Jaran

by Kate Elliott

  “Tess.” Fedya reached up and gently drew her hand down from her face. “In the morning, it will not seem so terrible.”

  And in the morning, it did not.

  In the morning, Niko rode out with her and Bakhtiian. They circled back but found nothing, from which both men concluded that the trailing scout had veered off. Around noon, coming back to the copse and spring they had left that morning, they spotted the jahar away to their left where, Tess thought, they surely should not be. The range of hills dwindled away in front to the familiar flatness of plain. The three of them dismounted and crouched on the height, the horses downslope behind them.

  Tess saw their jahar out on the plain. But the riders still in the hills—another jahar. Closing quickly, too quickly, with their position.

  “Niko,” said Bakhtiian crisply. “Get our jahar to cover. I’ll delay them. We’re not ready for a battle, not yet.” But Niko did not answer, was already on his horse and riding.

  “How long until they reach the spring?” Tess asked.

  “Not long enough, although they may stop to water the horses. That can’t be Doroskayev. They can’t know we’re so close, or they’d not be pacing themselves…Why are you still here?” He stared at her as if he had just seen her. “Follow Niko.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Decoy them back the way they’ve come.”

  “But once they see you, they’ll know your jahar is near. How many will bother to follow a lone man?”

  “If that man is Ilyakoria Bakhtiian, quite a few.”

  She glanced to where his remount stood, a stocky tarpan. “They’ll catch you.”

  “I’ll ride Myshla. They won’t catch us. Now, woman. Go.”

  Tess jumped up and ran back to the horses, grabbed the tarpan’s reins, and mounted Myshla, kicking the mare even before her seat was stable.

  “Damn it,” Bakhtiian yelled, rising. “Get back here!”

  “I suggest you get down in that copse and hide. And hurry.”

  He took two stiff steps toward her. “Damn you, Soerensen. This doesn’t concern you. I said—”

  “You’re wrong. I need to get to Jeds, urgently. If you stay there, they’ll run you down.” She reined Myshla farther away. “You’d better go. We haven’t got much time. Trust me.”

  She turned Myshla and cantered down the slope to the copse, the remounts trailing behind. How to throw them off the scent, how? She tethered the two horses securely to a tree and pulled off the distinctive jahar saddles, obscuring them with the saddlebags. She ripped open her saddlebags, cursing under her breath; everything was jaran, everything. Why hadn’t she even brought a change of clothing from the ship?

  “Oh, God, Tess, you’re in for it now.” What was it she had once said about maenads and madness? Sometimes you had to choose all or nothing. And sometimes your weakness became your strength. All at once she knew what to do.

  She strewed all her belongings about, piling them into disarray so that their provenance might be concealed. She took her blanket and ran back into the nearest screen of trees and awkwardly—for who knew where Bakhtiian was now—took off her tunic and trousers and wrapped herself in her cloak. It was difficult enough to go out there clad in her underclothes, underneath the cloak, but she had to trust what she knew of jaran culture. The white blouse Nadezhda Martov had given her was generic enough, seen from a distance, so she drenched it in the spring and dampened her Earth-made tunic and trousers and retreated to the edge of the trees, hanging the clothing over bushes to dry. She unlaced her boots and left them by the clothes, but not before stuffing her bracelets inside them; hid the saber and knife under the saddles, but kept the Chapalii knife with her, and finally rolled out her bedroll at the edge of the screen of trees and sat down on it. Nervously she fingered her necklace, the pewter ankh from Sojourner.

  The branches of one lopsided tree scraped incessantly against the trunk of another. On the other side of the water hole, the low rock Bakhtiian had sat on last night lay naked and dark in the midday sun. There was no sign of him. She prayed that he had taken refuge deep in the farthest screen of trees. She touched the hilt of the knife and withdrew her hand. Her palms were slick with sweat.

  Then came the sound of hooves, pounding along the earth.

  There were at least forty of them, scarlet shirts with low collars and banded cuffs, black trousers cut fuller than those of Bakhtiian’s men but clearly jaran. They pulled up, undeniably amazed. She leapt to her feet with a cry of surprise, managing to almost let her cloak fall without actually revealing anything.

  By the looks on their faces when the cloak slipped, she knew she would succeed.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Of pleasures, those that come most rarely give the greatest enjoyment.”

  —DEMOCRITUS OF ABDERA

  “WHY HAVE YOU COME back?” she cried in Rhuian. She clutched her cloak with both hands, pinning it closed at her chest. “You said you were going to the great temple of the goddess. You cannot have gotten there and back so soon.”

  A good three dozen or more men stared at her, and she suddenly doubted herself. She was utterly vulnerable to them except for the Chapalii knife belted over her underclothes, a weapon she had never used and was not certain she could use. How could she be sure Garii was the least bit trustworthy? Wind pulled up one corner of her cloak, revealing a glimpse of knee. As if it were a signal, the men’s gazes flicked away one by one, and most of them colored as they looked at anything but her. Her hands gripped the cloth more tightly and she forced herself to breathe slowly. It had to work, it could still work, and yet it all rested on this: manners, custom.

  A hurried consultation began among the leading rank of riders. She used its cover to look them over as surreptitiously as possible: like all jaran, most of these riders were light-haired and fair-complexioned with a sprinkling of darker ones throughout, but she recognized none of them, only the characteristic scarlet shirts boasting embroidered sleeves and collars and black trousers and boots that proclaimed these to be jahar riders.

  Finally three of the men dismounted and walked slowly toward her. They kept their eyes averted. The grass made a low whispering sound as they passed through it. The first, a man of Bakhtiian’s age, tall and very fair and unusually handsome even for a man of the jaran, glanced at her frequently but did not meet her gaze. The other two men were older. The man on the right had a sullen, angry expression, and he regarded her with the most direct gaze, suspicious of her. He looked like the kind of man who is suspicious of all people. The third man, in the middle, was the oldest, his fair hair silvering, his shoulders bowed, his expression that of a man harassed beyond all bearing. When the other two halted a decent two body-lengths from her, he came forward another three steps and stopped.

  “Do you speak khush?” he asked.

  Tess shrank back a step, feigning confusion.

  “What is a woman doing out here on her own?” said the sullen man. “Do you think she’s from that khaja town? She may recognize us.”

  The middle-aged man hunched his shoulders even more, frowning. “She may recognize you, Leotich. My men had nothing to do with that idiotic raid. Could you understand what she said, Vasil?” This to the blond.

  An auspicious time to break in. “Who are you?” Tess asked in Rhuian. “You are not the men I talked to before.”

  Vasil tilted his head, thinking hard. “Something about men. But she speaks too quickly.”

  “But it is this—Rhu-an?”

  “I think so.”

  Tess shrank further into her cloak and spoke very slowly and with precise enunciation. “Can you understand me?”

  Vasil smiled suddenly. It lit his face like fire, and Tess caught herself staring at him even as he looked right at her, and he flushed and shifted his gaze. His eyes were a vivid, fiery blue. “I speak,” he said hesitantly. “Little.”

  “Only a little?” She emphasized the disappointment in her tone, and then wondered if she was overdoi
ng it. “The other man spoke Rhuian very well.”

  “Man?” Unconsciously, Vasil leaned toward her. Necklaces swung forward from his chest. “Other man? He speak?”

  “Yes. He spoke like a native but he wore much the same clothes as you do. Is he one of you? Is he here with you?”

  “I’m sure of it, Dmitri.” Vasil looked triumphant. “A man who spoke with her in Rhuian. It has to be Bakhtiian.” Leotich glared at her obliquely, lips tight.

  “What else did she say?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Tess lowered her eyes, not wanting to seem too interested in a conversation she ought not to understand. She resisted the urge to glance at her belongings, at the copse behind, wondering if it all concealed her true purpose as well as she hoped. Wondering if it concealed Bakhtiian.

  “I’ll try again,” said Vasil to Dmitri. He coughed, hesitated again. “Man,” he said. “Other man.” He sighed, frowned, concentrated, and then when she glanced up at him, he gave up and pointed to his scarlet shirt. “Is?”

  “Yes, yes.” Tess let her hold on her cloak slacken slightly. “Such clothes, red shirt, black trousers.” She let one arm emerge to point at their clothing and then did risk a half turn to look behind her, where her traveling clothes—obviously foreign—lay drying on the bushes. The white-barked trees beyond stood stark, barely clothed with scant green in the sunlight. When she looked back, all three men were looking not at her, or her clothes, but at each other.

  “It has to have been Ilya,” said Vasil in a fierce undertone, almost exultant. “It has to.”

  “Don’t get too excited,” said Leotich to Vasil.

  Vasil’s head jerked back, one hand brushing his knife hilt. “Don’t tempt me,” he muttered.

  “Vasil!” Standing between them, Dmitri lifted his chin, and that gesture alone convinced Tess that he was the man to be reckoned with. “Find out which direction.”

  Vasil returned his attention to the ground on Tess’ left. “Other men. Where?”

  “Other men! Yes, there were many others, and they were going, like me, to the great temple, but they would not take me with them.”

  “Many? Temple? Temple!” He grasped Dmitri by one arm. “Many of them, going to the old temple near the town.”

  “But Doroskayev said they were behind us.” Leotich’s frown made his eyes pinch together with suspicion. “How could they have gotten ahead of us? Why would they turn back?”

  “Gods, man,” said Dmitri. “Who knows why Bakhtiian does what he does? He may have gone past the temple and then gone back. He’s a far more religious man than you are.”

  Leotich snorted in disgust.

  “And since I obviously must remind you, he is escorting a party of khaja pilgrims. There is a reason to return to the temple. Perhaps he was forced to avoid it in the first place because of Doroskayev’s idiocy.”

  Leotich’s pale eyes focused on the other man, and he kicked at the grass, tearing a thin scar in the ground. “Doroskayev is the only one with any kind of plan. Whatever you may think of his raids, he always leaves Bakhtiian’s name. Even if Bakhtiian eludes us, someday he’ll come too close to khaja lands and they’ll kill him for us, for revenge.”

  “Doroskayev is a fool.” Dmitri’s voice, sharp as the winter wind, froze them all. “He has played into Bakhtiian’s hands, and I, by the gods, intend to tell him so when we meet up with his jahar. Bakhtiian says the khaja are a threat. Doroskayev will stir up a war and then they will be a threat. Don’t you see? Now Bakhtiian can justify his work. Fool and idiot twice over.”

  Leotich’s frown had turned into a scowl. “Doroskayev said Bakhtiian had a woman with him. How do we know she isn’t some trick of Bakhtiian’s, left here to throw us off the scent?”

  Vasil flushed with anger. “You’re no better than a khaja pig, Leotich. Bakhtiian would never put a woman in such danger.”

  “You’d know, wouldn’t you,” snarled Leotich.

  Vasil put his hand on his saber. Leotich grinned, almost feral.

  “Stop quarreling!” Dmitri’s voice cracked over them. Tess huddled backward, cringing away from their angry voices, not entirely pretending fear. “Doroskayev!” His disgust for his ally was all too evident in his tone. “Since when do we believe everything Doroskayev says? None of his men saw a woman. Whatever else you may think, Leotich, I’ve studied Bakhtiian for years. I know him as I know my own brother, as only one enemy can know another. Bakhtiian would never devise such a ploy as this. Gods, Vasil, see if you can make the woman understand we mean her no harm.”

  “Why would a woman be out here alone?” Leotich put in, uncowed by Dmitri’s speech.

  “Vasil?”

  Vasil sighed, facing Tess again. “Temple,” he said slowly, as if he knew that his pronunciation was terrible. “Men—temple. You—see?”

  Tess untwisted one hand from her cloak, realizing that this was at last the real test: knowing nothing about khaja culture, she had to hope they knew even less. “I go to the temple.” She pulled out her ankh necklace, holding it by the chain and displaying it to them as if it ought to mean something to them. Then, dropping it, she crossed herself, because it was the most pious gesture she could think of. More by accident than design, her cloak slipped again to reveal one pale thigh. With an exclamation, she yanked it tightly around her. The three men looked away.

  “She’s going to the temple,” said Vasil in a low voice to Dmitri. He looked sidewise toward Tess. “You go? Temple?”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “Men? Men go?”

  “Men go to temple. Men go. To temple. To temple.”

  “I take it,” said Dmitri dryly, “that they were going to the temple.”

  “Think straight, Mikhailov,” snarled Leotich, jerking his head to one side. “It doesn’t add up. How did they get ahead of us? How do we know it’s the same group? And what about her? Why is she here?”

  “You saw her necklace, the sign she made.” Vasil took one step toward Leotich. The top of his saber pushed down the grass beside him. “She must be a pilgrim.”

  “Bakhtiian has pilgrims with him. She could be one of them.”

  “Why are you talking for so long?” asked Tess in a high, hurried voice that she did not have to feign. “Why don’t you leave me and go on your way? Is it not penance enough that I must travel this barbaric land alone? Must I be threatened with savages as well?”

  “You’re frightening her,” said Vasil.

  “Frightening her!” Leotich took one aggressive step toward Tess. “Greater things are at stake here, Veselov. Doroskayev said—”

  “I’m beginning to suspect you’re a fool, too.” Dmitri reached out and took hold of Leotich’s sleeve with enough pressure that the man had no choice but to step back. “Karol Arkhanov saw those pilgrims. Eleven, he said, tall and very pale, all men. His word is good enough for me.”

  “My clothes are there,” Tess broke in, desperate now for them to leave. Vasil, glancing at her, blushed and looked away when her gaze met his. “And here I am, surrounded by men.” She took out her necklace again. “I am a pilgrim, a holy woman. What do you mean to do?”

  “Come on,” said Vasil. “We’ve frightened her enough. Let’s go.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Leotich. “I want to see what she’s got on underneath that cloak.” He put his hand on his knife and strode forward before the other men could react. Tess jerked back, twisting free of his grasping hand, and an involuntary cry escaped her. She stumbled back and fell to her knees.

  Dmitri grabbed Leotich and yanked him up short. Vasil had his knife out, but he sheathed it again. Behind, the men in the jahar murmured, a swell of disbelief that faded as Leotich stood stiff and angry in Dmitri’s grasp.

  “Gods, man,” said Dmitri. “You’ll get a reputation no man could live down.”

  Tess sank down into the most abject huddle she could make, kneeling, and fumbled inside her cloak for the knife, palming it.

  “No.” Leotic
h wrenched free of Dmitri. “Maybe Doroskayev was mistaken. Maybe Bakhtiian didn’t have a woman with his jahar. But let’s ask Vasil. After all, he knows better than anyone else whether Bakhtiian would have any use for a woman.”

  Vasil backhanded him, hard. Leotich lunged at Vasil, but the younger man caught his blow on an arm and slugged him. Dmitri stepped between them and grappled for their arms. The scuffle neared Tess, and she scuttled backward, hand clutching her knife beneath her cloak.

  The movement brought them all up short, as if it had suddenly reminded them of her presence. Dmitri now had both of Leotich’s wrists in his hands. “Sometimes I don’t know what I brought you for.” His voice was tight with contempt.

  Leotich glared at him, pulling back. “We could at least split up. One to check out her story, the other to go on.”

  Dmitri let him go with a snort of disgust. “Splitting up is the stupidest thing a jahar can do. We’ll catch him. Now get back to your horse.” However nondescript a man he might appear, he had command. Leotich sulked away. “So.” He let his gaze come to rest on Vasil, and Tess could not interpret the expression with which he viewed the younger man. Vasil met his gaze without shame, but it was obvious that the younger man was still angry. “So, Vasil,” Dmitri continued, “I believe it was agreed that you might ride with my jahar if you kept your grievances to yourself.”

  “It will not happen again.”

  “Well, then, can you make her understand that we mean her no harm?”

  Vasil glanced at Tess and lowered his eyes, a lock of pale hair falling carelessly across his cheek. Tess wondered, quite at random, what it would be like to push that lock of hair aside, what he, the sum of his particular pleasing parts, would be like as a lover. Lord, she was beginning to think like a jaran woman! He took one tentative step toward her.

  “Go away! Go away!” she cried, shrinking back.

  Vasil shrugged and looked at Dmitri.

  “So be it. At least we can track Bakhtiian now. Come on.” Dmitri turned away and walked back to the jahar. Vasil hesitated. He removed a necklace from around his neck and, crouching, laid it on the ground as slowly as if she were a wild animal.