Pearl Beyond Price Read online

  That had been a welcome detail. ’Twas the smell of home. ’Twas the smell of the wind blowing over the high walls of his ancestral home of Montsalvat. He had been too long without the bite of that wind.

  Suddenly Dagobert knew with utter conviction that his son still lived and that he would find Thierry at Montsalvat. That was, without doubt, the message his dream bore. His eyes flew open, though this time he saw only the ceiling arched above the bed.

  At Montsalvat, he could tell the boy of his heritage. At Montsalvat alone, he could complete the task that had been set before him. Only there could he happily pass from this world, should his time deign to come. Resolution flooded through him and he gathered Alienor close to his side, anticipation growing within him.

  ’Twas time to go home. And should the ghosts of the past demand to be confronted, Dagobert would meet them at Montsalvat.

  Back in Languedoc, far west of both Thierry and Dagobert, the rising sun gilded the blue of the Mediterranean and burnished the ramparts of a fortress perched high in the hills. In the stables of that fortress, name of Montsalvat, an old knight urged a goat kid into the world.

  It was proving to be a good spring, for this kid was neither first nor last. There would be milk in ample quantities this year. He turned the new arrival, showing the young goatherd how to clean the mucus from the creature’s nostrils before he noticed the deformity.

  The beast had but one nub where a horn would grow.

  Eustache’s breath caught in his throat at the portent, for it could be nothing else. He reached out and touched the creature’s damp brow, ignoring the mother’s bleat of protest.

  ’Twas time again. Twenty years had passed since a goat had been born thus at Montsalvat. Twenty years. He had almost begun to fear that he would not live to see the next attempt of the lost kings of Rhedae to regain their legacy.

  But there was no mistaking the meaning of this oddity. ’Twas rare that the beast who graced the standard of the Pereilles came to life, and when it did so, especially here at the family’s home, all knew to be prepared.

  Eustache let anticipation fill him as he stroked the newborn’s brow. ’Twas time again to stake the ancient claim that had long been denied. He would indeed see the day.

  His excitement rose that he might yet again lay eyes on his old comrade, Dagobert de Pereille. And the son! Thierry had been a mere babe when they had left these walls behind, but that had been twenty years past. The babe must by now be a man.

  Would this be his time? Would he triumph and vindicate his family?

  Eustache straightened and stood suddenly, a list forming in his thoughts. Aid would be needed, arms and men and supplies. As temporary master of Montsalvat, the provision of all fell to Eustache and he would ensure the preparations were made.

  He had served the Pereille clan all of his knighted life and he would not fail. Eustache smiled as he stepped out into the first blush of the dawn. Optimism buoyed his step as he crossed the bailey. Perhaps this time, the battle would be won. Perhaps this time, all would be settled. He dared to hope for a moment, before his usual practicality settled in.

  If nothing 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 three men stepped onto the bright path of their destiny, though none of them knew where that road might lead. There was an old dream to pursue, an even older score to settle, and none could foresee whether the demand for vengeance or the desire of ambition burned with the brighter flame.

  Certainly none anticipated that a conquest of a gentler kind might win the day.

  Chapter 1

  Tiflis—between the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea—October 1265

  Thierry suspected the pearls were counterfeit.

  He rolled the gems across his palm under his would-be ally’s watchful eye. He wished he could either dismiss or justify his concern. The pearls 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 gathered in just half a day. He eyed the ivory spheres, hoping the other man merely thought he was assessing the value of the offering.

  In truth, he supposed he was.

  It was no salve to his pride to be treated as Abaqa’s runner, even after all these months, and he fought his increasingly familiar annoyance. He was still required to fetch tribute, to know all the while that the quantity and value of 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 gave Thierry a grudging admiration of the counterfeiter’s skill.

  The townsman chosen to negotiate with them emitted a little laugh into the silence, drawing the gaze of both Thierry and his old companion Nogai. “Surely such an expensive gift is adequate.” The scholar translated the man’s words immediately after he spoke, the townsman’s agitation a contrast to the scholar’s soft conviction.

  The four men virtually filled the small chamber, though the two townsmen managed to leave an eloquent space between themselves and the two Mongols. The 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 the other man’s middle, and the pallor of his hands made him look almost feminine. Still worse, there was fear in his gaze. This was a man? A leader? One entrusted to negotiate the town’s safety? ’Twas almost too much to be believed.

  Thierry was always surprised by the men chosen by these merchants and townsfolk as leaders. This man could swing no blade; he had no knowledge of summoning and dispatching troops; he had no ability to defend his town.

  Those failures explained the presence of Abaqa’s army camped outside the town walls and Thierry’s arrival to collect tribute.

  Thierry let his eyes narrow and watched the man’s agitated response with interest before once more looking down at the gems cradled in his palm. Undoubtedly this was a shrewd tradesman who could more than adequately govern his people under normal circumstances.

  A man who likely thought he could outwit simple barbarians.

  “We shall see soon enough if the gift is adequate,” he said, savoring the guttural sounds of the Mongol tongue. It was an admirable language for issuing threats, and that alone made him glad to have learned it. The townsman shuddered at the sound, even before he knew what Thierry had said.

  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 his terror. His glance darted once more to the little velvet sack. Thierry spared the man an intent look as he tucked the sack into his tunic, watching until he swallowed nervously.

  Counterfeit, beyond doubt.

  Thierry considered the idea of taking retribution now for the insult, his gaze steady on the other man while he debated the merit of a swift response. But ’twas better to leave such a task to Abaqa, for he would relish it more than Thierry.

  Thierry held the townsman’s gaze. Fear grew in those eyes as the other man’s imagination evidently conjured tales of Mongol retaliation.

  A reputation was not necessarily a liability in these matters.

  The man’s gaze flicked to Nogai as though he expected the pair of than to fall immediately upon him, but 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 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 move. 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 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 we have spent too much time upon it.” He waited with obvious anticipation, but Thierry merely shook his head again.

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

  A pearl merchant was what they 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 took a deep breath and discerned that the souk was to the right. He gave no explanation to either of his companions before he strode in that direction, leaving them to hurry in his wake.

  Kira frowned at the bowl of pearls her father had left her 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 winced yet again at the memory. She would not cry. She had not cried when he beat her and she would not do so now. Did she not have the opportunity she had wanted?

  Then prove yourself. Tell me where they are from.

  She could still 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. Here was her chance to finally prove herself worthy of her father’s love. She could be as worthy as a son and aid in his business: triumph in this task could only prove that fact.

  She would succeed.

  Kira knew there was still much she needed to learn, but she knew something of use. Her father had granted her no advantage in teaching her only his native Persian, insisting that language be the sole one spoken in their home. She knew that as a merchant, he conversed easily in half a dozen tongues. Even Persian, reputed to be universal, could be insufficient even within Tiflis itself.

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

  Her father would have included some pearls of ambiguous origins. Indeed, ’twould not have been much of a test otherwise. She had already picked out the obvious forgeries, but she knew what her punishment would be if she made a single mistake.

  There were hundreds of gems. Kira took another handful of pearls and 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. It made good sense that there were more of them mixed into the batch, as they would fetch less at market.

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

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

  Perhaps she was getting better at this. She had been quicker with that mouthful. Feeling more optimistic, she put another half dozen pearls into her mouth.

  A guttural declaration drew her gaze to the doorway, where sunlight flooded into the stall from the market. A man’s tall frame blocked the light. Kira was unable to make out his features in the shadows yet found herself curiously aware of the weight of his gaze upon her.

  Evidently her silent reaction was not the expected one. He repeated whatever he had said the first time, his tone tinged with impatience.

  Kira had no idea what he said so she did not know how to respond. She stood up, achingly aware of her short stature before the towering man. How would she explain that she could not do business until her father returned if she did not speak his tongue?

  “Where is your father?” another voice demanded in familiar Persian.

  Kira looked past the massive man to find a well-known but concerned face. “Johannes,” she said with mingled relief to see the scholar. Johannes could speak more languages than even her father and would be able to translate for her.

  The forgotten pearls beneath her tongue fell from her mouth when she spoke. Kira gasped as they tumbled to the ground and scattered across the floor. They glimmered in the shadows and rolled away to hide in the corners.

  Kira cursed herself, bending hastily to retrieve the gems. She felt her color rise.

  In the same moment that she fell to her knees, the tall man muttered something 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 gestured 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 returned them to the bowl of unsorted gems and straightened, only to find all three men regarding her with solemnity. The hairs pricked on the back of her neck. Kira looked to the tall man as he seemed to be the leader. His expression was suspicious.

  Why?

  Kira studied him, undeterred by his stern countenance. He was heavily tanned or else darker of skin than she, his expression uncompromising. His shoulders were broad, his forearms heavily muscled, his strong legs planted against the dirt floor like veritable tree trunks.

  Kira imagined he would be about as easy to move as a firmly rooted tree. She 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, although his blue tunic, while as dirty as his dark blue trousers and heavy boots, was unexpectedly trimmed with 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 bypassed the stall. The normally garrulous Johannes spared a quick glance to the tall man in much the same manner as one would regard an unfamiliar and potentially vicious dog.

  Kira considered the third man, and his Asiatic features made her heart still. He had 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 shorter man’s distinctively narrow eyes fed Kira’s fear.

  It could not be, she told herself, even as she realized Johannes was watching the two foreigners with care. Kira shivered in recollection of the rumors she had heard the day before, the ones she had tried to forget, and willed herself to hold her ground. She had always hidden her fear from her father. She would show no fear to these strangers, even if they were Mongols.

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

  “Nay, nay, nay.” Johannes wrung 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 were bright in the shadows as he watched and listened

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

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

  She was not that sort of woman.

  Kira lifted her chin 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 local custom, and that her full chalwar trousers hid all but her ankles from view. She had no need to tempt the glances of men in town, for that, too, bore the price of her father’s lash.

  Was it amusement that briefly flickered in his eyes? Kira dismissed the notion, knowing 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 jested at another’s expense.

  “He wants to know when your father will return,” Johannes translated.

  Kira shrugged. “He left just last week,” she confessed, incapable of averting her gaze from that scrutinizing gaze. “His journey will require no less than a month.”

  The warrior nodded curtly, perhaps having understood the gist of her response from her gesture. He barked an order at Johannes.

  The scholar raised imploring eyes to Kira. “He needs some pearls valued immediately for the Mongol khan,” he whispered.

  Kira felt her eyes widen. Mongols. ’Twas true, then. Her gaze flicked back to the third man with his characteristically Eastern features.

  When the Asian man grinned wickedly, Kira inhaled sharply and looked at the tall man again. He was watching her with that unnervingly silent scrutiny.

  Kira took a slow breath as she came to terms with Johannes’ revelation. The rumors of the Mongols being camped outside the walls were all true, then. She had no need to study the two men more closely to know that they would slaughter anyone who did not do their bidding. ’Twas all part of their daily business, she had little doubt.