water hole, the low rock Bakhtiian had sat on last night lay naked and dark in the midday sun. There was no sign of him. She prayed that he had taken refuge deep in the farthest screen of trees. She touched the hilt of the knife and withdrew her hand. Her palms were slick with sweat.
Then came the sound of hooves, pounding along the earth.
There were at least forty of them, scarlet shirts with low collars and banded cuffs, black trousers cut fuller than those of Bakhtiian's men but clearly jaran. They pulled up, undeniably amazed. She leapt to her feet with a cry of surprise, managing to almost let her cloak fall without actually revealing anything.
By the looks on their faces when the cloak slipped, she knew she would succeed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Of pleasures, those that come most rarely give the greatest enjoyment.'
'Why have you come back?' she cried in Rhuian. She clutched her cloak with both hands, pinning it closed at her chest. 'You said you were going to the great temple of the goddess. You cannot have gotten there and back so soon.'
A good three dozen or more men stared at her, and she suddenly doubted herself. She was utterly vulnerable to them except for the Chapalii knife belted over her underclothes, a weapon she had never used and was not certain she could use. How could she be sure Garii was the least bit trustworthy? Wind pulled up one corner of her cloak, revealing a glimpse of knee. As if it were a signal, the men's gazes flicked away one by one, and most of them colored as they looked at anything but her. Her hands gripped the cloth more tightly and she forced herself to breathe slowly. It had to work, it could still work, and yet it all rested on this: manners, custom.
A hurried consultation began among the leading rank of riders. She used its cover to look them over as surreptitiously as possible: like all jaran, most of these riders were light-haired and fair-complexioned with a sprinkling of darker ones throughout, but she recognized none of them, only the characteristic scarlet shirts boasting embroidered sleeves and collars and black trousers and boots that proclaimed these to be jahar riders.
Finally three of the men dismounted and walked slowly toward her. They kept their eyes averted. The grass made a low whispering sound as they passed through it. The first, a man of Bakhtiian's age, tall and very fair and unusually handsome even for a man of the jaran, glanced at her frequently but did not meet her gaze. The other two men were older. The man on the right had a sullen, angry expression, and he regarded her with the most direct gaze, suspicious of her. He looked like the kind of man who is suspicious of all people. The third man, in the middle, was the oldest, his fair hair silvering, his shoulders bowed, his expression that of a man harassed beyond all bearing. When the other two halted a decent two body-lengths from her, he came forward another three steps and stopped.
'Do you speak khush?' he asked.
Tess shrank back a step, feigning confusion.
'What is a woman doing out here on her own?' said the sullen man. 'Do you think she's from that khaja town? She may recognize us.'
The middle-aged man hunched his shoulders even more, frowning. 'She may recognize you, Leotich. My men had nothing to do with that idiotic raid. Could you understand what she said, Vasil?' This to the blond.
An auspicious time to break in. 'Who are you?' Tess asked in Rhuian. 'You are not the men I talked to before.'
Vasil tilted his head, thinking hard. 'Something about men. But she speaks too quickly.'
'But it is this-Rhu-an?'
'I think so.'
Tess shrank further into her cloak and spoke very slowly and with precise enunciation. 'Can you understand me?'
Vasil smiled suddenly. It lit his face like fire, and Tess caught herself staring at him even as he looked right at her, and he flushed and shifted his gaze. His eyes were a vivid, fiery blue. 'I speak,' he said hesitantly. 'Little.'
'Only a little?' She emphasized the disappointment in her tone, and then wondered if she was overdoing it. 'The other man spoke Rhuian very well.'
'Man?' Unconsciously, Vasil leaned toward her. Necklaces swung forward from his chest. 'Other man? He speak?'
'Yes. He spoke like a native but he wore much the same clothes as you do. Is he one of you? Is he here with you?'
'I'm sure of it, Dmitri.' Vasil looked triumphant. 'A man who spoke with her in Rhuian. It has to be Bakhtiian.' Leotich glared at her obliquely, lips tight.
'What else did she say?'
'I don't know.'
Tess lowered her eyes, not wanting to seem too interested in a conversation she ought not to understand. She resisted the urge to glance at her belongings, at the copse behind, wondering if it all concealed her true purpose as well as she hoped. Wondering if it concealed Bakhtiian.
'I'll try again,' said Vasil to Dmitri. He coughed, hesitated again. 'Man,' he said. 'Other man.' He sighed, frowned, concentrated, and then when she glanced up at him, he gave up and pointed to his scarlet shirt. 'Is?'
'Yes, yes.' Tess let her hold on her cloak slacken slightly. 'Such clothes, red shirt, black trousers.' She let one arm emerge to point at their clothing and then did risk a half turn to look behind her, where her traveling clothes- obviously foreign-lay drying on the bushes. The white-barked trees beyond stood stark, barely clothed with scant green in the sunlight. When she looked back, all three men were looking not at her, or her clothes, but at each other.
'It has to have been Ilya,' said Vasil in a fierce undertone, almost exultant. 'It has to.'
'Don't get too excited,' said Leotich to Vasil.
Vasil's head jerked back, one hand brushing his knife hilt. 'Don't tempt me,' he muttered.
'Vasil!' Standing between them, Dmitri lifted his chin, and that gesture alone convinced Tess that he was the man to be reckoned with. 'Find out which direction.'
Vasil returned his attention to the ground on Tess' left. 'Other men. Where?'
'Other men! Yes, there were many others, and they were going, like me, to the great temple, but they would not take me with them.'
'Many? Temple? Temple!' He grasped Dmitri by one arm. 'Many of them, going to the old temple near the town.'
'But Doroskayev said they were behind us.' Leotich's frown made his eyes pinch together with suspicion. 'How could they have gotten ahead of us? Why would they turn back?'
'Gods, man,' said Dmitri. 'Who knows why Bakhtiian does what he does? He may have gone past the temple and then gone back. He's a far more religious man than you are.'
Leotich snorted in disgust.
'And since I obviously must remind you, he is escorting a party of khaja pilgrims. There is a reason to return to the temple. Perhaps he was forced to avoid it in the first place because of Doroskayev's idiocy.'
Leotich's pale eyes focused on the other man, and he kicked at the grass, tearing a thin scar in the ground. 'Doroskayev is the only one with any kind of plan. Whatever you may think of his raids, he always leaves Bakhtiian's name. Even if Bakhtiian eludes us, someday he'll come too close to khaja lands and they'll kill him for us, for revenge.'
'Doroskayev is a fool.' Dmitri's voice, sharp as the winter wind, froze them all. 'He has played into Bakhtiian's hands, and I, by the gods, intend to tell him so when we meet up with his jahar. Bakhtiian says the khaja are a threat. Doroskayev will stir up a war and then they will be a threat. Don't you see? Now Bakhtiian can justify his
