The Novels of the Jaran (107 page)

“I hate it here,” said Diana.

“What?” Quinn had already gone into the tent without asking permission, which offended Diana even more, as if her intimacy with Anatoly had been violated. “Oh, Di, you don’t want to lose this.” She lifted up the gold necklace. “And look here.” She giggled, crouching. “I see he must have taken off those beautifully decorated boots rather quickly.” She held up a gold braided tassel, one of the braids that had rimmed Anatoly’s black boots.

Diana grabbed the tassel out of Quinn’s hand and pressed it against her heart. “Stop it, Quinn. You can collect my things if you want, but I’ll pack his. Do you understand?”

Quinn arched an expressive eyebrow. “What? Do you love him that much already?”

“Would that be so strange?” murmured Diana, but Quinn had lapsed into an obscene song by whose rhythm she folded up the blankets, and she did not reply.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

V
ASIL STOOD LISTENING TO
his cousin Anton boring on about their family and tribe, little details of who had married whom, who had borne a child, and what girls and boys had shown unusual aptitudes for important skills. Such gossip fascinated Anton, whose eldest daughter, just married to a respectable blacksmith, was showing talent for dyeing. Vasil swallowed a yawn and smiled and nodded and Anton happily went on, assuming that Vasil must be hungry for news of the tribe he had deserted many years ago in order to ride with Ilyakoria Bakhtiian.

Anton, Vasil reflected, was the perfect etsana’s brother: he could support the headwoman by keeping abreast of all the niggling day-to-day details and so help her in her task of keeping the tribe running smoothly. An etsana’s husband needed the same skills and interests, and back when Vasil was still young, less than two cycles of the calendar old, back when Bakhtiian had left the tribes to travel south to that half-mythical city called Jeds, Vasil had considered finding an etsana’s elder daughter to marry. Actually, he had found three, any one of whom would have been thrilled to have him. But, gods, he could not stand to hear about other people’s affairs, to listen to the petty complaints, the disputes, the women and men droning on and on about their concerns. The three young women in question had gone on to find other husbands, presumably better suited for the task, and Vasil hoped they were happy, when he thought about them at all.

Relief from Anton’s recital came in the form of Yevgeni riding in from scout to meet up with the main group as they took their midday rest for the horses. With him rode an entire troop of horsemen, impressively armored. They wore sleeveless, knee-length silk robes, slit for riding, over their armor. Some wore gold cloth, some red, all of it embroidered in black and gold and silver.

“Mount,” said Vasil, and he and Anton mounted and rode out to greet them.

“Anton Veselov!” The greeting came from the jahar’s captain, a young blond man with a handsome face, very blue eyes, and an ambitious set to his shoulders. “Well met.” The young man’s glance settled on Vasil a moment, questioning, and then flashed back to Anton. Clearly he thought that this was where the authority lay.

“Well met,” said Vasil, forestalling Anton’s greeting. “I am Vasil Veselov.”

“Well met,” replied the young man politely, obviously recognizing nothing special in the name. “I am Anatoly Sakhalin. Yaroslav Sakhalin’s nephew and Elizaveta Sakhalin’s eldest grandson. Are you one of Anton’s kin?”

Vasil was so furious that for a moment he could not speak. How dare this boy not know who he was?

“Vasil is my cousin,” said Anton. “Sergei Veselov’s son.”

“I didn’t know Veselov had a son. He died some three years past, didn’t he?”

“I just learned of my father’s death,” said Vasil, cutting in before Anton could say any more. “I decided it was time I reunited with my tribe and take on my responsibilities.”

Sakhalin regarded him and his black arenabekh clothing, and suddenly comprehension bloomed in his face. “Ah. Now I recall the story. You must have been one of the men riding with Dmitri Mikhailov. Do you think Bakhtiian will welcome you back?”

Vasil smiled. “Yes. I do. Indeed, I am sure of it.”

“Ah,” said Sakhalin, and then, to Vasil’s disgust, he shifted his attention back to Anton. “We rode past your tribe. You can reach them by sundown if you go at a good pace.”

“Where is the main army?” Vasil asked.

The arrogant young pup actually hesitated before answering. “Behind us. We’ve orders from Bakhtiian to take ahead to my uncle.” He said
that
proudly enough, pleased that he had been chosen for such an honor. “Do you have khaja prisoners?”

“Only a Habakar general and his son.”

“No doubt Bakhtiian will be pleased. Now, we must be riding on.” He made farewells and his troop rode on, south.

Vasil snorted. “A boy in on the intimate counsels of Bakhtiian? Or so he would have it sound.”

“He’s not much older than Ilya was when he came back from Jeds,” said Anton mildly, “and he’s ambitious, and he’s a Sakhalin, so perhaps it’s no surprise that he feels he’s important. Though he is young to have a command of his own, and I don’t think Bakhtiian gives out such an honor casually. Even to a Sakhalin.”

“There’s more,” said Yevgeni, breaking in. “One of his men told me he’s just married a khaja woman, a Singer—no, he had a different word for it. They tell tales, but with their entire bodies and their words…well, it was a khaja art, he said. I’ve never heard of anything like it. What do you think of that? A khaja wife!”

“What of Bakhtiian’s khaja wife?” asked Vasil abruptly. “Is she with the tribes still?”

Anton motioned to Yevgeni with a lift of his chin, and the young rider reined his horse aside to leave the cousins some privacy. “Vasil.” Anton spoke slowly, weighing his words. “Bakhtiian still has a wife. Perhaps you didn’t know that. It’s something you might want to keep in mind.”

Dear, good Anton—so right-minded and so honest. “My dear cousin,” said Vasil ingenuously, “I also have a wife. Have you forgotten that? And two children.”

“That’s true.” Reminded of this, Anton appeared mollified. “And Sakhalin said—”

“Yes. Let us hasten our reunion.”

They made good time. It was still light when they came in sight of the wagons and tents marking the Veselov tribe. A scout greeted them, an adolescent boy who flushed bright red when he saw Vasil and called to him by name before he even greeted Anton. Vasil did not remember the boy’s name, or whose child he was, but he greeted him warmly nevertheless. The child was gratified to be allowed to lead them in.

“Vasil!”

“Look, it’s Vasilley.”

“Gods, Veselov, I thought you were dead.”

“Where have you come from?”

“Let me get Arina.”

Vasil slowed his horse to the barest walk, letting the exclamations, the surprise, the warmth, and, to be sure, the adulation wash over him. Here and there he saw a disapproving grimace, a finger pointed, and he noted who they were; they could be won over later. He did not want speed: he wanted his reunion with Karolla and the children to be blindingly public.

He caught sight of Karolla just before she saw him. She was so very plain—that was the first thing he noticed—and she had certainly grown no better looking in their three years apart. Then a child nudged her and pointed, and she spun around. Her hand covered her mouth, and she went dead pale. Another woman might have burst into tears, might have acted rashly or stupidly or made a scene, but not Karolla. She had far too much courage, combined with a huge portion of common sense. She set down her spindle with dignity and shook out her skirts, then called into her tent. Vasil admired her for that self-control. A moment later, two children appeared.

Vasil pulled up his horse. Gods, they were older. Little Valentin had perhaps doubled in size, and Ilyana was a stunning girl, tall, slender, and serious. Vasil dismounted and walked across the last bit of ground separating them.

“Father!” Yana launched herself at him, and he laughed and crouched down to receive her embrace. She clutched him, hugging herself against him. Not sobbing, never that, not Karolla’s child. And she was strong, too, for being so young—about eight winters old. She let go of him and grabbed him by the hand, tugging him. “Come, Papa. Come see Mama. And here is Valentin, but I expect he doesn’t remember you.”

Vasil let her drag him forward. Karolla was staring at him as if he was a spirit, or an angel. She did not move. So he let go of Yana’s hand and took his wife by the waist and, well aware that everyone was watching, embraced her and kissed her rather more intimately than was proper for so public a place. The crowd murmured appreciatively. When he released her, her face shone. A few tears slid from her eyes, but she brushed them back impatiently and turned to call the boy to her.

“Valentin, come greet your papa.”

Valentin did not move. His mouth set into a sullen frown and he closed his hands into fists. He stared at his father, and then looked up beyond him. “Uncle Anton!” he exclaimed, and darted past Vasil to greet the other man.

Vasil stiffened. “Give him time,” said Karolla. Her hand brushed one of his hands, tightened on it, and then let go.

Ilyana came to hang on his other arm. “Are you going to stay, father? Or are you going away again?”

“Hush, Yana,” said Karolla.

“No, it’s all right. I have every intention of staying.” Karolla bit at her lower lip, and Vasil could see that it was only with an immense effort that she refrained from bursting into tears. “But where is my cousin Arina? She is etsana now, is she not? I must have her permission to enter camp, surely.”

“Rather late to get that,” said a cool voice behind him.

He spun, and was shocked to see his little cousin Arina looking very composed and at her ease, and prettier than he had ever seen her. She held herself with surprising authority, and next to her stood a man Vasil recognized instantly.

“I am happy to see you, cousin,” said Arina formally, “and I am pleased to receive you back into the tribe. This is my husband, Kirill Zvertkov. But I’m sure you know each other.”

Zvertkov was a good-looking man, fair-haired, but his appearance was hopelessly marred by one lifeless arm that hung loose at his side, as if it were, like an ill-made saber, a mere dead appendage. In his other, his good, arm, he held a tiny baby, and a child somewhat younger than Valentin peeked out shyly from behind his legs.

“No longer riding with Bakhtiian?” Vasil asked, but smoothly and without glancing at the useless arm.

“No, I am an etsana’s husband now,” replied Zvertkov, with a touch of ironic pride. Vasil did not recall that Zvertkov’s family had ever had high enough standing that Kirill could have expected to marry so well—but perhaps there was more to it than that. So often there was. “And I have other duties as well.”

Arina smiled, not disguising her pride in her husband. “Many young men come here to train, to find places in the army, and Kirill is in charge of all of them. He oversees their fighting and what jahar they are assigned to. Since Kerchaniia Bakhalo died, Bakhtiian gave the entire command into Kirill’s hands.”

One of which was withered and curled up into a claw-like loose fist. “I see you have done well, then,” said Vasil kindly, wondering how important Zvertkov was to Bakhtiian.

“If I may?” asked Kirill, looking at his wife.

She nodded. Kirill motioned to Vasil and led him aside. A moment later Anton joined them. The baby whimpered and Kirill shifted it deftly in his arm, and it quieted. Behind them, Arina ruthlessly dispersed the crowd. Karolla, with stunning aplomb, went back to her spinning. Yana trailed after the men, loitering just far enough from them that they would have no reason to shoo her away. Her face was bright with joy. A gorgeous child, she was, prettier than her brother, but only because his features were blemished by his fretful, sullen expression.

“Well, Vasil,” said Zvertkov. “I’m surprised to see you.”

“I heard my father died.”

“It’s true, but quite a while back. Don’t think, Veselov, that I don’t have a good idea of why you’ve really come back.”

Vasil blinked innocently. “Why is that?”

Zvertkov smiled mockingly. “I don’t think it’s anything we need talk of publicly, do you?” Vasil recalled him as a young and rather foolish man, the kind of overgrown boy who attaches himself to a powerful man out of love and loyalty without having much personality himself. He revised this estimate quickly. Kirill Zvertkov had evidently become a rather more formidable man since they’d last met, and not just because he was now an etsana’s husband. “Personally, I’d as soon you were gone for good, meaning no offense to your person, of course. But Karolla has missed you bitterly.” He glanced to one side. “As has little Yana there, and for their sake, I’ll counsel my wife to let you stay.”

Vasil laughed. “I think Arina loves me rather more than you realize.”

“I am sure she does, and if this were the times before, I would not be talking to you now. But it isn’t. Bakhtiian has changed everything we are.”

“Is that why I see khaja weapons in camp?”

“You can’t take cities on horseback, Veselov. We have learned that, and other things. We’re going to conquer the khaja lands, as the gods have meant us to all along, and nothing will interfere with that. Especially not you.”

“What is this, Kirill? Don’t forget I knew you when you were young. I always thought your infatuation with Ilya was only a boy’s admiration for a stronger man—well, but perhaps I was wrong.”

Kirill’s lips tightened, and he shifted. The baby mewled. “I don’t think you have any power over him anymore, Vasil. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that he is married.”

“I have never forgotten it,” said Vasil softly. “But what makes you think I returned because of Bakhtiian? I, too, have married. And now that my father is dead, I am dyan by right.”

Now Kirill was startled. “What? Anton—”

Anton shrugged. “What’s past is past, Kirill. It’s true enough that Vasil is the proper dyan.”

And since it was true, Kirill did not reply.

Vasil smiled and nodded. “Excuse me,” he said. “My daughter is waiting.” The moment he turned away from them, Yana dashed across to grab his arm. Clearly she did not mean to let go, but the weight did not distress Vasil. He kissed her on the brow and mussed her golden hair, and let her lead him back to his wife’s tent where Karolla waited, patient, solemn, and just as desperately in love with him as she had been from the very first, when he had marked her in order to make her father, Dmitri Mikhailov, take him into his jahar. He sat down beside her as if he had never been gone and helped her wind yarn.