The Law of Becoming: 4 (The Novels of the Jaran) (36 page)

One Chapalii remained with them. He—Ilyana reminded herself that it had to be a “he” because the females were sequestered—stepped forward and addressed himself to David ben Unbutu in Anglais made odd by his inability to sound a hissed “s.” “I am called Roki. It is my obligation to serve you and these assembled people. This caravansary has entered into decay but another has grown beyond the arch.” He inclined his head, an awkward gesture that looked copied, not natural, and walked away from the group toward the arch.

“Entered into decay?” muttered Hyacinth. “How old is this palace, anyway?”

“I’m no antiquary,” said M. Unbutu, “but this was either cleverly constructed to look this way, or else it’s been abandoned for centuries. This kind of erosion doesn’t take place overnight.”

Anatoly was the first to move. He ran a hand carefully along a waist-high wall, testing it. “I have seen such places in Habakar, old cities and towns lost out in the desert, forgotten by everyone except Father Wind and Mother Sun.”

Diana glanced at him but said nothing.

One of the new actors said, “Father Wind and Mother Sun?” and Gwyn Jones told him to be quiet.

Finally, Yomi picked up her trunk, activated the lifts on the company trunks and boxes, and started the whole mass moving after the Chapalii steward. “Well, what are we waiting for?” she demanded of the others. The trunks and boxes floated about an arm’s length off the ground, locked together in stacks and lines, and she maneuvered them out the still-intact arch and into the green.

First one, then a second, then a third person gathered together their personal luggage and either hoisted it up onto their hips or back or activated its levitation grids, and followed Yomi. Their breaking away precipitated a flood, so everyone converged on the arch at one time. Ilyana waited patiently for the congestion to sort itself out. She let Anton run ahead with their mother while she hung back, loitering near M. Unbutu, who had evidently decided to bring up the rear. That way she managed to walk beside him as they came out through the arch and caught their first glimpse of the palace from the ground.

From this angle, everything looked different. Down along an unpaved road stood another square brick caravansary, this one intact. To the left lay fields and a green park in which clumps of animals roamed, and behind the caravansary and to the right loomed a great rose-colored wall, a mass of jade towers with bulbous stems and flowering roofs, and a glass-paned dome that shimmered in sunlight. A tiny gate marked the rose wall, like a stain. Above, in the sky, the ringed planet loomed.

“That’s odd,” said M. Unbutu, crossing back under the arch. Ilyana followed him. “Look. From inside, you can’t see the towers or the dome, and they’re tall enough that you should be able to.”

Ilyana gaped. From inside the ruined caravansary, she saw only dunes and a line of craggy mountains etched against a hot blue sky. Even the planet did not show. She walked back out, half expecting to find a different scene outside, as if she were caught in one of Valentin’s guising worlds, but she saw the same landmarks as before. Yomi’s tiny figure, attended by the levitated freight boxes and trunks, crossed under the arch of the other caravansary and disappeared from Ilyana’s view.

One actor broke away from the road and trotted out to one of the fields, kneeling down to examine a low growth of green plants. “Strawberries!”

“That’s interesting.” Ignoring the excitement, M. Unbutu keyed a note into his slate. “Yana, you might want to note that there’s a field inside these ruins that affects what we see.”

“Unless it’s the outside view that’s wrong.”

“Or some kind of massive refraction… at this point it’s undoubtedly useless to make many conjectures. We take notes. Then, if we see different parts of the palace, we can compare notes on how often this sort of thing occurs. As well as other anomalies.”

Ilyana simply nodded. She was thrilled to be included, but she wasn’t going to make a fool of herself by saying so out loud. They reached the caravansary in time to hear a bloodcurdling shriek from inside. M. Unbutu broke into a run, and Ilyana raced after him.

“Look!” one of the young actors was shouting, sounding hysterical. “You expect me to use that?”

M. Unbutu seemed good at navigating by sound. He found the frenzied actor quickly, in a small chamber by the back gate. She stood in front of a meter-long trough. A shallow stream of water ran down it, spilling into a drain. The Chapalii steward waited by the door. He and the actor looked toward M. Unbutu, who arrived at the same time as Yomi.

“He says this is the bathroom!” said the actor. “And there’s only
one
! One bathroom for thirty-eight people!”

“This is insufficient for your needs?” asked Roki. Ilyana saw an odd shade of color mottling his pale skin. M. Unbutu began to chuckle.

“How can you laugh?” shrieked the actor. “There isn’t anywhere to bathe, and there’re no mirrors, nothing!”

“Roki,” said M. Unbutu calmly, “if you will step outside with me, perhaps we can discuss some alterations.”

“We followed the specifications given to us,” said Roki. His tone had such an odd pitch that Ilyana could detect no emotion in his voice, but colors swirled and faded on his face, and she knew that the Chapalii were sometimes called chameleons by humans because they shifted color according to their mood.

But outside another controversy swirled, rather like a physical expression of the steward’s consternation.

“There isn’t any food!”

“Of course there’s food, you idiot. There are gardens and herds.”

“Oh, yes. I want to watch Thea butcher one of those sheep.”

“Fuck off.”

“Now, let’s all calm down—”

“I thought the Chapalii were supposed to be so damned advanced.”

“What? You thought the food would just come out of thin air? I don’t think even they’ve managed that level of molecular transformation.”

“Shut up, Thea. But it’s true, Ginny. We came here expecting that these things would be taken care of. There isn’t any one of us here who knows how to exist in such primitive conditions.”

Ilyana had never figured out exactly how much Anglais her mother understood.

“First we must set up my tent,” said Karolla with calm authority. Yomi emerged from the caravansary, M. Unbutu looked around from his conversation with Roki, and slowly a hush fell over the assembly, which had worked itself to quite a pitch.

“Then we will gather under the awning and I and the elders will decide which men will go to the herds, which women to the gardens, and how the women will divide up the stone chambers which must serve as your tents.”

To Ilyana’s utter astonishment, they all obeyed her as unquestioningly as if she really was etsana.

Anatoly dumped his saddle, bridle, and saddlebags on the floor of the chamber which now belonged to his wife. He laid his saber down on top, the crown of his possessions.

“I don’t understand why you insisted on taking those with you,” said Diana.

“There are horses out in the park,” Anatoly retorted. “Didn’t you see them?”

She ignored him. “Help me with the cots.” She had chosen a room without a bed built in. As Anatoly unfolded the cots, he reflected sourly that she had probably chosen it in order to have an excuse to sleep alone: Each cot was meant for a single person.

Portia came in, poked around the room, then grabbed her box of molding blocks.

“Where are you going?” Diana asked sharply.

“Out to the tent. Yana said I could.”

“Go with her,” said Diana to Anatoly without looking at him.

He frowned, but he grabbed a halter, took Portia’s hand, and went out. She chattered happily as they crossed the caravansary courtyard and under the arch to the outside. Anatoly said “yes” and “no” at intervals, but he wasn’t really listening to her. He was furious with Diana. Yet, stepping out into the open, he felt relieved of pressure. The open sky was refreshing. The sight of a tent set out in the open, where it belonged, acted as balm to his soul. Children played under the awning. Ilyana looked up, seeing them, and waved, then abruptly looked embarrassed and turned her attention back to the little ones. It bothered Anatoly. Girls her age were supposed to act like women, not like boys. Portia pulled out of his grasp and ran over to the tent to plop down beside Evdokia.

Karolla emerged from the tent, discussing something with Yomi and Ginny and the eldest of the women actors, Seshat. The women nodded, came to some conclusion, and the khaja women left, greeting Anatoly as they passed.

Karolla caught his eye and, obediently, he walked over to her. They had achieved an understanding early on, nothing codified but rather understood through a shared belief that someone must hold to the ways of the jaran and must teach these ways to the children. Even while Anatoly could not approve of Karolla’s leaving her mother’s tribe, still he valued her adherence to tradition.

“Walk with me,” she said quietly. They walked out into the park. Anatoly studied the horses, a small herd of seven: four mares, two foals, and a stallion. The lead mare was a handsome creature, big-boned and sturdy and from what little Anatoly had seen of her so far, not one to take any nonsense from the others.

“My servant will supervise and tutor the younger children now,” began Karolla, “but it is my hope that you will take some interest in Valentin.”

“I will keep an eye out for him,” agreed Anatoly cautiously.

She cleared her throat. “There is one other thing. It is past time for my daughter to celebrate her tsadokhis night. Because she is a daughter of the Arkhanov line, it would be appropriate for a prince of the Sakhalin tribe to be her first lover.”

Anatoly kept his gaze fixed on the horses. “Any man would be honored to be your daughter’s tsadokhis choice.”

“I beg your pardon for speaking of these things so baldly. But you have seen as well as I that Yana has lived too much in the khaja world and has had no older girls to emulate. It is wrong that a girl should reach her age and not arrange with her aunt for her flower night. So I must act.”

They had come close enough to the horses now that by mutual unspoken consent they both halted. The stallion circled warily, but the lead mare lifted her ears and ambled toward them.

“Of course,” said Anatoly softly, watching the mare, “no man would wish a girl to feel that he was forced on her.”

“She admires you,” said Karolla flatly, “but she acts as a boy would act admiring an older woman, shying away, waiting for her to approach him.”

The mare had a black mane and a chestnut coat, and she halted six paces from them and eyed the humans curiously but without fear. Anatoly knew an invitation when he saw one. Karolla calmly handed him an apple she had evidently taken from the gardens, and with it he approached the mare. She deigned to take the offering and to let him introduce himself. He let her sniff the halter and then he pulled it on over her head. Clearly she had been ridden before. A half grown filly came up and shied away, skittish, and the other mares cropped at the grass. Anatoly heaved himself up onto her back and swung a leg over. Waited. She shifted but seemed content.

Karolla had another apple and a bridle. Now she walked over to the nearest of the other mares. Soon enough, she, too, was mounted. Anatoly grinned. Together they rode back toward the tent. The rest of the herd followed at a distance, except for the stallion, who trumpeted his displeasure at this desertion. Anatoly’s mare merely quirked her ears.

“It’s no wonder you prefer me to him,” said Anatoly to her. “I’m much better-looking.”

She flattened her ears briefly, and he chuckled.

Karolla came up beside him. “If I arrange her tsadokhis night, will you agree to act as if she had already lain flowers beside your saddle?”

The children saw them. Portia leaped up, shouting, “Papa! Papa!” and Valentin hoisted her up and shushed her. Ilyana stood up as well, her face alight with pleasure.

“Oh, Mama! Let me ride!” she called. “No, I’ll go first, Evdi, and then I’ll take you.”

She disappeared inside the tent and came out a moment later with a saddle. Karolla dismounted. Anatoly watched as Ilyana swiftly made the acquaintance of the mare, a compact roan, and saddled her and mounted.

She shot a glance toward Anatoly. “Race you!” Urging the mare forward, she put it through its paces, getting acquainted. After a bit, she encouraged it to run. Like any jaran girl, she knew how to ride. Her braid bounced on her back and she laughed with joy.

Anatoly sighed and dismounted. He tossed the reins to Karolla. “Let me get my saddle. We’ll let the children ride.”

“Do you agree?” asked Karolla quietly.

Gods, it was tempting. Any man would be tempted. But what Karolla suggested went too far. He could just imagine what his grandmother would say about it. “If she places flowers beside my saddle, I would be honored by her choice. But if she does not wish it, then even by your request I cannot act. I beg your pardon.”

Karolla simply nodded.

They let the children ride for a while, then turned the horses loose.

It rained in the afternoon, so they were all stuck inside the warren of rooms that made up the caravansary. There were many arguments, mostly about rehearsal space and if anyone knew when they were expected to perform. Portia splashed in puddles in the courtyard until Diana yelled at her to come in under shelter, and David ben Unbutu found some kind of interface to a map of the palace under the gazebo in the center of the courtyard.

But only three people could stand out of the rain under the tiny gazebo roof, and so many of the actors began quarreling about right of place that David told them all to go away. He did not precisely lose his temper, Anatoly noted; instead he spoke so softly that they had to stop talking in order to hear him. Anatoly sat on a bench and watched the spectacle. Most Earth khaja were quite patient—it was something he admired in them—but many of the actors were not just young but nervous, and that made them irritable and quick to take offense.

Diana took Portia to bed. The rain slackened and gave out, and Anatoly walked into the courtyard and leaned over the gazebo railing. The map looked like a mosaic made of thin lines of light, but each time David touched an intersection of lines an image rose out of the floor, mist rising and solidifying into a tiny model of a building.