His Conquering Sword: 3 (The Novels of the Jaran)

by Kate Elliott

  “Oh, God.” Tess walked back to the stairway that led up, behind an arras, to the gallery above. She laughed, just a little. “It’s an endless tangled web, isn’t it?” Then she stopped stock-still, holding the arras aside with one hand, because there, in the dimness at the top of the steps, stood the ke.

  Unveiled.

  Tess stared. Then she chuckled. The ke looked like a Chapalii, only its skin was scalier, more alienlike. Had Tess expected a revelation, like the visitation of an angel? “I am pleased,” she said carefully to the ke, “that you trust me.”

  The ke descended the steps, and Cara followed behind her. Tess backed up to give them room to come through into the salon. The ke examined the chamber for a long while. Tess only watched.

  “It is true,” said the ke suddenly, “that these humans are quite primitive. Scarcely better than animals.”

  Tess felt her mouth drop open. She snapped it shut. The ke had addressed her in common Chapalii, without one single honorific.

  “I beg your pardon,” added the ke, “for addressing you in the che-lin tongue, but surely you cannot know the deeper tongue.”

  It took Tess a moment to answer because she thought her heart would burst, she was so excited. “I do not know of such a tongue—but what may I call you? And how did you come to realize that I am female?”

  “Are you female?” asked the ke. Her voice, like that of the males, was colorless, and because of her skin, Tess could not tell at all what emotions she felt.

  “Yes, I am. But then why unveil yourself? I don’t understand.”

  “By your own testimony you are married to one of these humans. Thus you have become a nameless one, just as I am. The Tai-endi is dead, just as the Protocol Office has proclaimed.” The ke wandered over to stare at the fire as if the lick and spit of flame engrossed or appalled her. “It is no wonder that the Tai-en has kept you in exile here on this planet.”

  Tess looked at Cara. Cara shrugged. The ke lifted a hand to the candles and held it close, as if testing their heat. Kept her in exile to spare himself the shame? Or to protect her? Or for some other, alien reason that Tess could not guess? And at the same time, Tess felt an odd exhilaration, as if the extinction of the Tai-endi—in this ke’s mind, at least—granted her a sudden, reckless freedom. “You may call me Tess. Is there some—name—some word, that I might call you?”

  The ke touched two fingers to the cherubs carved into the mantlepiece and drew her hand along the frieze, studying its heights and valleys. “By decree older than the eldest of the emperor’s towers did ten of the first families lose their names because of their rashness and their pride.” She turned. Tess walked closer. The ke was tall, as all Chapalii were, but layers of robes disguised her thinness. Her eyes gleamed, golden irises slit vertically by lozenge-shaped pupils. “So they became the nameless ones, and so did other names become extinct as time passed, as years turned back on themselves and followed the same course again, and again. Without a name there is no true existence, and yet, without a name, existence is boundless. So must the prince who becomes emperor lose his name. So must the ke live without names.”

  “But the Tai-en Mushai lost his name, and yet he is still remembered.”

  The ke wandered over to the table and unrolled the parchment, using her hands as much as her eyes to explore it. “So is he imprisoned in Sorrowing Tower forever,” she replied.

  “Well,” said Tess in Anglais. “But is it possible that I might learn the—” She hesitated, shot through with hope and the fear of disappointment, riddled with it, like the very pain of the wound itself. “That I might learn the deeper tongue?”

  The ke rolled up the map and tied it exactly as Tess had tied it before. “You might. But you must master che-lin first.”

  Cara raised her eyebrows. Tess had to smile. How blithely they all praised her for speaking Chapalii so well. But that did not mean that by Chapalii standards she was fluent. “With your help,” said Tess humbly, “I will endeavor to do so.”

  The ke nodded, like master to pupil. “When do you wish to begin?” she asked.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  DIANA COULD NOT HELP but compare the two modes of travel: the constant jarring sway of the wagons in the army’s train against the luxurious appointments of Soerensen’s ducal yacht. On this yacht, the Company returned to Earth.

  Vasil was in a foul temper, because every time he looked in a mirror he saw his scarred face. He even yelled at Yana one day, when she came to show him the three-dimensional picture she had drawn on a demi-modeler under Hal’s supervision. Yana burst into tears and ran out of the room.

  Karolla, for the first time in that long trip, came to life. “You selfish beast!” she cried, standing up. Anton lay cradled in her arms. “How dare you speak that way to her!” Diana, sitting with her, rose at once.

  Vasil practically snarled. “Leave me alone,” he said, and turned his face toward the wall.

  At that moment, the door whisked open to reveal Yana, crying noisily in the passageway, and Dr. Kinzer. “Aha!” said Dr. Kinzer tartly, tapping her fingers on her slate. “Feeling sorry for himself again, is he? M. Veselov, you really are going to have to learn some patience. Now, I beg your pardon, M. Arkhanov, but I do need a few moments alone with my patient.”

  Diana took Karolla by the arm and they went out together. Anton hiccuped, stirred, and went back to sleep. Seeing her mother, Yana gulped down her tears and ran away down the corridor. Karolla looked white.

  “Here,” said Diana. “We’ll go rest in the chapel.” It was the most peaceful place she could think of. They found David praying in the chapel, but he rose when he saw them, made a final circle of grace with his right hand, and retreated to leave them alone. “I hope you don’t mind,” Diana continued, taking Karolla down to sit on the front row of benches that ringed the altar.

  “Why should I mind?” asked Karolla in a choked voice.

  “Well, it isn’t a temple to jaran gods, but it’s still a holy place.”

  “Our gods aren’t jealous,” murmured Karolla, and suddenly she flushed bright red. “If only I were as worthy.”

  “Karolla!” This was too much. “How can you be unworthy? To leave everything you knew, everyone you loved, and all for—him. I think you are the most selfless person I know.”

  Karolla stared at baby Anton’s downy head, not seeming to see the soft glowing lights in the walls, the pale dome that enclosed them, the seamless benches, and the doors that opened without a touch. It was, Diana reflected, how Karolla dealt with things: She pretended she did not see them.

  “If I truly loved him,” Karolla said, “then I wouldn’t care about—” She broke off. “But I want him to love me more. And he never will.”

  “Love you more than—what?” Or whom?

  Karolla threw back her head. At first, Diana had wondered why a man as handsome and as vain as Vasil had married a woman who was, truly, as plain as Karolla, since she doubted Vasil cared about Karolla’s finer qualities, but now she supposed he had done it because it ensured him an acolyte.

  “But this place,” said Karolla, seemingly at variance, “it isn’t a place he can ever come, is it? He can’t follow Vasil here. Vasil must have known that. Either Bakhtiian threatened to exile him again or else Vasil chose to leave him.”

  “Bakhtiian?” asked Diana haltingly. Still half asleep, Anton stuck two fingers in his mouth and sucked quietly on them.

  “He wouldn’t have left if it wasn’t for the scar to his face. He would never have let Bakhtiian see him with that scar. Is it true that this dokhtor can take the scar away?”

  Diana lifted a hand slowly and traced the scar of marriage on her cheek. “Yes,” she said. “It’s true. The doctor can make his face look as if it was never scarred in the first place.”

  “Then I am content,” said Karolla.

  They made landfall at Nairobi Port and took the train to London. Half the time Diana was thrilled to be back. The other half, she felt as if she wer
en’t there at all. She felt as if she were someone else, watching through her eyes.

  At Victoria Station, a familiar face waited on the platform to greet them.

  “Hyacinth!” Oriana whooped and ran to hug him.

  Hyacinth basked in their welcome. He looked wonderful, but then, Hyacinth always looked wonderful. He was aware also, of course, of the number of passersby who paused to stare at the commotion before recalling their manners and walking on. But when he had hugged them all, he turned to regard Owen.

  “Well, Owen,” he said in a tone that Diana had never heard from him before. “I’m sorry for the trouble I caused you. It was rash and stupid, what I did, and it caused more grief than you can ever know.” He glanced to his left, and all at once Diana saw the slight, black-haired young man loitering twenty steps away.

  She felt sick with envy.

  And a second later, relief that she stood here unburdened of any awkward jaran presence. And then terrible guilt.

  “How is Yevgeni adjusting?” asked Yomi in a low voice.

  “Well.” Hyacinth sighed, and he looked abruptly tired and discouraged. “It hasn’t been easy. We take each day as it comes. I got your message, Ori, about them.” He glanced toward the floating litter and the little family huddled around it, still in their alien clothing, like painted barbarians escaped from their cage. Vasil Veselov had his eyes open, and he squinted at the other man, across the distance. Diana watched as Yevgeni caught sight of the other jaran. His eyes widened and he took two steps forward and then halted, unsure of his welcome.

  “Owen,” Hyacinth continued, returning his focus to the director, “I’d like to audition again, for the Company, if you’ll have me.”

  “Can’t get work, huh?” said Owen.

  “Owen!” scolded Ginny.

  Hyacinth grinned. “Quite the contrary. I made good use of all the publicity I could get, and I have my pick of parts, by and large, though mostly in the vids.” He cleared his throat. “But I miss the work. If you think there will be openings …” He trailed off, not bothering to hide his hope. The old Hyacinth would never have shown that kind of vulnerability so openly.

  “Hmph,” said Owen. “We will have openings.” He glanced toward Anahita, but she had already left the group and they saw her striding purposefully down the platform toward the exit. “And more openings even than you might expect. There’s something new afoot.” Ginny kicked him. But she couldn’t kick the light out of his eyes.

  Hyacinth’s face opened up. “Thank you. We need something new, Yevgeni and I.” Then he made a great, exasperated sigh. “Damn it anyway, he always does this, lurking in the background. I hate it! Yevgeni! Come over here!”

  Reluctantly, Yevgeni walked over. Hyacinth draped an arm around the other man. “Now. You haven’t met anyone, so let me introduce you.”

  They made the rounds. Most of the actors even kissed him in the jaran style, formally, on each cheek. Yevgeni stopped at last beside the litter. He stared at the man lying there.

  “Yevgeni?” Vasil asked in a hoarse voice. “I thought you were dead.”

  “We are dead, Veselov,” said Yevgeni; low, in khush, so that Diana realized that he had been speaking Anglais to the rest of them. Then he turned away and retreated back to Hyacinth.

  No,” said Vasil softly. “It’s we who are alive, and they who are dead.”

  “They’re not dead, Father,” said Yana tremulously. “Are they?” She clutched Valentin’s hand and lifted her head to stare at the wild bustle of Victoria Station, which surely must seem unimaginably strange to her. “I thought they were all just—left behind.”

  “Dead to me,” said Vasil. No one answered him. He did not seem to expect a reply.

  “Diana! Di!”

  The shout carried across half the station. Diana turned. There, late as usual, came her family, all pell-mell and haphazard and swarming the other travelers on the platform: her mother, her father, two sibs, one niece, darling Nana, an aunt, three uncles, and four cousins. She laughed with joy just as her father reached her and scooped her up and spun her around. At last, she was home.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  AT THE TAIL END of summer, Tess came home. She had sent no message before her, only a courier from the coast, and she rode into camp with her escort in the late afternoon, hard on the messenger’s heels, having made good time herself.

  “You might have warned me,” said Sonia grumpily, hugging her. “I’ve no celebration prepared to welcome you home.”

  Tess kissed her on either cheek. “You are my welcome, Sonia. Oh, gods, look how much Katya has grown. Is that Vasha?” She laughed. “And who are you, young man?” she said to Ivan. “I scarcely recognize you.” Tess shone with happiness. Sonia felt, to be truthful, unutterably relieved to have her back. She had been gone for almost nine months, and at times, Sonia had worried that she might simply decide to stay in Jeds or even to follow her brother back to Erthe. Now, Sonia saw that she had worried needlessly. This was Tess’s home now.

  Tess caught sight of a figure wavering under an adjoining awning. “Good God, is that Nadine?” She broke away from Sonia and strode over. She could not embrace Nadine very well, since Nadine was by now so incredibly pregnant that her belly overwhelmed every other feature. “Dina! How are you?”

  Nadine flushed just as Sonia hurried up to forestall the explosion. But she was too late. “I hate this!” Nadine exclaimed. “I just hate this!” She pushed Tess away and turned and waddled back into her tent.

  Tess turned to Sonia. At once, her happy glow subsided. She looked guilty. “Oh. Is that the way it’s been with her?”

  “Let me tell you,” said Sonia, drawing Tess away from Nadine’s tent, “that pregnancy has made her even more foul tempered than usual.”

  Tess cast a glance back at the tent. The entrance flap stilled and hung there, heavy, cutting Nadine off from the rest of her family. “Can that be possible? Poor Nadine.”

  “Tess, my dear, you ought to save your sympathy for those of us who deserve it. And Feodor Grekov is impossible. If he’s not fighting with her, then he spoils her. I can’t imagine why I ever agreed with Mother Sakhalin that he would make a good husband for Dina.”

  “You agreed!”

  Sonia arched an eyebrow. “Certainly Mother Sakhalin consulted me since my mother was not available. To be frank, there were other young men I preferred—a very well-mannered and clever young Raevsky son, for instance—but it might have proven difficult to persuade any of them to marry her.”

  Tess snorted. “Well, then, you got what you deserved.” She grinned, surveyed the camp, and sighed, happy again. Kolia went up to Svetlana Tagansky’s daughter and the two children circled each other like two horses getting acquainted. In her competent manner, Svetlana oversaw the unpacking and the rolling out of tents, and Aleksi took the horses out to the herd. Farther back, a young woman in a Jedan gown sat stiffly in a wagon, hands clasped in her lap and her hair covered by a loose white scarf.

  “Who is that?” Sonia asked.

  “She’s my hostage,” said Tess lightly. “A Jedan noblewoman. Baron Santer’s daughter. I thought I might marry her to Anatoly Sakhalin.”

  “Anatoly Sakhalin!” Sonia surveyed the young woman, who seemed unremarkable except perhaps for the calm with which she regarded the jaran camp. She appeared to be an extremely self-possessed young woman. “Have you asked Anatoly about this?”

  “I thought I would discuss the matter with his grandmother.”

  “Well,” said Sonia, with deep misgivings, “I will see that a messenger goes out to them. Not that I don’t think it’s a good idea. Of course, I know who Baron Santer is. But keep in mind that there are other young men—Georgi Raevsky, for instance—”

  Tess gave her such a look. “You’re showing a sudden partiality for the Raevsky tribe, aren’t you?”

  “I am giving my husband the honor he deserves. In any case, I suggest you speak with Anatoly first. He just returned from the south, from
his uncle’s army, two hands of days ago.”

  “Hmph,” said Tess, and then grinned hugely and hugged Sonia again. “Oh, I missed you so much.” She broke away and swept her gaze around the camp. It halted on her tent, sitting there, looking silent and alone at the heart of the camp. “But where is Ilya?” she asked, sounding rather plaintive.

  “Sulking in the tent.” Sonia laughed. “Or pacing, more like. The truth is, I think he’s afraid he’ll embarrass himself if he meets you in public.”

  “Wise of him, I’m sure,” Tess replied, but her face had already lit. “If you’ll excuse me.” She had enough dignity not to run, but she vanished into her tent swiftly enough.

  The next day, Mother Sakhalin and her grandson arrived from the Sakhalin encampment a half-day’s ride downriver. Tess received them under the awning of her tent, and Sonia saw how unconsciously Tess carried authority with her now, as if she had grown used to wielding it in Jeds. It made her at once more formidable and yet more easygoing. Ilya sat beside her, looking remarkably subdued. Sonia reflected that it had not, on the whole, been an easy nine months, what with Nadine pregnant and Ilya’s moods swinging wildly from day to day. They had traveled slowly back through Habakar, de-marking territories, installing governors, and sending Kirill Zvertkov to the south to reinforce Yaroslav Sakhalin in the Xiriki-khai province. Gangana had revolted and, quite rightfully, Ilya had laid the city to waste as an example to the rest. All in all, Sonia had been relieved when they reached the plains again at the beginning of summer and Ilya had announced that he intended to remain on the plains for at least a year. For almost five years he had been fighting; it was time to rest while others consolidated and pressed forward.

  “Mother Sakhalin,” said Tess, “your presence honors me. Anatoly, I am pleased to see you as well.”