February 25, 1812

Rengar, Kazan

Smell it, Marianna.” Gregor lifted his head and sniffed enthusiastically. “There are no scents on earth like the ones here in Kazan.”

Marianna obligingly sniffed, but she could tell little difference from the scents here and those at Domajo and Southwick. “Very nice.”

“You needn’t be polite. We all know Gregor suffers from an incurable malady,” Jordan said as he joined them at the rail of the ship. “He believes that even the air in Kazan is sweeter, the horses bigger and faster, and the people stronger and more intelligent.”

“I believe it because it is true,” Gregor protested. “You will see, Marianna.” He took her arm and pulled her toward the gangplank. “Come, Jordan, why are you tarrying?”

“The horses have to be saddled and unloaded.” He followed them down the gangplank. “The palace is over four miles from the dock. It would be pleasant to have some form of transportation, don’t you think? Even though Cambaron horses are only adequate compared to Kazan’s vastly superior horseflesh.”

“Palace?” Marianna asked.

“If we’re to receive help, we must petition the ravin,” Jordan explained. Then, as he saw her worried frown, he added, “It’s only a formality. Kazan has no desire to let Nebrov keep a weapon that could be aimed at them.”

“This has gone on too long,” Marianna said. “We don’t need another delay.” The journey from England had seemed to last an eternity, stretching her nerves to their limits. The idea of having to linger in a foreign palace was unbearable.

“There’s a possibility that there may also be some information waiting for us,” Jordan said. “Janus is watching Nebrov, and he has orders to send identical messages to the ravin at the same time he sent them to me.”

“There they are.” Gregor strode toward the horses being led down the gangplank. He soothingly stroked the nose of his big stallion. “Here we are on hard, firm ground again,” he crooned. “You will be much happier now.” He swung onto the saddle. “Come, let us go.” He didn’t wait for them but spurred ahead down the cobblestone street.

Marianna shook her head in wonderment. She had never seen Gregor so full of joy. His scarred face had been luminous. “He’s so happy.”

“He’s home,” Jordan said simply.

“He must care a great deal for you to stay in England.”

He lifted her onto her saddle. “I know that fills you with amazement, but, yes, he does care about me.” He swung onto his horse and nudged him forward. “And, of course, there is always the matter of duty. Gregor always does his duty.”

In spite of the mocking words she became aware of an odd tension suddenly charging him. It dawned on her that he could be mitigating the difficulty of getting the ravin’s help. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong. Everything is perfect. Ask Gregor.”

“You don’t like Kazan?” Her forehead knitted in perplexity. “But isn’t protecting Kazan the reason you’re determined to get the Jedalar?”

“I never said I didn’t like Kazan. It’s far more home to me than Cambaron.”

The words were restrained, almost noncommittal, but there was something beneath them, something in his expression. Then she realized what it was. Why, he truly loved this country. In spite of his mocking words regarding Gregor’s passion for his homeland, his feeling was just as deep. But, being Jordan, he would not lift his mask to reveal it. “It’s not at all like Cambaron.”

Nothing could be less like that rocklike bastion of power than this city. Exotic onion-shaped towers and tall, graceful needle-thin spires abounded here. Instead of the sod or stone houses she was accustomed to seeing in the English countryside, the principal building material here appeared to be wood. Nearly all the houses and shops were flat-roofed and similar in design, but each had its own stamp of individuality, such as a lacy carving on a window box or colorful tiles on a doorstep. As they picked their way through the marketplace, she noticed each booth or stand had its own copper or porcelain samovar over a small fire.

She pointed at a tall flumelike structure at one side of the market where crowds of people had gathered. “What is that?”

“An ice slide. Every town and village in Kazan has at least one.”

She watched a little boy careen madly down the ice-coated funnel and land in a thick bank of snow. He picked himself up, whooping joyously as he ran around to get in line at the ladder again.

“Alex will love it.” she said eagerly, without thinking. “Can we-”

But Alex was not here. Alex might never-

“Yes, he will,” Jordan said firmly. “We’ll probably never get him off it.”

Hope. She must not despair; they still had hope and determination. Looking away from the children on the slide, she quickly changed the subject. “Gregor says the reason you hate Napoleon is because you love Kazan. Is that true?”

“Gregor has a habit of simplifying things.”

“Is it true?”

He shrugged. “I suppose it’s true.”

“Why? It’s not your country.”

“Because I wasn’t born here? Cambaron was given to me. I chose Kazan.”

“It’s so… different.”

“More than you know.” He smiled crookedly. “The first months I was here, I hated it. The people of Kazan didn’t realize what an honor it was to have me in their midst. They cared not a whit for my title or my money. I was not a savant, nor had I proved myself in battle. Therefore I was nothing. It was a very chastening experience for the spoiled hellion I was at the time.”

“Why did you stay?”

“There were reasons.” He grimaced. “One of which was anger. I would not be considered of unimportance. So when Tartar raiders descended on Kazan, I went with Gregor and his men to the steppes.”

“War?”

He nodded. “Kazan is nearly always at war with someone. Our land is rich only in minerals, but we have a valuable sea link to the Mediterranean.”

“Our land?”

“It became mine on the steppes. I bought it with blood.”

She shivered at the simple words that revealed so much. Those wars had changed him, hardened him, burned away the softness, and left him one with these strange, brutish people.

He was looking at the fluted towers of the distant palace, and she again became aware of some indefinable emotion seething just below the surface.

“Are you apprehensive about meeting with the ravin?”

“Not apprehensive.” His tore his gaze away. “Let us say, a trifle disturbed.” He spurred forward. “Come. At the speed Gregor is traveling, he’ll be sitting in the audience chamber before we even reach the palace gates.”

Gregor was not sitting in the audience chamber; he was pacing impatiently as Marianna and Jordan walked into the room. “I’ve sent a message that we are here. It should not be long.”

“Not unless it’s deemed wiser to keep us waiting,” Jordan said. “One never knows.”

“You are being unfair,” Gregor told him. “She will come.”

Marianna felt a ripple of shock. She?

“Jordan seldom feels it necessary to be fair to me. You should know that by now, Gregor.”

Marianna turned toward the doorway and the woman who had spoken.

Another shock, this one of stunning proportions. She knew this woman. She had spent hours studying that strong, beautiful face. It was older now, with tiny crow’s-feet at the corners of the slanted green eyes, but it was still beautiful and even stronger.

“I’m always fair to you. I’m merely cautious. You know how I hate to be disappointed.” Jordan came forward and lifted the woman’s hand to his lips. “You look lovely as always and perhaps even a little younger.”

Jordan’s mother. Marianna continued to stare in astonishment. Jordan’s mother had died when he was only a baby, and yet, looking at the two standing side by side, Marianna had no doubt they were mother and son.

“Of course I look younger,” the woman said. “I’ve decided I shall never grow old. Next year I intend to order all the clocks in Kazan stopped.”

“And all the calendars burned,” Gregor added. He lumbered toward her. “I shall see to it personally.”

A brilliant smile lit her face as she turned to him. “Gregor. Have you been well?”

He nodded. “Well enough.”

“With the tiny exception of a knife wound in his chest,” Jordan remarked.

The smile faded from her face. “Who?”

“Nebrov’s man, Costain.”

Her expression hardened. “Did you kill him, Jordan?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not? Do it yourself, or I will see that it’s done.”

“I believe the matter concerns me, Ana,” Gregor said mildly.

“Be quiet, Gregor. I’m not too pleased with you either. You must be getting feebleminded to let yourself be wounded by that vermin.”

She was the one who was being unfair, Marianna thought with irritation. “He was not feebleminded. There were seven men,” Marianna interjected. “And he walked six miles in the snow after they wounded him.”

The woman turned her head. “Ah, you have a champion. You must be Marianna Sanders.” Her keen glance raked Marianna from head to toe. “Gregor wrote me a good deal about you. I would like to see the window you did of me.” She grimaced. “Though that’s the only part of Cambaron I shall ever want to see again.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“I would have been dead, if I’d stayed there.” She turned and stared challengingly at Jordan. “It was strangling me.”

Jordan ignored the provocation. “Marianna, I’m honored to present Her Majesty, Ana Dvorak, Ravin of Kazan.” He smiled. “And you’ll be delighted to know you don’t have to curtsy. It’s not the custom in Kazan. A mere inclination of the head to show respect is all that’s required.”

“Providing that one feels such respect,” Ana Dvorak said with irony. “I suppose that Gregor’s wound is connected to the message I received from Janus three days ago?”