She turned back slowly, her throat tight, flushing along her neck and cheeks. She could just make out his face in the moonlight as he watched her, and she trembled, sure that he was afraid that this might be his last night on earth. What would she do if he asked her to spend it with him? God knows, he's attractive enough, she thought; men like him always are.
"If you don't disturb them now," he continued, "then there will be no trouble about leaving before dawn tomorrow. But if you interrupt them, what will I do to convince them to go?"
She recovered her normal breathing, sure that it was fear that made her overreact in this way, cursing herself inwardly for forgetting everything she knew about jaran men. About this man in particular. "Surely when you tell them about this army, they'll agree to run," she said, knowing that the Chapalii could easily defend themselves against a hundred men, that they would, without hesitation. Missile weapons. She did not know whether to laugh or cry, thinking of it. And which would hurt Charles more-that she not investigate here now, or that she let the confrontation come and force the Chapalii to reveal what kind of magic, what kind of utterly superior weaponry, they possessed?
Bakhtiian stared beyond her at the disembodied, flame-less light moving below them. "It has been said before that the khepellis control great powers. Magical powers. I have no use for magic." He broke off. "Not any more. Can't you wait until the shrine of Morava? We'll be there for a hand of days. Enough time for spying, I should think." But it was said without heat or accusation.
Enough time for spying. In a way, it was almost as if he knew what she was thinking, as if he were offering her a way out, an excuse to follow his lead and exercise restraint now for the promise of a later chance. And she found that against his asking, she could not refuse. "If we get that far," she said, though she knew the very words sealed the agreement, that she would not disturb the Chapalii, not at this time and in this place.
"Be assured," said Bakhtiian coolly, "that I do not intend to die here." He turned away from her to return to the fires, as if, she thought with sudden bitterness, now that he has what he wants, the conversation no longer interests him.
Yuri woke her. It was quiet, damp, cold, and still dark. She lay still for a moment, hearing the soft sound of whispers, and horses, and of leather creaking and rustling against cloth.
"Get up, Tess," Yuri said in a low but urgent voice. "We have to get the horses saddled."
"Are we leaving now? There's barely enough light to see by."
"When Josef gets back."
"Yuri, what if that trail is a dead end?"
"It can't be. It just can't be. Come on, you're one of the last."
"The khepelli?"
"They're ready. I don't even think they slept. Niko has them." He pointed, and Tess could faintly make out a group of men saddling horses, all gray and dim. Then he grabbed her hand and pulled her roughly to her feet. "Tess! Don't you understand? A khaja army is down there, waiting to kill us."
"Are they already attacking?" The last dregs of sleep vanished, obliterated by adrenaline.
"No." He looked back, but all was silence and darkness below. "Not until daybreak. They hate us, but they also fear us. It's bad enough having to come up that path one by one, without it being dark as well. Ilya has fifteen men along the lower wall with him. The rest of us will go when Josef returns, then the fifteen from below-"
"And last the four archers?"
"Yes. Last." A horse whinnied softly. "I'm a better archer than Konstans. But he says I'm to go with you and Niko."
Tess thought, he's doing that for me. She said, "If only you had bows for everyone. If only you could all shoot well."
"It isn't honorable," Yuri began, but he hesitated. "They are only khaja, after all." He put out a hand and Tess took it and laid it on her cheek. It was cold. "I don't know what we'll do if we lose Bakhtiian."
"Neither do I," she replied. They saddled their horses in silence and herded the rest to the base of the trail. The khepellis assembled behind them.
It grew light as they finished, Niko saddling one of the tarpans for Bakhtiian.
"Why isn't he riding his black?" Tess asked.
Niko looked up at her, eyes dark. "He wants it to go with the herd." He stood and laid a hand on the horse's withers. "Headstrong idiot," he muttered, and then, "Well, this is all we can do. Damn it, where is Josef? He knows our situation. Something must have happened to him." And then, as if appalled that he had said it, he lapsed into angry silence.
From her position at the base of the trail, Tess could see the neck of the gorge and the first level of wall, gray now, lightening. She glanced at the Chapalii; they looked completely undisturbed, pallid and colorless. Yuri put a hand on her shoulder.
The night retreated as the sun rose. The fifteen men were ranged along the wall below. One of them detached himself from the line and ran up toward them: Bakhtiian. Tess and Yuri gave their reins to Nikita and walked over to Niko, who had gone to the upper wall. Bakhtiian scrambled up the escarpment and pulled himself up to sit on the wall, one leg dangling, the other flat against the stone.
"Josef?" If he was breathing quickly, it was from excitement not from his short run.
"No sign," said Niko.
"I've changed my mind. You'll go up the trail now. We'll follow as soon as we confuse them enough to set them back a bit."
"How are you going to do that?" Tess asked.
He did not even look at her, his attention on the narrow gorge. Movement flashed and vanished. "You mustn't hasten the game."
"What if the trail is a dead end?" Niko asked.
"Then we're dead either way. Let us hope the gods favor us today.''
Movement again at the neck of the gorge. Bakhtiian stood up on the wall. White flashed, and then a white cloth tied to a spear appeared.
"So they want to talk to a priest," said Bakhtiian. "I hope I'll do."
A man appeared, holding the spear aloft. The white cloth shuddered and danced in the breeze. The man halted and placed the spear butt on the ground: parley. Nothing moved. Deep shadows surrounded him. The man shifted nervously and then threw back his head.
"We have no quarrel with jharan," he shouted.
"Jharan jharan," the echoes returned. "He speaks khush!" Tess whispered to Yuri.
"A similar tongue."
"Give us Boctiyan!" the man cried. "The others may go free." His accent was atrocious.
Tess looked up. Bakhtiian was smiling. "What do you want with Bakhtiian?" he shouted down.
"Boctiyan-he has burnt town, killed children, forced women. He is an evil man, cruel, a demon sent by-" He lasped into a description of something, or someone, that sounded horrible but which Tess could not follow.
"I have gotten a reputation," said Ilya. "Of the unsavory kind."
"That," said Tess, "is an understatement."
The man, silent now, stared up at Bakhtiian, a figure lighter than anything below, the wind moving in his hair and flaring the loose sleeves of his blood-red shirt as he stood, unmoving, on the high wall.
"Do you suppose they think I'm mad?" he asked. He grinned, looking like an uncomfortable blend of beauty and menace: the bright child gone evil.
"You are mad," Tess muttered, wondering if he had already forgotten what he had said last night. And then, because he was looking down at her, she went on hastily. "They probably scare their children into bed at night by telling them stories about you."
He laughed. "Gods. I'm still young. I'll end up by giving myself nightmares." He stared down at the man below. "He must be a priest. Don't khaja priests wear that cut of tunic and those thick-what are they called?" He switched to Rhuian briefly. "Baldrics." He lifted his chin and shouted again. "What will you do with Bakhtiian?"
"He has offended our god by killing our holy brothers in Eratia and Tiarton. We of Tialla Great Walls are doubly stricken, for he has fouled our sacred temple by setting his cursed feet in it. Our god must have revenge."