The boy was nervous. He halted at the edge of the carpet, not quite under the awning, waiting to be invited in. He stared at Jiroannes, at his clothes, curious, and then recalled himself and straightened his back.
"I am Mitya Orzhekov," he said slowly, in labored Rhuian. "My cousin Bakhtiian sent me to…" Here he faltered, as if he had learned his message by rote and forgotten it between there and here.
Abruptly Jiroannes remembered being this age himself. It had not been so very long ago. This child was no mere messenger but a male child of Bakhtiian's own family, sent off on an errand too important to be left to any lackey. He could afford to be generous. "Please." He met the boy's gaze with a friendly smile. "Please come in."
Mitya returned the smile tremulously. "I am Mitya Orzhekov," he said, starting over. "My cousin Bakhtiian sent me to give you this letter.'' He produced a scrap of parchment from his belt and held it out,
"Eminence," said Syrannus, "he does not understand Rhuian. That was memorized. I can hear it." The old man hesitated, clearly unsure of how his master would react.
The boy's eyes skipped past Jiroannes and settled on Samae. He stared, astonished, and then wrenched his gaze back to the letter, flushing as he fixed his stare on the parchment instead of the slave. He wore his hair short, an affectation of the jaran riders that Jiroannes had yet to comprehend. Surely one test of a man's beauty was in the fineness and length and sheen of his hair. The boy coughed, jerking Jiroannes's attention back to him, and began his little speech again.
"I understand," said Jiroannes, "and I thank you." He took the parchment from the boy and unrolled it. As he read, he was aware of the boy sneaking glances at Samae, as if this child were aware that he ought not to covet another man's property and so was trying to hide his interest. The text itself was unremarkable. The army was riding south, toward the Habakar kingdom. The ambassadors were free to move along with the main camp, which would travel in the army's wake. Bakhtiian had assigned his cousin's son as an escort, and he trusted that the ambassador would treat the boy with the honor he deserved.
"A threat," said Jiroannes, handing the letter to Syrannus, "and a promise. Tell the guards to strike camp. You must learn khush, Syrannus."
"Yes, eminence. I have learned what I can these past days. I will learn more."
Jiroannes motioned the boy in to sit in one of the chairs, and watched as Mitya shifted, trying to find a comfortable seat, as if he were unaccustomed to such a structure. Then he had Samae serve them tea and cakes while they watched the guards strike the camp, everything but the awning and the carpet under which the two sat. Mitya stared, awed by his surroundings, and his gaze flashed again and again toward Samae, and away as swiftly.
When the wagons were loaded, Mitya went away and returned with a string of three horses, one laden, one saddled, and the other barebacked. Jiroannes allowed the boy to introduce him to the saddled chestnut mare, and he saw that this was a fine, elegant horse, a superior creature. At once he coveted her for himself. How fine a gift a herd of such horses would make for the Great King! The boy was proud of her; that was evident. He mounted. Jiroannes mounted his gelding, and they rode.
The entire plain seemed on the move. Troops cantered by them. Lone riders galloped back the way they had come. A belled messenger passed, heading south. Wagons trundled along in the distance. The whole* thing seemed like chaos to Jiroannes, but come late afternoon they rolled into a makeshift camp that rose up out of the grass. Jiroannes recognized the tents: this was the same ambassadors' row they had inhabited before, set up in the same order, and Mitya directed them to the far end, as if the order of tents had some meaning, some hierarchy. Mitya left them then, but only to pitch a small tent for himself about one hundred paces outside of Jiroannes's camp, and there he sat, alone, until Jiroannes took pity on him and sent Syrannus to ask him in to dine. The two dined alone, Syrannus and Samae serving them. The boy ate with surprisingly good manners, cleanly and precisely, making no mess. He flushed every time Samae paused beside him. He even rose, after he was finished, as if to help clean up, but Jiroannes motioned him to sit again. One of the guards ventured over with his flute, and he played sorrowful tunes as the light faded and darkness fell.
Mitya rose. He spoke, to Jiroannes first, then to Syrannus.
"Eminence, the boy says that he must go to bed now, as we must rise early and be on our way. He thanks you for the dinner. Or at least, some of these words I recognized, and I believe that is what he said."
Jiroannes rose and watched the boy walk away to the solitude of his tent. Beardless still, but already by his height and his walk half a man.
"Samae." She appeared, sinking to her knees before him. "You will go to the boy tonight." Her head jerked up and for an astonishing instant she stared straight at him. She shook her head roughly. He slapped her. Red burned on the fine pale parchment of her cheek. "I said you will go to him," Jiroannes repeated, offended and infuriated by her defiance.
She sat there, head bowed, for long enough that he thought he was going to have to hit her again. Then she rose and padded away across the grass. Jiroannes watched as she paused before the tent. She glanced back, once, to see him looking at her, and then she knelt and a moment later she had vanished into the small tent.
"Was that wisely done, eminence?" Syrannus asked in a soft voice.
"The boy is old enough, clearly, and if she is his first, then the honor is the greater. He admired her but was polite enough not to say so to me. It will make him grateful to me, and he will speak to his cousin of my generosity. So we begin to build a bridge on which to negotiate. Now, since Samae is not here, send Lal to undress me." He went to his tent, but he paused at the entrance to see that Syrannus was still staring out at the little tent, at the campfires glowing around them, at the night and the vivid sky, black splintered with bright stars.
"We shall see," said Syrannus quietly.
In the morning, while Jiroannes sat in his chair as the camp was struck around him, he caught Samae glancing up at the boy. She had paused beside one of the wagons, about to place into the bed the little carved chest that held his jewels and sashes and seals of office; she looked up briefly, toward Mitya saddling his horse. Mitya remained intent on his task. From this distance, Jiroannes could not see the boy's expression, but something in his carriage betrayed a new confidence. Samae seemed unaware that her master watched her. Something touched her lips, something unknown, an expression he did not recognize. For an instant he thought it was a smile, but he dismissed the idea immediately. Samae never smiled. Distaste, probably. Still, he would send her to the boy every now and then. Such generosity would seal their relationship. Content, he allowed the guards to take his chair and bring him his horse. For the first time, he felt confident that his mission would succeed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
When Diana woke, she found Anatoly lying on his side, watching her. He smiled and reached out to trace her lips with one finger.
"Good morning, Diana," he said in Rhuian, looking pleased with himself. She repeated the greeting, haltingly, in khush, and he looked even more pleased. He said another sentence in khush, but she had to shake her head because she could not understand him. He cocked his head to one side and tried again, some words meant, perhaps, to be Rhuian. Diana laughed, because they were equally incomprehensible. And yet, she did not feel awkward with him at all. Not that there was much left for her to feel awkward about, after last night.