The Lion's Daughter (26 page)

“Three
hundred?” Percival echoed. “Good heavens!” He
looked at Varian. “What is a eunuch?”

“Lord
Edenmont's destiny,” Esme snapped, “if he chooses to make
a habit of flouting Ali's commands.”

“Yes,
but what is
—”

“A
man,” she said, “who has
—”

“Petro!”
Varian shouted, though the dragoman stood no farther than the door.

“Aye,
master?”

“Take
Percival upstairs and see that he gets a proper wash and changes his
clothes. He's crawling with fleas.”

Before
Petro could move. Esme grabbed Percival's shoulder. “A man, but
not a man, because
—”
In a flash Varian clapped his
hand over her mouth and pulled her away.

“Take
the boy upstairs!” he bellowed.

Percival
didn't wait to be taken. He shot Varian one panicked look and dashed
to the entryway and on up the stairs. Petro hastily waddled after
him.

When
they had disappeared, Varian took his hand away, marveling that she
hadn't bitten him.

“I'll
thank you to refrain from enlightening the boy regarding the filthy
practices of this misbegotten country,” he said.

“It
is Mohammedan practice, and there is no reason my cousin should not
know. You chose to bring him here. Did you think you could keep him
deaf, dumb, and blind to what is about him? Now look what you've
done. You howl like a monster and frighten the child out of his wits.
And to what purpose? Petro even now satisfies his curiosity, in
ghoulish detail, I expect. Better I had explained.”

“There'd
be no need to explain,” Varian ground out, “if you hadn't
brought up the curst topic in the first place, you sarcastic little
know-it-all. You wanted to make a fool of me in front of your cousin,
didn't you? You wanted
—”

It
struck him then what was wrong. She wasn't in a temper at all, only
pretending to be. That's why she hadn't bitten him. In a rage, Esme
was incapable of thinking, only acting, instinctively.

“You
want
me
to banish you to the harem,” he said in a dangerously quiet
voice. “You have been
deliberately
goading me.”

The
color drained from her face, and she backed away.

“What
vexes me most,” he went on, “is that you know precisely
how to do it. Until our paths crossed, no one had ever caused me to
lose my temper. There's scarcely a human being in England, France, or
Italy who's heard me raise my voice. I've never deluded myself I was
a good man. I had thought, however, I was a civilized one. By God but
you bring out the worst in me.” His voice rose. “What in
blazes
are
you?
What demon spawned you?”

There
was an agitated knocking at the door. Varian strode across the room
and wrenched it open. It crashed against the wall, and Fejzi winced.

“A
thousand pardons, oh bravest of princes,” he said shakily. “I
would not for worlds disturb you, but I am the slave of my master and
must do his bidding.”

Christ,
he must have
run
to
Ali and back. “What does your master want?” Varian
inquired tightly.

“I
am to assure you no harm will come to the Red Lion's daughter. She is
as dear to his highness as if she were his own, for she is Jason's
flesh and blood, who was like a brother to him. All this last week,
the Vizier's wives have with their own hands sewn garments for the
girl. If she does not come, they will weep grievously, and the other
women with them. This the master cannot abide, for the tears of
females are so many daggers in his affectionate heart. He asks you to
indulge the women, that there may be peace in the harem.”

Indulge
the women, indeed. Manipulative devil. Still, it was the custom of
the place, Varian told himself. More important, it was where Esme
wanted to be.

He
exhaled a sigh. “The Vizier is a genius, truly, if he can keep
peace among three hundred women. I can't do so with only
one.”
He shot Esme a murderous glance,
then shrugged. 'Take her if you must. But don't blame me if the harem
breaks out in revolution.”

Fejzi
dared a feeble smile. “Ah, well, she is the Red Lion's
daughter.” He turned to Esme. “Come, little warrior. You
will not make war in the harem, will you?”

She
uttered an impatient “tsk” and moved to the door.

“I'll
wish to see her again later,” Varian said, forcing his gaze
back to Fejzi.

“I
shall convey your request to his highness.”

“It
isn't a request.”

Fejzi's
smile faded. “As you wish, my lord.”

ALI
LEANED BACK on his
divan
and
laughed, his round belly shaking like pudding. “A face and form
like Apollo and the temper of Zeus. I heard him shouting and wondered
if he'd kill the wench before you returned.”

Fejzi's
smile was thin. “He is abominably insolent, highness.”

“Aye,
I watched through my telescope as you approached. I saw it in his
bearing. And other things, of course,” Ali added, fixing Fejzi
with his piercing blue gaze.

“The
Lion of Janina sees everything.”

“When
I see for myself. You'd rather I settled for rumors or the clumsy
explanation of that thickheaded oaf, Bajo. You all must think I'm in
my dotage. All I hear these last days is how beautiful the English
lord is. More beautiful than Byron, they say, and no cripple, either.
When they don't speak of the lord, then it's the boy. Surely Jason's
son, they whisper, a red-haired youth with old, wise eyes. These
wonders come to my realms, and I'm not to clap eyes on them but
hustle them away to the coast?”

“No,
highness. That would be unthinkable,” Fejzi said resignedly.

Ali
slowly raised himself to a sitting position and swung his legs to the
floor. Dropping his hands on his thick thighs, he eyed Fejzi
reproachfully. “Today I watched the Englishman ride into
Tepelena in all his bold arrogance, and I laughed with pleasure. A
moment ago, I laughed again, to hear of his fury with the little
spitfire. How long has it been since I laughed, Fejzi? For how long
has my heart lain like a stone coffin within me? Three weeks it's
been since my Red Lion was cut down, an Englishman brave as a
Shqiptar.
Scarcely
has this happened when another Englishman arrives with a red-haired
boy, Jason's kin. It's a sign from heaven.”

“Or
from the other place,” Fejzi muttered.

Ali's
expressive face eased back into a smile. “So it may be. I fear
no devil. Am I not everlastingly surrounded by them
—
and
my cousin the prettiest devil of them all?”

He
looked away, toward the window, where the sky was darkening. “Tonight
I play with two beautiful devils. One fair, the other dark. Well,
we'll see. The game will be interesting.”

Chapter
15

THE
VIZIER WAS SHORTER THAN FEJZI, AND fatter. He'd probably been
handsome once. His complexion was fair, his forehead broad above the
bushy brows, his nose well-shaped. With his great white beard and
twinkling blue eyes, one might easily take him for somebody's jovial
grandpapa.

Ali
Pasha proved to be lively, talkative, and amazingly good-humored. His
was the sort of disarming manner that could lead the most cautious
men to betray themselves. Even Varian was tempted to succumb. But a
charmer himself, he recognized quicksand when he saw it. He knew that
throughout the exchange of elaborate courtesies he was being minutely
examined
...
and
all too accurately sized up.

Fejzi
interpreted during supper. The man's linguistic abilities were
superior to Petro's but not nearly as good as Esme's. She had full
command of English vocabulary and used it with both assurance and,
too often, unnerving accuracy. Fejzi, however, could scarcely keep up
with
Ali's
rapid
speech, and the Vizier grew increasingly impatient during the lengthy
meal.

Finally,
declaring they would take their coffee and sweets privately, he waved
his courtiers from the room.

Before
he, too, departed, Fejzi softly told Varian, “I am to fetch the
boy now. His highness did not wish the child to be gawked at and made
uncomfortable by the court, but he does desire to see and speak with
him. The girl comes in a moment, to interpret for you.” He gave
Varian his thin half-smile. “It is not seemly, but she is
skilled in languages, and Ismal
—”
He hesitated, looking to Ali.

The
Vizier gave another impatient wave of his hand. Fejzi hastily left
the room.

“Ismal
speaks English well enough, but his hearing fails him sometimes.”
Ali said in slow Greek. “I want no misunderstanding. Fejzi is
slow, and when frightened, stammers and stutters. Most annoying.”

“What
has he to be frightened of?” Varian asked.

“What
do you think?” Ali looked toward the entryway. “What do
you
think,
little warrior?”

Varian's
head swiveled in the same direction, and a heavy fist seemed to drive
into his solar plexus.

He
saw undulating waves of dark fire streaming over Esme's slim
shoulders and down upon the sea-green silk bodice. His glance slid
swiftly down the silken gown to her tiny waist and the supple curves
of her hips.

Swallowing
a groan, he hastily looked away, and hoped his countenance didn't
betray him to the old man watching with such fiendish interest. All
the same, at the moment, it was an effort to recollect that Ali
existed. Even while Varian looked politely to the Vizier, all his
concentration was fixed on Esme.

He
felt her approach, saw a shimmer of green silk as she moved past him,
the dress whispering against her slim body
...
where his mouth wanted to be, and
his hands. Heat set his loins aching. Gad, he was pathetic. The girl
donned a frock, and he went to pieces.

The
rustling of silk seemed to thunder in his ears as she paused a
moment, then sank down on his left, onto a cushion.

Ali
said something else, and this must have vexed her, for Esme answered
tartly in a rapid stream of Albanian. Varian tensed. She was trying
to get herself killed, the sharp-tongued little witch. But Ali only
raised his eyebrows in exaggerated shock and laughed.

Varian
mustered the courage to look at her. Her face was flushed and her
green eyes flashed militant sparks.

“What
was that about?” he asked. His voice sounded weak, strained.

“Nothing.
A lewd joke, unworthy to be repeated. He's heard disgusting gossip,
that is all.”

Varian
wanted to pursue the matter, but a servant entered, bearing a heavily
laden tray. A moment later, Percival appeared, his face white as a
sheet, though otherwise remarkably composed, considering he had just
entered the private chamber of an acknowledged madman, a monster whom
even the Sultan feared.

The
monster stared at the boy a long, tense while. Then his blue eyes
filled with tears. He put out his hand and, after a brief hesitation,
Percival took it.

Ali
said something, his voice broken.

Esme
clicked her tongue.
“Jo,”
she corrected sharply. “Not
his son, you dirty-minded old man,” she muttered in English.
“Nip.
His
nephew.” She threw Varian an accusing look. “I knew this
would happen.”

“Still,
the resemblance is remarkable,” came a new voice behind Varian.
It was low and musical, the English only lightly accented.

All
Varian's senses bristled, as though the silken male voice were a
glove striking his face in challenge. He didn't deign to turn his
head. He understood now why he'd been seated with his back to the
door. Ali was positioned to catch every expression at each new
entrance
—
the
first, unguarded reaction. Varian would not give him the satisfaction
again. He waited until the speaker entered his line of vision and,
even then, chose to keep his attention upon Ali until the man was
seated, his eyes level with Varian's.

These
were deep sapphire eyes, slanting upward slightly above high
cheekbones. These were clear, apparently guileless eyes in a smooth
young countenance whose fairness any English lady would envy. He wore
no turban, and his hair was long, the color of cornsilk. He
introduced himself. He didn't need to. This was the golden prince:
Ismal.

Esme
had said he was two and twenty. He appeared no more than eighteen, a
slim youth with a proud, elegant bearing and all the grace of a
dancer. No, a cat.

Ismal
had garbed himself in the Turkish style: a gold silk tunic with a
sash of blue the precise color of his eyes, over matching silk
trousers. He needn't have bothered. Ismal could have worn a
flea-bitten hide, and he'd still be beautiful, cultivated, and noble
to the bone. For a moment, he made Varian feel like a peasant, and a
barbarian to boot. But only for a moment. Humility, after all, was
not an article in great supply among the St. Georges.