Claire Delacroix (9 page)

Death there was in the air, for naught else could that pervasive scent that tickled his nostrils be. Well the shaman knew that ‘twas no normal smell he caught in the wind, but a precognitive one that he alone of the tribe could discern.

But ‘twas there nonetheless, even if only to him, and the shaman knew not its source or meaning. He frowned and asked the elusive spirits, but they confided naught new to him. Their whispers assured him only that Death had passed and done his work already.

At least the Dark One came not for him this time.

Which gave the shaman pause to think. His eyes narrowed as Qaraq-Böke’s horse was lost in the distance, and he tapped his staff thoughtfully. The Dark One evidently had not come for that warrior, either.

Unfortunately. Far easier would life be without the threat of a nonbeliever becoming khan, even in the distant future. Despite the shaman’s efforts to undermine him, Qaraq-Böke continued to prove himself an able warrior. Indeed, should all continue thus, the shaman might well lose credibility with Abaqa, who was a believer. Only too willing had Abaqa been to believe his rival a poor warrior at first, but a few well-won battles might easily sway his mind.

And the shaman would have to ensure that he was not on the losing edge of that transition. He clicked his tongue against his teeth with dissatisfaction, wishing the spirits would be more forthcoming on this day. Something had gone amiss, for Berke’s troops were inexplicably gone. And should there be no battle, Qaraq-Böke could not be “accidentally” lost in the fray.

The shaman pursed his lips and hoped the men he had commissioned had more sense than he expected they did.

He recalled Abaqa’s unruly drinking and frowned. Unless he missed his guess, made even without the sheep bones, Abaqa would not boast the longevity of his sire. Nay, something had to be done about Qaraq-Böke before ‘twas too late. Annoying ‘twas that the man revealed no vulnerability, no weak spot that might be turned against him and that the shaman might use for his own advantage.

Even the shaman’s threats and premonitions of the previous night had apparently not affected the impassive warrior. And genuine they had been, as well. The shaman shook his head, disliking even further that Qaraq-Böke did not listen to the warnings of the spirits. One thing ‘twas to be a nonbeliever who would take little guidance from a shaman once empowered, quite another ‘twas to be a fool.

Aye, Qaraq-Böke could not be khan, under any circumstances. And since the shaman alone saw the threat, then he alone must correct the situation.

If only there was some weakness he could exploit. If only...

But of course. The shaman’s gaze drifted down the river to where the women were washing clothes. But of course. Too quick had Qaraq-Böke been to deny his interest in the Persian woman he had captured. That he had even bothered to capture her was of note in itself, when the man had not been known to ever take a woman.

The shaman smiled to himself, pleased with his own cleverness. Perfect ‘twas. For who, other than a shaman, could coax a reluctant pearl from the woman’s gullet without causing her harm?

The old crone who guarded the women would not dare to defy him.

* * *

This Kira did not trust.

The white-cloaked man who had claimed her from the river hauled her through the deserted camp, dodging between rows of tents with unexpected agility. His carved staff pounded regularly into the dirt as he walked, his other hand latched around her wrist with a will that brooked no argument. His long nails bit into her skin and Kira cringed at their yellow color, but made not a sound.

Kira liked not that the old harridan had made no protest. She liked not that she had never seen this man. She liked not that he dressed differently than the others. And she liked even less that her warrior was not here to witness the transaction.

Had the warrior passed her to another? Kira knew not and her heart pounded unevenly as her mind filled with ugly possibilities. That this man was not a warrior was evident by his dress, his staff making Kira wonder if he was some sort of religious man. He selected a tent that was white, not dark like the others, and impatiently tugged Kira inside. Her mouth went dry.

‘Twas shadowed inside despite the light-colored fleece and her eyes took a moment to adjust from the bright sunlight, though her companion hesitated naught. He lashed her wrists to the center pole with frightening efficiency, much as the warrior had done the night before, but this time the rope gnawed into Kira’s skin. She did not dare protest, but eyed him warily, wondering what lay in store for her.

The man pushed back his hood and smiled. Kira did not trust the sight.

She could not fathom a guess as to his age, which did little to reassure her.

Though his darkly tanned skin was smooth as a child’s, something lurked in his eyes that spoke of knowledge beyond what could be gleaned in one lifetime alone. His smile was toothless, the braid of his gray hair thick and luxuriantly long. His hands were as strong as a young warrior’s, as she had already experienced, yet his nails were as yellowed and long as a hermit’s. A drum hung at his side and his carved staff was fashioned into a horse’s head instead of a crook at its top. A trio of white animal tails dangled from the staff where the horse’s mane might have been.

His smile made everything within her go cold.

He said something in that vulgar guttural language they all used. Kira did not understand, but she boldly held his gaze in her determination not to show her fear. He spoke again, and though she could have been mistaken, Kira fancied that the language he used had changed. Still she did not comprehend the words, however.

“Well do I understand that you possess one of the khan’s pearls,” he said next, his Persian so impeccable that Kira was taken completely by surprise.

To her own disgust she answered before she thought to do otherwise.

“Aye,” she admitted. The man’s eyes gleamed and Kira cursed her own stupidity. Thanks to her own loose tongue, he knew not only that she had understood but that she still had the pearl. A plague on herself for not being more circumspect.

“Aye,” he repeated, clearly pleased with her response. “Then well should you know that I have been charged with its retrieval.”

“By whom?” Kira demanded as though she had every right to ask. If her warrior had abandoned her, then she would know the truth of it.

The man turned slightly aside. “It matters not,” he said smoothly. “All that is relevant is that you will surrender the gem to me.”

“Unwilling ‘tis to make its reappearance,” Kira lied audaciously. The older man slanted her a glance that did naught to assuage her fears.

“Ways have I to convert reluctance to willingness,” he purred as he abruptly pulled back a dark curtain on the far side of the tent.

Kira gasped when all manner of brass containers and small vials were revealed, their contents almost indiscernible in the shadows of the tent. Above the array, a carving of a man with blue skin hung, his cheeks puffed as though he blew out a flame. Beneath him was a figure of a woman, plump beyond compare and nude in her fullness. The mouths of both figures were smudged, as though offerings had been pressed against their carved lips. Kira shivered and struggled against the rope that bound her.

This she definitely did not like.

The man evidently forgot her presence as he made his preparations. As to what he prepared, Kira would rather not have known, but as she twisted futilely against the rope she realized that she might have little option. He began to hum to himself as he selected several vials from the collection. He lit a fire in the brass stove on the floor and mixed a concoction beneath Kira’s horrified gaze.

Surely he would not expect her to consume this? Somehow Kira imagined its effect would be stronger than the foul liquor she had already imbibed in this camp. Wordlessly, the man lit an array of candles before the two figures. When he lit a cone and she smelled the perfumed smoke of incense, Kira had no doubt that his arrangement of vials served as an altar of sorts.

Nay, she liked this not a bit. He began to chant, his arms rising beside him as though he would embrace the sky. The candle flames seemed to leap higher, the sun brightened the white walls and roof of the tent, the faces of the carved deities glowed. His voice rose, the words incomprehensible to Kira. His foot stamped and the very ground vibrated.

He lifted the bowl containing his preparation high, then smeared some of it across the mouth of each carved figure.

He pivoted with an abruptness that took Kira’s breath away. His eyes were closed, but he walked straight toward her. Kira panicked. She writhed and twisted, desperately trying to loosen the rope, but it remained resolutely knotted around her wrists as though ‘twere charmed. He dipped his fingers into the lumpy mixture when he stopped beside her, and the smell was fit to make Kira retch. She jerked her head away when ‘twas evident he intended to feed her the mixture.

Undeterred and without opening his eyes, he cast aside the bowl with a flick of his wrist. He grasped the back of her neck with one mercilessly strong hand without dropping any of the mixture from the other. He squeezed her throat threateningly, his other hand held before her stubbornly locked lips. Kira made an unwilling sound of protest.

The man’s eyes flew open abruptly. His gaze bored into hers and Kira could not look away. He blinked naught and his gaze seemed focused deep within her soul. She felt suddenly certain that he was not of this world, though she could not have said where the thought came from.

“Open your mouth.”

Kira heard the command echo in her own mind, though she knew the man had uttered not a sound. The candles he had lit sputtered, and fragrant smoke wended its way toward the ceiling as the carved deities watched avidly. Kira shook her head mutely, already feeling the man’s will wind its way into her thinking.

His eyes widened and he leaned closer. His fingertips, covered with the foul-smelling concoction, touched her lips. Kira shuddered from head to toe and, against the silent protest of every fiber of her being, slowly opened her mouth.

The last thing she felt was the mealy texture of the substance forced into her mouth. Kira felt it slip traitorously down her throat, as though it had a will of its own, just before her surroundings faded to naught.

* * *

The women were not at the river when Thierry and his men returned.

For an instant Thierry feared the woman had come to some harm and his heart skipped a beat before he chided his own foolishness.

“Woho!” Nogai taunted. “Mayhap she had a better offer this night than yours!” Thierry fired an annoyed glance at his companion but Nogai only winked.

“I expect she is with the old one,” Thierry said flatly. Nogai laughed, which did naught to improve Thierry’s temper.

“That an old woman makes a better offer says little of your persuasive skills, my friend,” Nogai teased. Thierry felt his ears redden and his irritation grew.

“Well I told you that she would surrender naught but the pearl,” he growled, wishing he knew the source of his annoyance. Naught did it mean that she was not where he had left her. And certainly there was no reason for that twinge of disappointment he had felt when he had spied the empty river.

No reason at all. And there could have been no anticipation lightening his heart in returning to camp this night, especially after the complete lack of a battle this day.

Exhausted Thierry was from a fruitless day’s ride in pursuit of men who were not there. ‘Twas no more than that that made him leap to conclusions. The sun was sinking low and ‘twas not unreasonable that the women had ceased their labor for the day.

It meant naught that she was not here. And his twinge of disappointment had been for no more than the delay. Now before he could retire, he would have to fetch her from the old one.

“Abaqa will be awaiting our report,” he reminded Nogai tersely, not missing the way his
anda
‘s brows rose.

“Mayhap he has had some news this day that will explain things,” Nogai agreed. Thierry almost thought the other matter closed until the two dismounted and matched steps.

“And of course, the more haste is made to report to Abaqa, the sooner you might retrieve your fetching baggage,” Nogai whispered mischievously.

“Clearly you have forgotten that the woman is a witch,” Thierry snapped.

“Me? Nay, I have not forgotten,” Nogai retorted confidently. “But ‘twas not I who was so anxious to return to camp this night.”

Thierry slanted Nogai a hostile glance and earned a merry grin for his trouble.

“I shall ensure the khan is quick,” Nogai assured him. Thierry stifled a healthy urge to kick his friend and strode to Abaqa’s yurt in poor temper.

Clear ‘twas that he would have no peace until the woman was gone. Indeed, he hoped she had passed the cursed pearl this very day, that he might send her home. The thought sent a curious pang through Thierry that prompted yet another unwelcome recollection of Khanbaliq. He gritted his teeth and told himself that Abaqa’s distrust was wearing down his resolve.

The sooner the woman was gone, the better.

* * *

The
keshik
guards at the khan’s yurt stood aside when Thierry approached, Nogai in his immediate wake. Inside, Abaqa glanced up and grinned.

“Little enough chance had you to prove yourself this day,” he commented, clearly in a jovial mood. Mercifully the shaman was nowhere in sight.

“What happened?” Thierry demanded tersely.

“Still you have not heard?” Abaqa’s brows rose. “Berke died yesterday.”

Thierry’s heart leaped in his astonishment. “Of what did he die?” he asked.

Abaqa snorted. “Avarice,” he retorted sharply. “Mayhap ambition beyond his station.” He traced the design on his chair with one fingertip before glancing up sharply. “‘Tis poor judgment to covet something that is mine,” he said consideringly. Thierry went cold but refused to let Abaqa see that his barb had struck home.

“What did he covet of yours?” he inquired instead, knowing the answer all the while but unable to think of another alternative quickly enough. Abaqa shook his head indulgently.