"Here is my niece," said Bakhtiian as a contingent of riders came up. "As soon as your wagons are ready, she will escort you north to the shrine of Morava."
Soerensen smiled enigmatically. "You honor me with your choice of escort."
Bakhtiian did not smile. "She is my closest relative. For you, I would do no less."
Like a trade, Diana thought, distracted for a moment from her own pain by the curious dealings going on here. Soerensen took the niece, Bakhtiian took Tess.
"Damn," muttered Marco under his breath, in Anglais, "but they're playing a delicate game, indeed. I can't believe Tess isn't coming with us."
"Do you think he's stopping her somehow?" Diana whispered.
Marco shook his head. "If Charles thought that was true, then he wouldn't stand for it. No, it's been agreed between them. That's what puzzles me." He hesitated. "Diana."
"Are you going, too?" she asked. She hadn't been this close to him since the night Anatoly marked her, since the night Marco had said such awful things to her-and she felt shy, suddenly, wondering if he still thought well of her.
"Yes, with Charles. Diana." He made a movement toward her but checked it. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry he had to leave so suddenly. I know it must be difficult. It's obvious you care for him. I'm sorry I-expressed myself so poorly, before."
"Stop it," she said under her breath. She stared at her feet. She did not want to think kindly of Marco; that was too dangerous. His booted feet rested on the ground near hers. She saw how they shifted. He murmured something unintelligible-not angry but perhaps despairing, and then he moved away. She forced herself not to look up after him. An instant later, she realized she still clutched his handkerchief.
"Tess, I leave you in the best of hands," said Soerensen. "Cara." Diana looked up to see Soerensen nod at the doctor, and the doctor nod, coolly, back. "Bakhtiian." This farewell was cooler still, reserved, almost disapproving.
Bakhtiian acknowledged Soerensen with an equally reticent nod. Diana would have thought that Bakhtiian would have looked overjoyed that Tess had chosen to go with him rather than with her brother, but he only looked troubled and perplexed. And why was Dr. Hierakis going with the army, not with Soerensen? But Diana knew well enough that she was not in the confidence of any of these people, and so as they parted, she trailed away alone, back toward her tent.
Quinn came jogging to meet her. "Di! Yomi sent me over to help you with your tent and your things. So? Well? What was he like?"
Diana stopped outside the tent. She could not help but smile. "He was sweet."
"But-how else? Come on, Di. The jaran men are so shy, so reserved. Are they that way in bed, too?"
"I'm hardly an expert. You'd have to talk to Hyacinth about that.''
"Oh, Hyacinth. You know as well as I do that you can't trust anything he says."
"Then find out for yourself."
"Not if I have to marry one! Begging your pardon."
Diana flushed. "I don't think-Tess Soerensen said that you don't. Have to marry one, that is." She brightened suddenly. "That's one thing I can do, though."
"What? Find out what the rules are for sleeping around? I thought all barbarians were prudes. That's what you say, anyway." Then Quinn laughed. "Oh-ho, Diana. You're blushing.''
Diana flung the tent flap back hastily, distracting Quinn's attention. Light streamed into the interior of the tent, dappling the scattered pillows, the blankets and fur in disarray, some clothing thrown down to one side and left in a heap.
"Well!" Quinn sounded gratified by this revealing sight.
The pounding of horses startled Diana, coming from close by. She started around. Perhaps it was Anatoly… But the troop cantered past and went on, oblivious to her. She felt helpless. Never in her life had she felt as superfluous as she did now. The jaran were off to war-War! She could not imagine it, except the glimpse she had received that one day, salving the wounded, the day she had met Anatoly. Was this the true measure of the barbarity of the jaran culture? That the men-the soldiers-rode off, leaving their women and children, their families, behind? Did the women always follow in their wake? Was there no true comradeship? She could not imagine her parents, her uncles and aunts-the little clan of a family she had grown up in-separating for such an arbitrary reason, or if they did have to separate, separating on this rigid, artificial line of sex.
"I hate it here," said Diana.
"What?" Quinn had already gone into the tent without asking permission, which offended Diana even more, as if her intimacy with Anatoly had been violated. "Oh, Di, you don't want to lose this." She lifted up the gold necklace. "And look here." She giggled, crouching. "I see he must have taken off those beautifully decorated boots rather quickly.'' She held up a gold braided tassel, one of the braids that had rimmed Anatoly's black boots.
Diana grabbed the tassel out of Quinn's hand and pressed it against her heart. "Stop it, Quinn. You can collect my things if you want, but I'll pack his. Do you understand?"
Quinn arched an expressive eyebrow. ' 'What? Do you love him that much already?''
"Would that be so strange?" murmured Diana, but Quinn had lapsed into an obscene song by whose rhythm she folded up the blankets, and she did not reply.
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?"