The Novels of the Jaran (42 page)

Tess stopped, suddenly suspicious. “What did you think it meant?” Yuri knelt abruptly, turning his face away from her, and busied himself brushing imaginary grass from his boots. “Look at me. Why nine nights?”

He straightened, his flush fading to a slight pink tint along his high cheekbones. “It’s just superstition.”

“Yes, and?”

The flush rose a little high, creeping up to his ears, but he met her gaze. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he finished, his tone edged.

“You thought we—Never mind. I know what you thought. Everyone else evidently thought the same thing.”

He smiled slightly, conciliatorily. “At least give us credit for thinking, Tess.”

“Oh, Yuri,” she said in disgust, “I’m hungry. Isn’t there something hot to eat?”

Yuri’s gaze shifted past her toward the camp. “The stew must be ready by now. I’ll go check. I pitched your tent over there—” He nodded toward the opposite bluff. “All your gear is there.”

“Thank you, Yuri. What would I possibly do without you?”

He gave her a sidewise look. “I’m used to older sisters, always ordering a man around and telling him what to do.”

“Oh, go away,” she said, as much with humor as with pique, and he grinned, happy to annoy her, and left.

She strolled slowly toward the opposite bluff, glad to be alone with her own thoughts. On a whim, she walked over to the four white tents of the Chapalii. None of them were outside, that she could see, so she simply stood for a moment and watched. Even in this weak sunlight, the white fabric of the tents shimmered, as if light was woven in with it. And perhaps it was—she knew there was more than cloth in their weaving. All plain white but for the lettering at their peaks that marked one as a lord’s tent, one as a merchant’s, and the other two for the lowly stewards. Even disguised, as they were in a fashion for this journey, they still must mark their rank for themselves.

The flap on the merchant’s tent swept aside and Garii emerged, looking straight at her, as if he knew she was standing there. “Lady Terese! You have returned!” Colors flushed his face in a blur before he controlled himself and his skin faded to a neutral pallor. He bowed. “I beg your greatest indulgence for my outburst, Lady Terese. Only, I feared for you—” He broke off abruptly.

Ishii pushed out of his own tent and examined first Garii and then, bowing punctiliously, Tess. “Lady Terese. Please permit me to express how gratified I am to see you restored to our party. I hope there was no trouble.”

Caught out, she thought fast. “Indeed, Cha Ishii, I accept your felicitations. I thought to inquire if you and your party have suffered through this difficult cold weather, knowing as I do that you are better adapted to heat.”

“Your concern honors us.” He inclined his head. Garii stood stiffly to one side, silent. “Indeed, we have been forced to remain within our tents for the most part of these past days, but as I understand that we will reach the shrine of Morava soon, we are able to endure such trials knowing that they will come to an end and that we shall return to more hospitable environments.” He looked pointedly at Garii. Garii, caught looking at Tess, bowed abruptly and subserviently, and retreated into his tent.

“I feel sure,” said Tess to cover the awkward silence, “that you anticipate with pleasure such a change in your circumstances.”

“You are discerning, Lady Terese. I only wish all those of my party had so much discrimination as yourself, but I fear that low birth or unstable family often contributes to a lack of discretion or even to poor judgment.” He bowed.

That he was warning her was clear. Unsure what to reply, she chose, like Garii, retreat. “You may return to your duties, Cha Ishii.”

He bowed with exactly the correct measure of humility and pride, and went back into his tent.

She forced herself to get out of earshot before she allowed herself to swear, a single word, just to express her frustration. And she was then greeted by the sight of Bakhtiian, sitting on the lip of his tent, which some fool had pitched not thirty paces from her own. A leather pouch cradled his injured knee. He was very white-faced, talking—or arguing—with Niko while diligently keeping his attention on the shirt he was mending. Tess averted her gaze and passed them. In a moment, she felt someone come up behind her. It was Niko.

“Tess.”

Tess did not stop until she reached her tent. Then she turned. “What do you want?”

“I do not appreciate being the recipient of your ill humor, my girl, having done nothing to deserve it.”

“I’m sorry, Niko.”

“You ought to be. Now what happened?”

“What happened where?”

“Tess, having just played this scene with Ilyakoria, I have no patience to repeat it with you.”

“He hurt his knee. We had a very difficult six days getting back to you.”

“All this is evident to the discerning man. Doubtless the days would not have been so trying if Bakhtiian did not think he has to endure twice what another man can.” He rested his hand on her shoulder, a light touch but firm, so that she knew he meant her to look at him. He watched her intently, his eyes very bright against the weathered tan of his face. “Or would they have been? Do you know anything about this, young woman?”

“If I do, it’s nothing I set out to do,” she exclaimed, shaking loose from his hand.

Niko smiled. The wrinkles of old laughter showed at the corners of his eyes. “That answers my question. I won’t trouble you further.” He left.

“Why is everyone so annoying today?” Tess muttered. She ducked into her tent, but she had to rummage around for a bit, cursing under her breath, before she found her bowl.

Coming out of her tent, she saw Kirill walking toward her, his light step and red-gold hair making him seem like a shaft of barely controlled energy in the quiet of the afternoon. She hurried toward the fire.

“Tess!” he called.

“Damn,” she said under her breath, but she halted.

“We should make all the women wear jahar dress. I’ve never seen such an appealing sight as you in red and black.” She was thankful that they were so far from the main fire, and yet, truthfully, was happy to see him. His easygoing humor sparked in the air between them as he came up to her. Her gaze drifted briefly to one side. Bakhtiian’s tent was no farther than twenty paces away now. His eyes had lifted from his shirt, although his hands kept to an even stitch, thread a thin line between his fingers. Kirill stopped two paces from her. Though his eyes were full of laughter, his expression was serious. “None of the men,” he finished, “looks half so good.”

“That depends on who is looking at them, Kirill,” she replied, attempting dignity. “I prefer a man in red and black to a woman any time.”

“Tess.” He smiled. He had a sweet, charming smile, the kind that made it impossible to resist his impudence or even to hold it against him. “You never told me.”

“You never asked.” Absurdly, she felt herself drawn into the game. Whatever else Kirill might be, he was exceptionally easy to flirt with. “Which is exactly the kind of behavior any jaran woman would expect from a well-mannered man.” She moved to circle him but he kept getting in her way.

“But you aren’t jaran, my heart.”

“Kirill!” The source and, more particularly, the tone surprised them both. Kirill paled slightly; he turned. Bakhtiian still sat by his tent, but his hands no longer worked at his half-mended shirt. His face was devoid of expression. “It is assumed that the men in my jahar have both manners and reputation. Take care that you don’t lose your share in all three.”

Kirill colored. “This is a private conversation.”

“Conducted in so public a place and at such a level? It would in any case be doubly offensive if it were private.”

Kirill crimsoned. He deliberately put a hand on the hilt of his saber. Bakhtiian merely watched him. Kirill paused, and Tess could see his expression change as he decided on something.

“Kirill,” she began in a low voice, but he was not even aware of her.

He drew his saber. “Not if she were my wife.”

If Bakhtiian had been pale before, he went dead white now. He threw the shirt down and began to push up to his feet.

“Sit down!” snapped Tess. She took a step toward Bakhtiian. Kirill’s hand was clutched so tightly around the hilt that his tendons stood out. “Kirill. Put that thing away.”

“No,” said Kirill, still looking at Bakhtiian.

Bakhtiian had frozen, half up, looking as ungainly as he ever could. Eyes on Kirill, he slowly lowered himself back down. His arms stayed poised by his belt.

“Kirill,” said Tess reasonably, moving to face the younger man, “Maryeshka Kolenin kicked you in a vulnerable spot once. I have a knife and a saber.”

For a moment he still stared past her. When his eyes shifted to her, the line of his mouth softened abruptly. He sheathed his blade, a dull
shick,
and laughed. “And I taught you how to use them.”

“That’s better.”

“I never meant to use it.”

“That’s good.”

“I’m not really running after you as shamelessly as it may at times appear.”

“Aren’t you?”

He grinned, and added a judicious appendix. “But if you ever get cold some evening…”

“If I get cold some evening, I’ll borrow an extra blanket.”

“Tess! Aren’t I good-looking?”

“A man is only as handsome as his reputation, Kirill.” He laughed. Tess glanced at Ilya. He had gone back to his mending. If his lips were pressed together in disapproval, his hands, at least, suffered from no unsteadiness. “Come here.”

Kirill followed her out past the tents. Shadows spread out over this end of camp as the sun sank below the heights. Two of the riders, seated at one tent, sharpened their sabers. The harsh sound grated on her nerves, but she managed a polite reply to their greeting. When she could no longer hear the sound, she and Kirill had walked well beyond the camp, back up into the vale in the same direction—though not as far—as she and Yuri had come. It was very still, not even the noise of insects could be heard. She halted and rounded on him.

“Now. Just whose benefit was that display for? Mine, yours, or Bakhtiian’s? I don’t like being placed in that position.”

“Listen, Tess.” Kirill’s hair had the color of burnished gold in the shadow. “It’s true enough that I oughtn’t to have made that scene, and I apologize to you most sincerely.” Then, as if this earnestness had exhausted his supply, he offered her a sweetly mischievous grin. She could see faint laughter lines at his eyes. “I really just wanted to get a reaction from Ilyakoria.”

“You can do that without me. You do it all the time.”

He looked away from her. There was a muteness in the vale, almost a lull, as if the world was caught between day and night and could not quite forsake the one or gain the other. “I was fond of my wife before she died. But she thought she was in love with Bakhtiian.” He lifted his gaze to her, pale lashes fringing the steady blue of his eyes. “They all do, don’t you see? But you—you took Fedya! We were all waiting to see which one you would choose—well, I beg your pardon, but it’s only the truth, Tess.”

“I suppose,” she said coolly, “that you even had a few wagers running on which one it would be, and how soon.”

Kirill fought to suppress a grin and failed. “Well, Tess, one woman and twenty-seven men—I don’t count the pilgrims, you understand—what do you expect? But no one expected Fedya.”

“Yuri might have,” she muttered.

“Yuri refused to wager.”

“Good for Yuri,” she said, and then she laughed. “Gods, how lowering. Did everyone know?”

“Tess, we’re not stupid. Or blind.” He smiled very sweetly, and she reflected that he was, after all, a good looking man, and well aware of it. “After all, my heart, some of us might have entertained hope for ourselves.”

“Don’t even try to kiss me, Kirill. I’m not in the mood.”

Color infused his cheeks. “But, Tess—”

“What does all this have to do with Bakhtiian anyway? Or was everyone wagering on him?”

“Don’t blame me. I didn’t wager on him.” He grew serious suddenly. “But the odds were overwhelmingly in his favor.”

“Oh, Lord,” Tess sighed.

“I’ve never seen a woman so impervious to Bakhtiian,” he went on, “and certainly never an attractive woman, and every man, every man in the world, looks twice at the woman who doesn’t look twice at him.”

“So you wanted to show Bakhtiian that I was more interested in you than in him.”

“Well.” He straightened a sleeve that already lay perfectly in place and brushed a nonexistent strand of hair away from his cheek. “Yes.”

Tess considered Kirill. He smiled, recognizing her scrutiny for what it was and, with that careless confidence that was a large part of his charm, not fearing her judgment. Yes, he would be very easy to take as a lover. And Bakhtiian would be furious. She laughed, knowing that to take him as a lover just to anger Bakhtiian was not only unfair to Kirill but all too revealing about how she might actually feel about Ilya.

“I hope,” he said, a little on his dignity now, “that I am not
that
easy to laugh at.”

“Why do you resent him? I can understand about your wife, but still, Yuri says that he rarely takes any woman up on her offer.”

“That’s true. It’s no wonder he’s so foul-tempered all the time. It isn’t really about my wife.” He considered her in his turn, but now as if deciding whether to really confide in her. “I’m only five years younger than he is. We grew up together, and I remember him as a child. He changed. At first, when he came back from Jheds, it was easy to believe in what he dreamed of. But he kept changing. He got harder and colder, and he shut out all of those who had once been his friends and companions until all he saw was the vision that leads him. Oh, I still believe in it. Never doubt that. But Bakhtiian is not the same man he was. I remember that day when he stood up in front of the assembled Elders of twenty tribes and told them that the path they had chosen for the tribes was the wrong one. Of course, they immediately agreed with him,
and apologized,
because he’s always right.”

“Yes, he is always right, isn’t he? He has to be. I think you’re the only one who understands.”