The Novels of the Jaran (284 page)

“In any case,” added Vasha, changing tactics, “it would please me. He is a holy man, what we call a
Singer
, and it pains me to see him working here in chains like a common slave.”

“Very well. As a favor to you, Prince Vasil’ii. You may have one other to serve you, the young one. The rest must work out here.”

“Thank you,” replied Vasha, surprised in his turn.

Janos spoke to the guards, and an overseer was found to come unshackle Ilya. Vladimir stayed beside him, digging steadily so as not to arouse suspicion.

“Take him away and allow him to clean up,” said Janos. Ilya was led away. He had not looked at Vasha once in all that time, nor at Janos, only at some point in the middle distance where nothing existed.

“Vladimir, you are well? Nikita and Mikhail? How are they treating you?” Vasha asked quickly, in khush, not knowing when he would get another chance.

“We are treated fairly enough, Vasha,” said Vladimir without looking up, knowing better than to pause in his work. “They need us healthy to dig these defenses. They aren’t fools. They know that the jaran will come sooner or later. But look to your father, Vasha. He is half mad.”

“We must go,” said Janos.

Vasha rode away with him, glancing back once to see Vladimir pitch a shovelful of dirt into the cart. From this angle he could see into the ditch, where a line of men worked planting stakes. A few women moved among them, hauling water in buckets. He thought he glimpsed red shirts down there, Nikita and Mikhail, but he could not be sure. Then it hit him. Vladimir had said:
your father.
In this extremity, without thinking, the rider had acknowledged their relationship. Vasha felt dizzy with joy.

“Are all your priests, your
singers
, as insolent as this one?” Janos asked suddenly, bringing Vasha back to earth.

“They are the chosen ones of the gods, Prince Janos. They are not insolent. But they serve the gods, not men. It would be as if… an angel descended from the heavens and was chained. We treat our Singers, our priests, with respect. We honor them.”

Janos laughed. “Then your priests are holier than ours, Prince Vasil’ii, for ours spend most of their time fighting over what benefices they may wrest from the king and what portion of the taxes they may siphon off from those levied on the merchants. A lord may buy an abbacy for a younger son, and a bishop may sire a son by his mistress and call him a nephew and thus favor him with gifts and a bishopric of his own.”

They rode in under the gates and forged through the narrow streets, the guards clearing the way before them.

“But surely that is not true of all of them. Princess Rusudani seems sincere in her faith.” At once, Vasha berated himself for speaking her name. It seemed that he could not have a conversation with Janos but that he would mention her. Surely Janos would notice and become suspicious.

“She is devout, it is true, but her place is in the world, not in the convent.”

Vasha sighed. “When may I see my cousin?” he asked as they came into the forecourt and dismounted, giving their horses over to the hostlers.

“When it is safe to do so. You will attend me at supper, Prince Vasil’ii.”

Then he was gone, surrounded by servants and the steward of his castle, come to greet him. Beyond, Vasha saw Lady Jadranka appear with two serving women as escort. Janos turned aside to greet her. Four guardsmen escorted Vasha away to his tower. A bath was poured for him, and he luxuriated in it, getting out only when Stefan, covered with dirt, was let in.

“Here.” Vasha jumped out of the huge tub, sloshing water on the floor. “You look awful. Take a bath.”

Stefan did so gratefully while Vasha dried himself and a serving man brought in clean clothing—khaja clothing—and took away the other.

Vasha shut the door behind him and leaned against it. “Tell me everything.”

“What is there to tell?” Stefan sighed and sank deeper into the water, up to his neck. His bent knees stuck out along the opposite side. “Ah, it’s still warm. They’re digging a third defensive perimeter. We are slaves, so we were sent out to aid them.”

“Were you chained?”

“No, I was not. Only Ilya and Nikita, Ilya for resisting the overseer and Nikita for taking the whip in Ilya’s place when the overseer struck at him.”

“Oh, gods. Don’t they know better, Vladimir and Nikita and Mikhail? If they show him too much preference, if they protect him too much, then the khaja will surely become suspicious. I have tried as well as I can to make them believe he is a priest, a holy man—”

“He
is
a holy man, Vasha, or have you forgotten that he is a Singer?”

“No, of course not. But—”

“Vasha, Bakhtiian is half mad. They have to protect him or he’ll get himself killed. I think—” He faltered, grabbed the bar of soap floating in the by-now muddy water, and began to wash his hair.

“You think what!”

“I think he wants to get himself killed. He can’t endure captivity. If he dies, he has to die in a fight.”

“Oh, gods.”

“And you? What of you?”

“We went hunting. Some man killed a boar with a spear and all the others congratulated him. Others shot deer. I was not allowed a weapon, of course. They had birds that they had captured and tamed and bound by ropes tied to their feet. Janos offered to let me fly one, but I refused.” He shuddered. “It was terrible to see, imprisoning hawks and eagles in such a way.”

“Like your father,” said Stefan. He rinsed his hair and stood up. Water sluiced down off him, and Vasha handed him a towel and rooted around in the chest to find him a clean set of clothing. Luckily he and Stefan had the same build, so that the clothes brought for Vasha fit Stefan as well. Stefan put on the breeches and knelt to wash his own clothes in the tub. “Have you seen Katya? Or…” A betraying pause. “Jaelle?”

“No. Nor heard anything about them. I’m to go in to supper with Prince Janos tonight. I will ask him again, or perhaps I can ask his mother.”

Stefan smiled slightly without looking up from his washing. “Perhaps you can ask Princess Rusudani.”

Vasha kicked him halfheartedly, but he was too happy to see him to truly be angry at him for the remark. And he was too worried about his father.

“Bakhtiian saw Katya,” said Stefan. “Lady Jadranka had him called in. That was five days ago. But he’s said nothing of the interview. He hardly speaks at all.”

“I will get him to talk.”

“I hope you can. Will you send me down to the well, please, in case I might see Jaelle there? If only we had something to send to Katya, I might be allowed to deliver it.”

“I’ll ask tonight.”

But he had no chance to ask. He was escorted to dinner at the great hall and placed at the high table, to Rusudani’s left, two places away from Prince Janos. The envoy from Mircassia sat on Janos’ right, with Lady Jadranka beyond him. Vasha ate steadily while Janos remained immersed in conversation with the envoy and occasionally turned to address a question to his wife. Rusudani seemed preoccupied, glancing now and again toward the door that led into the inner ward and thence to the kitchens, from which the servers came and went with food and wine. She caught Vasha’s eye once and immediately blushed prettily and stared at her plate. She was picking at her food, moving it around with her knife. Vasha recalled what Janos had said about the women of his people.

“I greet you in God’s name, Princess Rusudani,” he said haltingly in Yos.

Startled, like the deer he had seen flushed out of thickets in the forest hunt, she looked up at him, away toward her husband, who spoke earnestly with the envoy, and back at Vasha. “I hope you will
something or other
to my husband, Prince Vasil’ii,” she said in a whisper. “I did it
something or other
your father.”

He smiled blankly at her, transfixed by the mention of his father and by her beautiful eyes and sweet curve of her jaw. Remembered himself and looked down at his plate and the remains of a hank of meat.

“Do you understand me?” she asked slowly.

He shook his head. “Little. Only little.”

She glanced toward her husband again before leaning further toward Vasha. She wore a faint scent like rose water. His pulse raced. When she spoke again, she spoke slowly, pausing between each word. “I spoke a
something
to save your father. Can you forgive me?”

“Yes!” Vasha was ecstatic that she had been thinking about him at least as much as to feel that she ought to apologize, he supposed for convincing Prince Janos that he, not Bakhtiian, was the valuable hostage.

“I hope,” she added, “that Janos
serves
you with
honor
.”

He wasn’t quite sure about some of the words, but he assured her that it was so as much to see the grace of her smile as because Janos had, in fact, treated him well. Then, recalling his conversation with Janos about women and their lovers, he felt abashed and lowered his gaze away from her to stare at his trencher. Among the jaran, it wouldn’t truly matter if Rusudani was married to another man. He might still hope she would take him as a lover. Now he understood why Tess said that marriage was a prison for women among the khaja. Which made him think of Katerina, locked in her tower.

“Princess Rusudani,” he began.

A crash came from the anteroom. A man shouted, and they heard more shouts, some scuffling. The steward rushed out to the high table. He looked outraged.

“He
something
to pour wine for the high table, my lord. He threw the
something
against the wall. I beg your pardon for the
something.
I will send him to
something
.”

Rusudani came to life. In a low but determined voice, she ripped into the steward. Janos started to defend the steward, but Rusudani cut him off, saying something about her servant and the respect due to her. She rose. All those seated at the high table were by now silent, watching this altercation. Janos glanced toward the Mircassian envoy, then made a gesture with one hand to the steward, who escorted Rusudani out into the anteroom.

Janos leaned toward Vasha. “Your priest is refusing to serve wine at the table, Prince Vasil’ii. Is this also a task which is beneath his dignity? Even though he is a captive and a slave, on my sufferance? I could have him whipped and put in the dungeon for such disrespect.”

“Among my people, Prince Janos, Singers are ruled only by the gods.”

“You are no longer among your people, Prince Vasil’ii, and this man is too proud. You will speak with him. He must understand that whatever honor he receives among your people, here he is merely yet another servant. If he obeys, he might hope to better his position.”

Vasha wanted to laugh, but not because he found Janos’s words amusing. It was impossible. Perhaps the young man known as Ilyakoria Orzhekov might once have been the kind of lad willing to endure such trials for the hope of future gain; the man who had earned the name Bakhtiian, he-who-has-traveled-far, would not. Stefan himself had said it: He would rather die than accept that another man ruled over him.

But there was no harm in using this opportunity. “It would be better for him to speak with my cousin Katerina.”

Janos began to shake his head, then halted. Rusudani came out of the anteroom. Bakhtiian followed her, carrying a flask. His expression was a mask, frozen, and Vasha saw deep in his eyes a hint of the furious madness that raged within him. He was taut with it, strung so tightly that soon the pressure would break him.

“How is it that he will obey her and not me or my steward or my captains?” Janos asked.

“Because she is a woman, Prince Janos. All men must show the proper respect toward women.”

And what man would not wish to make as beautiful a woman as Rusudani happy, thought Vasha, averting his gaze and staring down at his hands, embarrassed to be seated here in a place of honor while his father, a Singer chosen by the gods, ruler of the greatest empire he knew of, served wine at the table.

They retired to the solar after supper. Here Rusudani received the envoy and his letter for the first time. She read it carefully. No emotion troubled her even countenance, but her hands trembled slightly. Once she glanced at her husband. Once she glanced toward Bakhtiian, who stood near the door. Last, finishing the letter, she looked up briefly at Vasha. He was gratified by her attention.

The envoy indulged himself in some personal effusions toward Rusudani. Vasha found that he could follow the gist of the conversation: the king speaks fondly of her; he hopes she can hasten to the court; certain arrangements for her journey and for her arrival had been made, too complicated for Vasha to understand.

“How soon can you make ready to leave?” Janos asked.

Surprised, Rusudani looked to Lady Jadranka, but the older woman merely shook her head. “I have little enough in my possession, my lord,” she replied softly. “How soon can an escort be made ready for me and those servants I choose to take with me?”

“I will escort you myself, of course, my lady. We will leave in three days.”

“The prisoners?”

“I will leave Lady Katherine under my mother’s care.”

“Prince Vasil’ii will travel with us, then,” she said with quiet authority.

So it was decided.

“I will make sure you come with me,” Vasha said to Stefan when the guards returned him to his tower chamber.

“That’s all very well, but what about Bakhtiian? What will happen to him? What if the army manages to trace us here only to find us gone?”

“We can’t expect to be rescued. I have already spoken with Prince Janos about the possibility of an alliance.”

Stefan stared, but any reply he might make was interrupted by the arrival of the khaja priest, the one who ministered to Lady Jadranka and her women. He wore a mask of disapproval as three guards dragged in Ilya, whose arms were bound behind his back.

“My lord,” said the khaja priest in his stiff Taor. “Princess Rusudani entreats you to speak with this vassal and urge him to take heed of his life. He was whipped by Lord Belos for disobedience and then he struck at Lord Belos. It will not do, but Princess Rusudani hopes that God will see fit to bring this man to the true faith, so she asks you to intercede for him.”