O'Neill…' With stunning aplomb, Bakhtiian gave a curt but gracious bow to each of the women in turn, like any accomplished courtier, managing to acknowledge them fully without looking either in the eye. 'This is Marco Burckhardt.'
But now Bakhtiian looked up, directly at Marco. A smile appeared and vanished on his lips so quickly that Diana was not sure she had actually seen it. 'We have met.'
Marco's smile was more ghostly than humorous. 'Indeed.' He inclined his head. Bakhtiian swept their group with a comprehensive gaze, looked out past them at the ship, and with a terse command to his two attendants, he turned and began the long walk up the hill into town. Soerensen did not hesitate but followed, and by some unspoken communication the two men paced their speed so that within five steps they walked together, if not in harmony. Dr. Hierakis paused only long enough to check Marco, Diana, and Maggie in turn, and then she hurried after them-doubtless, Diana thought, to make sure no blood was spilled.
'Mary Mother of God,' said Maggie as soon as the two men were out of earshot. The two men who had served as Bakhtiian's escorts waited patiently, hands light on their horses's reins. 'Where did you meet him, Marco?'
'It's a long story. Tupping hell, I thought we were done for.''
'He spoke perfect Rhuian.' Diana glanced up at the two escorts, and when they flicked their gaze away from her, she knew that they were trying very hard not to stare at her. If in a cosmopolitan city like Jeds, where trade was commonplace to ports an ocean voyage away, the contrast between her pale and flawless complexion and Oriana's coal-black skin had been the cause of much comment, she could well imagine that this company of visitors would look doubly exotic to these northerners. 'How did he learn to speak such perfect Rhuian? And that bow!'
'Very easily.' Marco grinned. 'He was educated at the university in Jeds.'
'You're joking,' said Maggie.
'No, actually, I'm not. But don't worry, Diana. From my previous experience-nothing extensive, I might add-I can make a shrewd guess that it's all surface gloss. He's as barbaric as you please underneath. At least, / wouldn't cross him.''
'Coming from you, Marco,' said Maggie tartly, 'and having seen the scars you have, I do not find that one bit reassuring.''
Marco shrugged, and he grinned up at the two waiting riders. Hesitantly, they grinned back at him.
Diana sighed with pleasure. Until this journey, her childhood dream of having a true adventure had seemed unattainable. Marco Burckhardt glanced back at her, and he winked. She folded her hands together, in front of herself, and smiled, feeling a delicious sense of anticipation.
CHAPTER SEVEN
News traveled like the wind. For many reasons did the khaja fear the jaran armies, and for this reason as much as any. No matter how quickly khaja princes or khaja towns sent messages or made alliances or maneuvered troops to stem the jaran tide, more quickly still did the jaran respond. It was as if the wind itself was the ally of the nomads, a silent, swift messenger on whom the horsemen alone could rely.
At midday a jaran rider came galloping out of the north into sight of a town. The sod walls here had been too high to level; they had been breached at frequent intervals instead, and by the main gate a troop of some hundred horsemen rode drills in the flat space beyond the remains of the two wooden gate doors, which had been thrown down and partially burnt.
The harness of the messenger's horse shook with bells, and the sound, as well as the lance tipped with a gold pennant borne by the rider, alerted the garrison. Within moments, a second rider emerged from the tents of the garrison leading a saddled horse. The men met at the edge of the drilling ground.
'Vanya!'
The garrison soldier pulled up and helped the messenger swing his saddlebags onto the new mount. 'Feodor Grekov! What brings you here?'
'Sibirin sent me. A message for Nadine Orzhekov.'
'Oho! I'll wager I know what it concerns, and I wish you luck when you deliver it.''
'What, she is here, then?'
'No, just left with her jahar for Basille. That's the khaja town where they're to collect the barbarian ambassador and bring him back to camp.'
Feodor shook his head, fair hair stirring in a breeze that curled down from the heights. 'Her jahar?'
'Orzhekov's jahar.'
'That's not who I meant-'
'I know who you meant.' Vanya grinned, an engaging smile made no less merry by the fact that his right eye was scarred shut by an old wound. 'As I said, I wish you luck. She was in a foul mood.'
'Nadine?'
'Oh, Nadine, is it, now? When did you leave off addressing her as tsadra?'
Feodor blushed.
Vanya laughed again. 'Still that way with you? I won't tease you, then. Why don't you just mark her and be done?'
'Would you?'
'Gods, no! She's too good with that saber. No, Orzhekov has been full of mischief since she got here. She has the khaja Elders dancing this way and then that, with her clever words. It's not her who's in the foul mood.' A red- shirted man appeared, on foot, at the gate, and hallooed toward them, waving. 'You'd better go on,' said Vanya, sobering. 'You can catch them in two spans.' The transfer completed, Vanya took the reins of the blown horse.
'Gods,' said Feodor. His blush had faded. 'Why did Sibirin send me?'
Vanya grinned again. 'Oh, he knows Orzhekov has an eye for you, that's it. He thinks it will soften the blow.'
'Gods,' murmured Feodor.
Nadine Orzhekov called her jahar to a halt as soon as the scouts brought word that a messenger had been sighted following them. 'Look,' she said to Tess Soerensen as the rider came in, flanked on either side by scouts, 'it's Feodor Grekov. He must have come all the way from the main camp. I wonder what he wants.'
'You know damn well what he wants,' said Tess irritably. 'Sibirin sent him to take me back.'
'You can't know that,' protested Nadine, but her eyes lit with unholy glee. 'You don't suppose Bakhtiian got back already?''
'I hope so.' The surge of anger that coursed through Tess at the mention of his name was so strong that it shocked her. Gods, where had it all come from?
'Tess. Tess.' Nadine shook her head. 'For shame.' But her expression belied the words, and she chuckled. 'Poor Feodor. He looks terrified.'
Feodor's escorts peeled away from him and galloped off from the troop, leaving him to approach Nadine and Tess alone. The other riders, all men, watched surreptitiously but with piercing interest as Feodor drew his horse up beside the two women. Tess felt sorry for him because she knew Nadine would treat him badly. Nadine possessed her own stores of hidden anger.
'Well met, Grekov,' said Nadine. 'What brings you here?'
He kept his eyes lowered. 'Sibirin sent me. With a message.'
'Ah, a message,' said Nadine wisely, drawing out the pause by fiddling with the closes on the leather pouch strung in front of her saddle. She reached inside, pulled out a rolled-up bundle of yellow parchment, examined it without opening it, and then replaced it.
Tess sighed heavily beside her and said, in Rhuian, 'Oh, let the poor man out of his misery, Dina.'
Feodor glanced up at her words, hearing their tone but not knowing their meaning, and looked away again as her gaze settled on him.
'You're losing your sense of humor, Tess,' replied Nadine in Rhuian.
'Never that!'
Nadine grinned. She turned back to Feodor. 'Well enough, Grekov,' she said in khush, the language of the
