Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
The next day, they were traveling through a grassy area that cut through the Zarafshan mountains.
The narrow valley opened to the warm sun cresting the naked, sand-gray mountain tops.
The long, spring grass moved like the sea in the breeze, and Michel was glad the day was temperate.
He knew this passage. If the weather was not right, strong winds would scream in their ears and cut like razor blades across their cheeks.
This day, however, was warm and pleasant with nothing more than a soft breeze, which fluttered the manes of the horses and, Michel had noticed, the edges of Eve’s hair as well.
The crew of nearly thirty would reach Bukhara proper by evening, an important city that connected the lower towns to the arid high plains villages.
At the moment, Michel and Eve were riding their horses side by side while the rest of the men had relaxed the line and spread out in the valley around them, each horse picking its favorite way through the fertile desert grasses.
Michel kept looking over at her, but she was only staring ahead.
He had so many questions, so many details missing that he needed to know.
He couldn’t plan, couldn’t prepare if he didn’t have all the information.
As their horses carried them through the valley, Michel watched her, trying to figure it all out.
“Why are you watching me?” she asked, after his staring had apparently become obvious. She smiled as she said it, though she did not turn to look at him.
“I am interested in learning more about you,” Michel said, leaning toward her.
“You don’t need to know any more about me,” she said, the breeze twisting her hair behind her. “You know all you need to know.”
“You misunderstand,” he said, angling his horse closer. “I want to know more about you.”
She laughed, glancing at him, her eyes glinting. “Okay,” she said. “What do you know so far?”
“Well,” he began thoughtfully. He needed a place to begin with her, some conversation line that would allow him better access to her citadel of secrets.
“You are very beautiful. Your looks are unique. This has made you stand out in a way that you don’t like,” he paused.
“But you aren’t one to pass on an advantage.
” He watched her, trying to gauge how well she thought he described her, hoping that if he did well, she would let him know more.
“You are good with organization. You can read and write,” he teased.
“You also have six older brothers who will beat me to death if they ever meet me.”
She grinned at that. “What else?”
“You control your emotions very well,” he remarked, slipping into a teasing tone. “That or you don’t have any emotions besides irritation with handsome Frenchmen.”
“More like arrogant Frenchmen,” she teased. Then she held up a finger in explanation. “Discipline is part of my culture. Ill-timed emotions are considered a weakness.” She nodded back to him. “Irritation with Frenchmen is just one emotion I’m comfortable sharing." She smirked. “Keep going.”
Michel continued, encouraged. “You pass yourself off as a commoner, but you clearly come from a higher position.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked, her eyes meeting his again.
“I see how you interact with the men. And with me.” He looked at her, guiding his horse into her line of sight.
“You have authority. You aren’t a peasant.
” He paused and adjusted the reins around his hands.
He lowered the tone of his voice, taking the opportunity.
“You are running from something. I want to know what that is.”
“Hmmm,” was all she said, turning her head back to the road.
He sat back on his saddle. Too soon, he thought. But though she did not elaborate, her body language did not close off, so he kept going, if nothing else, just to keep her talking.
“You are also incredibly smart,” Michel said, trying a different approach. “Perhaps even as smart as I am.” He couldn’t stop the grin as he said it. He did like teasing her.
“As smart as you?” she echoed. “That does not seem a difficult accomplishment.” Now she smirked at him.
He laughed. “Alright.” They were coming up on a gushing stream, and the passageway turned rockier.
The horses took their steps more carefully, but the brisk pace continued.
Michel checked back over the men to be sure the rocks hadn’t disrupted any of the carts, then returned to his conversation, still trying to build momentum, to just keep her talking.
“I am impressed that you speak so well,” he said.
“You mean French?” she asked.
“Yes.” He nodded. “I hear hardly any accent at all.”
“I have always had a gift for languages.”
“You speak other languages?”
“Yes,” she replied. “And you?”
Michel typically kept his knowledge close to his chest, but he wanted to astound her, dazzle her. “I speak five languages,” he boasted.
“Oh,” was all she replied.
Michel continued, holding out his hand to tick them off. “English, French of course, Latin, Spanish, Mongolian. Some Turkic.”
“You don’t really speak Mongolian,” she said, her green eyes playful.
The comment struck him in the chest. Of all the insults she’d thrown at him, playful or not, this barb stung. “Indeed, I do,” he insisted. “I speak it. I speak it well. You have seen me interact with the tradesmen.”
“Yes, but they barely speak it either,” she laughed. “You communicate well enough, but you don’t speak it.”
“If I communicate, then I believe I speak it,” he said resolutely as his horse picked over a large rock.
Eve shrugged and turned away, a small smile on her lips. Then she continued, “For example,” she said. “You use the phrase mal mini incorrectly.”
“No, I don’t,” he said. “It’s ‘your animals.’ I say it to trade the herd animals.”
“Yes, mal mini refers to animals. But you don’t use it correctly.” She cocked her head at him. “It’s an insult.”
“An insult?” Michel blustered, a window suddenly blowing open in his brain. “How?”
“I don’t know how.” She shrugged. “It’s idiomatic. The words are what you say, but we use it to call someone a dirty animal if they are acting poorly.”
“So, I have been calling all the merchants along the road dirty herd animals?”
“Yes, you have,” she said, grinning. “They don’t care. You have good products, and you are generous. They will trade with you no matter what you call them, and then they will laugh at you later.”
They were silent for a moment, Michel feeling stupid. This wasn’t his intention for the conversation. They were coming to the end of the open valley with low cliffs now in view, and he had learned nothing more about her, only that he was an idiot. “So how many languages do you speak?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied.
“How can you not know? That is silly.”
“I learn languages easily,” she continued. “I hear a language, and I find myself speaking it not long after.”
“That sounds like you speak dialects, not languages.”
“I speak the languages you mention. I read and write in all the romance languages. I speak many dialects, too.”
“I wasn’t counting dialects,” Michel said. He tallied in his head. “I speak seven French dialects.”
“Seven,” she mocked.
“And you?”
“There are twelve in my region alone and many more beyond that. I haven’t found one I couldn’t learn.”
Michel watched her, blinking stupidly. He spoke five languages, seven dialects, and had absolutely nothing in his head to say.
“I think,” she said, “you perhaps miss being the only intellectual around.” She grinned at him as she pulled her hair back over her shoulder.
“I may not be the smartest one here. I don’t care.” He shrugged his shoulders. Then he turned to her again. “I am someone without any secrets.” He, at least, could take this as a chance to change the trajectory of their conversation.
Eve looked down, her face becoming cloudy again.
“Why don’t you tell me?” Michel urged, soft again, his voice coaxing. “You don’t have to tell me everything. If you tell me something, then I can be better prepared.”
“I am your hired hand,” she asserted. “You don’t need to help me.”
“The girl in the market needed help. If that gigantic man comes after you again, you are going to need more help. If you don’t prepare me, Eve, you may end up needing more than I can give.”
She was quiet for a long time. He waited. He wanted her to work out whatever was in her head. In whatever language she was doing it.
Finally, she spoke. “You want to know why I am running?”
“Yes,” he said, giving no more words so the conversation wouldn’t change again.
“I am running, Michel.” She paused and looked out across the road that was soon to be swallowed up by the cliffs. “I am running because I murdered my husband.”