Claire Delacroix (2 page)

Optimism buoyed his step as he crossed the bailey. Mayhap this time the battle would be won. Mayhap this time all would be settled. He dared to hope for a moment, before his usual practicality settled in.

If naught else, ‘twould be good to see what kind of son Alienor and Dagobert had wrought.

* * *

‘Twas a day of beginnings and endings, a day on which all three men stepped onto the bright path of their destiny, though none of them knew where that path might lead. An old dream was there to pursue, a yet older score to settle, and none could foresee whether the demand for vengeance or the desire of ambition burned with the brighter flame.

Or mayhap a conquest of a gentler kind would win the day.

Tiflis—between the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea—

T
hierry knew the pearls were counterfeit.

He rolled the pearls leisurely across his palm under his would-be ally’s watchful eye. He wished he could either dismiss or justify his conviction. The gems looked real enough, but a glimmer in the other man’s eye had triggered Thierry’s suspicions.

And once active, his suspicion was not readily dismissed.

‘Twas true that there were a goodly number of the gems in the velvet sack he had been offered as tribute, all of it summoned in but half a day. He eyed the ivory spheres speculatively, hoping the other man merely thought he was assessing the value of the offering.

In truth, he supposed he was.

No salve to his pride was it to be treated as Abaqa’s runner, even after all these months, and he bit down on the increasingly familiar taste of annoyance. Still was he required to fetch tribute, to know all the while that each offering was considered a reflection of his own loyalty. Thierry gritted his teeth and let the gems play in his palm.

The pearls caught the light and indeed they gleamed with the luster of true pearls. This observation only served to give Thierry a grudging admiration of the counterfeiter’s skill.

The other man made a nervous little laugh that drew the gaze of both Thierry and his old companion Nogai.

“Surely such an expensive gift is adequate,” he said tentatively, the scholar’s soft voice translating immediately after the man spoke. The four men virtually filled the small office, though the two townsmen managed to leave an eloquent space between themselves and the Mongols. The unexpected comment prompted Thierry to give the man a slow and thorough perusal.

He struggled to keep his lip from curling at the softness of the man the town revered as their leader. The flesh was loose around his middle, the pallor of his hands made him look almost feminine. Still worse, there was a light of fear in his darting eyes. This was a man? A leader? One entrusted to negotiate the town’s safety? ‘Twas almost too much to be believed.

Never did the kind of man these merchants and townsfolk chose as leaders cease to surprise Thierry. No blade could this man swing, no knowledge had he of summoning and dispatching troops, no ability had he to defend his town.

Which explained the presence of Abaqa’s army camped just outside the town walls.

Thierry’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He watched the man’s flustered response to that move with interest before once more looking down to the gems cradled in his palm. Undoubtedly this was a shrewd man of business who could more than adequately govern his people under normal circumstances.

A man who likely thought he could outwit simple barbarians.

“Soon enough we shall see if the gift is adequate” was all he said, savoring the guttural sounds of the Mongol tongue. An admirable language it was for issuing threats, and that alone made him glad to have learned it.

The scholar Thierry had pressed into service translated his words and the townsman blanched. Nogai chuckled and the other man recoiled slightly, though he tried to hide the gesture. His glance darted once more to the little velvet sack in trepidation. Thierry spared the man an intent look as he tucked the sack into his tunic, watching until he swallowed nervously.

Counterfeit beyond doubt.

Thierry toyed briefly with the idea of taking retribution now for the insult, his gaze steady on the other man while he reflected. But better ‘twas to leave such a task to Abaqa, for he would relish it more than Thierry.

Revealing naught of his conclusion, Thierry held the man’s gaze for a long moment. Fear grew in those eyes as the other man’s imagination evidently conjured recollections of Mongol retaliation.

A reputation was not necessarily a liability in these matters.

Satisfied when the man’s eyes flicked to Nogai as though he expected the pair of them to fall immediately upon him, Thierry turned silently on his heel. He strode back out into the sunlight, the scholar and Nogai in his wake. He sensed rather than saw Nogai leer with deliberation at the town leader before he followed.

Thierry considered the twisting street, carefully gazing in first one direction and then the other. The agitated man he had left behind was forgotten as he planned his next step. His own survival in Abaqa’s camp had to be ensured, first and foremost.

“We should return to camp,” Nogai suggested. Thierry only shot a sharp glance in his direction.

“Not yet.”

Nogai frowned and folded his arms across his chest. “Why ever not? Surely you have not forgotten that we ride to battle tomorrow? This is but another whimsical test of Abaqa’s, and already have we expended too much time upon it.”

He waited with obvious anticipation, but Thierry merely shook his head again.

“We are not yet done” was all he said. He ignored the anticipation in the eyes of his
anda.

A pearl merchant was what Thierry needed.

A tribute of false pearls would not be good for the town leader’s health, nor indeed that of the town, should Abaqa discover the forgery. However, Thierry knew that it could also bode poorly for his own longevity and this interested him above all.

If he could expose a forgery before it created undue embarrassment, his usefulness would be assured.

For now. Thierry lifted his nose to the wind and determined that the souk was to the right. He gave no explanation to either of his companions before he strode determinedly in that direction, leaving them to scurry in his wake.

* * *

Kira frowned irritably at the bowl of pearls her father had left her to sort before his departure to Constantinople.

Naturally he had not granted her the task of sorting the pearls without a smug smile.

So my daughter fancies herself worthy of becoming a pearl merchant.
Kira could hear his mocking tones as clearly as if he stood beside her, and she grimaced yet again at the memory.

She would not cry. She had not cried when he beat her and she would not do so now. Had she not the opportunity she had wanted?

Then prove yourself. Tell me where they are from.
Still she could see him as he taunted her from the door. His condescending smile had told her that he had no doubt she would fail.

But she would not fail. Kira set her lips stubbornly. Here indeed was her chance to finally prove herself worthy of her father’s love. As worthy as a son could she be to aid in his business, and succeeding in this test could only prove that fact.

She would succeed. Kira did not fool herself, for there was much she needed to learn. No advantage had her sire granted her in teaching her only his native Persian, insisting that that language alone be spoken in their home. She well knew that as a merchant, he conversed readily in half a dozen tongues. But even Persian, as universal as it was, was often not enough within Tiflis itself.

Despite that handicap, Kira would prove herself. She was determined to do so. And this was the first necessary step.

Sadly, the truth was that her father had included some pearls of ambiguous origins, no doubt deliberately. Indeed, ‘twould not have been much of a test otherwise. She had already sorted out the obvious forgeries, but well enough she knew what her punishment would be should she make a single mistake.

Hundreds of gems there were. Kira squared her shoulders and took another handful of pearls. She slipped a half dozen of them into her mouth.

Salt. She spat the first one into the brimming bowl of pearls she had already determined to be from the Red Sea. Good sense did it make that there were more of them mixed into the batch, as they would fetch less at market. She nodded approvingly at her judgment.

Salt and salt again. Two more joined the bowl, then two less salty, but still saline.

The last pearl she rolled tentatively around with her tongue, wanting to be sure before she decided. Well could a pearl merchant’s reputation be shattered by the selling of lesser pearls as better ones and she schooled herself to be cautious.

Definitely sweet, she concluded with conviction. Definitely from Oman. The pearl joined a mere handful reposing in the second dish of sorted pearls.

Mayhap she was getting better at this, she thought with a rush of pride. She had been quicker with that mouthful. Feeling more optimistic, she scooped up another half dozen pearls and popped them into her mouth.

A guttural declaration drew her startled gaze toward the sunlight flooding from the market. A man’s tall frame blocked the light. Kira squinted at the man silhouetted in the alcove leading to her father’s shop, unable to make out his features in the shadows yet curiously aware of the weight of his gaze upon her.

Evidently her silent reaction was not the expected one. Kira’s heart tripped in trepidation. He repeated whatever he had said the first time, with a heavy emphasis more than adequately tinged with impatience.

No idea had Kira what he said and she knew not what to respond. She stood reluctantly, painfully aware of her short stature and wondering how on earth she would explain that she could not do business until her father returned.

“Where is your father?” another voice demanded breathlessly in familiar Persian. Kira looked past the massive man to find a well-known but markedly nervous face.

“Johannes,” she said with mingled relief and pleasure to see the scholar.

The forgotten pearls beneath her tongue stumbled unexpectedly from her lips when she spoke. Kira gasped as they danced to the ground and scattered. They glimmered in the shadowed shop and rolled away to hide in the corners.

Half-wit, Kira cursed herself, bending hastily to retrieve the gems as her color rose.

In the same moment the tall man muttered something vehement that could have been a curse and took a hasty step backward.

Another male voice protested and Kira confirmed with a quick glance that there was a third man behind the tall one. He was considerably more agitated than his companion. He gesticulated to the fallen pearls, his hasty words similarly incomprehensible though he said much, much more.

Kira hastily gathered the errant gems before they were lost. She dropped them into her pocket and straightened, only to find all three men regarding her with utmost solemnity. The hairs pricked on the back of her neck. Kira looked instinctively to the tall man. His expression was tinged with a healthy measure of suspicion.

Suspicion of
her?
Why?

The tall man’s retreat had taken him out of the shield of the shadows and Kira spared him a questioning glance, undeterred by his stern countenance. He was heavily tanned or else darker of skin than she, his expression hard and uncompromising. His shoulders were broad, his forearms heavily muscled, his strong legs planted against the dirt floor like veritable tree trunks.

Kira fancied he would be about as easy to move as a firmly rooted tree and had little doubt he earned his way as a mercenary of one kind or another. He was garbed in a rough manner unfamiliar to her, his blue tunic, although as dirty as his dark blue trousers and heavy boots, unexpectedly trimmed with lavish gold embroidery.

Fear flickered within her but she refused to indulge it. Who were these men and what did they want? She met the steely glint of suspicion in his eyes, something about his very stillness making her wish he had stayed in the shadows. He apparently had a similar effect on the normally garrulous Johannes, who spared a quick glance to the tall man in much the same manner as one would regard an unfamiliar and potentially vicious dog.

Kira looked to the third man, his Asiatic features making her heart still. He sported a pointed goatee and thin mustache, unlike his companion, who was clean shaven. Both men wore their hair tied back tightly and bound into a braid, but the very sight of the shorter man’s distinctively narrow eyes fed Kira’s fear.

It could not be, she told herself wildly, even as she watched Johannes eye the two foreigners. Kira shivered at the possibility she could not even voice within her own mind and willed herself not to take a step backward. Never had she shown her sire her fear. She would show none to these strangers. Kira swallowed carefully and deliberately squared her shoulders.

“My father has gone to Constantinople, so the stall is not open for business,” she explained formally to the scholar. The expression of raw fear that transformed the older man’s features startled her and she flicked a glance to the impassive warrior.

“Nay, nay, nay,” Johannes fussed, literally wringing his slim hands before himself. “This is not good, not good at all.”

The tall man barked something short but incoherent that was clearly a demand. Kira’s trepidation rose as Johannes responded quickly in kind, the third man’s dark eyes bright in the shadows as he watched.

“What is this about?” she demanded, her uncertainty making her speak more sharply than was her custom.

The tall man’s eyes narrowed speculatively and he spoke tersely to Johannes. The way his gaze wandered over Kira sent reluctant color rising over her cheeks.

She was
not
that sort of woman.

Kira lifted her chin indignantly and boldly held his gaze. She knew that her heavy, draped and hooded djellaba thrown over her high-necked
kurta
was demure beyond even the current mode, and that her full
chalwar
trousers hid all but her ankles from view. No need had she to tempt the glances of men in town, for that, too, bore the price of her father’s lash.

Was that amusement briefly flickering in the warrior’s eyes? Kira dismissed her whimsical thought out of hand, knowing intuitively that a sense of humor would not be an attribute of this rough warrior. Indeed, she had not found it an attribute of men in general, unless they mocked at another’s expense.

“He wants to know when your father will return,” Johannes translated. Kira shrugged in response.

“Just last week ‘twas that he left,” she confessed, incapable of tearing her gaze away from those scrutinizing eyes even though she felt that they bored into her very soul. “No less than a month could his journey require.”