His Conquering Sword: 3 (The Novels of the Jaran)

  Charles was silent.

  “But by Jedan law,” Ilya finished, “that means you’re not the rightful heir to the princedom. And neither is Tess.”

  “No,” said Charles. “By right of birth, no, we’re not. But we needed Jeds, so we took it, when the opportunity came. That’s the plain truth. Old Prince Casimund had no heirs but his nephews. It had to go to someone. I’ve no excuses for what we did, except to say that we’ve been good stewards.”

  For the first time, Ilya smiled, but it was a wry expression, filled with pain. “What, you don’t think I’m going to judge you, do you?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “It always pays to listen. Do you hear that? It’s very distant—a horse neighing. They don’t like being separated from the herd.”

  The vista granted them from under Cara’s awning was of the sky, half clouded over now, and a dull red illumination along the western horizon. Darkness blotted out the camp, except for what few fires burned through the night, among the tents. “There’s an old story, an old legend,” said Ilya, “that the Singers tell, about why there are so many fair-haired jaran and so few dark ones. The Orzhekovs are a fair-haired family. All my cousins are fair-haired, and their children, their husbands, my aunt. My mother was fair-haired, and she married a fair-haired man—my father, Petre Sokolov, the Singer. My sister Natalia was fair-haired. She married a dark-haired man, her first husband, and their first child was dark—that is, Nadine. And I am dark. And this child has dark hair. Do you know who was a dark-featured man?”

  “Oh,” said Charles in a low voice. “The boy, Vasha. He’s dark-haired. Tess told me that you acknowledged him as your son, even though by jaran law he isn’t—he can’t be.”

  “Inessa—his mother—was also dark. But, yes, by the laws of Jeds, Vasha is my son.” He stroked the cloth bundle, stroked it, and said nothing for a long long while. They watched the clouds drift along the heavens. Aleksi sat as still as stone out by the fires. The awning sagged down and sighed up, and sagged down again, as the wind breathed on it.

  “From the days before she married, and for all the years she was married, my mother and Khara Roskhel were lovers. He was dark-haired, like me.”

  Through the flap, thrown askew, the lantern gave dim illumination to the chamber and dimmer light yet to the two men standing just outside. Like a beacon, it marked them, throwing vague shadows out from them into the night.

  “By the laws of Jeds,” said Ilya slowly, “Khara Roskhel might have been my father.”

  “How long have I been under?” Tess asked, and was relieved to hear her own voice both inside and outside of her head.

  At once, Cara appeared beside her. “Aha! We’ve got you back. Jo, drape all the counters, cover everything, and then go get Charles and Bakhtiian.”

  “But how long?” Tess insisted.

  “About seven hours. I’m so pleased to see you, my dear. Just lie quiet. You’re stable. Everything is fine, Tess. Everything is fine.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  NIGHT ENVELOPED THE CITY of Karkand. The hellish noise of the day’s fighting had evaporated into the darkness, though echoes of it remained. Within the walls, a minaret still burned. Outside the walls, four siege towers smoldered, three of them collapsed into ruins. Beyond the range of catapults and arrows, Nadine heard knocking and pounding: the laborers built anew for the next day’s assault.

  Smoke obscured the stars, here close to the city, and on the eastern horizon clouds streaked the sky, blotting out the moon. Otherwise, silence lay like a blanket over them. Nadine gave command of her jahar over to Yermolov, took three auxiliaries to bear torches to light her way, and went in search of her uncle.

  Her jahar had been stationed halfway round the inner city walls, almost opposite the main gates, and she rode back through the abandoned outlying districts. In these suburbs, quiet reigned. Many of the trees and houses nearest the inner city walls had been demolished, either by catapult fire or by laborers or soldiers scrounging for materials to build, for food, for shelter, or for firewood. A line of men stood patiently in a dark plaza, waiting for their turn at a public well. The two jaran guards lifted their hands, acknowledging Nadine as she passed by.

  Farther along, she skirted a flat field on which a new set of siege towers and artillery rose or were repaired. She paused to watch, and there, escorted by four men bearing torches, she saw David ben Unbutu on his rounds. She rode over to him.

  “David! Well met.” She smiled and lifted a hand in greeting as she pulled up beside him. His torchbearers edged away from her. David spun around, startled. “Your engines did good work today.”

  “Dina! I didn’t see you.”

  The wavering torchlight gave him an ashen appearance, but then she realized that a fine white powder covered his hands and that streaks of it lightened his black skin. “You’re out late,” she said. She felt inordinately pleased to see him; his pleasant open face was such a relief to look at after watching the siege all day, after arguing with Feodor yet again at dawn over her decision to ride out with her jahar.

  “Most of my work is done at night.” said David. He glanced to either side. The torchbearers—khaja laborers all—had averted their faces from the exchange. “Preparing for—” He shuddered, cutting off his words. “You didn’t see any fighting, Dina? You look no worse for the wear. I’m glad of that.”

  “Saw plenty of it. We’re too heavily armored, my jahar, to be of any use in these conditions, except what archers we now have with us. But we can protect against sorties that come out beyond the gates, and if those khaja bastards look over the walls, they see how many of us there are. That ought to encourage them to surrender.”

  A smile came and went on David’s face, and he looked uncomfortable.

  “If you’ll excuse me. I’m off to report to my uncle.”

  “Dina.”

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” she demanded. He waved his torchbearers away impatiently and looked meaningfully at hers. “Go on,” she said, and they moved a few steps away. Her horse shifted restlessly, disliking the dark, and Nadine dismounted and stood at its head.

  “Tess had the baby. It’s—there’s no way to say this gently, except to say I’m sorry. It’s dead.”

  “Oh, gods.” She was shocked and saddened, mostly, but a second voice nagged at her: If the baby had lived, there might have been less pressure on her to contribute heirs. No matter what Ilya said, Nadine suspected that his children could inherit over any she bore, especially if they showed promise for command. “Where is she?”

  “In Dr. Hierakis’s tent. You ought to go …”

  “I’ll go. Thank you, David.”

  “For what?” he asked bleakly. She took a step toward him, reached up, and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Nadine!” he whispered fiercely, and pulled back from her.

  She sighed and mounted again. Her torchbearers hurried back to her, and she rode on. She did not ride directly to camp. Instead, she detoured along her original route and came to the main gates near midnight. Torches ringed the fallen stretch of wall, and now and again arrows sped out and thudded dully against the shields, but there was otherwise no movement along the collapsed wall except for an occasional slide of loose bricks.

  “Zvertkov! Well met!” She hailed the rider, and he turned his horse aside and came to meet her.

  “Orzhekov. Your position?”

  “Quiet, for now.”

  “You heard about Tess?”

  “I heard.”

  They said nothing for a while, ruminating in silence over the ways of the gods.

  “We’ve a courier in from Vershinin,” said Zvertkov at last. “He’s turned south. Grekov’s jahar will ride to Karkand to replace him.”

  “Garrisons?”

  “They left Izursky’s jahar to patrol the area, but we can’t afford the men. There isn’t much resistance left there in any case.”

  “Zvertkov!” This from a rider at the far end of the line. “Messenger r
iding in!”

  Torchlight bobbed along the uneven ground, heading for their position. Nadine heard the bells before she could make out the figures. Soon enough the sound resolved into three men running with torches in their hands and a single mounted rider. He pulled up before them. His horse was lathered, and he himself look exhausted.

  “Gennady Besselov. Sakhalin’s command.”

  “Sakhalin!”

  “There’s a khaja force marching north to relieve Karkand, under the command of the king’s nephew.”

  “The Habakar king is dead,” said Zvertkov. “The nephew may well be the king, now.”

  The courier shrugged. “Whatever he is, he’s good enough on the field, for a khaja, and he’s got twenty thousand well-trained men with him. Sakhalin could only spare two thousand of his army to harry him as he marched north; it was that, or lose the ground we’ve gained so far in the southern lands, which was hard enough won to begin with.”

  “I’ll take you to my uncle,” said Nadine, and she looked at Kirill for confirmation. Zvertkov nodded. She led the messenger away.

  The man regaled her with stories of Sakhalin’s advance southward and how stubborn the southern Habakar inhabitants were—except they called themselves Xiriki-khai, and some of them spoke a different language. The Habakar prince’s mother was a Xiriki-khai princess, and the merchants they had captured said that she had herself as a girl led an army and thus gained the title “Lion Queen,” and that it was her heart and courage the boy had inherited. The torchbearers trudged on beside them.

  Once in camp Nadine found riders to send the message out that a council would meet immediately. They found Anatoly Sakhalin’s jahar ringing the tent of the doctor at a discreet distance. Nadine left the horses and the torch-bearers with them. Closer in, Aleksi sat alone beside twin fires. Nadine led the courier between the fires, for their purifying heat to sear away any untoward contamination she or the man might bring with them, and Aleksi motioned at her to go on. It was late, past midnight and turning toward morning. A woman emerged from the tent, holding a swaddled bundle in one arm.

  “Aleksi! Oh, I beg your pardon.” It was Joanna Singh, one of Soerensen’s assistants. She nodded at Nadine and eyed the courier, who stared at her in astonishment—at her height and her brown skin—before remembering his manners and looking away. “Would you like to go in? Your uncle is inside. Aleksi, can you get some of the riders out there to help? We need a bonfire. Cara wants to cremate the child as soon as possible. You’ll need to get Sonia Orzhekov back here, too.”

  Nadine regarded the tiny bundle with curiosity. Was that the baby? Besselov waited patiently. Since they spoke in Rhuian, he couldn’t understand them. “Besselov,” said Nadine, “you’ll have to wait out here. I’ll go get Bakhtiian.” She left the courier by the fires and ducked inside. The bells sewn onto the entrance flap sang, warning those inside that she was coming in. “Jo?” That was Dr. Hierakis. “Can you send for—? Oh, Nadine.”

  Nadine examined the chamber with interest, but it did not look that different from the outer chamber of Tess’s tent: some khaja furniture and little else. A glass bottle sat, almost empty, on the table, with a crystal tumbler on either side. A book lay on a cushion, and a second book peeped out from the carved cabinet that stood against the far wall; the polished wood grain looked elegant compared to the plain fabric that made up the walls of this tent. Not a rich tent, by any means, but it was practical, and Nadine supposed that Dr. Hierakis prized practicality above luxury.

  Light shone from farther in, from the private inner chamber into which no person but blood family or lover was ever admitted. The curtain between the two rooms had been thrown back. By the glow of two lanterns hanging from the corners of the chamber, Nadine saw a striking tableau.

  For some reason, the doctor had shrouded her sleeping chamber with cloth, heaps of it, piled up and spread out everywhere, muting the edges in the room. Within all this fabric, almost seeming to float on it, Tess lay. Her entire left side was covered by gleaming silver silk. Nadine could not see Tess’s left hand, but her right hand grasped Ilya’s hands where he knelt beside her. He gazed up at her. Dried tears streaked his face. The prince stood down toward Tess’s feet with one hand resting on her legs, which were also concealed by a silklike fabric that gleamed white under lantern light. At Tess’s head hovered the doctor. Nadine could not see her left hand, but the doctor’s right hand lay open on the silvery silk, the contrast making her hand seem almost as dark as David’s.

  Somehow, with Tess and Bakhtiian framed between the doctor and the prince, the picture held an ominous quality for Nadine, as if they—Tess and Ilya—acted out their parts within boundaries they were themselves not aware of. The prince and the doctor seemed like sinister figures to her, like demons in one of the old tales, working their plots in human guise. She shook herself, driving the thought away. In these dark hours, the interregnum between midnight and dawn, between one day and the next, ghosts touched the mind and whispered secrets that were usually lies. No wonder they wanted to burn the dead child now: better that its spirit fly away to heaven before dawn, better not to let it see the light of day when it had only known night than to risk its lingering here. These hours belonged to Grandmother Night, and it was never wise to draw Grandmother Night’s attention to oneself. She was just, but rarely merciful.

  The tableau broke. Bakhtiian looked back over his shoulder at Nadine and rose at once. He bent to kiss Tess on either cheek and disengaged his hands from hers.

  “I want to see the child, just once, before he goes,” she said. Nadine thought her voice surprisingly strong. Ilya nodded. The doctor nodded. Tess shut her eyes and seemed at once to fall back asleep.

  Ilya backed three steps away from her, and turned and left the chamber. The prince moved to close the curtain behind him. The inner chamber vanished from their sight.

  “What news?” demanded Ilya.

  Nadine could see that his temper was uncertain. “I brought a courier. He’s waiting outside.”

  Without replying, Ilya left the tent. He stopped dead at the sight of Joanna Singh holding the shrouded child, and then walked past her over to Gennady Besselov. Singh went back into the tent. Bakhtiian grilled the courier for a long while. After a bit, Zvertkov appeared and listened in on the discussion, asking a few questions himself. When Sonia arrived, she brought Josef Raevsky with her, and the Orzhekov children, who immediately ran off to help build the pyre. The stack of wood rose rapidly. More commanders filtered in, holding their council there, out beyond the awning of Dr. Hierakis’s tent while riders and children built the pyre. And there—damn it all anyway—there came Feodor.

  “Dina! What’s going on? Is it true that Tess Soerensen lost the child? Gods!” He stared at the pyre. “And there’s a force riding north? A khaja army?”

  “Yes, Feodor. Now will you hush? I’m trying to listen.” The discussion ran fast and furious, but for once Nadine could hear her uncle steering it forcefully in one direction. He wanted to ride out now, destroy the Habakar prince’s army in the field, and then return to deal with Karkand. For once, others objected and he thrust aside their arguments.

  “But the distance—”

  “We’ll take remounts, of course. We can surprise him. He’ll never expect us to meet him so quickly.”

  “What if there’s stiffer resistance from Karkand? What if they’ve a strong force holed up inside that attacks while the bulk of the army is gone?”

  “Zvertkov will remain here to deal with them. He can decoy them into thinking the army is as large as ever. And—” He cast a look around, and it lit on Feodor. “Grekov! You’ll remain here as well. Your uncle will be riding in soon, and his force and the auxiliaries can keep them quiet until we return. The siege engineers can keep up their firing. If we destroy much of the inner city without fighting, that will only demoralize them more.”

  “But—”

  “There, Dina,” said Feodor in an undertone. “We’ll stay in camp. He’s
half crazed with grief, can’t you see that?”

  Nadine surveyed her husband with disgust. “I’m not staying in camp. I’m riding with him.”

  “You can’t know that! And anyway, you’re married now. You can’t put yourself at risk.”

  “He didn’t take away my command. Gods, Feodor, my jahar is still my jahar.”

  “He left me in charge of the army here. I can order you to stay.”

  “He didn’t leave you in charge of the army! I’m beginning to think you only married me as a ploy to advance your family. Now leave me alone!” She shouldered him aside and pushed through the crowd to stand beside her uncle. Bakhtiian glanced down at her, marking her attendance.

  “I’ll want your jahar, too, Orzhekov. With Vershinin’s troops, my own, and Sakhalin’s two thousand, that will give us almost equal numbers, and enough armored to carry the center. Very well, we’ll leave as soon as—” But here he stopped suddenly, just broke off, and could not go on. The commanders attending him glanced each at the others, and as one, without further words, they retreated, leaving him alone.

  “It’s ready,” said Aleksi, coming back from the flat field about fifty paces in front of the tent.

  The prince came out of the tent, bearing the child. They had changed the shroud to one of fine damask linen, folded in an elaborately elegant pattern, so neatly tucked in to itself that it seemed more the work of an artist than anything. He handed the bundle to Bakhtiian. At once, Ilya walked away from the others, out to the pyre. Everyone shrank away from him, his expression was so grim. Farther, like a muted, gleaming shoreline, Anatoly Sakhalin’s guard stood watch.

  Soerensen followed him out, bearing two torches. They flared in the darkness. Their fitful light illuminated the scene.

  Ilya halted at the base of the pyre. He did not move for the longest time, as if he simply could not bear to let go of the child. At last he put one foot on the pyre. Then he took hold of a corner of the shroud, to unwrap it for one last look.