The Lion's Daughter (24 page)

THE
HOUSE BEHIND Percival was filled with Ali's men. One of them was
Risto, the tool of the evil Ismal. It didn't take a genius to deduce
that Ismal had something to do with their arrival. From which one
might reasonably conclude that Ismal had got hold of the message to
Bajo and knew that Percival Brentmor had tried to betray him.

As
soon as he'd thought it, Percival had panicked, convinced Risto had
come to kill him. It had taken only a few minutes to recognize his
error. Ismal was too clever and devious to murder a twelve-year-old
English boy, especially when there was a much simpler way to keep the
boy quiet.

Cousin
Esme. All Ismal had to do was lure her to Tepelena.

Then
Percival wouldn't dare utter a word against him. And once Ismal got
her to into his clutches, he certainly wouldn't let go. Ever.

The
worst was that Cousin Esme would probably jump at the chance to go to
Tepelena. Percival knew she didn't want to go to England. He was
sure, in fact, she'd tried to run away earlier. From a window he'd
watched her return to the house with Lord Edenmont, both looking as
though they'd been wrestling violently in a muddy field, and both
furious.

Now
she was proposing to run back to his lordship, waving the black queen
in his face. With Risto there to see it.

Percival
stood up. “I did steal it,” he lied. “I hadn't any
choice. Uncle Jason told me about a conspiracy to overthrow Ali
Pasha. A few weeks ago, at the Castle of Bari, I overheard Risto
arranging with another man to ship smuggled weapons to a man named
Ismal, in Albania. I tricked his lordship into coming so that I could
warn Uncle Jason.”

Despite
the patent incredulity on her face, Percival went on to describe the
secret message he'd given Bajo, and what he'd just deduced: Ismal had
intercepted the message and sent men to lure Esme to Tepelena, to
make her his hostage.

“Spies.
Conspiracy.” Esme gave him a pitying look. “You have too
much imagination. You heard some men talking of rifles or
pistols
—
which
men often do
—
and
in your mind you discover a great conspiracy. It is not a terrible
thing to be fanciful, cousin. Perhaps you will become a poet one
day.”

“It
wasn't imagination,” Percival protested. “I heard it.
Risto's voice. I'd know it anywhere. His Italian was tetrible, and
his English even worse.”

“You
heard something, and your clever brain embroidered it,” she
said. “But this was long ago. Now you cannot distinguish
between what you truly heard and the evil you imagined, and so you
frighten yourself. Ismal is too clever and cautious to attempt a
hopeless rebellion. He knows how clever Ali is. Men have been trying
for years to overthrow the Vizier. They always fail, and always pay
dearly
—
along
with all their friends and kin.”

She
gave him back the chess piece. “I will not tell his lordship
what you have done. I owe him no loyalty. Besides, it is most amusing
how cleverly you tricked him. Now I see how

foolish
I was to try to deal openly and honestly with him. I must take my
lesson from you.”

Percival
stood a moment in mute indignation, watching her hurry up the stairs.
Then, as he recollected what she was hurrying toward, panic seized
him. He dashed up the steps, calling to her to stop, but she wouldn't
listen, only darted down the passage, straight to the door behind
which disaster waited.

Even
while he shrieked at her, Esme was pushing the door open. Without
pausing to think, Percival burst in after her
—
and collided with Lord Edenmont.

As
he staggered back, stammering apologies, Percival saw that his
lordship had got Esme by the arm. She wore a particularly unfriendly
expression. His lordship didn't notice. He was bending his own
unfriendly expression upon Percival.

“Take
your cousin,” he said in a low, definitely unfriendly voice,
“and go to your room, Percival.
Now.”

“Certainly,
sir. Immediately, sir.” Percival politely offered his arm to
his cousin. “Cousin Esme?”

She
clicked her tongue.

Percival's
heart sank. The room had grown very quiet, and everyone was watching
them. “Everyone” included about twenty men, some of them
as big as Bajo.

“My
Lord Edenmont, if you please.” A short, fat man wearing a dirty
yellow turban stepped out from the crowd. “It is because of the
Red Lion's daughter that I have come. My master wished me to convey
his message to her directly.”

Lord
Edenmont said something under his breath. Though Percival couldn't
make out what it was, he could guess. He was rather exasperated with
Esme himself, though at the moment what he mostly felt was terror.

Releasing
Esme's arm, Lord Edenmont said, “Miss Brent-mor will remain.
Master Brentmor, however, will return to his room. Agimi. Mati. See
that he stays there.”

A
true hero would have stood his ground. Percival wanted to be a true
hero, but his stomach wouldn't let him. He saw Risto staring at him,
and the horrid feeling of sickness welled up. Percival hurried out
the door and on to his room, Agimi and Mati following close behind
him.

Once
safely inside, he lay down and tried to make himself breathe slowly
and calmly. It took a very long time for his

stomach
to settle. He couldn't stop trembling, though. He'd made a ghastly
error of judgment in telling Cousin Esme. She didn't believe him. And
she was probably going to make Lord Edenmont so angry that he'd be
happy to let the men take her away. Forever.

Percival
stared hard at the ceiling. It was all his fault. He should never
have given Bajo that message. He should have considered his cousin's
safety. Now it was too late.

He
crawled from the bed, got down on his knees, closed his eyes tightly,
and prayed as hard as he could.

But
he'd prayed for Mama, hadn't he, and for Uncle Jason, and God
wouldn't listen. God had
never
listened before, not once. Why
should He start now?

Percival
jumped up and began to pound frantically on the bedroom door.

VARIAN
FLUNG THE door open and entered Percival's room. He had heard the
pounding and sent one of the men to quiet the boy, but the boy
wouldn't be quieted. Percival had threatened to bash his skull
against the door if he couldn't speak to Lord Edenmont.

“I'm
here,” Varian said curtly. “What the devil is this
tantrum about?”

“You
can't let them take her, sir,” Percival said, rubbing his
reddened knuckles. “No matter how angry you are. You can't.”

“Indeed.
She says I must and you say I mustn't. Do I look like Solomon to you,
Percival?”

Varian
moved to the narrow window, which offered a thin slice of darkening
sky above the red-tiled roofs. “Sit down,” he said. “I've
something to tell you. You won't like it any better than I do.
There's a great deal in life one doesn't like yet must accept all the
same.”

“But,
sir—”

“
Sit.
And listen.” Varian glared at
him. Percival hastily crossed to the wooden
sofa
and sat.

In
a few terse sentences, Varian summarized Esme's view of her situation
and what she felt must be done about it.

“Well,
yes, of course,” Percival said impatiently. “That's all
quite obvious. Naturally, she'd think so. But she
is
a girl.”

“Most
astute of you to notice. What's that got to say to anything?”

“Well,
she's
wrong.
I
don't mean to say she's not intelligent. She is. But she's a girl,
you see, and naturally she'd think marriage was the only solution.
Also, being a delicate member of the weaker sex
—”

“
Delicate?”

Percival
gazed gravely at him. “The feminine constitution is delicate,
sir, and you must recollect she's recently suffered any number of
shocks to her tender sensibilities.”

“Tender?
Sensibilities? Your rocks have more sensibilities. There's not a
delicate bone in her
...
Damnation.” Varian turned
abruptly to the window.

“I
know she
appears
strong,”
Percival said, “and altogether rational. But I assure you, she
isn't. When the men came, she nearly swooned, and
1
was obliged to take her out to
the courtyard for a brisk walk in the fresh air. Then she became
hysterical
—”

“Percival.”

“Indeed,
she must have, sir, because she was carrying on about
curses,
of all things. She said she was a
curse to everyone, and that everyone she loved got killed, and I'd be
killed, too, if she stayed with me. She said the best thing she could
do was marry her worst enemy, because she could get rid of him
without lifting a finger. Then she laughed and ran back into the
house. So naturally I felt obliged to run after her. I was concerned
she might injure herself. It was obvious she was not in her right
mind.”

She
is not right in the head.

Varian
swung round to face the boy, who composedly met his suspicious
scrutiny. “You expect me to believe that your cousin is a
candidate for Bedlam?”

“Oh,
no, sir. I hope I didn't imply she was
insane.
The symptoms would be much more
obvious, I should think. Even you would notice. I meant only that the
strain of recent weeks has been too much for her, and being a female,
and therefore delicate, she's unable to think logically.”

Varian
winced. He'd certainly contributed to unhinging her, hadn't he? Yet
how calm she had been, even after he'd dragged her from the cart and
berated her in the most hurtful

way
he could think of. He'd expected her to scream back accusations, tear
him to pieces with that razor tongue of hers. She'd not behaved
normally, had she? Not normal for Esme, that is. Too quiet, too
coldly quiet. Was it because she'd slipped into a twisted world of
her own? Was that why she had been so chilly and distant all this
last, interminable week? He eyed Percival warily.

“Do
you know,” Varian said, “I am convinced that between you
and your cousin I shall not have a particle of wit remaining.”

Percival
bowed his head. “I'm dreadfully sorry, sir.”

“I
let you convince me to come to this madhouse of a country, and I have
let her persuade me repeatedly to courses of action against my better
judgment. Today I made her a promise, which you now indicate I can't
keep. I promised I'd help her remain with her own people. I
promised”
he repeated angrily.

“Yes,
but it doesn't count, does it, if she was lying? That is to say, she
didn't
mean
to
lie, I'm sure. Very likely, she didn't even realize she was lying. I
mean, you might consider her an amnesiac, mightn't you, in a manner
of speaking? When she recovers, she'll probably have forgotten the
whole thing.”

“It's
not that simple, my boy.” Varian exhaled a sigh. 'There are
twenty-two men in the other room, sent by Ali Pasha to escort us all
to Tepelena.”

ESME
RUTHLESSLY SHOVED her elbow into Petro's fat gut and pushed past him
into Lord Edenmont's bedchamber.

“Are
you mad?” she demanded. “You cannot take that boy to
Tepelena.”

His
lordship paused in the act of pulling off his boot. “Ah, I
might have known,” he said. “I can only be grateful you
held your tongue before the others.” He looked past her to the
doorway, where Petro groaned, clutching his belly.

“Go
away, Petro,” he said, “and be thankful she didn't aim
for your privates.”

The
door slammed shut, cutting off a stream of Turkish curses.

Varian
yanked off the boot and tossed it next to its mate. Then he gave Esme
a long, slow survey that made her face unpleasantly warm.

“Most
gracious of you to change for supper,” he murmured. “But
I daresay you decided you had frightened them sufficiently with your
first explosion upon the scene. Twenty-two strong men nearly fainted
dead away at the sight of you.”

Esme
winced inwardly. She'd never thought what a hideous spectacle she
must have looked, her hair filled with straw and dirt and her scrawny
frame lost in the too-large goatherd's garments. She'd traded the red
frock she'd got in Poshnja for the clothes. Percival hadn't made any
remark, and so she'd forgotten her ghastly appearance
—
until
she burst in upon Ali's men and saw their mouths drop open.

“I
did not come to listen to your ignorant jokes,” she said. “I
came to see if you had taken a fever, for surely you must be
delirious to accept Ali's invitation. You cannot take my cousin
there.”