Pearl Beyond Price

by Claire Delacroix

  She was already making him soft. No Mongol would have considered setting her free under any circumstance. Did the blood of the great Khan not course through his veins? He opened the flap to his yurt with a savage sweep and shoved the woman into its shadowed interior, leaving a chuckling Nogai outside.

  A day might be all he could afford of her company.

  Kira had not expected the interior of the brown tent to be so luxuriously appointed. She stared at the thick, patterned rugs covering the ground. Embroidered cushions were scattered in one corner; a small unlit stove was in the other with various cooking implements and small vessels beside it. A brass lamp hung from the central pole that supported the roof, though it, too, was unlit and her captor showed no inclination to light it. He left the flap open behind them, his grip unrelenting in her hair as he bent and hauled cushions into a pile around the pole.

  One tug on her hair had Kira on her knees and she protested, earning a hostile glare. The warrior broke into a spate of Mongol longer than anything he had said to date, gesturing to their surroundings with a broad sweep of his free hand.

  “I do not understand and you know it well,” she said when he fell silent. He raised a finger to his lips and glared at her. Kira glared back. “If you think that I will hold my tongue simply because you bid me do so, then you are sorely mistaken—”

  Kira got no further before the warrior scooped up a thick scarf and shoved it into her mouth. She struggled against him as he tried to tie the gag. Kira managed to bite him hard enough that he cursed and released her hair to finish the task. ’Twas all the opportunity Kira needed to make a run for the open flap. She got no more than two steps before the warrior swept her off her feet.

  He was coldly angry, that much was readily apparent when he cast her onto her back on the cushions. Kira squirmed but he dropped one knee onto her belly, lowering just enough weight onto her to keep her captive but not crush her. His eyes flashed as he lashed her wrists to the pole with crisp efficiency. Another scarf served to bind her ankles. The ends of the one filling her mouth were knotted behind her head so that she was both silenced and had no hope of breaking free.

  She was trapped!

  The warrior stared down at her for a long moment. Kira feared her heart would stop in terror when he bent toward her. Her mouth went dry as her conviction grew that he would rape her.

  But he merely adjusted her pose. He tugged on the scarf knotted around her ankles so that her knees were forced between her elbows then tied it to the post, as well. She was seated then, her arms wrapped around her knees, facing the pole to which her ankles and wrists were bound. He cast a blanket over her. Then he braced his hands on her shoulders and made several terse, incomprehensible commands.

  She had to break free somehow. Kira wriggled defiantly against her bonds, her movements setting the pole wobbling. They both glanced up as the tent swayed. Kira stilled, then he glared down at her once more. A short lecture was subsequently delivered, his hand signs making it evident to Kira that her fighting could haul down the tent.

  Precisely.

  The warrior must have guessed the direction of her thoughts, for he shook his head with that maddening slowness. He moved out of her peripheral vision, then returned with a thick scrap of wool felt that looked much like the fiber of the tent itself. The warrior stood over her, mimicking the sway of the tent before dropping to his knees and pressing the piece of felt over Kira’s nose.

  The wool itched for a moment, then she realized she could not breathe. Her eyes widened in horror at his meaning. He would sit by and let her suffocate? Surely not! But his untroubled expression answered her doubts more eloquently than words. He lifted the cloth away and raised a brow, as if inviting her to choose.

  These Mongols were barbarians, one and all.

  The warrior stood slowly and cast the piece of cloth aside, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes that she had understood his meaning. He lifted the lantern from the pole where it dangled over her head and set it beside the stove. Kira watched him, fearful of his intentions.

  But he turned and strode out of the tent, dropping the flap in his wake.

  The tent fell into darkness as Kira realized that he was leaving her alone. The muffled sound of his horse’s footfalls made her feel more abandoned than she had in all her life. Indeed, she did not know when he would return.

  Or if he would at all.

  And that possibility troubled Kira deeply. Being at the mercy of one warrior had to be preferable to being left to the whim of an entire camp of barbarians.

  “The others will enjoy this news,” Nogai commented.

  Thierry dismounted, wishing there was some way he could keep the tale of his captive from spreading through the camp. But Nogai was not known for holding his tongue, especially once he had some qumis under his belt. The fermented mare’s milk was sufficiently intoxicating to loosen even the most reluctant tongue.

  That Nogai’s tongue was willing made the liquor’s effect even worse.

  “The tribute will be well received,” he replied, knowing this was not what Nogai meant.

  His companion laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “But nothing compared to the news that Qaraq-Böke has taken a woman,” he teased.

  Thierry spared Nogai a scathing glance. “I take no woman.”

  Nogai laughed again and Thierry was dismayed to feel the back of his neck heating.

  “That is good news,” his companion continued. “There will surely be others willing to claim her in your stead.”

  Thierry stopped dead on the path, waiting until Nogai did likewise before turning to meet his gaze. The horses nickered in the darkness behind them. The revelry from the yurt ahead beckoned them onward.

  “The woman will surrender only the pearl,” he growled.

  Nogai lifted his brows. “And then?”

  “She will return to Tiflis,” Thierry insisted, disliking the other man’s slow grin.

  “Surely you mock me,” Nogai scoffed. “You had no time to ride to Tiflis on this day and even less time will you have on the morrow to return there. Do you forget that we engage the Golden Horde tomorrow?” He rubbed his goatee, as if pretending to recall something important. His eyes were twinkling as he teased Thierry. “’Tis a battle of some significance, as I recall. Perhaps I err, but ’twould seem that such a battle might distract your interest from one small woman.” He paused, sparing one last glance in Thierry’s direction before swaggering toward Abaqa’s tent.

  How Thierry loathed it when Nogai insisted on seeing matters as they were not.

  “Unless, of course, your interest in the woman is more than passing.” Nogai cast the taunt over his shoulder.

  Thierry stalked in pursuit, his expression grim. He had no time for this nonsense and already regretted the excursion into Tiflis. “My sole interest is regaining the pearl.”

  “Aye, one pearl is well worth the inconvenience of a captive when already you have nine.”

  Thierry did not trouble himself to respond to that comment.

  Of course, Nogai could not leave the matter be. “Perhaps if you are not interested in her charms, you might indulge an old friend?” he suggested.

  Thierry’s gut went cold. “Nothing but the pearl.”

  Nogai clicked his tongue. “And the good people of Tiflis will believe that?” he scoffed. “The woman will be outcast on her return, regardless of what tale she tells. And we both know well enough how outcast women earn their keep.” His voice dropped and Thierry fought against the appeal of the inevitable suggestion. “Since she is sure to be condemned, should you not at least avail yourself of the pleasure of being first?”

  Thierry was far too aware of the woman’s allure. The reminder that her reputation had already been destroyed by his abduction was less than welcome.

  He thought of the way her eyes flashed in anger and his lust flared anew.

  This had nothing to do with retrieving the pearl that was rightfully part of the khan’s tribute. He was not
responsible for her fate forever, or the customs of her kind. The woman would have to accept her own situation when she returned to town. Had she not swallowed the gem, he would not have been compelled to bring her along.

  His had been a perfectly logical choice under the circumstances. He had done what was necessary to retrieve the khan’s due. That would be the extent of his involvement with her and her care until he retrieved the gem would be the sum of his responsibility to her.

  He shot a hostile glance in Nogai’s direction by way of reply and stalked ahead to the well-lit tent.

  “And who will be sifting through her soil, I wonder?” Nogai mused.

  Thierry resolutely ignored him.

  “I would like to see you on your hands and knees at that task.” Nogai’s laughter did little to ease Thierry’s own doubts about the situation he had wrought.

  “Perhaps you should find somewhere else to sleep this night,” Thierry found himself saying. ’Twas foolish and unreasonable, but he did not like the prospect of his companion looking upon the witch as she slept—or taking advantage of her while he slumbered.

  Nogai laughed. “Then none will know if you keep your word.”

  Thierry ignored the accusation, even though it made his ears burn.

  The pair of keshik guards at the opening of Abaqa’s yurt stood aside when they recognized Thierry and Nogai. Thierry paused on the threshold, disliking that the sound of revelry was high so early in the evening. These men would be in no condition for battle on the morrow, though Nogai had oft proved that very same prediction wrong.

  Perhaps if he had more Mongol blood within his veins, he might have similarly been able to fight well after a night of drinking.

  ’Twas odd that of late every detail seemed to remind him of his deficiency.

  The khan made a beckoning gesture to Thierry that struck him as mocking. He refused to take offense. Abaqa had made his position clear and Thierry knew the alternative to doing the khan’s will. If this subservient role increasingly chafed at him, that was his burden to bear.

  It did not matter if he was a better warrior than his khan.

  “Come tell me of the results of your labors,” Abaqa invited. There was no evidence in his tone of how much he had imbibed.

  “Tribute from Tiflis, as you requested.” Thierry pulled the small pouch of genuine pearls from his tunic.

  The khan considered through the meager offering. “’Tis not much,” he noted, as though the insufficiency pleased him in some way. Triumph flooded through Thierry at the evidence that he had been expected to failed—and he felt pride that he had not. He dug the remainder of the pearls from his pocket and presented them. “This part of the tribute are frauds.”

  Abaqa’s eyes lit. “Frauds? They dare offer frauds as tribute?” He raised his voice. “Perhaps we should visit Tiflis and teach them the price of such impertinence.” A rousing cheer filled the tent. “Berke and his Golden Horde first,” he shouted over the enthusiastic response of his men then smiled at Thierry. “I have an old score to settle there,” he murmured, those eyes gleaming. “Those close to me know that I do not soon forget a slight.”

  Thierry held Abaqa’s gaze as toasts were raised by the assembled commanders at the idea of two battles in short order. He saw the animosity in the khan’s gaze and recognized the threat, but refused to look away. Another round of raucous music began and the shaman pounded his horse-headed staff on the ground. The men stamped their feet in time, until their laughter broke the rhythm.

  Abaqa smiled and looked away from Thierry. He surveyed his military elite as he drank. Thierry followed Abaqa’s gaze and was surprised by the shaman’s knowing expression. That man was watching his discussion with Abaqa from the other side of the yurt.

  The shaman’s gaze brightened as he met Thierry’s regard. Thierry strove to hide his dislike when the man made his way across the yurt to stand just behind the khan. Thierry nodded to the religious man. The shaman smiled and responded in kind.

  Had the man divined the result of the upcoming battle already? Did he know anything of the witch captive in Thierry’s own yurt? A sense of dread struck Thierry and he suddenly wished the woman was safely back in Tiflis. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, even as he knew his fear was groundless. No one could see the future.

  The shaman knew nothing.

  Abaqa rolled the pearls across his palm, much as Thierry had done earlier, and spared the younger man a sharp glance. “You were clever indeed to suspect that the gems were less than they seemed to be.” His eyes narrowed slightly as he watched Thierry.

  The khan’s tone was not approving, though, and Thierry’s sense of unease grew.

  Something was wrong.

  “Perhaps too clever,” Abaqa added.

  His words hung in the smoke-filled air as the other men waited for him to continue. The pearls gleamed in the flickering lantern light. The four men barely seemed to breathe, the light gilding their curiously still features as the revelry continued around them.

  Had Thierry been too audacious? Had Abaqa’s tolerance for his presence expired?

  Would he share the same fate as Chinkai?

  Abaqa poured the pearls into his empty chalice and considered them for a long moment. He looked up suddenly, his bright gaze revealing how much he enjoyed the air of anticipation he had created. He tapped the chalice with one finger and held it up to view.

  “I once heard the tale of another commander who had a chalice made of the skull of a defeated opponent.” He held Thierry’s gaze for a long moment as if inviting Thierry to perceive his words as a threat. Thierry’s pulse quickened as Abaqa leaned forward. “I would have Berke’s skull hold my qumis.”

  He had named the khan of the Golden Horde, their opponents on the morrow. Thierry exhaled in silent relief.

  “’Tis time we saw what legacy you bear in your veins,” Abaqa suggested with seeming indifference and Thierry feared he had been relieved too soon. Abaqa’s lids dropped as he watched his own fingertip slide around the rim of his chalice. Thierry wished he could see the expression in the older man’s eyes. “You should have no qualms leading the right wing on the morrow,” he added then his lip curled before he continued. “We shall see soon enough whether you are truly as stealthy as the black wind itself.”

  Thierry’s heart leaped at the risk and the opportunity, though he remained impassive as he nodded. A tümen of ten thousand men would ride under his command on the morrow. If he could prove his loyalty to the khan and survive this test, it could be the first step to establishing his own foundation of support within the tribe.

  “May the Golden One’s blood bring you luck,” Abaqa said, his tone revealing that he expected the opposite to occur.

  And if Thierry failed? The other man’s expression confirmed that any failure on the field would be interpreted as disloyalty. Abaqa held Thierry’s gaze before snapping his fingers impatiently for more qumis.

  “I thank you for your salute,” Thierry said with a bow. He did not need to ask to know that Nogai had detected the same threat in Abaqa’s eyes. He had heard his companion inhale sharply.

  Thierry glanced at the shaman as he straightened. That man lifted a brow and smiled, which Thierry interpreted as a challenge. His resolve to triumph redoubled in that one moment.

  He would prove that the blood ran true with him before the sun set again.

  Chapter 3

  Thierry was surprised to find the shaman behind them when he and Nogai finally abandoned the khan’s yurt and stepped into the relative silence of the night. The man moved stealthily and Thierry felt a twinge of annoyance at his presence. The shaman smiled as though he had detected the path of Thierry’s thoughts.

  “You assume that you will succeed on the field tomorrow,” he said silkily.

  Thierry shot a glance at Nogai. His companion said nothing, but ’twas easy to detect his uncertain response to the unexpected comment.

  “Such an expectation would not be unreasonable,” Thierr
y said, hating that he was beginning to question the matter himself. This man had no true power. The shaman had political aspirations of his own and the truth was clear to all who dared to see. Indeed, how could he divine the future before it occurred?

  The shaman’s eyes glittered in the shadows and the moonlight gleamed on the polished wood of his staff. Beneath such light, the horse’s head seemed to take on a life of its own and Thierry fancied that the hoof at the base of the staff stamped impatiently in the dirt of its own accord.

  The sounds of celebration in the khan’s yurt seemed much, much farther away. They seemed alone under the moonlight, just the three of them. Was this the shaman’s sorcery? He looked into the ancient eyes of the shaman and felt they had been magically shifted to some other world.

  Indeed, the world he knew seemed too distant in this moment.

  ’Twas nonsense. But the shaman’s smile widened all the same.

  “I have nothing to fear from you and your ambitious dreams,” the shaman said with soft menace as he leaned closer to Thierry.

  Nogai took a tentative step back, but Thierry refused to follow suit. He would not let this man intimidate him, no matter how close his words struck.

  “’Twas shown to me,” the shaman hissed. He rattled the bag of sacred sheep bones he carried for making his predictions and he leaned yet closer.

  Thierry did not dare recoil or break the man’s regard.

  “The gods showed me their hand in your fate and ’twas not a pretty sight, Qaraq-Böke. You have aspirations, ’tis evident to all, but all your ambitions will amount to nothing. Tiflis was merely the beginning.” The shaman arched his brows high, inviting agreement or argument.

  Thierry stifled his dread, hoping it did not show in his eyes.

  “Nothing,” the shaman repeated. He smiled with relish as he cast a scornful glance over Thierry. “You will make a failure of your life and, worse, ’twill be by your own hand that you fail.”