'Charles.' Marco hesitated. Not because he was afraid of Soerensen's power, of his temper, of losing his friendship by speaking his mind, but because he knew how useless it was to attempt to steer Charles in any direction but the one he had already decided to go.
'Charles. The few times I've spoken with her, I didn't get the impression Tess wanted to use her language skills in such a way. I'm not sure she's ready to be involved in building the next-' But here, by unspoken consent, he halted.
The star chart vanished, and the stars outside bathed the bleak mud flats in their pale light. The bright tails of flitterbugs wove aimless patterns among the rules.
'It doesn't matter what Tess wants.' Charles said it matter-of-factly, without rancor, without exasperation, in that same level voice he always used, quiet and commanding. 'Through no fault of her own, she was conceived because my parents wanted a child who was theirs alone. Except, of course, they no longer could have a child who was anything but my sibling.'
'Poor thing. And so much younger than you, too.'
'Nevertheless, it doesn't matter what Tess wants. She is my heir, and as such, she has a duty to me. And more important, a duty to humanity. We will not remain slaves.' He flipped the holo back on and started the program again, searching for flaws, for the hidden key that would make the next rebellion succeed.
'Nevertheless,' muttered Marco, knowing very well that Charles would not hear him. 'Poor thing.'
Yuri shook Tess awake. She ached all over. She brushed grass from her face and sneezed. Pain woke and shot like fire through her arms. It was chilly, and cold damp seeped through and stiffened her muscles. The sun nosed at the horizon. Light spread out along the grass tips, gilding their green shoots golden. Tess shivered and yawned.
'Hurry, Tess. I saddled a horse, and here is some bread-'
Behind, a figure loomed, Bakhtiian on his horse. In the distance, Tess heard men talking and horses snorting and blowing. She struggled to her feet. Her legs and thighs were in spasms. She leaned to bend, to roll up her blanket, and could not, simply could not. The pain brought tears to her eyes. Yuri knelt and rolled up the blanket, handing it to her.
'Yurinya,' said Bakhtiian, 'Fedya has already left. You were to be with him.'
Yuri touched Tess on the arm and palmed a stick of dried meat into her hand. He handed her the reins of a horse, one of the stocky tarpans, then mounted and rode away.
'This isn't my bay.' Tess regarded the restless tarpan with suspicion.
'You can't ride the same horse day after day,' said Bakhtiian, 'unless you want to ruin it. I'm leaving now.'
She did not reply. Tying the bedroll on to the back of the saddle hurt. Her back was sore, her shoulders ached. Biting her lip, she lifted her left foot to the stirrup. Tears streamed down her face. Beyond, Bakhtiian had paused to watch her. She swore under her breath and pushed off. Every muscle screamed. But she refused to give up now. Grimly, she rode after Bakhtiian.
This day passed much the same as the one before. But at dusk, when they arrived in camp, Yuri brought her food and Mikhal cared for her horse. Niko gave her a salve for her chafed skin. In the morning the bay mare was already saddled. That night, Kirill took the horse when she rode in, and the next night, Konstans shyly brought her yoghurt and cheese and fresh, sweet roots to eat. The fifth morning she saddled her bay mare with Yuri's help. Though she was still sore everywhere, it was an ache and not outright pain.
On the sixth day she managed to ride beside Bakhtiian, not behind him, for most of the day. Yuri and Mikhal and Kirill and Konstans met her when she rode in, and a few new faces, young men she barely knew by name, joined the group as well. The Chapalii remained in their tents. She had not spoken to Cha Ishii in days. What Bakhtiian thought of her partisans she could not tell; in six days she had exchanged perhaps ten sentences with him, and his overwhelming attitude seemed to her to be one of annoyance that she had gotten so far. On the eighth night she unsaddled and brushed down her horse by herself and had enough energy left to ask Yuri for a lesson in khush.
But on the tenth morning, setting out with the sun on their left, she found herself examining the grass, the tiny nuggets of grain piled one atop the other, the leaves as broad as a finger touched with green, the reed-thin stalks golden, and glimpses of earth, as brown as Bakhtiian's eyes, in worn patches. She no longer felt that riding was merely a battle between her muscles and the horse. The grass barely touched her boots. When she had been walking, starved and thirsty, it had dragged constantly at her calves and thighs. She laughed aloud at the sheer joy of it and felt a shift of tension between her and the bay, the mare in that instant responding to her as if they had come to know one another. She leaned down to kiss its silky neck, its clean scent faint in her nostrils, thought through all the words of khush Yuri had taught her and christened the horse-her witnesses the sun and the wind and the unending grass-myshla, which in that tongue meant 'freed of the earth.'
To her surprise, at midday they circled in to take the break with the main group. She was happy to stand for a bit, stretching out her muscles. When Bakhtiian dismounted next to her, she turned from checking Myshla's hooves to look at him. Behind them, the horses, alone or in pairs, had scattered across the grass, their riders in small groups between them like the bright centers of flowers.
Bakhtiian watched her sidelong for an uncomfortable moment, but then, with decision, he looked at her directly. 'The spirit has found you.' He lifted a hand to trace a brief figure in the air. A wind touched her face, as if echoing his gesture.
'Is that meant to be a compliment?' she asked, a little sarcastically, and regretted it instantly. He turned and with that breathtaking sweep of grace mounted and cantered away to speak to Niko Sibirin.
Later, when the call came to ride, in khush, she understood it, mounting before it was repeated in Rhuian for the Chapalii. She fell in beside Bakhtiian.
'You learn our tongue,' he said in khush.
'Only a small portion,' she replied in the same. 'Only a gentle breeze yet.' She smiled, loving language and the way in which each language grew out of its environment.
'You learn,' said Bakhtiian.
That afternoon when they paused just below the top of a rise and Bakhtiian simply sat, staring at the expanse of grass and sky that surrounded them, Tess grew impatient with his silence.
'What do you see?'
He looked at her. 'What do you see?'
Tess laughed, unable not to in acknowledgment of her own ignorance. 'I see grass, and more grass, a few low rises but mostly flat land, and a very blue, almost purple-blue sky. And the sun.'
'What about the clouds, there?'
'There at the edge of the horizon? Yes, those, too.'
'Clouds can mean rain.'
She refused to take his bait. 'I suppose they can, if you know what kind of clouds bring rain, and how fast the wind is traveling, and in what direction. I don't know those things.'
His lips tugged upward slightly, but he did not smile. 'A jahar, about twelve men, passed this way two days ago. They camped down below us. Do you see how the grass hasn't yet risen to its full height there? A piece of leather was left behind. No fire. They're riding for speed or secrecy.'
Tess stared down, but she could not see any of these signs. Except-perhaps-she could see the slight depression in the tall grass, grass that, in a rough semicircle, was not quite as high as the surrounding stems.
'There,' he continued, 'you see that khoen.'
'Khoen?'
'The rocks at the top of the rise.'
She looked again, and there, now that she was looking, she saw a pile of rocks half hidden by the grass. Such a structure could not be natural, three flat rocks arranged in a triangle, with six smaller stones, chipped into rough shapes, placed in a cross pattern in the center. 'What is it?'
'The passing jaran build these, to mark their way for themselves and to record their passing for others. This one-' He hesitated. Tess waited. His mouth turned down, giving him a severe, stubborn expression. 'We'd better return to the jahar.'
'Why?'
For an instant she thought he meant to chastise her for questioning his orders, but he was merely leaning
