tribes—telling her that of all men, it is to your own brothers and your mother’s brothers that you owe the deepest part of your affection.
“Good,” she said, mocking herself more than Tess. “I wouldn’t want you to change his mind about his wild sweep of conquest. Gods, I’d be bored if I didn’t have this to do.” And the specter of boredom, of having too much time to think, was the worst one of all. “Look. There’s a party assembling at the main gate. The ambassador must have arrived before us. He’ll have had time to worry.” She lifted a hand to sign for the troop to spread out, leaving them room to maneuver. The horsemen shifted position with that absolute mastery of riding that each one had, having been practically bred and raised in the saddle. Feodor looked their way, and averted his gaze when he realized she had noticed him.
“He’s in love with you, you know,” said Tess suddenly.
“Our ambassador? He hasn’t even met me, Tess. How can he be in love with me?”
“Feodor.”
“Oh, him.” She did not bother to look at him. “For a sweet, modest jaran man, he’s a bit too obvious about it for my taste. And the gods know, after three years in Jeds I came to appreciate sweet, modest jaran men.”
“Did you?”
Even the broken, pitiful walls of Basille reminded her enough of Jeds that she was stricken with a longing to return there—now, this instant. “Of course I did. I loved that city. I could easily have forsaken the plains for Jeds, except I’m too much jaran to live in a place where only one group of women can make advances to men—women who get paid to do so. Paid! It made me heartsick. They’re barbarians, these khaja. I didn’t want barbarians as my lovers. It’s the only reason I came back.” She meant the comment to be light; the force of it surprised even her. Tess, kind Tess, made no reply.
At the gates of Basille, a party had indeed gathered. As they neared, Nadine could distinguish between two styles of dress, and she saw that a certain, delicate distance separated two groups of people—a group of men dressed in plain, dull cloth, and a smaller group arrayed in golds and purples and jade greens made the more vivid by the muted garb of their neighbors.
“It appears,” said Nadine in Rhuian, “that Basille’s elders can scarcely wait to pass their visitors on to us.” She lifted a hand and the jahar halted, a semicircle ringing the gate out of archer’s range. She glanced at her riders and smiled. Solemn, austere, with an arrogance that frightened khaja everywhere. Why, jaran riders had such contempt for all khaja that they did not even bother to touch khaja women. Was that what khaja thought? She had often wondered, but never found the opportunity to ask.
“Grekov. Yermolov.” Her voice carried clearly into the silence. “Will you attend?” And softer: “Tess?”
“Assuredly.”
The four of them rode forward. The crowd at the gate watched, stilled either by fear or by anticipation.
“Lord,” said Tess, “look there on the steps. Is that our ambassador? From the vast and fabled empire of Vidiya?”
Nadine shifted her gaze self-consciously from the blond head of Feodor Grekov, who had come up with Yermolov on her left, to the low stairway that led up to the night portal in an intact portion of the palisade. “Gods. He’s young. And is that supposed to be his retinue—what, six besides himself? Only four hands of guardsmen? He can’t be very important if that’s the lot. Ilya won’t be pleased if he thinks he’s being snubbed.”
They halted equidistant between the steps and the group of elderly men marked with the heavy chains and pentangles of the town’s stewards. There was silence. Nadine waited.
A young man stood on the steps, utterly and obviously foreign by his purple and green striped overtunic and huge, belled trousers of cloth of gold, by the odd sculpting of his dark beard and mustache, and by the white turban that concealed
“Good,” she said, mocking herself more than Tess. “I wouldn’t want you to change his mind about his wild sweep of conquest. Gods, I’d be bored if I didn’t have this to do.” And the specter of boredom, of having too much time to think, was the worst one of all. “Look. There’s a party assembling at the main gate. The ambassador must have arrived before us. He’ll have had time to worry.” She lifted a hand to sign for the troop to spread out, leaving them room to maneuver. The horsemen shifted position with that absolute mastery of riding that each one had, having been practically bred and raised in the saddle. Feodor looked their way, and averted his gaze when he realized she had noticed him.
“He’s in love with you, you know,” said Tess suddenly.
“Our ambassador? He hasn’t even met me, Tess. How can he be in love with me?”
“Feodor.”
“Oh, him.” She did not bother to look at him. “For a sweet, modest jaran man, he’s a bit too obvious about it for my taste. And the gods know, after three years in Jeds I came to appreciate sweet, modest jaran men.”
“Did you?”
Even the broken, pitiful walls of Basille reminded her enough of Jeds that she was stricken with a longing to return there—now, this instant. “Of course I did. I loved that city. I could easily have forsaken the plains for Jeds, except I’m too much jaran to live in a place where only one group of women can make advances to men—women who get paid to do so. Paid! It made me heartsick. They’re barbarians, these khaja. I didn’t want barbarians as my lovers. It’s the only reason I came back.” She meant the comment to be light; the force of it surprised even her. Tess, kind Tess, made no reply.
At the gates of Basille, a party had indeed gathered. As they neared, Nadine could distinguish between two styles of dress, and she saw that a certain, delicate distance separated two groups of people—a group of men dressed in plain, dull cloth, and a smaller group arrayed in golds and purples and jade greens made the more vivid by the muted garb of their neighbors.
“It appears,” said Nadine in Rhuian, “that Basille’s elders can scarcely wait to pass their visitors on to us.” She lifted a hand and the jahar halted, a semicircle ringing the gate out of archer’s range. She glanced at her riders and smiled. Solemn, austere, with an arrogance that frightened khaja everywhere. Why, jaran riders had such contempt for all khaja that they did not even bother to touch khaja women. Was that what khaja thought? She had often wondered, but never found the opportunity to ask.
“Grekov. Yermolov.” Her voice carried clearly into the silence. “Will you attend?” And softer: “Tess?”
“Assuredly.”
The four of them rode forward. The crowd at the gate watched, stilled either by fear or by anticipation.
“Lord,” said Tess, “look there on the steps. Is that our ambassador? From the vast and fabled empire of Vidiya?”
Nadine shifted her gaze self-consciously from the blond head of Feodor Grekov, who had come up with Yermolov on her left, to the low stairway that led up to the night portal in an intact portion of the palisade. “Gods. He’s young. And is that supposed to be his retinue—what, six besides himself? Only four hands of guardsmen? He can’t be very important if that’s the lot. Ilya won’t be pleased if he thinks he’s being snubbed.”
They halted equidistant between the steps and the group of elderly men marked with the heavy chains and pentangles of the town’s stewards. There was silence. Nadine waited.
A young man stood on the steps, utterly and obviously foreign by his purple and green striped overtunic and huge, belled trousers of cloth of gold, by the odd sculpting of his dark beard and mustache, and by the white turban that concealed
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