“Let me go,fis a putain.” The man sneered.
“Did he just call me a son of a bitch?” Michel said to Veronica, affronted, as the man struggled to get past him. “Does he know who I am?”
Veronica just shrugged.
Michel pushed the man back and settled his own posture, making it clear he wasn’t getting past.
“I will call the guards. She’s mine. Guards!” Armin blustered. “Guards!”
“Have you lost your mind?” Veronica said. By now, the scene had drawn a crowd. Women had perched at the windows above them. Men with carts in the street had halted. “Get out of here, Armin, before I have you arrested.”
“I have carted her here all the way from Bukhara!” Armin spluttered. “She owes me!”
Michel still blocked the man from getting to the woman behind him, but he did turn to glance at her. She was flattened against the stone wall, eyes wide, an intense stare fixed on Michel. She expected help from him. Michel could feel it. It was in her demeanor, in her posture. What he could really do for her, he wasn’t sure. As the first son of the Duke, and the proxy on whom trade between his country and the East rested, Michel deftly avoided trouble on these streets. His reputation was far too important to tarnish through insults and impractical fights. Especially now, when the King and Cardinal Mazarin had saddled him with new complications. But how could he step away and not help this woman escape this dirty little man?
He had two choices: beat the man bloody or just give him what he wanted.
Michel faced the man. “How much do you want for her?”
Veronica turned to Michel with huge eyes as Armin tilted his head. “Make me an offer,” the man said, a grin showing his still bloodied teeth.
Michel, a professional at haggling on this route, slipped into form. “Let me be clear, I have no use for this woman on my travels. I will turn her loose as soon as I know she is safe from you.” He folded his arms. He spoke in French to keep the man at a disadvantage, though he could easily have done the barter in Mongolian. “Two silvertanga.”
“Two silvertanga?” Armin squawked. “Look at her. Have you ever seen anyone so beautiful?” He threw up two fingers. “Two goldtilla.”
Michel scoffed. “A waste of twotilla. Beauty has no utility where I’m going. The only reason I pay you at all,Chi nohoinii gulug,is to shut you up.” He enjoyed enraging the man by calling him a son of a bitch in his own language.
Now Armin straightened his spine, clearly insulted by that. “She is Mongolian like me. Mongolian women are the strongest women you will ever know.” Then he waved his hand to his bloody nose as proof of this.
“Beautiful or not, she is a peasant, and I don’t have any fields for her to work. Besides, any man who could afford that price wouldn’t want a peasant for a bride.” He gave the man a disapproving stare, meant to cajole and intimidate. Then he turned to Veronica, without taking his eyes off Armin. “Veronica, would you pay that price?”
Veronica folded her arms. “Absolutely not. My girls are all here by choice.”
Michel watched the calculations die on the man’s face. He did love winning a good negotiation. “I tell you what, since she doesn’t seem to be hurt, I will give you one goldtillaand one silvertanga.” Then he stepped toward Armin, in his face, intimidating once more. “If I ever hear that you try something like this again on my route,” he threatened, “I will find you. I’ll cart you back to France and throw you in theBastille.” He stayed glaring at the man. “Veronica, you’ll tell me if he ever tries something like this again?”
“Absolutely, I will.”
Armin chewed his lip. Then he shoved out his hand. “Alright,” he said. “Onetilla,onetanga.” He nodded at Michel. “And I will stay with selling pots and kettles.” He gave a half-hearted laugh and shook his head. “She really was more trouble than she was worth.”
In a moment, they finished up, and the little fat man turned away, tottering happily back up the street, his purse full of coin, no longer a squealing mess.
Michel was pleased with himself. He crossed his arms in satisfaction, glad he had been able to squash the problem, as the street returned to normal activity. As a Western man traveling into tribal territory to do business, he had to be very careful not to upset the balance or overstep any boundaries. He knew terrible things happened, but through his traveling and his presence, he always did his best to keep everything legitimate and safe for his kinsman, for anyone traveling these routes, including a woman who seemed very much on her own.
He turned back to the woman toreallylook at her. She was Mongol clearly, with the characteristic eyes and high cheekbones, but striking, dark, golden blond hair that made her all the more remarkable. She was several inches shorter than Michel, though still a tall woman. Despite the tattered attire—with the streak of blood which he was sure was from Armin’s nose—she stood tall, healthy, supple,strong.
Michel gave her a bit of a grin, expecting some sign of gratitude, but she just stared at him with that same intensity, her brow furrowed, her eyes narrowed. She didn’t look grateful at all.
She looked furious.
“How many times have you come through Merv, Michel?” Veronica balked at him. “And never once have you indulged in my girls. Yet, you pluck this rose right in front of me.” She moved forward and took the woman’s hand, pulling her into the sunlight. “I’m insulted.”
“Veronica,” he scoffed, waving her off. “You know me better than that.” He moved closer to the woman. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice gentle. He repeated it in Mongolian. He didn’t know if she understood anything he said. It was unlikely she spoke any French. Many of the traders and merchants in this region did, but the tribal nomads didn’t.
Veronica fixed the woman’s shawl over her shoulders with a motherly tenderness. “My, you are a pretty girl.” Veronica then spoke to Michel. “What do you plan to do with her?”
“Me?” he asked. “I don’t plan to do anything with her.”
Veronica shrugged. “You bought her.”
