Part 48 (1/2)
”Eminence, these men say that Mother Sakhalin is in charge of this camp.”
”Mother Sakhalin? A woman?” Jiroannes sighed again, but these days he felt only mild shock at such tidings. ”Where will we find her tent?”
”In the center of camp, eminence.”
”Bakhtiian is not here, then?”
”Eminence, the men say that it is true that Bakhtiian was witched, that he lies as one dead up in the pa.s.s. They say that until he wakes again, the army will lay waste to the countryside.”
Jiroannes shuddered. Fleetingly, he imagined this army trampling through the lush gardens of the Vidiyan palace, careless of the destruction they wrought to the fine architectural and decorative work that they certainly could never appreciate. But they could destroy it. It was easier to demolish than it was to build, especially for savages.
He hung his head and stared at the rings on his fingers. Topaz, that one, malachite, a thick band of plain gold, and a single diamond set in gold leaves bound with pewter. All along, it had been easier for him to scorn the jaran as the barbarians they definitely were than to try to understand them and build a bridge across which he and they could truly communicate.
”We will attend Mother Sakhalin,” he said softly.
Syrannus looked surprised, but he bowed his head and led Jiroannes to the center of camp. In the jaran camp, in the late morning, things were fairly quiet. Dawn and late afternoon were busiest, what with milking and watering and meals. A couple of boys pushed a handcart filled with dry dung through camp. Crippled men repaired harness. Two older girls churned milk to b.u.t.ter. Little children ran here and there, attended by the elderly. If the besieged city on the horizon disturbed them they did not show it.
At the center of camp they found a ring of guards, but just a single ring, nothing as elaborate as the triple s.h.i.+eld that had surrounded Bakhtiian's tent. They waited here while a messenger was sent in. Some time later a young jaran woman arrived to escort them. Jiroannes swallowed this insult with no change of expression and followed her in, Syrannus alone attending him now.
Mother Sakhalin held court in much the same way Bakhtiian did, but she was rather more ruthless, Jiroannes decided. He recognized her immediately: the ancient crone he had seen watching the mounted archers at practice, that fateful day, twenty days ago. He recalled now how scornfully he had thought of her then. Here she sat in judgment like a queen, seated on pillows on a dais with two other women, one very young and very pretty, one almost as old as the old woman, seated on either side of her. The escort motioned to Jiroannes to stand to one side. He stood and waited.
Syrannus waited behind him.
A cl.u.s.ter of women and old men argued in front of the dais. As far as Jiroannes could tell, they haggled over grazing and watering rights. One tribe had watered its herd too early, and in revenge the other tribe had grazed its herds on fields reserved for the first tribe. The old woman presided over this dispute with an expression of deep disgust on her face, and in the end she stripped both tribes of their current rights and a.s.signed them worse rights-the last to go down to the river? the stoniest patches of grazing land?-than they had previously owned.
”You see,” said Jiroannes in a low voice to Syrannus, impressed despite himself, ”that will teach them to bother her with such trivial matters.”
A troop of hors.e.m.e.n rode in and dismounted, all but one of their number. This last, a dark-haired young man, remained seated on his horse as if he were somehow in disgrace. A girl armed with bow and arrows was called forward to stand in front of the queen. She threw herself down and began to plead in a high voice, but the queen silenced her with a wave of a hand.
”The punishment is exile,” said Mother Sakhalin. She turned to the pretty young woman beside her. ”Your dyan will strip him of all that binds him to your tribe.”
”My dyan is not here,” said the princess. Her thick black hair was bound back in four braids and overlaid with a rich headpiece whose jeweled links hung to her shoulders. She regarded the scene gravely. The audience hushed. Glancing around, Jiroannes realized that in the course of moments the number of people attending had doubled. Stillness hung over them. ”But my brother will act for him in this matter.
Anton?''
One of the jaran soldiers came forward. If he were this woman's brother, then surely he was a prince, but Jiroannes could see no difference between him and the other men by the way he dressed. He was much older than the princess. Perhaps he was a b.a.s.t.a.r.d child of an early concubine and thus not a legitimate heir to power. He inclined his head respectfully to the two women and then turned to the mounted man.
”You,” he said to the man, ”whom we once knew as Yevgeni Usova, you will dismount.”
The man obeyed. His face was white but otherwise expressionless. The girl kneeling in front of the queen began to weep. His wife, perhaps?
The captain gestured to one of his men to lead the horse away. ”This horse belongs to no man,” he said. He drew the young man's saber from his sheath and handed it away as well. ”This saber belongs to no man.” Then he drew his own knife.
He laid it along the collar of the young man's s.h.i.+rt and cut, down through the fabric.
The silk did not cut easily, and it was messy work, but with a grim face and an unrelenting manner, the captain cut the s.h.i.+rt off the offender, piece by piece, and let it fall into the dust. The young man stood there, silent, unmoving, and the sun beat down on his pale body.
”This s.h.i.+rt belongs to no man.”
On the dais, the queen watched without the slightest sign of mercy on her face.
But the princess had averted her eyes, as if the sight pained her.
”Yevgeni Usova is dead to us,” said the captain. He turned on his heel and walked back to his men. At this signal, all the watchers averted their eyes. Some actually physically turned away, to show their backs to the exiled young man. He hesitated, but only for one moment. The old crone glared at him. Her mouth was a tight line, her expression implacable. The man turned and, with his head high, he began to walk away into his exile.
”Yevgeni!” The girl sprang up from the ground in front of the queen. ”I'm coming with you.”
He stopped. He was close to Jiroannes now, and Jiroannes saw his face whiten at the girl's words. If before he had looked resigned, then now he looked terrified. He turned back. ”No. I forbid it, Valye.”
She cast a defiant glance toward the queen and ran over toward him. ”I don't care. I'm coming with you.”
”Valye!” This from the princess, who flung up her head. Her eyes looked haunted. ”You have a place here. You know that. You must stay.”
The girl stopped beside the man. She was young, very young, with dark brown eyes and black hair like his. All at once Jiroannes saw the resemblance: they had the same blunt nose and blunt chin and narrow foreheads, features that proclaimed them to be relatives. ”I won't stay. It's death to send him out there with nothing, and you know it. At least with my bow we'll have a chance to stay alive.”
”No,” Yevgeni whispered harshly, under his breath. ”At least I'll know you're safe.”
The queen rose. She was not much taller standing than sitting, but her authority seemed to enlarge with the simple movement. ”Valye Usova, your loyalty to your brother is commendable, but I forbid you to leave with him. He has condemned himself by his own choice. Let him go.”
”Please, Valye,” said the princess. ”You know you must stay here. You know it's what your brother would want.”
”No! No, I refuse. You all say one thing with your mouths, but you cover your eyes to stop from seeing what you know is true. You know what your own cousin is, Mother Veselov, and yet he still rides with the tribe.”
”He was banished once,” said the queen sternly.
”Then why isn't he here with the tribe where he's supposed to be? He's still up there!” The girl pointed up, to the northeast, toward the distant mountains. Her voice rose higher, and it broke as she spoke again. ”You all know why he's there, but you all pretend you don't know. You all know that whatever Yevgeni might have done, he's done as well.”
”Young woman, you go too far.”
The girl spun to face the captain. ”Anton, aside from this one thing, what fault has Yevgeni ever shown?” The older man only looked away and would not answer.
”None. You know it's true. He's an exemplary rider.”
”He rode with Dmitri Mikhailov,” said the princess. ”For that reason alone, he is untrustworthy.”
”And so did your cousin!” cried the girl triumphantly. ”But you acclaimed him dyan as soon as he returned. Yevgeni was loyal to the dyan he followed, always. He is now, too; he's loyal to Bakhtiian. But you're punis.h.i.+ng him because he was Vasil's lover once. But now Vasil has Bakhtiian back-oh, yes, he told Yevgeni about that and Yevgeni told me, so don't think you can keep it a secret-so Yevgeni is nothing but an embarra.s.sment to you all-”
”That is enough!” The queen stepped down from her dais and marched over the dusty ground to confront the girl. ”You will be silent, or you will leave this camp forever.”
The girl lifted her chin. Unshed tears sparkled in the sunlight.”Please, Valye,” begged the brother. ”Please, for my sake, stay.”
”I'm going.” With monumental disdain and appalling rudeness, she turned her back deliberately and insultingly on the queen. ”Come, Yevgeni, let's leave.” She took him by the arm and he had no choice but to go with her. The crowd parted to let them through and then, once they were gone, burst into a wild roar of exclamation.
The queen marched back to her dais and, with a.s.sistance from the two princesses, clambered back on. She turned to survey the crowd imperiously. ”Quiet,” she said. In a circle radiating out from her presence the audience quieted, ring by ring, until all were silent again. She settled herself down on her pillow. Her eyes searched the crowd. Her gaze settled on Jiroannes. He flushed, sure suddenly that he was about to become the next victim, a fitting close to the disaster he had just witnessed.
”Amba.s.sador. What brings you to my camp?”
For a moment he could not move. Syrannus poked him in the back, and he started and walked forward to kneel before her. It felt very strange to kneel before a woman, and yet, at this moment, it did not feel degrading.
”Madam,” he began, not sure by what t.i.tle to address her.