“So be it. Then there is nothing left for me to do but wish you good traveling.”
“One moment, my prince, if I may.” The exhalation from Malachite’s speech tainted the air with the odor of rot, and Qarakh had to keep from wrinkling his nose at the smell. This one too had learned the language of the Livs.
Alexander turned to the Nosferatu with a puzzled look. “Yes?”
“Deverra has told me something of how her tribe is structured, and I am curious to see it for myself. I find the notion of Livs adopting Tartar tribal patterns and behaviors most fascinating. I believe there is much to learn by directly observing their tribe.”
In and of itself, Malachite’s curiosity wasn’t suspicious. Despite their monstrous appearance, Nosferatu had a reputation for being scholars; they also could be adept at concealment and moving without detection when they wished—perfect attributes for a spy. Qarakh was about to deny Malachite’s request when Deverra caught his eye. The priestess nodded almost imperceptibly, and Qarakh, though he did not know why Deverra wished the Nosferatu to accompany them, nevertheless kept his objections to himself. He trusted Deverra’s judgment as much, if not more, than he did his own.
Ghosts of emotion drifted across Alexander’s face, too faint and subtle to read clearly. If Qarakh had to guess, he would say the Ventrue was experiencing a mixture of surprise, anger and disbelief. It appeared that Malachite’s request was unplanned, but Qarakh knew better than to trust appearances—especially where Alexander of Paris was concerned.
The Ventrue turned to Qarakh. “Do you have any objection to Malachite accompanying you?”
“No. He may ride with either Deverra or myself, if he wishes.”
“Nonsense. I can afford to spare a horse for my good friend Malachite.” Alexander ordered István to fetch a steed, and the Cainite nodded and hurried off, almost but not quite running. Rudiger watched István go, amusement dancing in his eyes.
Qarakh tried to gauge the Nosferatu’s response to obtaining Alexander’s permission, but his face was nearly as expressionless as the prince’s. There was a glint of anticipation in Malachite’s eyes, though, and Qarakh wondered if he’d made a wise decision in agreeing to take the Nosferatu with them.
While they waited for István to return, Qarakh addressed Malachite for the first time since entering Alexander’s camp. “Deverra and I shall have no difficulty finding shelter from the sun as we travel. Will sleeping in the open be a problem for you?”
Malachite shook his head. “I have been traveling for many years since I left Constantinople.” The Nosferatu’s mouth twisted into an approximation of a smile. “I’ve learned how to make do.” There was a sadness in Malachite’s voice that hinted at a story behind his words.
István returned then, leading a roan gelding. Qarakh and Deverra mounted their steeds. While István held the gelding’s bridle, Malachite climbed into the leather saddle with more grace than Qarakh expected.
“Farewell, my new friends,” Alexander said. He fixed Malachite with a stare. “And farewell to my old one. I shall look forward to our eventual reunion.”
“As shall I, your highness.”
Qarakh noticed the Nosferatu kept his tone carefully neutral. Whatever the precise nature of the relationship between Alexander and Malachite, it was obviously more complex than it appeared on the surface. Perhaps the Nosferatu has more than one story to tell, Qarakh thought.
“Farewell to you, Alexander of Paris,” Qarakh said. “Our meeting has given me much to think on—and perhaps act upon as well.”
Alexander smiled, upper lip curling away from his smallish incisors. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“Do you truly believe that was wise?” Rudiger asked. Alexander watched as the Tartar, his priestess and
Malachite rode off at a trot. The Nosferatu didn’t look especially comfortable on horseback, and Alexander thought it was a good thing he possessed the preternatural healing abilities of a Cainite. The way he sat in the saddle, he’d need them.
Alexander didn’t look at the knight as he replied. “Could you be more specific?”
“I speak of your allowing the Nosferatu to accompany those pagans.” Rudiger didn’t bother trying to conceal his disgust for them.
“I couldn’t very well deny him in front of Qarakh, not after the oath I made with the Gangrel.” Alexander thought Malachite had chosen his moment well, but the man’s intentions were still unclear. Alexander supposed it was possible that Malachite’s request was exactly what it seemed, but he doubted it. In his own way, the Nosferatu could be just as devious as any prince. Whatever Malachite’s game was, Alexander was confident he would eventually uncover its true nature, and then he would find a way to turn it to his advantage. He always did.
Then he thought of Geoffrey, his childe, who now sat upon the throne of Paris.
His throne.
And he thought of a woman named Rosamund.
Some games, he told himself, take a little longer to win than others.
“Then the Tartar believes you truly intend to ally with him?” István asked.
“Fool!” Alexander snapped. “Qarakh believes nothing of the sort. He knows better than to trust me.” He heard the Gangrel’s words once more: May the flames of this sacred fire bind us both—for as long as each remains true to his word. Clever, that last bit. “And while that normally would be a wise decision, I am quite serious about forging an alliance with Qarakh and his tribe.” At least a temporary one, he added mentally. “In time, I hope he comes to see that.”
“Perhaps Malachite will help to convince him,” István offered.
“Perhaps.” But whatever reason Malachite now rode with Qarakh the Untamed, Alexander doubted it had anything to do with playing the role of ambassador. “Still, we must prepare in case the alliance fails to come to fruition.” He turned to Rudiger. “Come to my tent after complin tomorrow night so that we might plan strategy.”
“Yes, your highness.” Rudiger bowed his head and departed. As he walked away, Alexander looked at István.
“Tell me,
