He lifted a hand to her shoulder and rested it there, as a cousin might, to show his affection and his respect. 'We have already changed, Sonia. It is too late to go back now.''
'It is too late,' she agreed. The wolves danced in the lantern light, racing toward an unseen prey.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Sieges were a dull, dirty, and thoroughly unpleasant business. Jiroannes had plenty of time to reflect on this truth as the days dragged on and the camp remained ensconced below the fortress of Qurat without the city showing any signs of surrender. But the food was better: the army foraged, took tribute, pillaged-whatever they wanted to call it-from the lands surrounding, and they were rich enough lands in midsummer to supply jaran needs. There was entertainment, too. He had gone to this theater that the foreigners had brought to the army four times now; each time the players had enacted something different. It reminded him of the Hinata dancers of his own land, who paced out in measures and with a drummed accompaniment stories and legends from the Age of Gods. He had even learned to listen to the jaran singers, with their sonorous, exotic melodies and endless tales set to music. With Mitya's tutoring, he could now understand some of the language.
'' Your eminence?''
He sighed and set aside the tablet and stylus that lay idle on his lap. He simply did not have anything to write to his uncle that he had not already set down in his last letter twenty days past, when the train had arrived at Qurat. As tedious as the army's constant travel had been, sitting here in one place in these primitive conditions was worse. 'Yes, Syrannus?'
'Eminence, if I might have your permission, I would like to send Samae out for water. Half of the guardsmen are down with the flux, and the others are engaged in various work. It would be convenient for me if Samae could go with Lal.'
'Lal? Who is Lal?'
'The slave-boy with the scar under his right eye, eminence. Of course I will send a guard along to escort her.'
Jiroannes sighed again and stretched his legs out, resting the heels of his supple boots on the thick carpet. The pillow on the seat of his chair slid beneath him; he braced his elbows on the carved arms. 'Why are you bothering me with this?'
Syrannus hesitated, looking prim for a moment. 'The girl has never been outside of this camp, eminence.'
'Great heavens, Syrannus, I should hope we have allowed her the seclusion which befits her female nature. What woman would want such freedom?' Then he stopped, because here in the jaran camp, however little they had to do with the jaran themselves on a daily basis, even he could see that the statement was ridiculous. He waved the problem away with his right hand. 'Whatever you think best, Syrannus. I suppose there is no other choice.'
'If you think it wise, eminence. I only suggest it because of necessity.''
'Do what you wish.' Syrannus bowed and retreated. Because there was nothing else to do, Jiroannes picked up the tablet again. Then, with pleasure, he saw Mitya striding toward his tent. He rose with a smile to greet the boy. 'Well met,' he said in khush. He bowed with just the right degree of condescension due a prince's cousin, and Mitya echoed the- movement, with a grin. He was really quite a likable boy, for a barbarian.
'Here,' said Mitya, 'do you want to come see the drills? There's a slope from which we can watch.'
Jiroannes had yet to see the jaran riders in action-he had never been near the scene of any of their battles- and in any case, he was bored. A guard saddled his gray gelding and he rode out with Mitya, with two guards as escort behind them. But it was not the jaran riders at all: not the men, at any rate. These were women riding complex drills and firing sheets of arrows at various targets. It was startling, but impressive.
A line of riders watched the maneuvers from a hillside above the flat field on which the archers and their mounts drilled. They greeted Mitya with enthusiasm, and Jiroannes with polite reserve, but shifted to make room for them.
One man, fair-haired and with his left arm in a sling, spoke to an unveiled old crone. By concentrating completely on their conversation, Jiroannes could follow much of it.
'Vera suggested we use prisoners as targets,' said the man.
'What a very khaja thing to do,' replied the old woman, showing so little respect for this young man's words that Jiroannes was shocked. 'If they must die, then let them die quickly and bravely. But then, I have never thought much of the Veselov family, excepting your wife, of course. If we wish these riders to practice on live quarry, a birbas would be much more effective. I do not approve of killing prisoners and I have told Bakhtiian so. There is no glory in killing unarmed men,'
'I am in agreement with you there, Mother Sakhalin,' replied the man. 'But what are we to do with the khaja soldiers, then? If we leave them alive, they will strike at us again.'
The old woman turned to glance at Jiroannes, as if finding fault with his presence here, as if she had some say in whether or not he could move around camp. But seeing her full in the face, he recognized her suddenly: the old woman who had been sitting next to Bakhtiian that night he had been brought before the jaran prince for the first, and only, time. As much as it galled him to do so out here in public, he inclined his head respectfully toward her, acknowledging her gaze on him. She sniffed audibly and arched a skeptical eyebrow, and turned back to the man at her side.
'We will speak of such things later, Kirill,' she said. The group lapsed into silence again. A troop of riders arrived on the field and they began maneuvers as well, sometimes alone, sometimes coordinated with the women. Their dexterity and discipline were exemplary. Although Jiroannes hated to admit it, they rode in formation with more precision than the Great King's own elite cavalry guards. But perhaps young Mitya had more than one motive in bringing him here; perhaps Bakhtiian had encouraged it, to show the Vidiyan ambassador how very formidable his armies were.
But Mitya's motives seemed innocent enough. He cheerfully pointed out the captain of the unit, who was evidently the grandson of the old harridan, and gave a running commentary on the drill that Jiroannes understood perhaps half of. More people came to watch, on foot, an astonishing collection of sizes and coloring and shapes that Jiroannes immediately recognized as the acting troupe: the tall, black-skinned woman stood out anywhere, and the rest were as varied as the slaves owned by his uncle, who had a predilection for the exotic. Even after all these months with the jaran, he was still not used to seeing so many women with their faces naked. He watched the actors, distracted from the drilling below by the beautiful face of a golden-haired young woman. Were they slaves as well? Could he buy her? Or were they, like the Hinata dancers, dedicated to the god and thus sacrosanct?
'Here comes Sakhalin.' Mitya sounded disgusted. 'It's a little disgraceful, how he shows off that he has a khaja wife.'
A young man rode up from below. He stopped to pay his respects to the crone first, but left her quickly and rode over to the actors. The beautiful one rose to greet him, with a smile on her face.
'Do you say,' Jiroannes asked, 'that these two are married?' He was astounded. But perhaps he had misunderstood the word. More and more, he saw that he understood very little about the jaran. That Bakhtiian had married the sister of the prince of Jeds-that was political expediency, and wise in a ruler. The Great King's third wife was a daughter of the Elenti king. But if this young man was a prince of the jaran, how could he be married to a common entertainer?
'Yes,' agreed Mitya, 'Mother Sakhalin was not pleased with the marriage, and Anatoly certainly did not consult her, as he should have. But she's very sweet. Diana, that is.' He grinned slyly and glanced at the crone, who ignored the spectacle of her grandson publicly flirting with his wife. But soon enough the captain left to go back to his troop, and the actors left, and the crone left, and Jiroannes began to feel restless.
In the distance, a thin line of smoke rose from inside the high walls of Qurat. A sea of tents covered the ground all around the city, a billowing ocean. Beyond the tents, herds of horses grazed, and farther still, herds of other beasts, though these herds grew smaller every day as the forage gave out and they were slaughtered. A long line of khaja slaves trudged by, sacks of grain balanced across their shoulders.
'Oh,' said Mitya suddenly, 'I was to tell you that you may have an audience this afternoon with Bakhtiian, if you wish it.'
