Kate Elliott - His conquering sword

"Oh, it won't be easy. You've some instinctive talents, but there'd be much much work to be done, training, practice, endless rehearsals, and even with the Company to support you, you're far behind them in skills right now. Still, to have brought our theater here and then to bring one of you back, to see how you might reflect our tradition back at us, how you might interpret it, that would be fascinating!"

"But-I'd have to leave the jaran."

"We'd be your tribe. We theater people always have been a tribe unto ourselves."

"But my family-?"

"Can't they come? Are they fixed here?"

Vasil winced as a pain stabbed up from his hips and splintered into a thousand pieces all the way up his backbone, "No," he said, gasping a little. "No, not at all. They live only on the sufferance granted them by my cousin. My wife long ago left her tribe, and my children only have her. But could they-?"

"Oh, they could come too," said Zerentous blithely. "We'll fix some kind of pension on them. You needn't worry about leaving them behind. What do you say?" Zerentous was clearly in the grip of his obsession now. His dark face shone.

"But the doctor says I can't walk."

Zerentous coughed into his hand and glanced around, the gesture so acting-like that Vasil almost smiled. He bent down closer to Vasil. "We're going back to our country," he said in a low, conspiratorial voice. "To Erthe. There, you'll find that… we can do things there… it won't matter. Truly. It won't."

Vasil felt sick with hope and despair intermingled. He felt as if the gods themselves had conspired to offer him his heart's desire and yet make it impossible for him to grasp it. Like Ilya, who had never really been his, because the gods had already marked him as theirs.

"I can't be an actor," he said finally.

"Why not?" Zerentous demanded, looking affronted.

Vasil took in a deep breath, for courage, and pulled the blanket down and turned his lacerated face to the air.

"Well?" demanded Zerentous again. The director's gaze had flicked onto the gash and then returned to stare into Vasil's eyes. The force of his gaze was immense, like a weight bearing down on Vasil. "Why not?"

"But…" Vasil faltered. "My face."

"Oh." Zerentous dismissed the terrible disfigurement with a wave of one hand. "I said it won't matter. We have arts of healing-we can erase it. You must believe me. More than that I can't say now. Veselov, what I'm offering you will be safe for you and your family. What's left you here-if you're crippled-I can't guess. Stay here if you will. Or come with me and the Company. The choice is yours."

There was, in Owen Zerentous, a certainty that Vasil found attractive. He was so sure of himself and of his vision.

"Yes," Vasil said before he realized himself that he meant to say it. "I'll go with you."

Before dawn, many partings.

Diana had stayed up half the night, helping Anatoly and two boys from the Sakhalin camp polish his armor. She had persuaded him to come to bed at last, but she slept far more restlessly than he did, and she woke before him, before dawn. A kind of bitter fatalism had descended on her, and she lay curled around him and watched him breathe. Today they launched the final assault on Karkand. Everyone expected the fighting to be prolonged and bloody, and Diana knew that Anatoly meant to throw himself and his men into the thick of it. She had a horrible premonition that he was going to die.

He was a heavy sleeper. When she ran a hand down his arm he did not stir. From outside, she heard horses and conversation and the creak of leather armor. He opened his eyes and sat up.

"Diana!" He started to scramble to his feet, then flung an arm around her and kissed her warmly. He murmured something, sweet phrases, and then jumped up and dressed. She hurried and dressed and followed him outside. Already, the same two boys had arrived, waiting for the honor of helping him into his armor. Diana wanted to help, but it was a privilege reserved for the adolescent boys and she knew better than to interfere. She held on to his helmet instead, running her fingers through the black plume that ornamented its peak while she watched the boys tie Anatoly into his armor and check for the fourth time all the iron and lacquered-leather strips that made up the body of his armor. For her was reserved the honor of belting on his saber. She did so gravely, and handed him his helmet. He put it on. A boy brought his horse, and Anatoly mounted. The other boy gave him his spear and, last, one of Bakhtiian's officers rode up and handed to Anatoly his staff of command.

Anatoly smiled down at Diana. He looked utterly confident. He looked magnificent, with his fair hair and his gleaming, plumed helmet, his polished armor and bright silk surcoat. He reined his horse aside and rode away, leaving her there. She watched him go. A horrible weight pressed against her chest, like a stone caught in her heart. She was convinced that she would never see him alive again. A bleak agony settled onto her, and she felt that every emotion except dread had been washed away with the first light of morning.

The boys had already excused themselves and run away to other duties. In such a camp, on such a day as this, no one had patience for idle hands. Diana went back into her tent. Shrugging on her old khaki tunic, she set out for the hospital. In the distance, she heard the steady thudding of the siege engines, hurling stones and flaming arrows into Karkand.

Ursula greeted David with a cheerful wave as he passed her on his way to Cara's tent. She had risen so far in Bakhtiian's estimation that she now had her own little entourage, including an adolescent boy and girl who helped her arm herself in her lamellar cuirass. David himself had deigned to borrow a heavy felt coat and a khaja helmet for the day's work. He tossed the helmet on the carpet under the awning of Cara's tent and went inside. In the inner chamber, he stopped short. Bright lights shone over the counter, and a transparent wall had been rolled down behind Cara and Jo where they bent over the counter, separating them from the rest of the room. He caught a glimpse of something tiny and pale, under their hands, and all at once he felt bile in his throat and he knew he was going to throw up.

"Out," said Cara without turning around. He retreated into the outer chamber and sat down heavily in a chair, panting. "What do you want?" she demanded from the other room, her voice penetrating the distance easily.

"I thought they burned it." He barely managed to choke out the words. "Cara, how could you?"

But even as he said it, he knew how and why she could, why she had to. As an engineer, he understood the necessity for finding out why a structure had failed.

"But dial doesn't mean I have to like it," he added and felt nauseated again, seeing the tiny perfect fingernails on a minuscule hand.

Cara emerged from the back. She examined him but did not, mercifully, attempt to touch him. "I know," she said softly, "but it was too valuable simply to cast away."

"How did you manage the switch-? Never mind. I don't want to know. Does Tess know?"

"Of course not! And if you tell her, David, I'll flay you alive." Neither spoke for a moment. Cara suddenly wiped roughly at her cheeks with the back of a hand. "Dammit," she said, her voice thick. "You know how much it hurts, David. I just can't afford to cry. Not for the baby, not for any of them-all of them, every one I lose and all the ones I can't save."

"Oh, Cara," he said, and got up and hugged her. "I'll never tell."

Cara wept efficiently. She allowed herself three minutes and then she marshaled her forces, wiped her eyes, and washed her hands. "Where are you off to, in that coat?"

"I'm going down to the line. Tess wants Rajiv. Do you know where he is?"