The Law of Becoming: 4 (The Novels of the Jaran) by Kate Elliott Page B

noble one. That’s how the khaja do it.”
    “Oh.” Stefan looked mollified. “Poor woman. At least it wasn’t any of her choice. Still, it must be awful. Can you imagine—?” But he broke off, unable to voice what he didn’t want to imagine, or at least, what he did want to imagine, only for himself. He blushed and finally looked away from her, recalling proper manners. At least enough people moved about the bazaar that no one bothered to notice two young men loitering. Or if they did, they noticed Stefan, who was not just good-looking but had enough healer’s training to warrant respect. No one bothered to notice Vasha; he was just another dark-haired, slender boy a bit too old to still be helping with the horses. Surely that was what the khaja travelers thought of him. It galled.
    At last Merchant Bathori ambled over, leaving his own stalls where he sold cloth. The way he casually rested a hand where the back of her skirt curved out over her buttocks, the way he publicly patted and squeezed her, made Vasha’s skin crawl. Stefan, glancing over, jerked his gaze away. She did not seem to mind, however. Perhaps she had grown used to it.
    Vasha watched the transaction. The young woman wanted one of the tiny silver knives. But the odd thing was not that Bathori did not want to buy it for her—he seemed amenable—but that Sister Yvanne did not seem to want to sell it to her. They were the only two women in the merchants’ train. Surely as women they would have befriended one another. And what merchant refused a sale?
    The khaja were very confusing.
    “Vasha! What are you doing out here?”
    Vasha started and turned around, tensing. Even since he had arrived at Sakhalin’s army six months ago and seen Katerina again, he had felt awkward and stupid around her. She had been his dearest cousin, and his first lover, before she had left two years ago to ride with a jahar of archers in Sakhalin’s army. At first she had been happy to see him, but that had all changed. Now he wished she had stayed with Sakhalin instead of choosing to act as Rusudani’s escort back to the main camp.
    “What are you doing here?” he retorted.
    “I may go where I please, which is more than I can say for you!”
    “No doubt you’re still feeling clever because Sakhalin gave you the imperial staff.”
    “Oooh. That still rankles, does it? But why should Sakhalin vest authority for the journey in your hands when he won’t even trust you in his army? Because he’s sending you home in disgrace?”
    “Thank you for reminding me, since I’d obviously forgotten it.”
    “Oh, Vasha,” she said plaintively, her mood changing abruptly, as it often did. “Why did you have to act so stupidly?”
    But Vasha was too angry with her to listen to her sympathy now. He pointedly turned his back on her and looked back at the dispute going on between Sister Yvanne and Merchant Bathori. To his astonishment, a new party had entered the fray: Rusudani. She no longer concealed her face, but like all the women in Yos lands, she covered her hair with a scarf. She had a softer, rounder face than Bathori’s wife, and she was small, with plump hands, a delicate olive complexion, and dark eyes. The sight of her always made Vasha horribly embarrassed; not just that he thought her so pretty, but that he remembered what it was like to have her holding on to him so very very closely when they had ridden together away from the bandit raid, escaping back to the army. She had not so much as looked at him once since coming under Katerina’s wing.
    “She wanted to visit the bazaar,” said Katerina, sounding disgruntled, “so of course I came with her, since we’re the only women here. One never knows how the khaja will treat a woman alone.” But with her long knife at her belt and her quiver with arrows and unstrung bow, Katerina looked like a woman any person, even a khaja, would treat with respect. “Even if she is a princess.”
    “A noblewoman,” he