Kim took his leave of her company, his feelings somewhat mixed. She was as much a prisoner as he. Previously, he would not have given much thought to the woman’s feelings about his satisfaction with her ministrations—she was, after all, simply doing her job—but here in the camp, they were both trophies belonging to Onghwe Khan. Their shared desire to survive made them compatriots, reliant on one another for basic reminders of their humanity. It was as Zug kept reminding him: how long could they hold out hope of ever being free again, and how much would they have to sacrifice to be so once more?
The guards at the gate were clustered around a runner, a man who had come from outside the Mongol compound. As Kim strolled closer, the runner was waved through the cordon of armed Mongols. One of the guards pointed in his general direction—not at him, but at the sprawl of tents behind him where the men charged with watching Onghwe’s fighters resided—and Kim came to a stop.
The runner came across the compound, and Kim trailed after him like a scavenger following a predator about to make a kill. The man had news of what was going on at First Field, he sensed.
Tegusgal was not available, and so the runner breathlessly gave his report to Tegusgal’s second, a large man whose name was Ashiq-temür. It meant “iron helmet,” and while he had probably been given the name as some sort of ancestral reference, he had truly grown into the name. His girth was mainly due to a bulbous paunch that covered a once-muscular frame; he had no hair, and the skin at the base of his skull was rolled and lumpy with fat. Tegusgal was quick-witted and shrewd; Ashiq-temür was short-tempered and eager to dispense discipline with his hands or with a stout stick.
“A Frank has come to the First Field,” the messenger reported. “He raised his standard and issued an open challenge to any man who would dare face him. He’s knocked down five men already, and he’s started shouting that the Khan has no worthy champions.”
Ashiq-temür, seated on a broad divan, was unmoved by the news. “Let him shout,” he grunted. He idly scratched his broad belly “The Khan will not answer to the demands of a barbarian fighter.” He waved the runner away.
A Frank! Kim stepped forward, thrilled by the possibility that this fighter was a Rose Knight. “Forgive my impertinent interruption, Master,” he said, bowing low to his fat jailor, “but I could not help overhear this conversation, and while I see that you speak with the utmost reverence of our most illustrious Khan, might I offer my services?” Tegusgal was the shrewd one, this argument would never work with him, but Ashiq-temür was more easily swayed. His head was thick, after all; there couldn’t be much room for a brain.
“What do you want, Kim?” Ashiq-temür asked. He spoke familiarly, as if Kim were nothing more than a servant or a house pet. It was a tone Kim had grown inured to, and he no longer bristled at the man’s insulting tone. If anything, the man’s disdain only increased Kim’s desire to convince his jailor of his plan.
“This Frank is a loud-mouthed upstart, and I have no doubt that his prowess is unworthy of the Khan’s attention. Perhaps I could go to the field and engage him.” Kim indicated his face, thankful now that the masseuse had not had a chance to fully work the salve into his bruises. “Look at me. I am ugly and malformed. I cannot possibly be a shining champion of the Khan’s magnificent collection of fighting men. Am I not the appropriate response to this man’s brazen challenge?”
“What if he beats you?”
Kim smiled. “Would I give you the satisfaction of seeing that?”
Ashiq-temür brayed with laughter. “Your arrogance always amuses me, Kim. I will raise a cup in sorrow on the day when it is whipped out of you.” He waved over a pair of nearby guards. “Escort this foolish dog to First Field. We apparently didn’t beat him enough. Let the Frank do it for us for a while, and then bring him back.”
18
To the Place of the Cliff
HIS MOUTH AGAINST the nape of her neck, Gansukh let his hands slide down Lian’s narrow frame to the swell of her hips. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. Not in the narrow alley behind the north storehouse. It was too public; they could be discovered at any time. Too dangerous.
Lian pulled his head up and crushed her mouth to his, silencing his mutterings. She leaned back against the shadowed wall of the storehouse, thrusting her pelvis out. He gripped her more tightly as her body pushed against him. He should have let go; he knew he shouldn’t be encouraging this behavior, but at the same time, it was exactly how he had imagined it. No. Not here. Not like this.
She grabbed one of his wrists and moved his hand around to her backside. Her tongue flicked against his lips, and when he tried to catch it, it curled into his mouth and danced across the tips of his teeth. He moved his other hand too, and giving in to his desires, he lifted her up and shoved her against the wall.
She gasped slightly, turning her surprise into a moan of pleasure, and her legs parted. As he was supporting her weight, she closed her legs around him. Underneath her long tunic, she was wearing thick woolen pants—riding attire—and he ground himself against her in frustration. Too much clothing; so little time. He was wearing leather leggings himself, and while he was well practiced at pulling aside his silk undergarments so that he could piss from the saddle, he found himself fumbling with them now. But even if he could, he still had to get her clothes off too.
Releasing her, he dropped to his knees. He roughly pushed her tunic up, feeling the soft and warm skin of her belly. She growled, deep in her throat, and he felt her stomach rippling beneath his hands. Gripping his hair with both hands, she pulled his face to her, and he licked her belly hungrily as his fingers pulled and tugged at her pants. His right hand began to explore between her legs, pressing at her through the cloth, and she lifted her left leg over his right shoulder. He could smell her now, and his need was overwhelming.