The gold banner broke away from the battle and headed toward the river. Now Aleksi could distinguish individuals. Three riders separated from the unit and splashed across the river to head up toward Tess. Tess wiped at her face furiously, eliminating the telltale marks of tears.
Bakhtiian had not one mark on him, though he had been in the thick of the battle. Vladimir, at his right, had four arrows sticking out at angles from his cuirass but a broad grin on his face. In his left hand he held the banner pole, its end braced into a wooden cup tied to his saddle. The gold cloth stirred in the breeze. Another orphan, Vladimir was, who had found a home in the Orzhekov tribe: He was Bakhtiian's chosen banner bearer, and he was married to a woman of the tribes. No wonder he was happy.
Konstans Barshai had his helmet off, and a wicked-looking cut scored across his left eye and forehead and up onto his scalp, but the blood splashed down his face and on his armor did not seem to bother him, and his seat was steady. Anatoly Sakhalin rode down to greet them. He looked tense and angry.
"Well met," said Bakhtiian. His gaze had, first and most tellingly, focused in on his wife, but now he scanned the line of riders above and glanced back toward the field below. "A well chosen vantage point."
Anatoly did not reply for a minute. His face was flushed, and his lips set. "I wished to fight in the battle," he blurted out. "I would have done well."
Bakhtiian turned his attention to the younger man. His even gaze caused Anatoly to flush even more. "Is this not honor enough for you, Sakhalin, watching over what I hold most dear? Did I single out any other commander for this post? To serve my wife, who will forge the links that will allow us to hold together what we are winning now? Not every battle can be won out there." He waved toward the field, and the army mopping up, and swung back to glare at Anatoly. "Your uncle Boris is dead. Killed on the field."
Anatoly paled, and then color rushed back into his cheeks.
"But in time, if this jahar serves its purpose, we can use words to win our wars, not our own relatives."
"I beg your pardon, Bakhtiian," said Anatoly in a low voice. "I spoke rashly. I didn't think."
"You are young," said Bakhtiian, more gently. "Very well. I have no need of envoys right now. Yaroslav Sakhalin is forming up his army now to start over the pass. Anatoly, you will take your jahar and go with him. But I charge to you this duty: that you will be responsible for bringing back to me the head and coat and crown of the Habakar king. After that, I will expect you to serve my wife with a more level head."
Anatoly flushed a bright red, and Aleksi could not tell whether it was chagrin or excitement that most colored him. "Thank you! You honor me!" He paused and glanced toward the jaran camp, busy with the wounded. "May I say good-bye to my wife?"
Bakhtiian arched an eyebrow. "There is no time. I want the king. Go."
Without further hesitation, Anatoly nodded his assent and went back up to the ridgetop to order his jahar forward.
"Aleksi," said Bakhtiian, watching this movement with an expression of pained amusement, "I don't mean to slight you as well. Would you like to go with them?"
"I am content where I am, Bakhtiian."
"Ah." Bakhtiian turned his black and they started down toward camp, Tess between Bakhtiian and Aleksi, and the two young riders trailing behind, a discreet escort. "Tess, you haven't said one word to me. Are you well?"
"You didn't have to lead that charge," she said in a low voice. Aleksi could hear how drawn her voice was, taut and strained.
"But I did," he said, equally softly. "That man killed my envoys and blinded Josef.''
Her silence was eloquent.
"Now do you see?" he asked, softer still. "Do you see why I was so reluctant to let you join Yaroslav Sakhalin's jahar? Do you think I doubted your ability to fight? Never that, Tess. I doubted my own ability to stand the sight of you in such danger.''
"I never saw you actually ride into battle like this. Not until now. Gods." She lapsed into silence again, but she sounded mollified.
"In truth, it makes little sense for me to lead the army from the front ranks, or to risk myself in such an impulsive charge." He grinned. "I won't do it again, my love."
She chuckled. Weakly, it was true, but it was a laugh nonetheless. "Unless you have to."
"Unless I have to."
They rode into camp and immediately Bakhtiian was besieged. He excused himself and rode off with a trio of men: one of the Vershinin cousins, the Raevsky dyan, and Anton Veselov.
"Now what do I do?" Tess asked of Aleksi. "They have no need of me with the wounded. Mother Sakhalin runs the camp, and Sonia our tents. I don't have enough experience for any council of war. What use am I?"
Aleksi could hear how upset she was, as if she had turned her fear into disgust at herself. "If this was your brother's army, what would you be doing?''
Tess glanced at him, startled. She had not been expecting him to reply. Then she laughed. "You're right, of course. Let's see if there are any Habakar prisoners. I've got a start on their language, and I need to develop my understanding of their legal system as well. Let me see. Aleksi, go to-who is handling prisoners?"
"Raevsky."
"Well, that seems appropriate. We'll go sort out a few and take them to my tent. Josef and I can work on this together.''
"You must not forget to eat, Tess."
"With you here, and Sonia? I won't."
On through the afternoon Tess and Josef sat side by side on pillows, under the awning of her tent. Five Habakar prisoners-two noblemen, three priests-knelt out in the sun in front of them, and ten archers and ten riders stood at guard around them. Tess was writing something down in her book when Dr. Hierakis hurried into camp and stopped ten paces away to survey Tess with a skeptical eye. The doctor strode over to Aleksi.
"Has she rested?" she demanded of Aleksi. "Eaten? Has she gotten enough to drink?"
Aleksi nodded. "Sonia and the children have brought us everything we need."
Tess turned. "Cara." She switched to Rhuian. "I've made up my mind about the-" She said a word Aleksi did not recognize. "I want you to prepare the-" She stopped, glanced at Aleksi, and went on in her other language, the one she called Anglais. Aleksi went very still, and he concentrated. He was quick with language, quicker than anyone suspected, even Tess, and he had learned long ago that in order to survive he had to be one step ahead of everyone else. Something about Ilya, and a drink; something about growing old, or not growing old-that was confusing; the doctor objected, Tess insisted, and between them they reached an agreement. The doctor looked-not reluctant, but as though she had to make a show of being reluctant. Tess did not look triumphant that she had won out over the doctor's objections; she looked stubborn and defensive.
The doctor excused herself and left. Tess turned back to her discussion of the general outlines of Habakar legal doctrine. Josef, who wore his empty eye sockets as if they were a badge of pride, brushed Tess's sleeve with a hand, verifying her presence, and she edged closer to him. Kolia brought them milk. The little boy stared hard at the foreigners baking out under the heat of the sun, at their outlandish clothing and their olive-dark complexions and the sharp line of their black beards. It was a drowsy heat, stifling and dry. Aleksi listened to the voices of the priests droning on, punctuated here and there by a question from Tess or Josef, or a monosyllabic reply from one of the terrified noblemen. Eventually he dozed.
He started awake when Bakhtiian arrived.
"Send them away." Bakhtiian gestured toward the Habakar prisoners. "I'm hungry." He vanished into the tent, reappeared a moment later with a pillow, and threw it on the ground beside Josef. Then he sank down beside the blind man and took one of Josef's hands in his own. Rapidly and in a low voice, he began to tell him in detail about the battle.