forward in chains. A sobbing woman trailed behind them.
'What is this?' asked Bakhtiian.
'These khaja were caught stealing and killing two glariss calves from the Vershinin tribe.'
'Why have you brought this to me? Of course they must be executed.'
The woman dashed forward and threw herself prostrate at Bakhtiian's feet. Sobbing, she spoke in bursts. The plain-dressed woman translated. 'Bakhtiian, she says that if you kill these three men, then she will have no more family, because these are her husband, her son, and her brother.''
'Indeed. Well, then, I do not wish to rob her of every man in her tent. For her sake, one may be spared.'
The woman clasped her hands together, laying her forehead on them, and spoke toward the ground.
'She says that she can find another husband, God willing, and that He may also provide her with more children, but for the brother there is no substitute.'
To Jiroannes's surprise, Bakhtiian laughed. 'It's quite true, what she says. For her wisdom, I will spare all their lives.' The woman broke out sobbing all over again, and the men cast themselves to the ground in gratitude. 'Gods,' said Bakhtiian, looking uncomfortable, 'take them away. And fine them for the calves. What is it, Anatoly?'
Yes, it was he, the handsome young prince with the golden-haired foreign beauty for a wife. But his aspect was quite altered now from what Jiroannes had seen this morning. He strode in looking grim, with a phalanx of armed men walking behind him, escorting a dark-haired jaran man who went pale and flushed by turns. Behind them, escorted by two women, one foreign, one jaran, walked a very young foreign woman. The girl wore Habakar clothing, a shabby gown laced with coils of bronze sewn into an overskirt, and she was pretty, for her kind, if one ignored the terror on her face.
The one called Anatoly halted before Bakhtiian. He bowed his head. 'I am ashamed that I bring this matter before you, that one of my own men has brought this disgrace on our jahar. I ask that you punish me as you would him.' Bakhtiian raised his eyebrows, looking curious, and nodded at Anatoly to continue. 'The woman accuses him of robbery, and of-' he hesitated, clearly reluctant to say what came next. '-of forcing her.'
Jiroannes could not help but smile. What could a woman expect? She was probably a whore trying to get revenge for not being paid. Surely she understood that a conquering army did not expect to pay for conquered women's services.
'Bring him forward.' Bakhtiian spoke quietly, but the anger in his voice radiated like fire, scorching. The man came forward and dropped to his knees in front of the prince. 'What is your name?'
'Grigory Zhensky.'
'You have ridden with the army for-?'
'Four years, Bakhtiian. First with Yaroslav Sakhalin, and now with Anatoly Sakhalin.'
'What do you have to say for yourself?'
'Bakhtiian.' The man threw his head back and looked up at his prince. 'I would never force a woman.' He said it with distaste, and he looked anguished enough. Jiroannes was utterly confused. What were these men talking about, and apologizing for? 'She came to me two nights past, and asked if I wanted to lie with her. There's been nothing said-no orders have come down the line that we aren't to touch any khaja women-I thought since she came to me that-' He faltered and lapsed into silence.
Bakhtiian sighed. He glanced at his wife. She shook her head. Then, as if to bewilder Jiroannes even more, she spoke. 'Bring the woman forward.' The woman came forward and knelt in the dirt, shivering. 'What is your name?' Tess Soerensen asked, kindly enough. 'Can you tell me what happened?'
The woman spoke through the translator. 'I am Qissa, daughter of the merchant Oldrai. It is true that I came to this man and offered him my-my favors, but he took them and then refused to pay me. By the merchant's code, which I learned at my father's knee, this is robbery, to take goods without paying for them. And to cast me aside then, that is-'
The girl spoke the word easily enough, but the translator faltered. 'To force a woman. I do not know this word in your tongue, Bakhtiian. I beg you will forgive my ignorance.'
'You are forgiven,' said Bakhtiian's wife. 'There is no word in khush for forcing a woman against her will.' But the translator shook her head, not understanding her, and Tess Soerensen sighed and returned her attention to the Habakar girl. 'You're a bold thing. Most women would account themselves lucky to be alive. Why did you bring this case forward?'
The girl clasped her hands so tightly in front of herself that her knuckles faded to white. She looked very young, younger than Mitya. She shuddered convulsively, but she managed to speak. 'I have young brothers and sisters. My family lost everything, and now we have nothing to feed them with. So I… we could think of no other way-' She faltered and suddenly, as if fear seized her, she cast herself onto the ground and just lay there, awaiting her fate. The two young riders looked enormously embarrassed; ashamed, even.
'Gods,' said Bakhtiian. He cast a glance at his wife, as if expecting her to untangle the situation.
She switched abruptly to Rhuian, and though her voice was low, Jiroannes could still hear her. He leaned forward, listening avidly. 'This is what you get, Ilya, when you bring two cultures together. They will misunderstand each other, and if you can't control it, then you will earn chaos.'
'Then what do you suggest I do? It is by right a woman's matter, and should be directed to Mother Sakhalin.'
'Who, if she is wise, will throw it right back to you. It is all very well to hold jaran to jaran laws, and to let the khaja hold to khaja laws, but what will you hold them to when they mix? As they will.'
The principals waited, the two young men with resignation, the girl-well, who could know what she was thinking, with her face hidden in the dirt? And Jiroannes experienced a revelation: Bakhtiian was listening to his wife because he respected her opinion and might well act on it. Like an epiphany, or the climax of sex, it all poured out, all the little hints, the strange behavior, the things he had observed and ignored, all these months he had been with the jaran, and he saw now how thoroughly he had misunderstood them. They were worse than barbarians. As in the ancient tale where the Devil turned the world upside down, forcing people to wear their clothing inside-out, soldiers to till and farmers to fight, women to rule and men to serve them, they were an abomination.
'Where is the Vidiyan ambassador?' Bakhtiian asked.
Syrannus had to nudge Jiroannes in the back before he reacted. Jolted out of his thoughts, he started up and stumbled over his own feet before recovering himself. Savages they might be, but his duty demanded that he deal wisely with them. And after all, Mitya was jaran. With dignity, he drew himself up and walked forward and, fastidiously, stepped around the prostrate girl to kneel on one knee before the prince.
'What should I do, ambassador?' Bakhtiian asked. 'The man acted rightly, and yet the woman was wronged. The woman acted out of necessity, and with good faith for the exchange, and yet falsely accused the man.'
Jiroannes realized that his hands trembled. Thank the Everlasting God that the long dagged sleeves of his bloused tunic covered his hands to the knuckles.
Then a woman hissed between her teeth. She stood just behind Bakhtiian's wife, and it took a moment for Jiroannes to recognize her, all decked out in finery: it was indeed Mitya's Aunt Sonia. 'You ask this one to judge?' she demanded of Bakhtiian. 'When he is the worst offender of all? He keeps a woman as a slave in our camp!''
Bakhtiian smiled, but Jiroannes did not find the expression reassuring. 'By his wisdom, so shall we know him. Ambassador, know this before you judge: by jaran custom, false accusation is akin to treason, and the punishment for a first offense is to be stripped of all rank and possessions and given into another family's camp, to act as their servant. As for the other-well-it is women's jurisdiction. Sonia, what would the punishment be for forcing a woman?'
Sonia smiled viciously. 'Death.'
Bakhtiian placed his hands on his staff, where they rested quietly, and he waited.
Jiroannes knew fear, stark fear, in that instant. A slave knew only his master's coercion, having no power of his own. The conclusion was obvious, read both by simple reasoning and by the triumphant and angry look on Sonia's face: under jaran custom, to lie with a woman slave was the same as raping her.
Here, kneeling alone before Bakhtiian, the power of the Great King seemed so distant as to be inconsequential. Jiroannes cast himself on both knees and bent his forehead down until it touched the dirt. No one struck him dead, so he lifted his head, although he did not raise his eyes.
'I would counsel mercy, great lord, by reason of their ignorance.'
Sonia hissed again, to show her displeasure.
