at the dock. Marco realized quickly enough that he himself was being escorted by Josef. Being watched so that he did not interfere with their leave-taking. The Chapalii were being sent home. Well, being put on the ship, at least. Marco was wild to know how they intended to get off-planet from here, but he had a healthy respect for the saber riding on Josef Raevsky’s hip.
Boats came. The Chapalii loaded gear into them. In all this, Marco quickly discerned that two people—one Chapalii, one jaran—were being deferred to here. One Chapalii lord. The jaran man—from this distance, it was hard to tell, except that he was clearly in charge. The Chapalii clambered awkwardly into the boats. Final respects were paid, and the human sailors at the oars began the long stroke out to the ship.
And that was that.
Except, of course, it wasn’t. Across a hundred meters’ distance, a man turned to stare at Marco. Every alarm Marco had honed by instinct to its finest degree went off. Danger.
“Come,” said Josef. A crowd had long since gathered to watch. An audience, of course. Somehow, Marco was no longer surprised at any twist this journey might take. He followed Josef meekly but cautiously.
The man waited for them as a prince waits. He was of middling height, but height never matters in the kind of man he was. On a whim, Marco bowed to him, with the flourish granted to the nobility in Jeds.
“You are the emissary from the Prince of Jeds,” said the man in faultless Rhuian. His accent was slight but melodious. “I am Ilyakoria Bakhtiian. I have two letters and a holy relic for you to deliver to the prince.” He gestured with a hand, and Raevsky extracted a leather pouch from the saddlebags of Bakhtiian’s horse. “By the way.” Bakhtiian said it offhandedly. “If I ever find out that you did not deliver the messages and the relic to the prince, I will hunt you down and kill you.” He gave Marco the pouch.
Marco took it. For the first time in his life, he felt entirely out of his depth.
“Please,” said Bakhtiian politely. “Examine each item so that you know what you’re carrying.”
Marco nodded, still not trusting himself to speak. He opened the pouch and pulled out the cylinder. Stared at it, knowing instantly that it was of Chapalii manufacture. And read Tess’s letter. Tess.
“But I must come with you,” he said, looking up. “I must get to Tess.”
“Do I need to repeat myself? She said that this is important to her brother, that he needs it, not next season or the one after but now. Therefore, you will deliver it.”
His men flanked him, a scatter of brilliant color, all armed, most mounted. Josef Raevsky stood to one side. But it was clear to Marco that Bakhtiian was the most dangerous of these men. That he was a man who would, who could, who had killed, a man who would not hesitate to do so again if his will were crossed.
“I understand,” said Marco finally.
“Good,” said Bakhtiian.
“But is Tess safe? Where is she?”
Bakhtiian looked so angry in that instant that Marco took an involuntary step back. “She is with my people,” he said fiercely. He turned on his heel and began to walk away.
“Wait. Surely I can send a message to her. A gift.”
Bakhtiian spun back. He looked furious. “What?” he snapped. “Write something, then.”
Marco always wore the emergency kit at his belt. He had an emergency transmitter he could send to her but he had nothing to write on here, had no parchment except back at the inn. Bakhtiian said a few words in a foreign tongue, and Raevsky rummaged again in the saddlebags and brought out a book—a book!—and a quill pen and ink.
“Here.” Bakhtiian carefully tore a page out of the front of the book and handed it to Marco.
Marco stared. Newton’s Principia, the title page. He felt disoriented; he felt like laughing. Newton in the hands of this barbarian. He glanced up to see Bakhtiian’s unnerving stare focused on him. Crouching hastily, he set the page on his knee and wrote in Anglais.
My darling Tess, your dear old Uncle Marco wonders what the hell you’re up to on Rhui, but most of all he hopes you are safe. I am sending an emergency transmitter by way of your
escort. For God’s sake, child, let us know where you are and that you’re well. I am not going to endanger my life at this time by trying to follow your escort back to you. And I’m sure you understand that the Mushai’s cylinder must get to Charles as soon as possible. As you must. I do not understand what your circumstances are. If you are being held against your will, though it does not seem so from your letter, you can merely activate the primary codes and we will come and pick you up in a shuttle and damn the Interdiction. If not against your will, then I will only say this: You have a duty to your brother. You also have a duty to yourself. Make of that what you will. I send my love. Marco Burckhardt
Marco fished the emergency transmitter from his pouch. It looked like a little dagger, snuggled into a leather sheath. He folded the letter carefully and slid it inside the sheath, and handed the dagger to Bakhtiian. Bakhtiian took it without a word and turned and walked back to his horse.
Should he follow them? Could he, without being killed; that was the real question. He judged it unlikely. He must hope that Tess would get the transmitter; it would keep track of her whereabouts, whatever she chose to do with it. He opened her letter to Charles and read it again. Unwound the cylinder from its fabric blanket and stared. The Mushai. Goddess help them all. He’d damned well better get this back to Charles. If Tess was not safe for now in the hands of Ilyakoria Bakhtiian, then she wasn’t safe anywhere.
Bakhtiian mounted and turned to stare at Marco as if memorizing his features in case they met again and Bakhtiian discovered that Marco had indeed not fulfilled his duty. And Marco had a sudden flash of insight: if this barbarian prince ever decided that he wanted to conquer the civilized lands, then Goddess protect those lands that lay in his path.
They rode away, these jaran, much to the relief of the townspeople of Abala Port. But then again, it would give them something to talk about for the entire winter. Marco tied the leather pouch to his belt and went to talk to the ship’s master of the Queen Aireon about getting passage with them back to Jeds.
Chapter Twenty-seven