The Law of Becoming: 4 (The Novels of the Jaran) (23 page)

“I beg your pardon,” said Lady Katherine to Rusudani, signing to Jaelle to translate, “if my cousin is disturbing you.” Her demeanor was so haughty that Jaelle could easily have believed that
she
was the child of the Bakhtiian, although she claimed only to be his cousin’s daughter. She wore a bow quiver slung over her back and she also wore wide trousers covered by a calf-length skirt. She was truly a barbarian!

“He is not disturbing me,” replied Rusudani coolly, but hard on her answer Prince Vasil’ii excused himself and stalked off. Princess Katherine, without excusing herself, chased him down, and they were not even out of earshot before they launched into a furious argument.

“Can you understand what they say, Jaelle?” asked Rusudani.

“No, my lady, I cannot. They speak in their own language.”

“You will learn it,” said Rusudani, and Jaelle could not tell whether she meant it as a command or a threat. “You will teach me Taor.” She bowed her head over clasped hands. Beyond, only half covered in darkness, the jaran princess embarked on a scathing diatribe which was interrupted explosively at intervals by the young man. “He must be a prince,” murmured Rusudani into her hands, “or else he would never speak to a woman of her rank in such a fashion.”

“I am surprised he does not beat her, then.”

“Do not try to understand those who are above you. In any case, I have heard that the women in their tribes are queens in their own right.”

Reflexively, Jaelle touched her middle finger to the tiny knife she wore on a chain around her neck. “Like the blessed Pilgrim,” she breathed, and felt the vaguest stirring of an inchoate hope.

“
Not
like the Pilgrim,” said Rusudani sharply, “blessed though she is. You must cleave to the True Church and end this profession of the heretic faith, Jaelle. I will go in now.” Rusudani closed the holy book and with it in her hands she retreated inside her tent.

Jaelle rose, dusted off her skirt, and rolled up the blouse she was mending. At once, she became aware of the slave’s presence—Stefan, that was his name. He did not move. The argument between his master and the jaran princess still raged, but at a lower volume.

As soon as she looked at him, he spoke, although like all the jaran men he did not look at her directly. “Is there any other way I can help you?” He had a quiet, modest voice, and spoke Taor as well as she did, although with a harsh accent.

Jaelle examined him warily. She recognized the look: He desired her. While it might be to her advantage to lie with a man so closely connected with a jaran nobleman, still, she couldn’t see what direct benefit such a union would bring her. In any case, if Rusudani found out that she had gone back to her old profession, she would be summarily cast out. That had been made clear at the outset.

“No,” she replied, and then, impulsively, because he had asked so gently, “thank you.”

He made a gesture with one shoulder, an embarrassed shrug, and turned away. Jaelle skirted the princess’s tent and headed out toward the trees to relieve herself. He followed her, and she stopped and turned to look at him, suddenly nervous.

He halted as well, looking uneasy. “Don’t go far,” he said abruptly, as if there was anywhere she could go. He walked away to the ring of guards and fell in with them. The old soldier named Zaiyt’zev let her through, seeing where she was headed, and he said a few words to her that she did not understand but which she took for the same warning as the young slave had given her. How odd that they should think so little of foreign women that they refused to look at them, and yet warn her on a dark night not to wander too far from camp. She knew already what happened to girls wandering alone in foreign lands, where they had neither family nor lord to protect them.

As she reached the line of trees and undergrowth, she clutched the Sunderer’s Knife that hung at her throat and mumbled a prayer to the blessed Pilgrim, who had wandered alone for so many years in search of Her Holy Brother’s remains.
She
had suffered, too, and through Her suffering taken upon herself the suffering of others. Here where the False Church reigned, they said that She was only a handmaiden, the sister who served the anointed Lord Hristain, whose Sundering at the hands of his jealous brother defined the wickedness of the world, but Jaelle knew they were wrong, that they heard the recitation of the Lord with closed ears.

Still, although Princess Rusudani was the worst kind of unbeliever, even desiring to enter the Order of Sisters who devoted their life to prayer, Rusudani had interceded with Sister Yvanne, who had at first refused to sell a holy relic to a woman she called a heretic. For that alone, Jaelle was grateful to her new mistress.

She relieved herself behind a screen of bushes and pressed farther forward, wanting to wash the smell of horses off her hands. She paused under the silent bower of trees at the river’s bank and waited, cautious, to be sure no one was near. The spill of the water over rocks melded with the low whisper of the wind, except it wasn’t windy. As she leaned forward, bracing herself on the trunk of a tree, the moon slipped out from behind her veil of clouds, and Jaelle saw a strange sight.

A jaran man sat on horseback in a shallow eddy of water where the river curved away out of sight. She recognized him instantly: He was the prince who had joined them with a troop of his men some days back. As fair as a Northerner, he had the pride which God finds most displeasing in a man, but he was clearly a man of consequence.

And he was close in conversation with a soldier who wore a dark surcoat over mail. Who or what this soldier was Jaelle could not tell, except that he was not a jaran man. She could not hear any part of their conversation save as a melismatic counterpoint to the river’s melody.

She did not move until the clouds swallowed the moon again and cast a cloak of darkness over the river. Then, cautiously, she retreated back to camp. The guards marked her return but asked nothing, not even the slave, whose notice now disturbed her. It was always dangerous to draw attention to oneself. Jaelle had learned long ago that it was better to watch and to remain silent. She did not tell anyone what she had seen.

A
NATOLY SAKHALIN SETTLED HIS
daughter on his lap, switched on her flat book, and watched his wife as she laughed and talked with colleagues she hadn’t seen in months. He rested his chin on Portia’s flaxen hair, tucking an arm more tightly around her, and studied the scene of actors before him. He felt more lighthearted then he had in months. The Bharentous Repertory Company had taken a sabbatical while Owen and Ginny made the final arrangements for their tour into Chapalii space, and now, finally, they had reassembled at Meroe Transfer Station for their departure.

“
Kostra
,” said Portia, using the khush word for “father” as he had taught her to, “let’s see the war.”

Anatoly gauged the distance between them and Diana, who was deep in conversation with Gwyn Jones, and called up the program. The thin slate itself had solidity and heft, sitting on his knees with Portia’s little legs stuck out on either side, framing it in a “v”. But the image that appeared on the flat black surface was insubstantial although it looked as if they were peering through a window into a tiny world, complete with depth and movement, a range of sharp hills and a distant city, and two armies facing off on a flat stretch of ground. Anatoly had learned to model these programs himself: The walled city in the distance was the Habakar city of Qurat, where, nine years ago, Bakhtiian had won a decisive victory over the Habakar king.

“Which ones are the bad guys?” Portia asked, and answered herself by putting a finger on the Habakar army, with its bright pennons and flags. “The
khaja
are the bad guys. They had a king and he ran away from you.”

“That’s right.” Anatoly could not help but smile over past glory. “Now, when two lines meet like this, what should the general ask himself?”

“Hmmm,” said Portia. “Why do all those soldiers there have gray horses?” She pointed to the center rank of the Habakar army. The image was as distinct as if they were watching the real battle from a hilltop.

“Because those are the king’s guard, and they all wear the same color coats over their armor and ride the same color horses to show that—”

“Anatoly!”

Reflexively, he tapped the screen to black. “Awww,” complained Portia. “
Kostra
, I wanted to count the gray horses.”

“Oh, Anatoly.” Diana grabbed Portia under the girl’s arms and heaved her off Anatoly’s lap. “If you have to do this, could you not do it in public? It’s so embarrassing.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he snapped. “It’s just a picture.”

“Oh, yes, just the thing for people to see: The barbarian gloating over his last battle where uncounted human beings were slaughtered. I told you I don’t want you to—”

“Then what would you rather have me do? Argue with my wife in public?”

She flushed. She took in a breath and forcibly took stock of their argument and any potential eavesdroppers. Hyacinth stood close by, but after living upstairs from them for eight years, he was bored by their bickering. “Anatoly,” she said in a calmer voice. “I know you’ve found other people through the net who are interested in war history, but most people aren’t like that. It’s very old-fashioned.”

“And it is still new-fashioned to bring home a barbarian husband?” he asked, just to see her flinch. “Or is that old-fashioned now as well?”

“I don’t like this,” said Portia, and she squirmed out of her mother’s arms and darted off into the crowd toward Hal.

“We, agreed at the farm that we wouldn’t talk about that again!” said Diana through clenched teeth. “You’re not fighting fair.”

“What is
fair
in fighting? I’m fighting to win.” He leaned to one side, looking around his wife, to make sure that Portia had reached Hal without incident. She had, and was even now hanging on Hal’s leg, an impediment the other actor took with his usual good grace: He ignored her while continuing his conversation with the stage manager, Yomi Applegate-Hito.

“Exactly! You’re stuck in primitive patterns of thinking. Everything has to be win or lose.”

“But, Diana, if you are fighting a war, then someone must win and someone must lose.”

“That’s why we don’t fight wars anymore!”

“Then what is Duke Charles doing? I would call that fighting a war, to drive away the
khepellis
who have conquered these lands.”

“Shhh! Anyway, that’s different—”

Anatoly snorted. “Different! In what way?”

“We want to regain our freedom—”

“I want to do what I wish, and not have you tell me that you care more about what other people think of me and what I’m doing than about
me
.” At once, he was sorry he had said it. Her face closed, like a blanket being drawn across a tent’s entrance.

“I’m sorry,” she said curtly. “You’re right.”

Then, damn her, she left him and went over to greet the actors Dejhuti and Seshat, who had just arrived in the concourse. Anatoly cursed himself silently. Diana was right: They had the same argument over and over again. Irked, he keyed on the screen and watched the battle play itself out in collapsed time.

“Do you mind if I give you some advice?”

Anatoly glanced up. “Yes.”

Hyacinth did not take the hint. Instead, he crouched down beside Anatoly’s chair. The actor no longer wore his hair blond. It had reverted to a coarse black, shorn tight against his head, and with his dark almond eyes and his yellow-brown complexion, he looked much more foreign than he had when Anatoly had first met him. Then again, most Earth humans Anatoly saw looked more like Hyacinth than like Diana, with her golden hair and light skin. “Yevgeni isn’t coming with me, you know,” said Hyacinth, seemingly at random. “He’s off to another crafts exhibition. I’m getting a little tired of him winning all those awards for his leather-work. He’s had an offer from Passier to do his own exclusive line of saddles for them.”

Anatoly endured this confidence in silence. He didn’t want to like Hyacinth. He could just imagine what his grandmother would say to the thought of a prince of the Sakhalin befriending an avowed lover of men, especially a man who lived as if in marriage to a jaran man whom his grandmother had exiled from the jaran.

“At first I thought it would be impossible for Yevgeni to adjust,” Hyacinth continued. “Yevgeni was so dependent on me for everything. But it’s odd that he was able to take the very things that made him so out of place here and create his own life with them. He’s built a reputation for himself that he never could have gained in the jaran. Of course, he had no standing to lose. It’s not as if he was a prince of the Sakhalin.”

“I can’t imagine that anything that an arenabekh, an outcast, like Yevgeni might do would have anything to do with me,” said Anatoly, affronted.

“Yes. That’s exactly the problem, isn’t it?”

Anatoly closed his lips hard on a sharp retort. At the same moment, movement eddied around the concourse entrance, and with the instincts that had made him a successful actor, Vasil Veselov entered. Behind him, mobile cameras nudged up against the concourse archway, passing through nesh images of interviewers and hangers-on in their efforts to get a better angle and that one final shot of the departing star; the ephemeral escort of nesh figures halved in number, vanishing into the ether, as soon as they reached the archway, which blocked their entrance. One of the hangers-on was real, then, Anatoly noted, because she walked into the waiting area alongside Karolla, carrying a pack, with the baby in a sling at her hip. The children followed at their mother’s heels. Veselov went to greet Owen and Ginny. Karolla found the nearest seat and sank down, looking tired.

“Oh, I won’t say you’re worse than poor Karolla,” added Hyacinth, who had also been watching this display, “with her odd notions about what is due her and that awful place she’s made to live in, but you’re certainly no better. In your own way.”

“I beg your pardon.” Anatoly stood up. “If you will excuse me.”