Kate Elliott - An earthly crown

Bakhtiian's expression did not change, but everything else about him did, the indefinable shift of his posture utterly transforming the message his body carried. He moved his left foot slightly. His left hand strayed to his saber hilt, and he brushed the tip of the golden hilt with his thumb. "She is at the camp," he said, in a tone that meant: and that is that.

Soerensen blinked, once. When he spoke, it was without inflection. "She told me, in a letter, that she would meet me at the port."

"She may well have," replied the conqueror of half a dozen kingdoms and principalities, "but she could not come." He removed his hand from his saber hilt and began to turn away, to lead the group up into town, since the matter was now obviously settled.

Soerensen did not move. "Why is that?" he asked, as easily as if he were commenting on the weather.

Half turned away, Bakhtiian froze, paused, and swung back. The force of his stare, antagonistic and unforthcoming, would have cowed any other man. He did not reply.

"'Why could she not come?'' repeated Soerensen.

For an instant, Bakhtiian looked taken aback that a living being questioned his authority. For an instant only. "Because she could not leave camp."

For the first time, a sudden, intense energy radiated off of Soerensen. Abruptly, Diana saw in him the man who had dared to challenge humanity's alien masters. He was powerful, and frightening. His jaw tightened; his lips thinned; he took in a breath.

The storm was about to hit. The charge of emotion washed over her like fire. She burned with it, fear and exhilaration together. Marco took a step back, putting a hand out to push Diana back behind him. Maggie gasped. Without thinking, Diana reached out to grasp Maggie's hand. Maggie glanced at her, pale skin flushed with alarm, and neither let go. The scarlet-shirted riders nearest the group stirred, and horses minced under tense hands.

Dr. Hierakis stepped forward into the breach. "I am sorry to hear that she is ill," she said with astonishing smoothness. "However, we had better be sure we have accommodations for the next two nights, since the rest of our party are coming in from the ship and will need to be directed as to where they can stow their baggage."

Soerensen said nothing, but as quickly as it had shone forth, his light was buried again. Evidently he approved of the doctor's intervention. But Bakhtiian's response was more startling: she looked directly at him, as one does when addressing a person, and he immediately dropped his gaze away from hers and stepped back. "Of course," he said obediently. "I have arranged for two inns for your party. I hope they will be adequate.''

"I am sure they will be." She seemed taken aback by Bakhtiian's sudden deference.

Marco looked astounded. Maggie let go of Diana's hand and nervously straightened her tunic. Diana was not sure where she ought to look, like an actor with no lines, on stage but not given direction. She felt a wee bit disappointed.

"I am Doctor Hierakis, by the way," Hierakis added. "And may I introduce Diana Brooke-Holt and Margaret O'Neill…" With stunning aplomb, Bakhtiian gave a curt but gracious bow to each of the women in turn, like any accomplished courtier, managing to acknowledge them fully without looking either in the eye. "This is Marco Burckhardt."

But now Bakhtiian looked up, directly at Marco. A smile appeared and vanished on his lips so quickly that Diana was not sure she had actually seen it. "We have met."

Marco's smile was more ghostly than humorous. "Indeed." He inclined his head. Bakhtiian swept their group with a comprehensive gaze, looked out past them at the ship, and with a terse command to his two attendants, he turned and began the long walk up the hill into town. Soerensen did not hesitate but followed, and by some unspoken communication the two men paced their speed so that within five steps they walked together, if not in harmony. Dr. Hierakis paused only long enough to check Marco, Diana, and Maggie in turn, and then she hurried after them-doubtless, Diana thought, to make sure no blood was spilled.

"Mary Mother of God," said Maggie as soon as the two men were out of earshot. The two men who had served as Bakhtiian's escorts waited patiently, hands light on their horses's reins. "Where did you meet him, Marco?"

"It's a long story. Tupping hell, I thought we were done for.''

"He spoke perfect Rhuian." Diana glanced up at the two escorts, and when they flicked their gaze away from her, she knew that they were trying very hard not to stare at her. If in a cosmopolitan city like Jeds, where trade was commonplace to ports an ocean voyage away, the contrast between her pale and flawless complexion and Oriana's coal-black skin had been the cause of much comment, she could well imagine that this company of visitors would look doubly exotic to these northerners. "How did he learn to speak such perfect Rhuian? And that bow!"

"Very easily." Marco grinned. "He was educated at the university in Jeds."

"You're joking," said Maggie.

"No, actually, I'm not. But don't worry, Diana. From my previous experience-nothing extensive, I might add-I can make a shrewd guess that it's all surface gloss. He's as barbaric as you please underneath. At least, / wouldn't cross him.''

"Coming from you, Marco," said Maggie tartly, "and having seen the scars you have, I do not find that one bit reassuring.''

Marco shrugged, and he grinned up at the two waiting riders. Hesitantly, they grinned back at him.

Diana sighed with pleasure. Until this journey, her childhood dream of having a true adventure had seemed unattainable. Marco Burckhardt glanced back at her, and he winked. She folded her hands together, in front of herself, and smiled, feeling a delicious sense of anticipation.

News traveled like the wind. For many reasons did the khaja fear the jaran armies, and for this reason as much as any. No matter how quickly khaja princes or khaja towns sent messages or made alliances or maneuvered troops to stem the jaran tide, more quickly still did the jaran respond. It was as if the wind itself was the ally of the nomads, a silent, swift messenger on whom the horsemen alone could rely.

At midday a jaran rider came galloping out of the north into sight of a town. The sod walls here had been too high to level; they had been breached at frequent intervals instead, and by the main gate a troop of some hundred horsemen rode drills in the flat space beyond the remains of the two wooden gate doors, which had been thrown down and partially burnt.

The harness of the messenger's horse shook with bells, and the sound, as well as the lance tipped with a gold pennant borne by the rider, alerted the garrison. Within moments, a second rider emerged from the tents of the garrison leading a saddled horse. The men met at the edge of the drilling ground.

"Vanya!"

The garrison soldier pulled up and helped the messenger swing his saddlebags onto the new mount. "Feodor Grekov! What brings you here?"

"Sibirin sent me. A message for Nadine Orzhekov."

"Oho! I'll wager I know what it concerns, and I wish you luck when you deliver it.''

"What, she is here, then?"

"No, just left with her jahar for Basille. That's the khaja town where they're to collect the barbarian ambassador and bring him back to camp."

Feodor shook his head, fair hair stirring in a breeze that curled down from the heights. "Her jahar?"

"Orzhekov's jahar."

"That's not who I meant-"

"I know who you meant." Vanya grinned, an engaging smile made no less merry by the fact that his right eye was scarred shut by an old wound. "As I said, I wish you luck. She was in a foul mood."

"Nadine?"

"Oh, Nadine, is it, now? When did you leave off addressing her as tsadra?"