An earthly crown

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

In the confusion, Tess escaped. She backed up, spun, and sprinted for her horse, which had been left with reins dangling to wait for her return. Bracing her left foot in the stirrup, she swung on and urged the mare away. She shook with rage and self-disgust.

How dare they reduce her to a pawn? How dare they try to force her to choose between them? And, oh God, she hated herself for letting them. She had just stood there, gaping like an idiot, paralyzed. Charles had not changed, not one bit, and she was still terrified of him. And Ilya! She thought her heart might well burst with anger.

She was out of sight of camp by now, and she slowed the mare to a halt and dismounted to lean against her shoulder. Zhashi nuzzled her cheek and then nosed at her belt, trying to pry her shirt loose.

"Stop that, you miserable beast," Tess said with affection. "I don't have anything for you." She rubbed Zhashi's forehead with her knuckles and then found a tangled stretch of mane and combed it free with her fingers. Distracted, she fished in her pouch and brought out a length of ribbon, which she braided into Zhashi's mane. Zhashi submitted to this attention with the patience of the vain.

It was soothing work. The bitter truth was, she was still running away. She was still afraid to face Charles. And Ilya-

"The other bitter truth is, Zhashi, that I love him too much. He's been gone for a month, and when I saw him walking across to us, it was like seeing the sun rising. Lord, I sound like any love-sick adolescent. But he's so beautiful." Zhashi snorted in disgust and bent her head to rip up a clump of grass. "Oh, certainly not more beautiful than you, my dear. How could I ever have said such a thing?" Tess chuckled, then sobered, tying off the ribbon. "Oh, Zhash, I don't know what to do."

Zhashi resumed grazing. The indistinct gold of the plain extended without interruption to the sharp line that separated grass and sky. Thin strings of cloud laced one half of the sky, trailing down below the horizon. The wind blew-the wind always blew here-whipping the tall grass into a frenzy. At the horizon, she could see the amorphous mass of a herd of horses, out grazing. The sun hung a handsbreadth above the horizon, sinking, and the moon already shone, pale, in the deepening blue of the sky.

She had to go back, of course. She mounted and headed back toward camp, back toward Charles's encampment. An hour or two with Charles, then back to her own tent for the reunion with Ilya. That ought to satisfy both of them, as a beginning.

But as she came into sight of camp, a rider intercepted her. It was Ilya. She considered for an instant trying to avoid him, but it was undignified, for one thing, and for the other, he could outride her without thinking about it, and he was mounted on his stallion, Kriye. She pulled up instead and waited.

Kriye began to prance, showing off for Zhashi as Bakhtiian reined him in beside Tess. With a ruthless tug on the reins, Bakhtiian brought the black to an abrupt halt. "Damned horse," Bakhtiian muttered. Then he looked up at her.

More than any other feature, it was his eyes that Tess loved. They burned. They were lit, pervaded by an intensity that was perhaps, just perhaps, a little mad. Obsessed, at the very least, but no more so than Charles was obsessed. Charles just hid it better.

"Tess." His voice sounded hoarse. He reached out and took hold of her left hand, gripping it tightly.

"Oh, Ilya," she said impulsively. "I missed you."

From her hand, it was but a turn of the wrist for him to take hold of her reins and commandeer them for himself. Zhashi minced, objecting to this kidnapping. "You're coming with me," said Ilya, and started back for camp, leading Zhashi.

"Damn you." Tess went red. "Give me back my reins."

"You're coming with me."

''I won't have you leading me through camp like this.''

He did not reply. His trail led away from the distant Soerensen enclave, around the fringe of tents. But she saw quickly enough what he was doing. Vladimir and Anatoly Sakhalin stood waiting at the edge of camp to receive the horses. Tess was damned if she'd make a scene in front of them. She dismounted, handed Zhashi over to Sakhalin, and hoped like hell that the chestnut mare would kick him.

Then she relented. Seeing Anatoly's arm in a sling reminded her too bitterly of Kirill Zvertkov, who had never regained use of his injured arm. "What happened?" she asked Anatoly.

"Speared and trampled," he said cheerfully. He wiggled the fingers of his left hand. "But you see, the prince's healer says I'll be free of this sling in a hand of days."

"Ah. Dr. Hierakis looked at you. I'm glad." She smiled at the young man, whom she liked well enough, except for his doglike devotion to Bakhtiian. "But then again," she remarked aloud, walking alongside Ilya into the darkening expanse of camp, "they're all besotted with you."

He had a good grip on her wrist, but he walked so close to her that anyone passing them might not mark that he was forcing her to go along with him. "Not all of them," he replied. "I'm sending Suvorin and his jahar to the coast. His sister's son died in the battle. I'm keeping his son with my thousand, now."

"A hostage for Suvorin's good behavior."

"It's a great honor, to ride with my jahar."

' 'It's a great honor to ride in any of the first rank jahars. Like Yaroslav Sakhalin's jahar. Those that are allowed to, that is."

His fingers tightened convulsively on her wrist, but he did not rise to the bait. Fuming, Tess kept silent. They walked the rest of the way without saying one single word. At last they came to the clearing in the center of camp that housed her tent. Its colors had already gone dull in the deepening twilight. The golden banner of the army that graced its peak fluttered and sank in the dying wind. No one accosted them here, as if the camp had been emptied out before their arrival. Around the great tent in a crescent stood the other tents of the Orzhekov family, those who remained here with the army: Sonia's tent, Nadine's tent, Aleksi's little tent and those of a few female cousins. At the very edge of the crescent stood the tent of Juli Danov and her husband Nikolai Sibirin, bridging the gap between the tents of the Orzhekov family and those surrounding the center of camp who were of the Orzhekov tribe. Beyond them, in the same kind of clusters, spread the tents of the other tribes of the first rank, Sakhalin and Grekov, Suvorin and Arkhanov, Velinya and Raevsky and Vershinin and Fedoseyev. And beyond them, their daughter tribes, and their daughters' daughter tribes, the army of the jaran.

Three figures waited under the awning of Tess's tent. Ilya did not let go of her even after they crossed onto the carpet. "Out," he said to the occupants.

Sonia Orzhekov rose. Her blonde hair was braided with ribbons and beads, giving her a festive look, but her normally cheerful expression was stern. "Cousin," she said to Ilya, "I expect better manners from you."

"I beg your pardon, cousin." He bent at once and kissed her on either cheek, and for an instant his expression softened. "Where are the little ones?

"Well away," said Sonia ominously.

"Then," he said stiffly, "if you please, I would like a word alone with my wife."

Sonia crossed over to Tess and gave her adopted sister a hug. "Well," she said, "I'm glad to see you home safely, at any rate." She flashed a glance back at Bakhtiian, but did not elaborate on her statement. "Come along, Aleksi." Aleksi followed her away.

Nadine rose as well, heading after them.

"You'll stay," said Ilya abruptly. "I want your report."

Nadine halted and turned to face her uncle. "You don't really want my report. You're just exacting vengeance because I took Tess with me despite what you wanted."

"Orzhekov, you are a jahar leader because of your skill, not because you are my niece. I expect you to behave accordingly. Now, your report."

Like her uncle, Nadine had the ability to make her face go still, revealing no emotion. In a tight voice, she delivered her report of their journey.

"And the ambassador?" Ilya asked. "Where is he now?"

"I installed him in the northeastern corner with the other foreign embassies. May I make a suggestion?"

"You may."

"When you receive him, I suggest you put the fear of the gods into him.''

"Ah," said Ilya, looking for an instant thoughtful rather than angry. "I understand. You may go."

"Thank you." With a curt nod, Nadine left.

"That certainly was both comprehensive and enlightening," said Tess in Rhuian, drawling slightly. "I have nothing to add to her edifying report. Now, I'll join Nadine." She did not move, however, because he still had hold of her wrist.

In khush, without looking at her, he said: "I haven't given you permission to leave."

"Haven't you? I wasn't aware that I required your permission to leave."

Now he turned. "I expressly told you not to leave camp."

"Yes, you did, and it finally occurred to me that since you won't trust me as a soldier, then I might as well act as your wife. And by the gods, Ilya, as your wife, you have no authority over me whatsoever.'' She twisted her wrist in his hand and jerked herself free of his grip. But as she started away, he caught her arm. "People are staring," she snapped.

"Let them stare." He flung his other arm around her waist and with no warning dragged her bodily backward and into the tent. Pressed this close against him, she could feel that he was shaking. Inside, two lanterns burned, casting a glow across the interior: the table and chair, khaja work, to one side, where she wrote; an empty bronze cauldron with a smaller cauldron nested inside; a small bronze stove with two handles; a wooden chest carved with stylized horses; a standing cabinet with hinged doors, another piece of khaja work; and the tapestry that concealed the sleeping area.

"One month it has been," he said, his voice so low that Tess knew he was in a rage. "You didn't even greet me."

"My God. You're jealous."

"You disobeyed my direct orders not to leave camp."

"You refused to let me go to the coast with you, to meet Charles. Gods, Ilya, what did you expect me to do?" Standing this close to him, she felt her anger ebb. "Did you really think I'd wait meekly for you to return?" For an instant, she thought he was going to smile. But to her surprise, he let go of her and strode over to the table, sitting down in the chair. He regarded her from this uncharacteristic seat, glowering at her. Fine, then, if he didn't want a truce. Tess was more than happy to continue the argument.

"You didn't tell me that your brother holds me in such contempt," he said at last.

That took her off guard. "What are you talking about?"

"What am I to think? He is a great prince, and he comes attended with a handful of assistants, only one of whom is a soldier-and she a woman-and, by the gods, a company of actors. Is this the kind of state he keeps? Does he think my power so trivial that he fears me not at all? What if I chose to kill him, claim Jeds for myself through my marriage with you, and march south? Oh, I know it's a long journey overland, through many khaja princedoms, and I would never attempt it with the army I have now-but what is ten years to me, Tess? If I kill him now, and consolidate my power here, what is to stop me from marching on Jeds and conquering all the lands between?"

Even when she knew an ambush was coming, she was never prepared for it, because he always attacked from an entirely different position than the one she expected. Damn him. What could she say? What should she say? What he read in her silence she didn't know. In any case, he went on.

' 'Why should he put himself in my power in this way? He doesn't fear me. Does he think I am incapable of desiring to have what is his? That my awe of Jeds is so great that I fear him? That your influence with me will stop me from harming him?''

"But why should you kill him?" Tess asked at last, her voice perfectly calm because she was still too surprised by this sudden confession to know what to make of it. "What good would it do you?"

He stood up, pushing himself up with one hand on the table. It rocked slightly, and then he lifted his hand and crossed to Tess in five strides. "Unless he never meant to come out on the plains at all," he said quietly. "We have nothing to negotiate. Jeds is too far away and I am young in my power. In time, certainly, but I can just as well ride north and east along the Golden Road. What if he brought no entourage because he never meant to leave his ship? If you had come with me to the coast, he could have put you on board the ship and sailed south."

Which was perfectly true. Trust Ilya to have seen it. Trust Charles to have made the point clear without ever stating it aloud. And leaving her to deal with it. "But what about the actors, then?" she asked, knowing the question was a flanking action.

"The actors," said Ilya, with the merest quirk of a smile, "are all mad, clearly. But like all entertainers, they must know they are welcome anywhere. Like all singers-of-tales, they are given both the favor and the protection of the gods. I will do them no harm."

"And meanwhile, you have offered me a grave insult. How dare you have so little respect for my dignity that you would lead my horse as if I was a child and then drag me by main force back through camp like that?''

He looked taken aback by this direct attack. He looked a little embarrassed. "Tess." He placed his hands on her shoulders and slid them up to cup her face in his palms. He swayed toward her.

"Don't think this will work," she murmured, and then she leaned into him and kissed him, running her hands from his belt up the smooth silken line of his back. The hard knot of his belt buckle pressed against her, and she had to shift her hips slightly to keep her saber hilt from tangling with his sheathed knife.

He broke off the kiss and sighed, gathering her into him, and kissed her along the line of her jaw up to her right ear. "If he takes you away from me," he whispered, as softly as an endearment, "then I promise you that I will destroy Jeds."

Tess stiffened in his embrace and slid her hands around to his chest, bracing herself away from him. He let go of her. "What if I decide to leave of my own free will?"

So many expressions chased themselves across his features that it took her a moment to recognize the one that lay underneath all the others. He was afraid. Ilya was afraid of losing her.

He threw his arms around her, enclosing her, and yanked her tight against him. "By the gods, I will stop you."

"How?"

He did not answer in words. Words contained the least part of the language they spoke to one another. The heat of his hands burned on her skin. Tess traced the line of his beard, traced his lips, with her fingers. Her hands ranged down to the clasp of his belt, and she eased it away and let it drop onto the soft pile of carpets.

"Tess," he said again, hesitant.

Tess got her hands under his shirt and slid them up, over his chest, teasing the nipples and then, when he was breathless, steering him backward through the curtain into the sleeping alcove. By shifting her foot, she tripped him, and he tumbled down onto the heap of silken pillows, pulling her with him. Astride him, she eased off his shirt, and let him unbuckle her belt and thrust it away. She captured his hands and pressed them against her.

"Promise me," she said. "Promise me you will not threaten my brother."

"Damn you." He was angry, still, but he was also laughing. "It gains me nothing, now, to kill him, and you know it."

"Then it costs you nothing to promise me. He is your ally, Ilya, you must believe that."

He shifted his hips beneath her and used the toe of one boot to pry off the other. "He cares nothing for me, Tess, except that I married you."

"That isn't true."

"Isn't it? Then tell me he would have come here, that he would even send an embassy to the jaran, if you weren't here."

"Jeds is far away-"

"Gods, Tess," he said, exasperated. With an expert twist, he freed his hands and flipped her over, so that he lay on top of her. He found the tip of her braid and undid it, loosening her hair until it lay free, spread out on the pillows.

"You haven't promised me yet," she said stubbornly.

He sat back with a great sigh and took off his other boot. She lay still on the pillows, watching him in the soft light of the lanterns. He kept his black hair cut short, a fashion that had spread among his soldiers, and he was obsessive about keeping his beard neat and trimmed. Whether by accident or by design, the lantern light haloed him, giving him a haze of light, as if the gods had long since marked him as their own. Which they had, according to the beliefs of his own people.

"I promise you that I will not threaten your brother as long as you stay with me," he said.

"Ilya!" It was her turn to be exasperated.

"We're negotiating, my wife. Now it is your turn to make a counteroffer.''

She sat up and took off her boots, and regarded him. Oh, she was still angry with him, but right now, it didn't matter. She laughed. "I'll consider it. Now, my husband, I think it time to remind you that you have been gone for a month, and you have certain obligations to your wife that you have not yet fulfilled."

"Most willingly," he murmured. "Gods, Tess, I missed you." He sank down with her into the soft bed of pillows.

Later, lying quiet, she stroked his hair while he kissed her fingers, one by one.

"We'll make a child," he said, and because it was habitual with him, it came out more an order than a request. "Do you know, by the time Niko was my age he was a grandfather." Then, content for now, he sighed and nestled his face against her neck, tangling himself in with her and, as he often did, he fell asleep immediately.

A grandfather. The word looped over and over in her thoughts as she lay still, staring at him. Thirty-seven-not old at all. But here, if he lived another thirty years, it would be a miracle. Whereas she could expect to live another eighty or ninety years: the thought of living in a universe without him in it-she winced away from even thinking about it.

She sought out the silver in his hair, but there was not enough yet to show up in the dim light, not enough to lighten his black hair. He had sun-weathered skin, but like all the jaran, the wrinkles came late and slowly. She traced the scar on his cheek-the scar of his marriage to her-and farther down, to one on his shoulder, along his chest to the flat line of his abdomen, to his hips. Easing out from under his arm, she pulled away from him and covered him with a thick quilt of fur. He slept, undisturbed by these attentions.

But the signs were beginning to show: cuts, superficial wounds that did not heal as quickly, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He would grow old, truly old, and she would still be young.

She dressed, braided her hair, and went outside. It was dark now and most of the camp was quiet. In the direction of the Sakhalin encampment some kind of carousing was going on, doubtless in celebration of Anatoly Sakhalin's elevation to a command of his own.

Under the light of lanterns hung from the awning of her tent, Sonia sat with Nadine. She was sewing together two strips of woven cloth, with Nadine aiding her.

"Well, well," called Sonia as Tess ducked under her awning. "So you survived that, did you?"

"Damned arrogant bastard," said Tess, bending to give Sonia a kiss. "It's good to be back."

Sonia chuckled. "You should have greeted him first, Tess."

"I can't believe you say that, Sonia. Of all people."

Sonia grinned. "Oh, not for his sake, or even his dignity, Tess. You must think of the rest of us, although I trust he'll be in a better humor when he wakes."

"He ought to be. Where are the children?"

"I sent them off to the Sakhalin celebration."

"Aren't you going yourself?"

"Mother warned me that I mustn't defer to Mother Sakhalin too much."

"Oho," said Tess, "very clever, then, to send the children but not yourself. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to return to my brother.''

"I hear that Anatoly Sakhalin has fallen in love with one of the actors," said Sonia. "Perhaps you'll look her over for me."

Tess shrugged. "I don't know who you mean."

"Yes, you do," said Nadine suddenly. "The one who fainted. Well timed, you know, from a tactical point of view.''

"Good Lord. What would Anatoly Sakhalin want with a khaja wife, anyway?"

Both Sonia and Nadine laughed. "My dearest Tess," said Sonia with a grin, "he wants to be like Ilya, of course."

"Gods." Feeling that this expressed everything that was left to express, Tess took her leave and walked back through camp to her brother's enclave.

Here it was not quiet. Coming up on the two sets of tents pitched just beyond the army, Tess recognized with a shock the life of a society that was at once familiar and distant to her, after four years on Rhui. Day and night were equal to these people. Even though here they had to rely on lantern light, still they did not put aside their activities with the sunset and begin again with sunrise. She paused in the gloom outside the ring of light, watching.

Under Charles's awning sat Charles and Cara and David-those three she knew from before. Maggie sat with them, and a handful of others she had not met. As she watched, a trio walked in from the side, laughing and talking in voices trained to carry: a few of the actors, evidently. Tess marked out Diana, the young golden-haired actress; she was pretty, of course, but more than that, she seemed to carry light with her wherever she went. Rather like Ilya, however ironic that might be, except that Diana shone with sweetness and a fine, generous spirit, not with stark power.

Tess felt a presence move at her back and she turned to see a man approaching her. He was tall and bulky-not fat, not at all, but much bigger than jaran men.

He halted beside her, crossing his arms on his chest. "The Tess I knew wouldn't have spotted me coming."

"Hello, Marco. I didn't get a chance to greet you properly, before. I wanted to thank you for your letter." She chuckled. "How long ago that seems. 'Your dear old uncle Marco,' indeed. I always thought you didn't much like children."

"I never know what to do with them," he replied curtly. She glanced at him, curious, but he was looking at the group under the awning. He was looking at Diana. "Is it true that you're married to him?" he asked without taking his eyes from the young actress.

"Yes, it's true. Didn't Charles tell you?"

"He didn't tell anyone, but I guessed, and he didn't deny it. Cara only found out five days ago, because she read the letter you wrote to Charles."

"Of course. He wouldn't want the Chapalii to know, since by their laws a female upon marriage takes her husband's status. And since Rhui has no intelligent life, by Chapalii measure, that would mean I had descended to the level of horses and wolves. That's why Charles told them the fiction that I'm out here doing linguistics research, isn't it?"

Now Marco turned to look at her. "Tess, didn't you know that according to the Chapalii Protocol Office, you're dead?"

She laughed, short and surprised, put her hand to her throat, and lowered it again. "Am I, really? But then-?"

"Then what? Charles did not protest the announcement, so in fact you're officially dead and only a few of his intimates and now, of course, the Bharentous Company, know the truth."

"But, Marco-" She felt a surge of hope and lifted her cold hands to suddenly hot cheeks. "That means he's free to adopt. He's not bound to our blood tie any longer, and he can adopt someone else as his Chapalii heir." It was like a cord bound around her heart had been cut through, freeing her. "That means he doesn't need me anymore."

"I wish it was that easy. The cylinder from the Morava site is a priceless piece of information for our side, Tess, but it's configured awkwardly and we've got to have the parameters of the system installed at Morava in order to get at its deep structure. Those damned chameleons don't have any standard programs. It's all in the interrelationship of systems. If Rajiv can't crack it, then we'll have to bring in one of the Keinaba experts.''

"Keinaba? You mean the Chapalii merchant house? How can you bring them in here, or to Morava?"

"They're Charles's now. They transferred their house pledge to him. It's all proper and affirmed by the emperor himself. It's a long story, anyway.''

"What does that have to do with his adopting a new heir?"

"He's holding you in reserve, Tess. You're the ace up his sleeve. Charles didn't make the proclamation that you were dead. Another Chapalii duke did."

"Oh, hell. Charles is jumping feet first into court intrigue, isn't he? If he needs to discredit this other duke, then he'll produce me, and-there you are-public shame. The Tai-en will have to leave court and perhaps even be stripped of his title."

Marco shook his head. "Tess, you amaze me. You speak their language better than any human I know, and you seem to understand how they work. Don't you see that Charles can't afford to lose you?"

"Lose me, or my expertise?"

"There's no difference."

She stared at the gathering under the awning, at these outlandish alien beings, large of limb and clothed in gaudy, foreign clothing. They laughed, and the pitch of their voices as they spoke was strange to her, producing exotic sounds and disorienting syllables. Then she realized that they were speaking Anglais and that she could understand them perfectly well.

"Marco," she demanded, "why are you talking to me in Rhuian?"

"I didn't want to startle you. Do you want to go in now?"

"No. But I will anyway."

"Lamb to the slaughter," said Marco in Anglais.

Tess snorted in disgust and walked in. Charles noted her immediately, of course, and stood up. Formally, he introduced her to Rajiv and Joanna and Ursula, and Maggie introduced her to the two other actors, Gwyn Jones and Hal Bharentous. A moment later, Tess realized that Marco had not followed her in. She glanced out into the darkness, but could not see him, lurking or otherwise. She sat down on a camp stool and wondered what in hell she was going to say to these people.

"You're looking well, Tess." David sat down beside her. He smiled, awkward, and Tess was so thankful for the sight of a familiar and unthreatening face that she smiled warmly back at him. "You're looking very-" He hesitated. "Very well. Very different."

"Thank you, David. It's been a long time. You're looking well yourself. Lord, it sounds strange to hear myself speaking Anglais after all this time."

"How do you like it out here?"

He was kind, really, to make this kind of small talk, to try to set her at ease. But David had always been kind, and Tess recalled his sojourn at Prague, their six-months-long love affair with fondness for what he had given her: confidence that she was attractive in and of herself. Without him, she might have spent her whole life believing that any least bit of attention paid her was only on account of Charles. He had recalled her to the self-respect she'd had as a child; for that, she would always be grateful to him.

"… and how did you get that scar?" David asked and, daringly, lifted a hand to touch her cheek. Tess had a sudden, vivid memory of the time they'd taken one of the ducal shuttles into Earth orbit and tried to make love in freefall. He met her gaze and she knew, immediately, that they were thinking the same thing. They both laughed.

"Sojourner warned us, didn't she?" Tess said. "But we refused to follow her instructions. How is she, anyway? Do you know?"

"She's doing very well. Handfasted to an aspiring young diplomat named Rene Marcus Oljaitu. After she finished her dissertation two years ago, she talked Charles into letting her and Rene apprentice to the Keinaba house."

"Well. Good for Sojourner. Firsthand xeno experience, and they'll be the first humans placed directly inside a Chapalii house, even if it is only a merchant house."

"Don't underestimate the Keinaba, Tess." Charles placed a stool beside her and sat down. "They're one of the richest merchant houses in the Empire."

"But, Tess," said David, "you never did tell me how you got that scar. In a battle?"

Others stood around them. Of course, she was the curiosity of this little gathering, the center, the focus. They'd had each other on the long journey, and now they had her. "No, it's-" She hesitated. How to tell them: it's what the men do when they marry their wives? Thrust in among her own people, she recalled her own reaction when she first found out about the mark of marriage. It was barbaric. It was mutilation.

What would they think of her, knowing that she had allowed herself to be mutilated? What did they think of her in any case, sitting here with her jaran clothes and her long hair braided in jaran style, looking quite jaran, except for her brown hair and green eyes and her unusual height, for a woman? Like an actor, desperately trying to live a role not meant for her.

"It's nothing," she said finally. Charles was looking at her approvingly. What did he think? That she knew better then to jeopardize his position, and her own, by revealing a marriage that would ruin her status within the Empire and perhaps cause him to face ridicule and shame? Shame, which was fatal. Or could he even imagine what the scar represented? That she had marked-mutilated-her own husband, quite against jaran custom, in return?

She didn't belong with these people anymore, these people from her impossibly distant past.

"May I please?" Maggie dislodged David from his seat. "Tess, look at this." She handed Tess a flat rectangle, smooth of surface, curved at its edge. "I took the abstract you wrote for Charles and applied a rather primitive translation program to it. For khush, you know."

Tess stared at the computer slate in her hand. An illegal slate, brought downside, brought with the party. Of course Charles did not fear Ilya. He must have weapons with him, just as Cha Ishii and his Chapalii party had hidden weapons with them, four years ago, when they had made their illicit journey together across the plains with Bakhtiian and his jahar.

Then a word caught her eye. "That's wrong." She tapped a few keys, and found the program structure, and recoded a few lines. "No, it's fine, Maggie, but you're right, it's a primitive program for this kind of translation work. And the abstract I sent to Charles was limited in and of itself, since I had to hand-write it. And it was a preliminary draft, in any case, and very rough."

"Here, my dear." Cara Hierakis leaned in and offered Tess a cup half-filled with some dark liquid. "I brought a good supply of Scotch with me. Will you have some?"

"Scotch?" Oh yes, Scotch.

"I suppose," said Ursula, drifting by on the edge of the conversation, "that they drink fermented mare's milk out here."

Tess blinked. "At festivals. How did you know? They call it-" She took a sip of the scotch, made a face, and huddled back over the computer slate, seduced by its promise. "Oh, if I only had a modeler, I could compile a full translation model in all media, networked through… Hell, through Rhuian, Anglais-not Chapaliian, of course, the Protocol Office doesn't let you interlink Chapaliian-Ophiuchi-Sei."

"But we do have a modeler with us," said Maggie.

"You do! This is wonderful!" At that moment, Tess glanced up to see that everyone was beaming at her in relief, as if they had only now been reassured that the poor misguided thing had been rescued from the barbarians intact.

At that moment, Tess decided to get drunk.