by Kate Elliott
Then Aleksi and Konstans arrived. “Go ahead!” Aleksi shouted. “We’ll cover your backs.” He swung his horse around and balanced the wicker shield on his back. Konstans did likewise. The fourth rider swung down and hoisted Vasil up over his mount, got back on, and in this wise they sprinted out of arrow range. A rock thudded to the ground, spewing dirt, and another, and then they were out of catapult range.
Up on the rise, neither Bakhtiian nor his jahar moved but only watched as the riders straggled in with the two injured men thrown over the horses like sacks, and half of the horses limping and squealing. Vasil’s eyes had rolled back. He looked dead.
“I need a new mount,” said Anton Veselov. “Take them back to the hospital.” He glanced up toward the rise, toward Bakhtiian, and then down at his cousin. Vasil’s legs were a mass of wounds, scored with blood. Two arrows stuck out at an awful angle from his left thigh. His right shoulder weeped blood. His face was pale and his left cheek torn by a ragged, ugly cut.
“You’re in command now, Veselov,” said Aleksi, tossing the wicker shield to the ground. He counted seven arrows stuck in its fiber, and two shallow wounds in his mount’s rump. Konstans’s shield had ten arrows lodged in it. “I’ll escort them partway, if you wish.”
Anton stared at him a moment. A roar rose up from the left. The Farisa auxiliaries wavered, driven back from the breach in the wall by a scathing round of archery and catapult fire. Flags signaled. Anton started. “Archers, reinforce left,” he shouted. He urged his new mount up to the horse across which Vasil lay and jerked the staff of command from Vasil’s belt. “Damned fool,” he said to his cousin’s lifeless form. “But maybe you’re better off dead. Go on, then,” he said to Aleksi.
Konstans nodded at Aleksi and rode off, returning to Bakhtiian. Aleksi guided the others forward, and the lines parted to let them through. Up on the rise, Bakhtiian watched them go and then turned away as a rider bearing the green pennant of Raevsky’s jahar galloped up to him. They fell into conference.
Aleksi rode beside Vasil, but the wounded man did not stir except as the movements of the horse jostled him. But he still breathed. Blood dripped from him onto the ground; leaving a trail. Aleksi parted from the wounded soldiers at the river and, alone, he made his way back to Tess’s position.
He gave the reins of his horse to one of Sakhalin’s men and took the stairs two at a time up to the walkway. There Tess sat in the chair, staring fixedly toward the battle. Mitya knelt at her feet, holding her hand. Smoke and dust obscured the city. Fires flared up in four different places within the walls.
“Tess?” All at once, fear seized his heart. “Tess!”
Slowly, slowly, she turned to look at him. He heard voices behind him, Katerina calling, “This way! This way! Hurry!”
Tess was deadly pale, as pale as Vasil had been. Mitya jumped to his feet. “Thank the gods,” he said.
“Tess!” Aleksi sprinted up to her and flung himself at her feet. He went hot and cold together in sheer, stark terror. “What’s wrong?”
“Aleksi.” Her voice was hoarse and unsteady. “I’m bleeding.”
Up on the tower battlements, Vasha stood alone, gazing raptly at the battle. Katerina appeared on the ramparts, leading four soldiers carrying a litter.
Tess shut her eyes and opened them again. “Damn it,” she muttered. She rubbed a hand over her lower belly. “Damn it.” She started to get to her feet.
“No!” said Mitya. “No, Aunt Tess. We’ll carry you. Don’t move.”
“He’s right,” said Aleksi, standing up as Tess rose. His hands, on her arm, shook. “We’ll carry you to the hospital.”
“No. To Cara’s tent.” A strange expression crossed her face. Her shoulders curled in and her left hand clenched up by her chin. “Breathe slow,” she said to herself, but her breath came ragged. “Let it pass.”
Then, without warning, she swore, a single word. Water gushed down her legs, staining her boots and the loose belled ends of her women’s trousers.
Aleksi stared in horror. His fear for her paralyzed him. He could only stand and shake, clutching Tess by the arm. Mitya gasped. Katerina ran up beside them.
“Quick!” she exclaimed, surveying the situation with a comprehensive glance. “Quick, you idiots! Get her on the litter. The baby’s coming!”
ACT FIVE
“THESE OUR ACTORS,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve…”
—SHAKESPEARE,
The Tempest
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BEYOND, THE BATTLE RAGED. Charles Soerensen watched it without any pleasure, but he watched it nevertheless. “If I were to die,” he said to his companion, “and Tess inherit Jeds, then you would gain Jeds by more peaceful means than this.”
Ilyakoria Bakhtiian glanced at him, then back at the battle. The fighting was fierce over the ruins of the wall, but neither side gained ground. “You would not have put yourself in my power if you thought I coveted Jeds, by whatever means I meant to use to get it. And I can’t marry every princess. Nor would I want to.”
“There are other means than marriage.”
“There are, but with what power should I enforce them? The Great King of Vidiya will not grant me his throne simply because I ask him for it.”
“Do you want his throne?”
Bakhtiian still wore his helmet. He had not taken it off since the death of the Habakar king and the removal of the injured jaran soldiers. Out on the field before the gates, bodies littered the ground surrounding the smoldering remains of the scaffolding. “I want an alliance with him.”
“For now. Who is to say what you will want later?”
Now Bakhtiian turned his head to look directly at Charles. “Jeds is a rich city, with ships that sail to ports across the seas, and it boasts a fine university, but my army could ride across the extent of the lands Jeds calls her own in two days. How can you understand what I might want?”
“Because trade is as powerful as land. What makes these cities rich, here in Habakar? Not just farming. Not just the metals and the crafts. Merchants caravan through here, and the governor of each city demands a toll, a tax, from each merchant. Jedan ships sail to more ports than you know of, and the more of that trade, the more of the seas, they control, the richer we become.”
“So it was to negotiate trading rights that you sent Tess over the seas. She was spying on the khepellis.”
“Is that what she told you?”
“I’m asking you.”
A messenger rode up, blue pennant snapping from his upraised lance. He reported to Kirill Zvertkov, who was stationed at the far left of the jahar. The two men spoke together, and then Zvertkov sent him away. Over the distance, the blond rider and Bakhtiian looked toward each other; Zvertkov lifted his spear once, twice, and a third time. A hundred riders split off from Bakhtiian’s jahar and rode away after the messenger. Bakhtiian watched them go and then turned back to Soerensen.
“The Chapalii control the seas,” said Charles.
“They built Morava.”
“They built it, yes.”
“Do they want it back?”
“I don’t know what lies in the mind of their emperor.”
“They are zayinu. It’s true that they might not think like we do. I often didn’t understand them, when I escorted their priests to the shrine. And if they want these lands—my lands?”
“If they want these lands back, they will take them.”
“They are so strong?”
Charles glanced up into the sky, but the clear blue was roiled by smoke and dust from the battle. He looked back down to regard Bakhtiian with an even gaze. “They are stronger than you with your army and I with my ships.”
“Stronger than I with my army and you with your ships, if we had an alliance?”
“Ah,” said Charles. His lips quirked up, not quite into a smile. “If we had an alliance. Don’t we already?”
“Because of Tess? Quite the reverse, I thought.”
“But don’t you see, Bakhtiian, that Tess links us. In the jaran, she is your wife and also the adopted daughter of your aunt who is, as I understand it, a powerful ruler in her own right. In Jeds, she is my heir.”
“But in Jeds, if you had a child, that child would be your heir.”
“I won’t have a child.”
“How can you know? You’re still young—no older than me, I’d wager.”
“I cannot have a child.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“No pardon necessary. It’s a simple fact. I can’t have a child, because any child that I have would be killed.”
“Killed!” Bakhtiian looked astounded. Inside the city, a wooden tower built up against the walls collapsed in flames, and like an echo, a siege tower far to the right buckled and splintered and sagged into ruin. Men fell from its heights, or scrambled, screaming, from the wreckage. Smoke billowed up into the sky, obscuring the entire stretch of wall. The catapults kept up their fire, a constant, numbing harmony to the roar of battle.
“The children Tess has will be my heirs.”
Bakhtiian took off his helmet and shook out his hair in the breeze. The acrid scent of burning, the pall of dust, tinged the air. “My children.”
“Exactly. So you see, Bakhtiian, that we are already allied by many forces, by our own ambitions, by the threat of the Chapalii, by the children Tess will bear, by your education at the university my father founded and I built.”
Bakhtiian considered in silence, and at last he spoke. “There is one thing I’ve never understood. Tess said that when you’re not in Jeds, you sail to Erthe. Your mother came from that country, and so do many of the people in your party. Tess went there to study. Do you rule there? Was your mother the queen? Is that why she married your father, the Prince of Jeds?”
Charles shook his head. “They do not govern on Earth as they do in Jeds or in Habakar lands. They rule, well, more like the jaran in the tribes: there is a council, and one woman or man who administers.”
“And you are that man.”
“Yes.”
“But also Prince of Jeds.”
“Yes.”
“How can you be both? Why visit Erthe at all when you rule entire in Jeds?”
“Why live with your aunt’s tribe?”
Bakhtiian grinned. “Any man must respect his mother’s and his aunt’s wishes.”
“So it is with us as well. I am a child of two countries, just as the child Tess is carrying will be a child of two countries. But there is one other thing that Tess did not, perhaps, explain to you.”
Bakhtiian lifted one expressive eyebrow. “No doubt.”
Charles chuckled. “I beg your pardon. It was in deference to my orders that she kept her secrets. If I may?”
“Soerensen, I have learned more from you today than I have in three years from Tess. Why now?”
“Because of what I learned at the palace—the shrine—of Morava. Bakhtiian, Earth does not rule itself. It is part of the Chapalii Empire, where it lies, far across the seas. We rule within our lands, by their favor, but they rule us completely.”
“But Jeds—”
“They are not yet concerned with Jeds.”
“Tess said that the khepellis had only recently learned about the shrine itself.” Bakhtiian stared, musing, at the city, at the figures struggling on the walls, at the archers below and above firing sheets of arrows, at the flames inside the city, at the trampled corpse of the Habakar king. The thud of artillery serenaded them. Yet Bakhtiian did not really seem to be watching the battle but rather something beyond it. “Gods. Then why—?” He broke off. “You mean to free yourselves, to free Erthe, from their rule.”
“Of course.”
“Of course,” Bakhtiian echoed. “Of course. And you want my help.”
“We of Earth can’t war with the Chapalii outright. They’re too strong.”
“Though they rule you, you aren’t part of their empire, not in truth. Not in your hearts.”
“Not at all.”
Bakhtiian considered Karkand. For a while his gaze rested on the Farisa auxiliaries, taking the brunt of the attack over the mined wall. “It’s true that a land may be won by war, but to hold on to it takes subtler skills. To hold on to what you’ve won, and to unite it. Since the khepelli are zayinu, there is even less reason to love them or to accept their rule. What profit for me in this alliance?”
“What do you want?”
“I want Jeds.”
Charles laughed. “I thought you didn’t covet Jeds.”
“I only said that you must not think I did, to put yourself in my power. If I said the word, my men would kill you.”
“True,” said Charles coolly. “But you’d still be no closer to having Jeds.”
Bakhtiian’s lips twitched up into a smile. “It’s true that Tess would repudiate me in an instant if I killed you. Well, then, if I can’t have Jeds, then I want all the lands that lie between.”
“I can’t promise you them. And I didn’t say that I wasn’t willing to bargain with Jeds.”
Stones lobbed out from the city fell harmlessly onto the ground a hundred paces in front of them, spewing clots of dirt into the air. A clay pot filled with water struck earth and broke into shards; the water spattered and steamed over the churned-up soil.
Bakhtiian stared at Charles, eyes wide and questioning. “But then—” He broke off and twisted around in his saddle.
“Bakhtiian!” A rider hailed him. The next instant, two other riders appeared, galloping, driving their mounts hard. They resolved into two of the Orzhekov children, the brother and sister, Mitya and Galina.
Bakhtiian muttered a word under his breath. His stallion shifted restlessly beneath him, sidestepping.
As they rode closer, the children could be seen to have pale faces and a drawn look about their mouths. Still, Bakhtiian held his place, waiting for them to attend him. Mitya held back so that his sister could take right of place before Bakhtiian. She reined her mare in beside him.
“Cousin! It’s Tess!” She broke off and cast a glance back at her brother. He nodded.
“Go on,” said Bakhtiian sharply.
Galina gulped and went on. “The baby’s coming early.”
Charles swore. “I must go back. Are you coming?”
Bakhtiian did not reply. A huge stone flung from Karkand struck the ground about eighty paces in front of them. The impact shuddered through the soil. Dirt sprayed out.
Konstans rode up beside Bakhtiian. “They’re getting better range. Perhaps we’d better move back.”
Bakhtiian flashed a furious glance toward Konstans. “I do not move back! We hold our position.” He was taut with suppressed emotion. “Mitya, you will stay with me. Galina, go with the prince.”
“You’re not coming with me?” Charles demanded.
Bakhtiian turned his dark stare toward Soerensen. “Don’t you think I want to go? But I have a duty to my army. I must remain here, to be seen, until nightfall.”
“Ah,” said Charles. “I understand.”
“Yes,” said Bakhtiian softly, “I think you do. Go. I will come when I can.” He was pale, and his horse minced under him. “Konstans, get Mitya some armor and take him back behind the lines until he’s suitably outfitted to sit up here with me.”
“Of course.” Konstans rode away with the boy.
“Well, then,” said Charles.
“Keep her well,” said Bakhtiian. His voice slipped and broke on hoarseness.
“Cara will be with her. Nightfall, then.” He reined his horse aside and followed Galina toward camp. Behind, Bakhtiian fastened on his helmet, clenched his hands on the reins, and stared out at the assault. Inside the wal
ls a minaret burned, flames leaping up its delicate neck to scorch and engulf the ornamented tower. A din rose from the city like the distant clamor of the ocean: the blare of trumpets, the roar of flames, the constant arrhythmic thunk of catapult fire, the bellowing of animals, a multitude of sobs and cries all blended with the clash of the armies and the screams of the wounded and the pounding of stone against stone as artillery battered down the walls of Karkand. The sun sank toward the west, and as sunset came, the light ran like blood along the western hills.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
DAVID COULD NOT BEAR to go anywhere near the siege, now that he’d done his work so well. He could not bring himself to observe the fruits of his labors, since it had cost him nothing, and others—jaran soldiers, khaja civilians—so much. He condemned himself as a coward and a hypocrite. As penance, he worked triage in the hospital with Marco and Gwyn Jones. The wounded came in in a steady stream. Three times David almost fainted from the sight of blood and gaping flesh. After the third time, a numbness settled over him and he could follow Marco about, helping him hold down the screaming wounded, refilling the three leather flasks he carried—one with water, one with alcohol, and one with a jaran concoction, a blend of herbs in tea that dulled pain. At the water jars, he met Diana Brooke-Holt. Blood spattered her tunic, and she gave him a pained smile, filled her flasks, and went back out to the ranks of wounded.
Now and again David lugged some poor soul into the surgery where Cara and the best of the jaran healers worked. Jo Singh had set up several huge copper pots of water to boil, to sterilize instruments. After depositing his unconscious patient on a table, David took a break from the wounded for a while and cleaned the crude instruments and boiled them and lifted them out to dry with a set of metal tongs.
He was standing there, sweating from the steam and the heat of the coals, when Gwyn Jones and a jaran woman brought in a stretcher. A blond man lay on it, looking more dead than alive.
