CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Vasil stood listening to his cousin Anton boring on about their family and tribe, little details of who had married whom, who had borne a child, and what girls and boys had shown unusual aptitudes for important skills. Such gossip fascinated Anton, whose eldest daughter, just married to a respectable blacksmith, was showing talent for dyeing. Vasil swallowed a yawn and smiled and nodded and Anton happily went on, assuming that Vasil must be hungry for news of the tribe he had deserted many years ago in order to ride with Ilyakoria Bakhtiian.
Anton, Vasil reflected, was the perfect etsana's brother: he could support the headwoman by keeping abreast of all the niggling day-to-day details and so help her in her task of keeping the tribe running smoothly. An etsana's husband needed the same skills and interests, and back when Vasil was still young, less than two cycles of the calendar old, back when Bakhtiian had left the tribes to travel south to that half-mythical city called Jeds, Vasil had considered finding an etsana's elder daughter to marry. Actually, he had found three, any one of whom would have been thrilled to have him. But, gods, he could not stand to hear about other people's affairs, to listen to the petty complaints, the disputes, the women and men droning on and on about their concerns. The three young women in question had gone on to find other husbands, presumably better suited for the task, and Vasil hoped they were happy, when he thought about them at all.
Relief from Anton's recital came in the form of Yevgeni riding in from scout to meet up with the main group as they took their midday rest for the horses. With him rode an entire troop of horsemen, impressively armored. They wore sleeveless, knee-length silk robes, slit for riding, over their armor. Some wore gold cloth, some red, all of it embroidered in black and gold and silver.
'Mount,' said Vasil, and he and Anton mounted and rode out to greet them.
'Anton Veselov!' The greeting came from the jahar's captain, a young blond man with a handsome face, very blue eyes, and an ambitious set to his shoulders. 'Well met.' The young man's glance settled on Vasil a moment, questioning, and then flashed back to Anton. Clearly he thought that this was where the authority lay.
'Well met,' said Vasil, forestalling Anton's greeting. 'I am Vasil Veselov.'
'Well met,' replied the young man politely, obviously recognizing nothing special in the name. 'I am Anatoly Sakhalin. Yaroslav Sakhalin's nephew and Elizaveta Sakhalin's eldest grandson. Are you one of Anton's kin?'
Vasil was so furious that for a moment he could not speak. How dare this boy not know who he was?
'Vasil is my cousin,' said Anton. 'Sergei Veselov's son.'
'I didn't know Veselov had a son. He died some three years past, didn't he?'
'I just learned of my father's death,' said Vasil, cutting in before Anton could say any more. 'I decided it was time I reunited with my tribe and take on my responsibilities.'
Sakhalin regarded him and his black arenabekh clothing, and suddenly comprehension bloomed in his face. 'Ah. Now I recall the story. You must have been one of the men riding with Dmitri Mikhailov. Do you think Bakhtiian will welcome you back?''
Vasil smiled. 'Yes. I do. Indeed, I am sure of it.'
'Ah,' said Sakhalin, and then, to Vasil's disgust, he shifted his attention back to Anton. 'We rode past your tribe. You can reach them by sundown if you go at a good pace.'
'Where is the main army?' Vasil asked.
The arrogant young pup actually hesitated before answering. 'Behind us. We've orders from Bakhtiian to take ahead to my uncle.' He said that proudly enough, pleased that he had been chosen for such an honor. 'Do you have khaja prisoners?'
'Only a Habakar general and his son.'
'No doubt Bakhtiian will be pleased. Now, we must be riding on.' He made farewells and his troop rode on, south.
Vasil snorted. 'A boy in on the intimate counsels of Bakhtiian? Or so he would have it sound.'
'He's not much older than Ilya was when he came back from Jeds,' said Anton mildly, 'and he's ambitious, and he's a Sakhalin, so perhaps it's no surprise that he feels he's important. Though he is young to have a command of his own, and I don't think Bakhtiian gives out such an honor casually. Even to a Sakhalin.'
'There's more,' said Yevgeni, breaking in. 'One of his men told me he's just married a khaja woman, a Singer-no, he had a different word for it. They tell tales, but with their entire bodies and their words… well, it was a khaja art, he said. I've never heard of anything like it. What do you think of that? A khaja wife!'
'What of Bakhtiian's khaja wife?' asked Vasil abruptly. 'Is she with the tribes still?'
Anton motioned to Yevgeni with a lift of his chin, and the young rider reined his horse aside to leave the cousins some privacy. 'Vasil.' Anton spoke slowly, weighing his words. 'Bakhtiian still has a wife. Perhaps you didn't know that. It's something you might want to keep in mind.'
Dear, good Anton-so right-minded and so honest. 'My dear cousin,' said Vasil ingenuously, 'I also have a wife. Have you forgotten that? And two children.'
'That's true.' Reminded of this, Anton appeared mollified. 'And Sakhalin said-'
'Yes. Let us hasten our reunion.'
They made good time. It was still light when they came in sight of the wagons and tents marking the Veselov tribe. A scout greeted them, an adolescent boy who flushed bright red when he saw Vasil and called to him by name before he even greeted Anton. Vasil did not remember the boy's name, or whose child he was, but he greeted him warmly nevertheless. The child was gratified to be allowed to lead them in.
'Vasil!'
'Look, it's Vasilley.'
'Gods, Veselov, I thought you were dead.'
'Where have you come from?'
'Let me get Arina.'
Vasil slowed his horse to the barest walk, letting the exclamations, the surprise, the warmth, and, to be sure, the adulation wash over him. Here and there he saw a disapproving grimace, a finger pointed, and he noted who they were; they could be won over later. He did not want speed: he wanted his reunion with Karolla and the children to be blindingly public.
He caught sight of Karolla just before she saw him. She was so very plain-that was the first thing he noticed-and she had certainly grown no better looking in their three years apart. Then a child nudged her and pointed, and she spun around. Her hand covered her mouth, and she went dead pale. Another woman might have burst into tears, might have acted rashly or stupidly or made a scene, but not Karolla. She had far too much courage, combined with a huge portion of common sense. She set down her spindle with dignity and shook out her skirts, then called into her tent. Vasil admired her for that self-control. A moment later, two children appeared.
Vasil pulled up his horse. Gods, they were older. Little Valentin had perhaps doubled in size, and Ilyana was a stunning girl, tall, slender, and serious. Vasil dismounted and walked across the last bit of ground separating them.
'Father!' Yana launched herself at him, and he laughed and crouched down to receive her embrace. She clutched him, hugging herself against him. Not sobbing, never that, not Karolla's child. And she was strong, too, for being so young-about eight winters old. She let go of him and grabbed him by the hand, tugging him. 'Come, Papa. Come see Mama. And here is Valentin, but I expect he doesn't remember you.'
Vasil let her drag him forward. Karolla was staring at him as if he was a spirit, or an angel. She did not move. So he let go of Yana's hand and took his wife by the waist and, well aware that everyone was watching, embraced her and kissed her rather more intimately than was proper for so public a place. The crowd murmured appreciatively. When he released her, her face shone. A few tears slid from her eyes, but she brushed them back impatiently and turned to call the boy to her.
'Valentin, come greet your papa.'
Valentin did not move. His mouth set into a sullen frown and he closed his hands into fists. He stared at his father, and then looked up beyond him. 'Uncle Anton!' he exclaimed, and darted past Vasil to greet the other man.
Vasil stiffened. 'Give him time,' said Karolla. Her hand brushed one of his hands, tightened on it, and then let go.
