His Conquering Sword

by Kate Elliott

  Cara nodded. “Jeds provides a good landing point still, and an already established base of power on Rhui. Not to mention a good port, with trade routes spreading out all over the planet.”

  “Jo?” Charles asked.

  She shrugged. “Nothing to offer yet. I’ve finished my report on the samples I took from. Morava. I’m studying the samples Cara has taken from the jaran population now. We’ll need Jeds in the link just for the laboratory facilities, for one thing. Even Morava doesn’t have facilities we humans can use.”

  “Unless we bring Chapalii down onto Rhui.”

  “Marco!” David threw up his hands. “That’s absurd. That would be breaking the interdiction all over again.”

  “David, they’ve already been at Morava. We’ve established now that Charles has a merchant house allied with him, established on Rhuian terms, I mean. Why shouldn’t they visit Morava?”

  “Which still hasn’t answered the question of where to centralize operations,” said Maggie.

  “Tess,” said Charles quietly, “you look like you have something to say.”

  The answer stared her in the face. It answered both her problems. Neatly. Perfectly. Almost too perfectly. She already knew how to build matrices, and what Charles wanted built here was not that different from any language. She already led a jahar of envoys. A steady stream of visitors, envoys, ambassadors, merchants, and philosophers came and went from the camp of the jaran army. Tess could authorize their movement within the camp; she had the authority to receive them, or to send them away, or to conduct her own missions, to send her own people to Jeds, to Morava, to anywhere she wanted. And the jaran moved, always. They never stayed in one place for long. She had allies within the jaran, and allies outside the jaran.

  “Base it with me,” she said softly, surprising everyone but Charles. Tess doubted she could ever surprise Charles. “Base it with the jaran.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SONIA REGARDED THE GOLD cloth with some misgiving. Certainly Tess had every right to adopt the boy into her tent; indeed, Tess herself had gained a place with the jaran by the same means. But the truth was that this was not a simple adoption. Vassily Kireyevsky ought to have stayed with his mother’s relatives. She faulted the Kireyevsky tribe for casting him off, but it wasn’t unheard of that a family would rid itself of an unwanted child by giving it to a family who had need of a servant or even a child to adopt. But a child who had no father could not then be sent to the man who had, perhaps, sired him—as if it could ever be proven.

  Sonia made a face and rolled the cloth up again. She disliked that Rhuian word, “sired.” Oh, she did not doubt that Vasha was Ilya’s son—by Jedan law—but this was not Jeds. Mother Sakhalin’s warnings seemed apt now. If the jaran took one step too many off the path the gods had given them to ride, then they would no longer be jaran. And why should Tess care what happened to this child, anyway? In Jeds, Sonia had read of noblewomen who murdered their husband’s or father’s bastards. What did Tess expect to come of taking in this child?

  She signed and set the cloth aside. Looking up, she saw two riders and their escort halt at the edge of camp. A strange sense—not quite of foreboding but of dislocation—swept her, seeing her cousin and the boy together. There was something very alike about them. She got to her feet and went to greet them.

  “Hello, Ilya. Vasha.”

  The boy stammered a greeting. He looked deeply embarrassed at having the luxury of handing over his reins to another man, who would tend to the horse for him; indeed, he looked embarrassed at having ridden such a handsome horse at all, since they had, of course, gone out on two of the khuhaylan Arabians.

  “Go on, then,” said Sonia, taking pity on him, “Katya is waiting for you. They’re over there—” She waved toward her left, where Katya and Galina and a handful of other girls were practicing archery on the empty stretch of ground lying between the Orzhekov tents and the next tribe.

  Vasha looked up at—Sonia could not quite bring herself to think, his father—Ilya, and Ilya gave the slightest lift of his chin, which the boy took for permission. He ran off.

  “Well,” said Sonia.

  “It was not my choice!” Ilya exclaimed.

  Sonia chuckled, resting a hand on his sleeve. “Ilyakoria, I would never tax you with something that so obviously has Tess’s mark about it.”

  “I will never understand her,” muttered Ilya, sounding vastly irritated.

  “You do hate that,” she agreed mildly. “And you would never have married her if you did understand her. Come. You look thirsty.”

  He also looked as if he wanted to talk. He walked with her and sat down under the awning of her tent. She brought komis for them both, and while they drank they watched the girls shoot.

  “Vera Veselov wants every girl to ride for at least one season with the archers in the army,” said Sonia. “I think she thinks of it as some kind of birbas, hunting the khaja as we hunt animals. Good training. But I and Mother Sakhalin and several other etsanas have argued against it. The experience will do some girls no good; others will prefer to ride for two years before it’s time for them to marry. And there are women who have lost their husbands who have asked to join as well, but others who wish only to return to the plains. Right now we have enough volunteers, and we haven’t even begun to draw young women from the tribes still out on the plains.”

  “Right now,” said Ilya. “But eventually the novelty will wear off, and then it will no longer be enough to have volunteers and a casual place alongside the rest of the army.” His eyes narrowed. “Look.”

  Galina had given Vasha her bow. He obviously had handled a bow before, although he did not have the skill of the girls.

  “Will you stop him?” Sonia asked quietly.

  Ilya glanced at her. “How can I?”

  The sun baked down on the children, but they appeared not to mind it. Their game interested them more.

  “What will happen to him, Ilya?”

  “I don’t know. I scarcely know what to think of him.” He hesitated. His lips quirked up into a half-smile. “I scarcely know what to think of myself. Am I a father or not? What do I do with such a child? What does Tess want me to do with him? Gods.” He grimaced. “What does the child himself want? Or can he even know?”

  The air lay still today, hot, oppressive, and crowding, as if it waited on some larger storm to break. But the sky remained blue, unsullied by clouds, and distant Karkand shimmered in the heat.

  “Autumn will come soon enough,” commented Sonia, “though I don’t think it ever grows as cold here as it does on the plains.”

  Ilya watched the boy out beyond as he shot another round and then gave the bow back to Galina. “Sonia,” he said. Faltered. Began again. “Sonia, don’t you suppose that Aleksi should marry?”

  The change of subject surprised her. “Ilya! It would break Tess’s heart if he left camp.” She regarded her cousin questioningly. Surely he understood his wife by now. “And in any case, Tess rules him with an iron hand, however light it may seem to others. He wouldn’t go.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t mean that he should leave. Surely some woman can be found who might come to us.”

  “Ah,” she said, understanding him now. “You think that if you bind Aleksi to camp as well, it will be yet another reason for Tess to stay.”

  He flashed her a look so filled with indignation that she laughed. How he hated it when people saw past his words and his authority to his feelings. He knew better, however, than to snap at her. “I don’t—” he began, and stopped, because what she had said was true. He subsided into an offended silence that reminded her all at once of Nadine.

  “Ilya,” she added, taking pity on him, “be assured that for my own reasons I am keeping an eye out for a wife for Aleksi.”

  He did not deign to reply, but she saw that her answer mollified him.

  Shadows lengthened around them, and the children ended their game. Katya and Galina and Vasha ran over to the
tent and swamped the silence with their laughter. The two girls threw themselves down, unconscious of any need for dignity around their formidable cousin. But Vasha moved cautiously, like a foal testing its legs, and with a touching, stiff gravity that made Sonia actually feel a little sorry for whatever he had endured before. Clearly he was proud. As clearly, his Kireyevsky relatives had punished him for his pride, for him to be so leery of it now.

  Katya gave a great sigh and rolled over onto her back. “You have to learn to read and write, Vasha. Doesn’t he?” And she rolled her gaze over toward Ilya. Sonia sighed. Katya rode moods the way she rode horses; right now, she was on a racing tear.

  “Oh,” said Vasha, flashing a glance toward Ilya, and bit off a question.

  “Katya! He doesn’t have to!” retorted Galina. “You’re being a bully.”

  “Does so,” said Katya, and she sprang up and darted into Sonia’s tent, emerging moments later with two books. “Shall we start with Aristoteles? Or Sister Casiara?” She set the books down in front of Vasha and opened them both.

  Vasha stared down at the pages filled with tiny words, all of which were certainly incomprehensible to him. He was flushed. Sonia doubted if he even knew what reading and writing were, but he could never admit that here, now.

  “Katerina, my dear,” said Sonia, “Sister Casiara is a little dry and dense as something to start off with, don’t you think? I don’t recall that even you have managed to read farther than the first chapter.”

  Katya scowled at her mother, but it was impossible to make her ashamed enough to blush. The little beast. How like her to generously befriend the boy and then embarrass him like this in front of the person he most wanted to impress.

  “You all have far too much energy,” said Ilya suddenly. “I think all three of you must be old enough now to attend the envoy’s school along with Mitya. Afternoons.” He looked at Sonia. “There aren’t so many chores to do then.” Sonia nodded, pleased that he understood how much she needed the children in the mornings, especially since Galina still spent many mornings with Dr. Hierakis. “Any fool can see that Vasha can’t read Aristoteles or Sister Casiara,” he added directly to Katya, “since he doesn’t know Rhuian. Yet.”

  Vasha’s shoulders had remained hunched all through this recital, but they lifted slightly now.

  “Meanwhile, he must learn his letters. You two girls may teach him the letters Tess and Niko devised for khush, since I’m sure you know them all quite well now.”

  “Oh!” said Galina, looking disgusted. “You idiot!” she hissed at her cousin.

  “As for you, my young scholar,” Ilya added to Katerina, “you will write me a little book in the style of Aristoteles on the nature and kind of horses in this army.”

  Katya looked dumbfounded. Sonia was pretty sure that Katya had not a clue what Ilya was talking about. The girl set her hands on her hips. “What if I won’t?”

  “I don’t suggest,” said Ilya quietly, “that you disobey me, little one.”

  Beaten by superior horsemanship, Katya gave up the race. She made a horrible face and flopped down on her stomach. Galina giggled. Katya kicked her.

  “Do you mean it?” Vasha asked in a small voice. “That I’m to learn to—” He hesitated, touching the paper with one finger. “So that I can learn to hear what these marks say?”

  “Gods! Of course I mean it!”

  Vasha flinched back. Ilya let out an exasperated sigh. Katya had one eye open and one shut, as if she was trying to decide whether to venture any more mischief.

  “Oh, Vasha,” Sonia interceded smoothly. “Since you’re here, let me measure you against this cloth.”

  “What’s it for?” he asked sulkily, and then his eyes widened as she unrolled the golden silk.

  “May I help, Aunt Sonia?” asked Galina at once. “I recognize that piece. Isn’t the weave fine?”

  “Is Aunt Tess back yet?” asked Katya suddenly, evidently determined to make one last gallop or even, perhaps, to provoke a stampede. Sonia had a very good idea of how much Ilya disliked being kept out of any business Tess was involved in, especially when that business, that council, involved the Prince of Jeds. Sonia did not doubt that the council might last well into the night, and that Ilya might never learn the least scrap of information about what had gone on there. Sonia did not precisely distrust Tess’s brother; on the whole, she guessed he was their ally more than their enemy, but he had yet to impress her as a person who cared much at all what the jaran thought of him. As if he does not need us.

  Ilya stiffened. Here it came.

  “But I don’t understand,” said Vasha tremulously, “how these little marks can speak?”

  Sonia had to bite her tongue to stop from laughing out loud. Outmaneuvered and outraced.

  “Oh, here,” said Ilya, rising at once. “Come with me, Vasha. I’ve got a stylus and tablet. It’s the only way to learn letters. I’ll teach you.”

  Vasha leapt up, his face bright. Katya stuck her tongue out at him, looking sour.

  “That will teach you,” said Sonia to her daughter as soon as Ilya and the boy were out of earshot.

  Katya ignored her mother. She had a stubborn set to her mouth now, and she pulled the Aristoteles over and opened it up and began the laborious process of sounding out the words. Sonia smiled.

  “May I help you with the shirt?” Galina asked.

  “Of course you may, my love.”

  Together they worked to make a shirt for Vasha. Beyond Karkand the sun set, staining red a trailing growth of clouds that had begun to gather on the horizon.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  DIANA WATCHED MARCO SURREPTITIOUSLY. Outside, rain fell. Here in the Company tent, they all sat listening while Charles Soerensen and Owen and Ginny discussed the possibility of the Company breaking new ground.

  “With my patronage, I think it’s quite possible you could actually tour outside of League space.”

  “Think of it!” Diana recognized the gleam that lit Owen’s eyes. She had seen it before. She had seen it that winter morning three and a half years ago when Ginny first broached the idea that they travel to Rhui. “Does theater even translate to nonhuman species? Are there links between all intelligent species, or are we simply myopic in thinking that all other forms of life must have some discernible relationship to our own?”

  Soerensen sat between Owen and Ginny. Marco sat next to Owen. Marco glanced up at Diana and they looked away together.

  “Would this be an exclusive contract?” Ginny asked.

  Soerensen smiled. “No, not exactly. I want to encourage arts of all kinds to spread. I want to encourage humanity to move out into the Empire, now that—” He paused. They all waited for him, the entire Company—all but Hyacinth, who was gone, and Anahita, who had stayed in her tent. Anahita rarely met with the others now, except at rehearsal or a performance. Gwyn said that she had succumbed to her own spiritual hollowness.

  “—now that we have the means to do so.”

  A “Hmm,” said Owen, and Diana wondered what he was thinking.

  “Hmm,” said Ginny, echoing her husband. She cocked her head to one side, and she and Soerensen exchanged what Diana always called A Significant Glance. Diana had it in the back of her mind that Ginny had known Soerensen for quite a while, maybe even from before she had met Owen. Then Ginny surveyed her troupe, one by one: Oriana with her willowy, dark beauty; quiet Phillippe; Dejhuti, who looked half asleep but never was; Seshat, born into the profession, who had lived it and breathed it all her life; Helen and Jean-Pierre, who were snappish but good-hearted; sweet, silly Quinn. Yomi and Joseph sat patiently; everyone knew that they provided the foundation on which Owen and Ginny built. Ginny hesitated, looking at her son, but Hal for once met her gaze with curiosity not antagonism. Next to Diana, Gwyn sat, leaning forward over his knees, chin perched on his intertwined fingers; he looked alert, brimming with controlled energy, and he examined Ginny and Soerensen in turn, as if he read something from them, something that met
with his approval. Last, Ginny met Diana’s gaze. She nodded, once, with finality.

  “They’ll do,” she said. “We’ll see about Hyacinth, and we’ll have to do new auditions as well. Given that we’ll have fewer physical constraints, I’d like to add a few actors, and definitely we’ll need more crew.”

  “Definitely,” echoed Yomi with a sigh of relief.

  “Good,” said Soerensen briskly. He rose. “Once we’re off planet, we’ll deal with the particulars.”

  The meeting broke up.

  Diana leaned toward Gwyn. “Am I missing something?” she whispered. “This is all very exciting, but somehow I feel we’re not being told everything.”

  “Think about it.” The others got to their feet around them. A few braved the elements, following Soerensen out into the sodden outdoors. Others lingered inside, chatting, while Joseph brewed tea. Gwyn kept his voice low. “Soerensen doesn’t do anything without a reason—that is, without a deeper reason. Humans have never been allowed to travel much outside of League space. Those of us who are allowed to might be able to find out things.”

  “Oooh. Spies!”

  “Sssh. This isn’t a game, Di.”

  “Sorry. But we’re actors, not soldiers or diplomats.”

  “Exactly.” Then he grinned. “What better cover? And what better people to play roles?”

  “No! You don’t really think—?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe I’m wrong. One’s thinking becomes a little warped after an extended stay in prison. Excuse me.” He rose and caught Ginny’s arm before she walked outside, and they went out together, Gwyn shrugging his cloak on. A finger of cool, damp breeze brushed Diana’s face and dissolved in the heat of the tent. An eddy of movement had trapped Marco between Oriana and Hal. He sidled past them toward the entrance. Diana jumped to her feet and pulled the flap aside for him, and followed him out.

  “Thank you,” he said without looking at her. They stood under the awning. She slung on her cloak and hitched the hood up over her head. Rain drenched the ground. A wind threw mist under the awning, and out beyond the muddy canvas groundcloth on which they stood, the earth was soaked and weeping rivulets of water. “The soil doesn’t absorb the rain very well, does it?” asked Marco. Whether the rain beyond or her presence made him reluctant to leave the shelter of the awning, she did not know. He still didn’t look at her. The clouds lowered dull and gray over them. The sheeting rain blurred the distant shapes of tents. Gwyn and Ginny stood talking under the awning of her and Owen’s tent, stamping the mud off their boots and shaking water from their cloaks. Farther away, they saw Soerensen trudging through the rain into camp, his shoulders hunched, his pale hair slicked down against his head.