“You are a Tartar, are you not?” Alexander asked. Without waiting for an answer—which was good, since Qarakh thought it was a foolish question and had no intention of replying—he continued. “You are the first of your people I have ever met face to face, so you will forgive that we converse in Livonian and not your tongue, I hope. You’ll also overlook Rudiger’s reluctance to learn even that language, I hope. He can be somewhat stubborn.”
“Yes. Livonian is fine.”
“Excellent. Now, first a gift to establish our good intentions.” Alexander gestured and a ghoul came forward, leading a family of mortals: a man, his wife and their three children. Their heads were bowed, as if in supplication—or fear. “I understand that a few of my people overindulged themselves at a farmhouse in your territory. Please accept these mortals as replacements for those who were lost. You may do with them as you see fit.”
Qarakh understood now why the humans were so frightened: They feared they were going to die. In truth, he did thirst—the Beast sent him a cascade of sensations: gushing crimson, terrified screams, life essence pouring down his throat hot and sweet—but he resisted the urge to fall upon the mortals and begin tearing at their flesh with his teeth. This prince and his men likely already thought of any Gangrel as an animal. Qarakh saw no need to reinforce that perception in Alexander just now.
“I thank you for your most gracious gift,” Qarakh said. “They shall accompany us back to our camp when we depart.”
Alexander turned to the ghoul who had brought the family and spoke something in German. The ghoul bowed low, turned and walked away, the family following close behind, all of them looking relieved and somewhat surprised to still be alive.
Whether Alexander knew it or not, according to Mongolian custom, it was now Qarakh’s turn to proffer a gift. He reached into a leather pouch that hung from his belt and drew forth a shock of light brown hair bound at one end by a strip of hide. He tossed the hair to Alexander, and without appearing to move the Ventrue caught it in the air. First his hand was at his side, then it was holding the shock of hair, without seeming to cross the intervening distance.
Alexander raised the roots of the hair to his nose and sniffed the sticky black residue coating them. He then looked at Qarakh and though when he spoke his tone was even, his gaze was winter cold. “Marques.”
“I thought you might wish to have something to remember him by,” Qarakh said. “I would have brought more, but this was all that remained.”
The prince and the warrior locked gazes for a long, tense moment, and then Alexander smiled. It was an easy, natural smile, and Qarakh almost believed it.
“Poor Marques. He wasn’t the strongest or brightest, but he was a faithful enough servant.” He tossed the hair into the fire, where it crackled as it burned, filling the air with an acrid stink that Qarakh found at once repulsive and enticing.
“Now that we’ve dispensed with the pleasantries—not to mention Sir Marques—to what do I owe the pleasure and honor of your visit?”
Alexander’s words were velvet-wrapped steel, and Qarakh knew better than to believe them. “I’ve come to learn the reason for your presence in Livonia. I would think there is little in this land to interest a prince—certainly nothing worth assembling an army for.”
“Anything and everything is of interest to me… provided I can find a way to use it to my advantage.” Qarakh was somewhat taken aback by this sudden honesty on Alexander’s part. Perhaps the Ventrue was only attempting to seem forthcoming in order to deceive him. Or perhaps he truly was being sincere now so as to set up a later deception. This thinking in circles was maddening; Qarakh had to suppress a growl of frustration. He was almost tempted to draw his saber and attack the prince, caution be damned. But he doubted he’d catch Alexander off guard—he recalled how swiftly the Ventrue had moved when he’d caught Marques’s hair—and even if he should somehow gain the upper hand against him, Qarakh doubted he could slay the prince before his knights came to their master’s rescue. So he forced himself continue talking. If he had to fight Alexander using double meanings and veiled threats instead of steel, tooth and claw, so be it—for now. “And what have you found to interest you here?”
“You, of course. The chieftain who has repelled the Sword-Brothers and Rudiger’s fellows among them. Some of the locals speak of you as divine. They say you travel in the company of priests and gods.”
Qarakh looked to Deverra to see if she had any reaction, but she was too engrossed in a whispered conversation with Malachite to have heard Alexander’s comment. He wondered how much the Ventrue knew about the Telyavs.
“I take it that your interest in my tribe and our land is due to more than curiosity. One does not need to gather an army just to learn the answers to a few questions.”
Alexander grinned, revealing small, almost delicate incisors more suited to a child than a being two millennia old. “I suppose that all depends on the nature of the questions, doesn’t it? Still, you are correct in your assumption. I have not come merely to learn about you: I have been dispatched to… deal with you.”
It took an effort of will for Qarakh to refrain from reaching for his sword. “The way you say deal makes it sound as if you mean destroy.”
“That may be why I was sent here, but that
