Part 28 (1/2)
”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 blus.h.i.+ng.''
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 comrades.h.i.+p? 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 s.e.x.
”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 ta.s.sel, one of the braids that had rimmed Anatoly's black boots.
Diana grabbed the ta.s.sel 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 apt.i.tudes 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, a.s.suming 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, G.o.ds, 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 hors.e.m.e.n, 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?”
Vasil was so furious that for a moment he could not speak. How dare this boy not know who he was?
”Vasil is my cousin,” said Anton. ”Sergei Veselov's son.””I didn't know Veselov had a son. He died some three years past, didn't he?”
”I just learned of my father's death,” said Vasil, cutting in before Anton could say any more. ”I decided it was time I reunited with my tribe and take on my responsibilities.”
Sakhalin regarded him and his black arenabekh clothing, and suddenly comprehension bloomed in his face. ”Ah. Now I recall the story. You must have been one of the men riding with Dmitri Mikhailov. Do you think Bakhtiian will welcome you back?''
Vasil smiled. ”Yes. I do. Indeed, I am sure of it.”
”Ah,” said Sakhalin, and then, to Vasil's disgust, he s.h.i.+fted his attention back to Anton. ”We rode past your tribe. You can reach them by sundown if you go at a good pace.”
”Where is the main army?” Vasil asked.
The arrogant young pup actually hesitated before answering. ”Behind us. We've orders from Bakhtiian to take ahead to my uncle.” He said that proudly enough, pleased that he had been chosen for such an honor. ”Do you have khaja prisoners?”
”Only a Habakar general and his son.”
”No doubt Bakhtiian will be pleased. Now, we must be riding on.” He made farewells and his troop rode on, south.
Vasil snorted. ”A boy in on the intimate counsels of Bakhtiian? Or so he would have it sound.”
”He's not much older than Ilya was when he came back from Jeds,” said Anton mildly, ”and he's ambitious, and he's a Sakhalin, so perhaps it's no surprise that he feels he's important. Though he is young to have a command of his own, and I don't think Bakhtiian gives out such an honor casually. Even to a Sakhalin.”
”There's more,” said Yevgeni, breaking in. ”One of his men told me he's just married a khaja woman, a Singer-no, he had a different word for it. They tell tales, but with their entire bodies and their words . . . well, it was a khaja art, he said. I've never heard of anything like it. What do you think of that? A khaja wife!”
”What of Bakhtiian's khaja wife?” asked Vasil abruptly. ”Is she with the tribes still?”
Anton motioned to Yevgeni with a lift of his chin, and the young rider reined his horse aside to leave the cousins some privacy. ”Vasil.” Anton spoke slowly, weighing his words. ”Bakhtiian still has a wife. Perhaps you didn't know that. It's something you might want to keep in mind.”
Dear, good Anton-so right-minded and so honest. ”My dear cousin,” said Vasil ingenuously, ”I also have a wife. Have you forgotten that? And two children.”
”That's true.” Reminded of this, Anton appeared mollified. ”And Sakhalin said-””Yes. Let us hasten our reunion.”
They made good time. It was still light when they came in sight of the wagons and tents marking the Veselov tribe. A scout greeted them, an adolescent boy who flushed bright red when he saw Vasil and called to him by name before he even greeted Anton. Vasil did not remember the boy's name, or whose child he was, but he greeted him warmly nevertheless. The child was gratified to be allowed to lead them in.
”Vasil!”
”Look, it's Vasilley.”
”G.o.ds, Veselov, I thought you were dead.”
”Where have you come from?”
”Let me get Arina.”
Vasil slowed his horse to the barest walk, letting the exclamations, the surprise, the warmth, and, to be sure, the adulation wash over him. Here and there he saw a disapproving grimace, a finger pointed, and he noted who they were; they could be won over later. He did not want speed: he wanted his reunion with Karolla and the children to be blindingly public.