The Novels of the Jaran (212 page)

“I have no doubt he does,” said Katerina rudely. Both Vasha and Stefan blushed furiously, and Stefan, abashed, looked down at his boots.

“Katya!” exclaimed Vasha. “What’s happened to you?” Her coarseness shocked him more than her disdain for everything he did and said.

“You couldn’t understand,” she said bitterly. Then, like lightning, her mood shifted, and he saw tears in her eyes. Her lower lip trembled, and for an instant he thought she was going to start crying. Once, he would have been her first and most precious confidant.

“No doubt I’m too stupid to know,” he snapped, annoyed that she had abandoned him.

Her face stiffened at once. She brushed the ends of her braids back over her shoulder and strode away, over to the table.

“Oh, Vasha!” said Stefan, exasperated.

“Be quiet.” Vasha crossed his arms and stared after her, unwilling to admit to any wrongdoing. She had started it, after all.

And there was enough to distract him. At Sister Yvanne’s table, a strange spectacle unfolded. Rusudani pulled back the sleeve of her long tunic and displayed her wrist to the Sister. The change this small gesture wrought was miraculous. At once, Sister Yvanne agreed to give up one of the tiny silver knives, and Merchant Bathori exchanged coins with her.

But then the transaction changed yet again: Rusudani turned and addressed Bathori’s wife, and soon Bathori joined in until all three of them were, evidently, haggling over something. By degrees, Stefan inched closer to the conversation, and Vasha followed him, grateful to have any chance to see Rusudani.

Bathori was a great haggler. In the twenty days the merchants had traveled with them, Vasha had watched him wear down his customers with sheer volume of words. This time, he spoke infrequently and deferred more and more to Rusudani. After a bit, nodding her head, she reached into the complicated layers of robe, skirt, and trousers that she wore and brought out a purse. From that purse she removed five coins. Four she gave to Bathori and the fifth to Bathori’s wife.

Bathori’s wife curtsied and said, in clear Taor, “Lady, I am called Jaelle.” Then the two khaja women walked away together, Jaelle trailing three steps behind Rusudani.

Katerina still stood by the table. She glanced at Vasha and Stefan, turned her back toward them, and spoke briefly with Bathori and Sister Yvanne in Taor, the trade language many of the children of the Orzhekov tribe had learned during their time in Tess’s
school.
Toward Katerina, the khaja merchants’ demeanor was not just deferential but fawning.

“No wonder she has such a fat head,” said Vasha.

“What? Are you still angry with her?”

“What do you think! I have every right to be!”

“No need to be angry with me, too,” retorted Stefan. “I know how much she loved you before, Vasha, but she
has
been two years with the army. Surely she must prefer to spend her time with the women.” He paused, and then said it anyway. “And with older men, now.”

“Not with a rash, stupid boy like me? Well, I don’t care what she thinks about me.”

“Of course you don’t.”

But Vassily waited, anyway, while Katerina finished her conversation with the two merchants and walked back to them. She had developed a kind of saunter that he detested.

“So,” she said, coming up beside them, “Bathori’s
wife
has gone to be handmaiden to the princess. But maybe Bathori can find a new
wife
there.” With her chin, she indicated a section of the bazaar where a cluster of khaja women with uncovered hair loitered around a circle of small wagons, each wagon crowned with a tent over the bed of the wagon.

The wagons had come over from Manas the Smaller, Vasha supposed to cart goods back into town. He hadn’t seen the little tents go up, and now he realized that a fair number of jaran riders stood around there as well, drinking hot kava and oilberry wine from Merchant Larenin’s wagons and flirting, most of them with discreet good manners, with the khaja women. Vassily knew about khaja women: It was commonly believed among the tribes that khaja women covered their faces, kept their eyes cast down, and in general were afraid of men, quite the opposite of how real women were supposed to behave. It was just another example of what barbarians the khaja were. But these khaja women were much more like jaran women. A horrible suspicion took hold of Vasha.

“Do khaja really marry again so quickly?” Stefan asked. “Does he even
know
those women, or anything of their families? How can he? I suppose without the mark on a woman’s face the khaja have no real respect for marriage, then, if it can be given up so easily….”

Katerina’s look silenced him. Vasha could tell, anyway, that Stefan was babbling, something he never did except when a powerful emotion took hold of him. “I’m going to bed,” said Katerina, and left them.

Meanwhile, Merchant Bathori excused himself from Sister Yvanne and strode purposefully over to the clot of khaja women. They clustered around him while he talked. As he finished, all but three of the women laughed and filtered back to flirt with the soldiers once again. Bathori himself dismissed a pale-haired older woman in favor of the two younger ones, one raven-haired, the other with features similar to those of his former wife, although her complexion was not as fine. The three of them began to haggle.

Suddenly, the raven-haired girl unlaced her blouse and bared her breasts, right there in front of everyone. Stefan choked. Vasha could not help but stare. The other khaja women went on with their talking and flirting without blinking an eye, but every man within sight of her—every jaran man, that is—stopped stock-still in shock. Well, she had fine, full breasts and ample, pleasing flesh. Bathori examined her the way a man would examine a horse he was planning to acquire. He squeezed her breasts, then her buttocks through her skirt, and patted her briskly as if to pronounce himself satisfied.

The blonde woman looked disappointed but shrugged and walked away. Without any sign that she cared one whit that every man there was trying not to stare at her—or perhaps even pleased that it was so—the raven-haired girl laced up her blouse and began haggling with Bathori again.

“I will never understand the khaja,” said Stefan. The words caught in his throat. He looked mortified.

“She’s a whore,” said Vasha.

“What’s a whore?”

“A woman who sells having sex with men for coins or goods. I saw them in Jeds.”

“No. You’re lying. I don’t believe it. I know khaja are barbarians, but—” He broke off. Like the other children in Tess Soerensen’s school, Stefan had received a rigorous education. It wasn’t khaja he couldn’t believe it about. It was the conclusion he must then draw about Jaelle, the pretty young woman he admired. “But she couldn’t be,” he finished plaintively. “What would drive a woman to behave like that? How could her mother and aunts ever let her come to such a pass?”

“Tess says that many khaja lands don’t even have etsanas.”

“I hate the khaja,” said Stefan suddenly. He turned and stalked away.

But Vasha did not move. It was true that the khaja were barbarians. It was no wonder that the gods had given Bakhtiian a vision, that their favorite children, the jaran, must rule over these less-favored lands. But still, now that the jaran ruled khaja lands, it did no good simply to condemn, simply to sneer, at khaja ways. A ruler must set down true and good laws, of course, and hold to them, but simply crushing the khaja would not make them good subjects.

But he shied away from thoughts that might lead him to think too keenly about his father.

Most of the riders had abandoned the whores, shocked by the raven-haired girl’s display. The few left looked quite drunk. Vasha wandered back by Sister Yvanne’s wagons and paused there to peer at the silver knives. He had seen these in Jeds, too, had even been in the great holy church there, but he had never gotten a satisfactory explanation for them. Tess had an annoying habit of only answering those questions she wanted to. Why would anyone want a tiny image of a knife rather than a real knife, which was useful?

By the light of two lanterns, Sister Yvanne and her two assistants were carefully bundling up their wares and putting them away.

“The jaran may be barbarians,” Sister Yvanne was saying tartly to one of her boys, a black-haired young man dressed in gray robes similar to those the Sister wore, “but at least
Hristain
has granted them a proper sense of modesty, though I fear they are sadly lacking in humility. But we may yet be successful, Brother Saghir, in our mission, if God favors us.”

“What is
Hristain
?” Vasha asked. “Isn’t that the name of your god?” He started because they both started, surprised that he could understand them.

“You speak Taor, most honorable young man?”

“Yes, my lady,” replied Vasha, uncomfortable now. He didn’t like the way she fixed her eye on him. It reminded him too much of the way she had looked at the poor woman Jaelle, disapproving but also, in a perverse way, hopeful.

“We speak of our Lord, the Anointed One,” she went on, making a funny little gesture with one hand in front of herself. “
Hristain
is one of His titles. Indeed, in the language of the true church, it is His name. In this book is written the recitation of His word. May I tell you of His sundering?”

“Uh, no, I thank you.” Vasha backed away. She had a light in her eyes that reminded him of his father, and he didn’t want to think about his father.

He fled back to the jahar’s camp, and found Stefan easily enough, standing morosely in the darkness beyond the firelight outside Rusudani’s tent. Both of the khaja women knelt outside the tent. Rusudani was speaking, but in such a low voice that Vasha could only just see her lips move, not hear her words—which he couldn’t have understood in any case, since she did not speak Taor. She held her little knife in her right hand and with her left clutched a book. Vasha thought that she was, perhaps, praying.

And while Rusudani spoke, her new servant, Jaelle, lifted the tiny knife she had just acquired and brought it to her lips and kissed it ardently. She had tears on her cheeks.

CHAPTER FIVE

Home

I
LYANA SKATED HOME FROM
Kori’s house with her duffel banging against her back. Her homework was done, it was fine summer weather, and she held a bouquet of fresh flowers from Kori’s mother’s garden in one hand. She paused at the Cornwall Gardens playing field to watch a group of rebellious university students, probably from Imperial College, playing soccer. As university students liked to do during the summer, they were flouting the dress protocols, marking their teams with shirts-and-skins rather than arm flags.

And sure enough, a bystander called out, “quisling peep!” There was a pause in the action, but none of the skins players made any move back to their shirts until the protocol ʼcar drifted into view, humming down to hover about twelve feet above the center of the field. Even from the edge of the street, Ilyana could feel the uncomfortable pressure of the air field. No one moved for a moment. Finally the young women and men sauntered back to the sidelines to pull on their shirts. Ilyana admired their insouciance. It lent the trivial nature of their defiance some excitement.

She tugged self-consciously at the hem of her shorts. Her knees and calves were showing, but she was still classified as a child, so it ought not to matter. And the protocol ʼcar didn’t have Chapalii stripes, which meant it was human officers, and especially in the summer they tended to go easy on people. The ʼcar banked, skipped on an air current, and moved away, and the game resumed, with arm flags now. Ilyana peeled a wet leaf off her left blade and skated on.

Coming down Kensington Court Place, she called a greeting to a neighbor and stopped in front of her door. She unsealed her blades, caught them under an elbow, and placed her left hand on the doorplate. The front door opened. At once she knew that her good mood was not to last. As if she had really believed it could.

Valentin sat on the bottom step, feet planted on the entry-way tile. He looked cross. Way, way up at the top of the flight of steps that angled around and around, she saw a face peering down from the third level, withdrawn quickly when it saw her movement below.

“Who’s that?” she asked, jerking upward with her chin. “It wasn’t Hyacinth or Yevgeni.”

Valentin shrugged. “Hopeful actor, probably. How should I know? Why should I care?”

“Just that they’re spying!” said Ilyana in a loud voice, hoping the person upstairs could hear her. “What are you doing down here?”

He shrugged again, but said nothing.

“Answer me!”

He had dark shadows under his eyes, set off by the pallor of his face, and he was thinner than ever. Ilyana bit down on adding:
You’ve got to eat more!
because she had learned that to draw attention to that problem only made it worse. Valentin made a face and stared down at his bare feet. He had grown prettier with puberty, maybe because he was just undernourished enough that he hadn’t quite yet grown into that awkward half-man stage, but it was an unhealthy, waiflike prettiness. It attracted the wrong kind of attention.

“Oh, gods,” said Ilyana, feeling a sick thread of doubt claw through her. “Dad didn’t invite over that awful groping old woman again, did he?”

Valentin shut his left eye and squinted at her through his right one. “Neh. I didn’t mind her. I made her pay for it with nesh time.”

“Valentin!” Ilyana shrieked. She wanted to punch him and protect him, at the same time. Somehow, her father managed to attract the most horrible old perverts, maybe just because he was willing to do anything he had to in order to get better acting parts and more access to the people who held the reins of power in the entertainment tribe. “Or are you just joking me?”

For a second she thought he was going to say: “Oh, what do you care?” But the last time he’d tried that she’d slapped him once hard. Finally he traced the red curlicues fired into the tile with a toe. But he didn’t answer.

Like a winter storm blasts in, bleakness hit. “Oh, Valentin,” she whispered. “Did you really?”