The Novels of the Jaran (40 page)

The violet shade to his skin deepened. “Yet now we are shamed and utterly cast down. I do not presume to know the doings of the
Yaochalii-en,
may peace be with the Sun’s Child, but the Kobara princely house and the Kaonobi ducal house are no more. Their names have been obliterated from the imperial view, and they are as if they had never been. With a full sense of our disgrace, I mention them now, but for the last time.”

Charles arched one eyebrow. This was, perhaps, the most interesting news he had gotten out of the Chapalii since his own elevation to the nobility. “I am surprised, then, that the name of Keinaba may still be spoken.”

Echido’s skin was all violet by now: deep, and rather attractive against the white-washed lattice walls of the gazebo and the purple flowering wisteria trailing down to the ground. “The Yaochalii himself, may peace surround his name, conducted the investigation into the charges of conspiracy and breach of protocol against the prince whose name may no longer be heard, and although the Tai line was tainted by the stain, it was found that Keinaba had no part in this terrible offense against protocol. The Yaochalii himself, may his name endure forever, granted a dispensation from the rite of extinction to Keinaba, if we were able to find a new lord.”

“Knowing full well no lord or duke would wish to take on the allegiance and obligation of a house so dishonored,” said Charles.

Echido bowed his head in the deeply subservient fashion of the
ke,
the most menial of all Chapalii classes, who were not even granted the dignity of given or family names.

“Your command of Anglais is not just remarkable, Hon Echido,” Charles continued. “It is astonishing. What offense did the princely house commit?”

Echido’s skin lightened perceptibly to a pale violet. “I do not know. But always, the yaotai, the princes, struggle for the yaochalii’s favor.”

“And only one prince may become emperor.”

“There are protocols to be observed. So there have been for time uncounted, for years beyond years. To stray from the path of right conduct is to dishonor oneself and one’s family.”

“Tell me, Hon Echido, are you certain that the Tai-endi Terese boarded the
Oshaki?”

“Quite certain, Tai-en.” Echido’s skin paled to white. His hands shifted, and he regarded Soerensen evenly.

“Why did you not debark from the
Oshaki
when she reached Odys?”

“I was not allowed to, Tai-en, and when I protested, I was reminded of the disgrace of my family and our lords.”

“Yet you disembarked at Hydri and made your way back to Earth.”

Echido arranged his hands in a way Charles had not seen before. If only Suzanne, or Tess, were here to interpret. “Tai-en, you are the only lord with whom we of Keinaba have any hope of maintaining our house. If we must lose our name and become as the ke, then that is only just. But I told my elders that I would approach the
daiga,
the human Tai, and so determined, I have now done so. We await your judgment, Tai-en.”

“The dispensation from the emperor?”

“I have a copy, Tai-en. The original rests in his hand, may it hold firm and bring peace to our lands.”

Charles rose. Hon Echido rose like an echo. His skin was pale white, balanced with equal parts of hope and fear.

“Hon Echido.” Charles put his hands together carefully into that arrangement known as Imperial Choice. Then he waited a moment while the scent of roses hung in the air and a bird called piercingly in the silence. “I take you in.”

Echido flushed red first, shading away into the orange of peace. “Tai Charles.” He bowed to the precise degree indicating the fullness of his loyalty. “I am yours.”

“Deliver the dispensation to me tomorrow at the zenith. You may go, Hon Echido.”

Still orange, Echido bowed again and retreated, his stewards flanking him three steps behind. Charles watched them go and then retraced his path. He found Jamsetji kneeling in the dirt, thinning irises.

“What do you think?” Charles asked.

“Cursed trouble, I think. But by damn, Charles, they’re sharp, that merchant house. I think they’ll be worth the trouble.”

“I hope so. And what is the protocol involved in taking over a merchant house from a dishonored duke?”

“Wasn’t done, I’d have thought.”

“I’d have thought, too. This is the kind of thing we must learn.”

“Good thing your sister speaks the language so well.”

“A good thing, indeed. We learn as we go.”

“Damned chameleons,” said Jamsetji, without much heat.

“Dinner tonight, then? Good.” Charles nodded at him and strolled away, taking his time, out through the greenhouse and into the palace, coming at last to his office. He sat down at his desk and considered the mud flats. Then he called up the models by the technician Karima and stared at them, at the lines tracing flight paths and potential landing sites, all in the northern mass of the continent on which Jeds lay far, far to the south and west. He smoothed a hand over the callpad on his desk.

“I want a message, scrambled, to Jeds. To Marco Burckhardt from Charles Soerensen. Marco, I have no further message from Suzanne. It is time to take action on Rhui. Take the emergency kit and the model of landing sites provided by Karima. Sail north. End of message.”

Tess woke from a deep, soundless sleep into total darkness, her first impulse to snuggle back against the cushion of warmth behind her. Then she remembered where she was, and she became aware all at once of several things: his deep, steady breathing and the warmth of his breath on her neck; an arm flung around her, casual as a lover’s embrace; the smell of sweat and horse and lingering blood. She felt unnaturally hot, except for the chill lingering in her toes. Cloth tickled her face. She searched upward with her hand, gently, not wanting to wake him, and found that they were completely covered, toe to head. The horses shifted without nervousness to one side. She heard the hush of rain and the low whine of the wind. She shifted slightly. His arm tightened around her as he sighed in his sleep. His face moved against her hair. She was far more comfortable than she wanted to be, far more comfortable. She fell asleep.

She woke briefly when he left her, woke enough to struggle to her feet and cross to the corral, to check the horses, to relieve herself. The gouge on Myshla’s leg was swollen, huge. What if they had to kill her? Terrified, Tess collapsed back onto the couch, exhausted, cold and hot by turns, and slept. When she woke again at Ilya’s return he had barely gotten settled before she sat up.

“Can’t we get rid of these blankets?” The cold air caressed her cheeks. She pushed the blankets away and got to her knees.

He gripped her arm and stopped her from rising. “You’ve got a fever. Here, drink.”

Her mouth was dry, her lips, her hands. The light hurt her eyes and made her temples ache. She drank eagerly, until he took the waterskin from her.

“Lie down.”

“I’m hot. Why do I need blankets?”

“To burn your fever away.”

“Who needs a fire?” she muttered, but she lay down and he tucked the blankets in around them. “Just stick my arm in kindling and it’ll ignite. I hope I’m not being incoherent. How is your knee?”

“Rest is the best cure. I slept all night.”

“Don’t you usually?”

“Not often,” he replied cryptically. He crossed his arms tight against his chest, an inoffensive barrier between them.

“I feel terrible. Tell me a story.”

He laughed softly. “To make you fall asleep?”

“Yes. Rest is the best cure. I heard that once from a very warm man—I mean a very
wise
man.”

One of his hands moved, bunching into a fist. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Tess giggled. “Freudian slip,” she said in Anglais.

“What does that mean?”

“Can’t explain. It’s a medical term. What about Vlatagrebi?” A throb began between her eyes.

“Well,” said Bakhtiian briskly. “If only Josef was here, but I’ll do my best.”

Partway through the story she fell asleep. She woke again, hot and aching. Pain lanced her eyes. Her pulse pounded incessantly through her ears. He gave her more water. She went back to sleep.

To wake again. And again. She was damp with sweat. She tossed fitfully, aching and miserable. He told her more of the story, or perhaps it was a different story, she could not be sure. The fire burned, as fitful as she was.

Day came, and with it light. Night followed. Finally the fever broke. She dozed calmly, waking at last when Bakhtiian moved.

“What happened?” She sat up. The unaccustomed light made her blink. She felt light-headed and tired but some how cleansed. Then, seeing him standing, holding on to his walking stick, she rubbed her eyes. “What are you doing? Your knee.”

“Is better. Possibly. I’m going outside.”

“But the storm—”

“Cousin, we’ve been here a night and a day and a night, and most of this day. The storm has passed down the mountain. I expect we can leave in the morning.”

Tess slowly unwound herself from the confusion of waking and looked up at him. “But your knee—Myshla! How is Myshla?”

“Still tender, but she’s putting weight on the leg. She’ll do. I need some fresh air and a chance to look at the weather. We also need more water. And I thought—” He hesitated. He had color in his face again, and this time she thought most of it natural. “I thought you might like some privacy to attend to yourself.”

It was said so demurely that she had to laugh. “Your manners are impeccable, Bakhtiian,” she said in Rhuian. “You have my permission to go.”

After attending to herself and fussing over Myshla, she walked outside to comb her hair and to set the blankets out to air. She felt weak but not terribly so. A wind rose up from the plains, a touch of late-summer warmth in it. Sitting on a terraced boulder, she sang a jaran song. The sun warmed her hair and her face. Bakhtiian hobbled into view and sank down beside her on the boulder.

“You finally had such nice color in your face,” she said, “but it’s all gone again.”

“It really is better. Can you take the horses out?” She nodded. “But do it quickly. There isn’t much light left.”

“Bakhtiian. Everything you say is true. Doesn’t it wear on you?”

He stood up. “Cousin,” he said, reserved, “I am not quite so good-natured as you think I might be.”

“But, Cousin, I have hope that you could be,” she said, laughing at him, and beat a hasty retreat to the horses.

She got back before the sun set, stabled the horses in their corner, and sat down by Bakhtiian’s feet. “I couldn’t find anything dry for the fire. Lord, I’m tired. I’m starving.”

“We’ll eat the last of the meat tonight.” He parceled it out. “The weather should hold for two days yet. We’ll catch the jahar by then.”

“Can you ride?”

“I have to ride or we’ll never get out of here.”

“Well,” said Tess, too cheerfully. “I remember sleeping in my brother’s bed in Jeds when there were thunderstorms.”

“Oh, yes. I shared a tent with Natalia for many years.”

With these expressions of sibling felicity, they felt able to resume the sleeping arrangements of the previous nights. In the morning, she saddled Kriye and Bakhtiian’s remount. They were out of the valley and down to the fork by mid-morning.

Chapter Nineteen

“It is not possible to step into the same river twice.”

—
HERACLEITUS OF EPHESUS

A
T THE FORK, BAKHTIIAN
dismounted and rested his leg, his back against the thick-grained red rock, his bad knee propped upon the peeling trunk of the dead shrub. His breathing was shallow, but after a bit he mounted by himself and they went on. They emerged onto the plateau unexpectedly, rounding a corner into the midst of short, yellow grass. Behind rose the mountains. On the other three sides, only sky.

Tess turned to smile at Bakhtiian, blushing when she found his eyes on her. If he could still pass for an attractive man in her eyes after the past four days, as disheveled and worn as he was, with lines of pain enduring around his eyes and mouth, then she had only herself to blame. She remembered the feel of his face brushing her hair, his arm tightening around her—he had been asleep.

Kriye shied. Tess, calming him, felt hardly any transition from one state to the next as he settled.

“You’re becoming a good rider,” said Bakhtiian.

“Thank you.”

“You have a hand for them. Your little mare is fond of you.” He glanced back at Myshla as they rode out onto the plateau. His left hand gripped the pommel, white-knuckled. “She’s a beautiful animal. Are you fond of her?”

Tess was inordinately fond of Myshla, a fondness intensified by Myshla’s recognition that she, Tess, was her particular friend. But Tess thought of Jeds and looked away. “I am not in the habit,” she said evenly, “of becoming fond of things I will shortly have to part from.”

Silence, except for the constant drag of wind in grass.

“I understand you very well,” said Bakhtiian finally.

There was no more conversation. Late in the afternoon they agreed to camp, halting at a brush-lined stream.

“It’s much milder tonight,” said Tess as she unsaddled Kriye.

“Yes. Here are your blankets.”

She did not sleep very well, but perhaps that was because the ground was hard. She woke at dawn, stiff. Bakhtiian was already awake, saddling Kriye, forced to stand very curiously in order to favor his injured leg.

“I’ll
saddle the horses,” said Tess, rolling up her blankets. He did not answer. She made a face at his back and went to wash in the stream. When she got back, he had saddled her remount as well. They mounted without speaking and rode on. Soon afterward they found a pyramid of flat-sided rocks, a khoen, at the crest of a rise.

“That’s ours!”

Bakhtiian merely nodded. At midday they spotted a rider in red and black atop a far rise, and the rider saw them. It was Kirill. He cantered up and pulled his horse around to walk with theirs.

“I rescue you again, my heart.” He winked at her and flamboyantly blew her a kiss. Kriye waltzed away from the sudden movement, but Tess reined him back.