The Novels of the Jaran (83 page)

“Then by your own laws shall they be judged.” He lifted his chin, and the prisoners were led away.

“The sentence shall be carried out at once,” said the baron, and he snapped an order to a younger man, who hurried out of the hall on the heels of the prisoners. A richly-dressed old woman wept noisily in the corner.

Bakhtiian found his chair and sat down in it. He looked at Charles. Charles raised one eyebrow and sat down next to him. Cara remained standing behind Charles, but she did not touch him, although David could tell she wanted to. Her hand hovered over his shoulder, veered toward his sleeve, and settled, twitching, at her waist.

“Sit!” said Bakhtiian impatiently to the barons and elders. “You said you had other cases you wished to bring before me.”

David realized that his rump hurt, from sitting so still, from being so tensed up. Maggie crept over to them and Marco put an arm around her. She was so white that her freckles stood out like blazons. The actors had crept out from under their table and they stood in a tableau, clutching one another. Not one eye left Bakhtiian for more than a second, except perhaps for Charles, who looked thoughtful and not at all cowed. None of them dared move as, one by one, prisoners were led in, their crimes recited aloud, and Bakhtiian begged to judge and sentence each one.

But in every case he deferred to the elders of the town, to their own laws, and placed the judgment squarely back on them according to their own customs. Despite himself, David was impressed by Bakhtiian’s restraint. Especially since some of their own people had just tried to murder him.

Last of all an unremarkable young man was brought forward. He had a big nose, rheumy eyes, and he looked young and frightened. The baron sighed and relaxed, as if he knew the worst was over.

“This young man is accused by Merchant Flayne of raping his daughter, and although the usual punishment is that he must marry the girl, he’s but an apprentice in a neighboring shop, and she
was
out walking at night by herself, and there is another merchant who has agreed to marry her despite—” He broke off because Bakhtiian stood up.

Stood up and took the three steps down to the accused with deliberate slowness. Glass rasped under his boots. Faced with Bakhtiian’s devastating stare, the accused dropped to his knees, clasped his hands together, and began to plead in the local dialect.

“And is it true?” asked Bakhtiian in a voice so soft that David could barely hear him. “Did he force her?”

“He has confessed to the deed. It’s the sentence that concerns us—”

Bakhtiian drew his saber and killed the young man. Cut him through the throat so quickly that it was done before anyone realized he meant to do it.

Charles stood up, right up out of his chair. Bakhtiian stared at the corpse and took a step up to avoid the pool of blood growing, flooding broken bits of glass and plate on the floor. He flicked a glance back at the dais. Slowly, slowly, Charles sat down. One of the actresses gave a great shriek and fainted. Bile swelled in David’s throat, and he clapped a hand to his mouth and fought against it, gulping, feeling it poison his tongue and burn his lips.

“David,” whispered Marco, and David felt Marco’s hand press into his back. “Breathe slowly. Breathe slowly.”

Bakhtiian turned to regard the baron. “Is there anyone else?”

The baron could not speak for a long while. He held one hand to his breast, and his eyes bugged out, staring. “None, lord,” he stuttered. “No more.” No more to be judged, did he mean? Or was it a plea for no more of this harsh and merciless justice? That was no justice at all, no law, but only the tyrant’s whim.

Bakhtiian turned to look at Charles. “Will you accompany me?” he asked, and David could not tell if it was a request or an order.

“I’d better wait for my own people, who are a trifle discomposed,” said Charles. How could he remain so self-possessed? The calm mask he wore for an expression only added to David’s dismay.

“He’s cool,” muttered Maggie.

“Oh, come now, what did you expect?” hissed Ursula with disgust. “Frankly, I think it was a just execution.”

Bakhtiian inclined his head, to acknowledge Charles’s decision. “Then if you will excuse me,” he said, distinctly to Charles, not to anyone else. He swept from the hall, his guards behind him. The young man named Aleksi lingered behind, and David saw him slip a folded piece of parchment into Charles’s hands. Then he, too, was gone, and they were left with the weeping actors, the shell-shocked townsfolk, and the dead man.

CHAPTER NINE

T
HEY HUDDLED TOGETHER IN
the common room of the inn they shared. None of them wanted to be there, but neither did they want to go up to their filthy rooms. Owen stared at the fire, and Diana just knew that he was playing the awful scene back through his mind, gleaning ideas from it that he would eventually turn around and use in the theater.

“Cold-blooded bastard,” muttered Hal beside her. “Mom’s no damn better. Look at her.” Ginny sat next to Owen. For the journey, she had given up her slatepad and taken up a real paper notebook, but the result was the same: she jotted down notes and revised scenes in every spare second given to her.

Anahita lay prostrate on a bench, moaning softly. Hyacinth fanned her, and Phillippe massaged her feet. Seshat and Dejhuti sat off by themselves, and Helen and Jean-Pierre argued about how best to take the wine stain out of his white linen tunic. Joseph sat with one arm around Oriana and the other around Quinn, talking quietly to them. Yomi just watched over them all.

“What do you think, Gwyn?” Hal asked Gwyn Jones.

Gwyn appeared to ponder the question, but Diana could see right away that he didn’t care what Hal thought of the cavalier reaction of his parents to that horrible scene. “I think I’ve never seen someone handle a sword that well,” he said softly. “That young man is an artist.”

Hal rolled his eyes in disgust, heaved himself to his feet, and went over to sit beside Quinn.

“I think he expected sympathy,” said Diana.

Gwyn shrugged. “Di, I can’t change what happened. Why dwell on it?”

“What do you mean, that he’s an artist? Who?”

“The young man who did most of the fighting. He was brilliant.”

“How would you know? Or do you mean to say those weren’t simulated, all those fight scenes from the samurai interactives you did?”

Gwyn smiled, but not too much, since laughter would have been out of place. “Not simulated at all. I got into those vids because I was a martial artist. I only got interested in acting afterward. And lo, came here.”

“Are you sorry? After tonight?”

“No. Are you?”

She almost chuckled, had to stifle it. “That I’m an actor? Never. Coming here with Owen and Ginny?” She surveyed the common room: the slatted wood floors were warped from age and dampness, the smell of the stables permeated everything, and the food was pretty bad. “But look how respectfully he treated Charles Soerenson. I can't think
we’re
in any danger. Not really.”

“Just the rest of this world, evidently,” murmured Gwyn.

“Yes,” Diana mused. She stood up. “I’m going outside.”

He put a hand on her sleeve. “Diana, I’m not sure I’d do that. This isn’t Earth, you know. Don’t forget the testimony of the baron—I don’t think it’s safe for people to walk around by themselves at night.”

But then the door opened, and Marco came in. He looked flushed from the night air. He found her immediately with his gaze. Ten meters between them, but it might as well have been one. She could feel him as if he already had his arms around her, as if they were already alone. The rush of feeling washed over her like a swoon.

Marco laid a hand on the door latch, opened it, and went back outside. She took a step toward the door.

“Have a pleasant night,” said Gwyn.

She blushed, but she didn’t look back. Her hand trembled as she lifted the latch, but she knew now that the die was cast. She slipped outside, and he was waiting for her. She stood there, in the cold night air, not one meter from him, but she did not move closer, because the anticipation was sweet enough to savor.

“Diana,” he said, his voice low and a little rough. And she had the satisfaction of seeing that he shook, too; that he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

“Marco!” The voice shattered the finespun web of intimacy. It was like being slammed into a brick wall.

“Marco! Damn it!” Maggie jogged up to them. “Back to Charles, you idiot.”

“Maggie, I’ll thank you to stay out of my—”

“Your what? Your affairs?” Maggie looked so angry that Diana thought she might burst. “After what just happened that you can even think about—”

“Maggie, I didn’t ask your opinion—”

“That’s not what I meant.” The narrow streets of Abala Port were empty but for two jaran horsemen riding patrol far down this street, menacing black shapes against the ramshackle angles of the buildings. “I meant that any person who thinks with their brain instead of their genitals would realize that this is not the time to—well, how can we know what the customs are among the jaran? Do you intend to take that chance? And anyway, Charles wants you back right now.”

“Marco!” That was David’s voice, from down the street.

“Hell,” said Marco under his breath. He cast an anguished glance at Diana. “You have my profoundest apologies, golden fair,” he said, and then he left, hurrying away down the street toward the inn where Soerensen and his group were staying. He passed David without pausing to speak to him.

David stopped beside Maggie and Diana. “What was that all about?” Then he looked at Diana. Then he looked at Maggie. Diana wanted nothing more at that moment than to shrink into the ground and die. “Never mind,” said David. “Listen, Mags, not Rajiv. Please. He gets up at dawn every morning. He’ll say, ‘But, David, should you not be putting your tools into better order?’”

“I always knew you only tented with me because I’m a slob,” retorted Maggie, but there was so much anger still hanging on her that she sounded irritated, not amused. “I’m sorry, Diana. I really am. I really, really am.”

“It’s all right,” said Diana in a small voice. Maybe the ground would open up and swallow her.

“We can’t know
what
they consider a crime so serious that it warrants summary execution. So you see why I had to send Marco away?”

“I see why,” Diana choked out. And she did, truly. They could not afford to offend their hosts, not now; probably, given the look on Bakhtiian’s face as he killed that man, not ever. But every part of her that had been set spinning by Marco’s entrance, by the promise of what was to come next, ached for release.

“Shall we go in?” asked Maggie, sounding impatient, or maybe she was just feeling embarrassed for Diana.

“I’d better go back to Charles,” said David. “Just don’t put me in with Rajiv.” He ran back into the night.

“Christ!” said Maggie with disgust. “Shall we get this over with?” She led the way. The heat of the fire blasted them as they came back into the common room. Gwyn, seeing Diana, raised his eyebrows but did not comment.

“Owen, Ginny. The rest of you. Please, may I have your attention?” Maggie did not have the natural authority of, say, Suzanne Elia Arevalo, but her agitation lent her a snappish air, and, in any case, everyone in the company was desperate for some sort of distraction. They quieted and regarded her with the kind of attention that only actors—trained to listen—and lovers usually grant a speaker. “Charles Soerensen just sent me down here with a new decree. No more mixed rooming, unless you possess a legal marriage certificate. Girls with the girls. Boys with the boys. That sort of thing. I’ve been sent to reassign places.”

“Well, I don’t mind boys with the boys,” said Hyacinth.

“Oh, be quiet,” snapped Quinn.

“I can’t believe it!” Hal threw a look at his parents that he would have done better to save for a farce. “Have we retreated to the Dark Ages? Are a man and a woman rooming together automatically having sexual relations as well? Will adulterers be stoned?”

“You may as well save your sarcasm for later, Henry,” said Ginny mildly. Then a thought occurred to her, and she scribbled something down on her notepad.

“Well, obviously Ginny and I can continue to share a tent,” said Owen, “as well as Yomi and Joseph, and Seshat and Dejhuti. No one would contest that, I think.”

“I’m
not
going to share a tent with Helen just because we were married once,” said Jean-Pierre.

Anahita let Hyacinth raise her up. She swept her beautiful black hair away from her face and back over her shoulder and gave a great sigh. “It’s true,” she said breathlessly, “that Gwyn and I aren’t married, but we share a spiritual bond. Surely that should be enough.”

“I’ll tent with Jean-Pierre,” said Gwyn.

“I don’t want Hal,” said Hyacinth.

“Thank the Goddess,” muttered Hal. “This is so stupid. Di and I have been rooming together forever.”

“Gwyn! How can you say such a thing?” Anahita sagged back into Hyacinth’s arms. She even managed to wipe a tear from her eye. “How can you reject me at a time like this?”

“I
told
you it was a mistake to come here,” Helen said to Jean-Pierre. “Savages!”

“No more than you, my darling,” replied Jean-Pierre with a sneer, which sent Helen into a full flood of scathing retort. Oriana flinched, jumped up, and went over to the counter to get something to drink.

“Please,” said Yomi, in her best Stage Manager voice, “I know we’re all upset, and with good reason, but we must help this run smoothly.” For once it didn’t work. Arguments broke out all over.

Diana sat down, closed her eyes, and let the squabbling surge around her. The draft from the fireplace did not work efficiently, so smoke parched the air. Her throat was sore. But at least it all served to bring her back to earth. And they needed to squabble right now, to let off steam. After awhile Quinn sat down beside her and whispered into her ear.

“It’s you and me, sweetheart. Ori and I tossed up, and she lost. She has to go room with that strange woman in Soerensen’s party who’s the military historian. Ursula, that’s it. And Hal is going off with Rajiv Caer Linn. He’s some kind of computer modeling expert, I guess. Rebel Hal is thrilled he doesn’t have to room with the actors, and Maggie thought it was funny because it left David ben Unbutu as the only person without a tentmate. And Hyacinth—”