The Lion's Daughter (7 page)

Later,
Varian would wonder at his own docility. At the moment, however, he
existed helplessly in a nighmare of shock and pain. He possessed
neither the will nor the strength to make the ship turn back. Even if
he did, what would that accomplish? He might be on the moon for all
he knew of this place and its inhabitants. He must trust Jason's
young bastard because, quite simply, Lord Edenmont hadn't the first
idea what else to do.

•
• •

ESME
HAD SMELLED the storm in the air by late afternoon. When she went
above at sunset, she saw the awareness reflected in the crew's eyes.
The ship was not built to withstand turbulent weather. Money, she'd
learned, had tempted the captain to make a voyage so close to the
start of the stormy season. Now, clearly, he regretted his greed.

“We
can't continue,” he told her. “Warn the English baron we
must make for land.”

Esme
somberly eyed the coastline. Nothing resembling a port stood here,
she knew, and the light craft already shuddered at the assault of
wind and roughening sea. In the distance she saw lightning crackle.

“It's
no good telling him,” she answered. “His head is broken
and he understands nothing. You expect difficulty.” It wasn't a
question.

“If
I can't maneuver close enough, we'll have to get him on a boat,”
the captain answered unhappily. “I'll send two reliable men to
take you to shore.”

She
calculated. A small boat ran less risk traversing the shallow waters.
If they took it now, they'd reach land before the storm broke. Petro
would be useless, of course. He'd begun wailing and praying hours
ago. Fat, lazy, and dirty, he was the poorest excuse for a dragoman
she'd ever encountered. While his origins were undeterminable, it was
plain enough that he was inept in at least five of the seven
languages he lay claim to. Nonetheless, with two sturdy sailors to
help, she could manage.

“Let
it be now,” she said calmly. “Neither you nor I want a
dead English nobleman on our hands. Your ship may survive the storm.
If the lord remains aboard, I doubt he will.”

As
it turned out, the Englishman barely survived the short trip to
shore, most of which he spent retching over the side. Still, he made
no complaint
—
unlike
Petro, who shed tears enough to sink them while he tore at his hair
and wailed at Allah and Jehovah and all the saints by turns for
mercy. Undis-tracted by their passengers, the two Italian sailors
steadily plied their oars, leaving Esme to keep a lookout for
obstacles and make sure the landlubbers didn't tumble into the sea.

When
they all reached solid land at last, the Englishman sank to the
ground, while the others gazed haplessly at the desolate landscape.
All around them lay a flat stretch of wasteland, empty of any sign of
human habitation. But there would be something, Esme knew. Some
shelter. She might camp here comfortably enough
—
she'd
slept in the open before, even in rain. Unfortunately, her patient
needed a roof over his head, lest he contract a fatal chill, and that
she didn't need. He'd already caused complications enough.

“Help
the Englishman,” she told the sailors as she took up her long
gun and swung her leather bag over her shoulder. “You, Petro,
take his bag and hold your tongue. We must go eastward a ways, and we
have no time for dawdling and lamentations.”

WHEN
VARIAN FINALLY awoke from what he fervently hoped was only a
nightmare, the sun had risen. Or he assumed it had. Through the open
doorway he saw gray, not coal-black. It was still raining,
relentlessly, and a small lake had formed in the entrance, with
sister ponds beneath the two narrow slits that passed for windows.

Twice
he closed his eyes, only to open them to the same appalling scene.
The hut's stone walls were dark and slimy, and the blanket he lay
upon was damp and rough. His head pounded as though all the fiends of
Hades beat upon it, his mouth was gritty with sand and salt, and his
hollow belly knotted in hunger. “Bloody hell,” he
groaned.

A
small, cool hand touched his forehead. Startled, he turned to meet a
sober green gaze. He hadn't realized Zigur was crouched beside him.

“You
still have no fever,” the boy said. “That's good. We
could not make a fire, and I feared you would take cold, but you are
sturdier than I thought.”

“My
head is splitting into a thousand pieces,” Varian gritted out.
“I lost my last meal on that wretched boat, and I don't even
remember when that last meal was. I'm wet and filthy and
—”

“Then
you must be grateful you don't have chills and fever as well. As I
am, since my bag of remedies is still upon the

ship.
A chill is not such a bad thing, if properly tended,” he
explained, oblivious to Varian's exasperated gaze. “But what is
to be done without garlic and restorative herbs?”

Slowly
and painfully, Varian raised himself up on his elbows. He saw that
Zigur's blanket lay next to his own on the tiny square of relatively
dry dirt floor, and wondered bitterly what vermin had emigrated
thence in the night. He was certain the boy's clothes had not been
washed since the long-ago day he'd first donned them. Varian wished
Jason had devoted a bit less time to his little bastard's language
lessons and a bit more to personal hygiene.

“I
take it then,” he said, “that your magic cures, along
with the ship, are at the bottom of the sea. It only wanted that, of
course.”

“No.
The rest of us were up at daybreak. We saw the ship afloat, but badly
damaged. Lightning, I think, for diey'd lost their mast. Petro has
gone with the two sailors to bring back what we need. I regret to
tell you that this must be a long stay. I suspect they must replace
the mast altogether. That, and the other work”
—
he
spread his hands
—
”in
this season, it will be weeks before the vessel sails again.”

“Weeks?
You mean we're
stranded
here?”
Varian's despairing gaze wandered about the miserable, filthy,
disgusting,
hovel.
He saw two snails inching up the wall.

The
boy settled himself into a cross-legged position and, with an
annoyingly patient expression, explained. “This is the mouth of
the River Shkumbi. The region near the coast is all marshland, with
but a few poor villages. To travel by land we need horses, and the
nearest place to hire them will be to the east, about twenty English
miles.”

“You've
got to be joking. No horses for twenty
miles?
”

“You
are not in England or Italy. Mine is a poor country, and horses are
precious. What fool would keep stables in a great swamp? You cannot
hire so much as a mule here.”

“You
can't be telling me I'm stuck in this hovel for weeks.” Varian
shook off his horror. “That's impossible. We'll send someone
for horses, or another ship.”

“And
if fortune smiles upon you, they'll accomplish the mission in less
than a month.” The boy studied his grimy little hands. “As
you wish,
efendi.
You
are a great English lord. To

walk
is beneath your dignity. Besides, the journey will spoil your
handsome boots.”

Varian
glanced down at his muddy, salt-stained boots, then eyed the urchin
suspiciously. “You don't think much of English lords, do you?”

“I
beg your pardon, oh great one, if I offended,” Zigur said, his
eyes still downcast. “It is my ignorance. I am rarely in the
company of princes.”

“You're
an impertinent little wretch, and you needn't waste that false
humility on me. Despite this infernal lump on my head, my faculties
are functioning.” Fighting his protesting muscles and the
lightning bolts inside his head, Varian sat up. “You think I'm
a great joke, don't you? If you'd been the one with his skull
cracked, you'd not be feeling so damned superior just now.”

“If
the Turk had struck me the blow he dealt you, I'd be dead,” the
boy replied with the faintest of smiles. “Your head is
wonderfully hard,
efendi.”
„

Gingerly,
Varian touched the throbbing lump near his ear and winced. “All
English lords are thickheaded. Didn't you know that?”

The
boy's smile widened, transforming his face, and for the first time,
Varian saw a countenance quite distinct from Percival's, though like
it in many ways. The mouth was different, wide and overfull, the
features altogether more delicate. This child, in short, was
beautiful. At this moment, Varian could see how the boy might appeal
to a man with that sort of appetite, though the understanding was
purely intellectual. Depraved as he was, Lord Edenmont had always
confined his carnal desires to adult women. The idea of children
being used for pleasure thoroughly nauseated him.

Banishing
the image of Percival or this poor by-blow of Jason's at the mercy of
some gross Saracen lecher, Varian returned Zigur's smile. “It's
true I don't bear illness and pain uncomplainingly,” he said.
“It's also true I'm terrified of spoiling my lovely boots. But
I'd rather not rot in the middle of a swamp, either, thank you. If
you've got a sensible alternative, then out with it.”

•
• •

ESME
LAY AWAKE beside the Englishman half that following night, assuring
herself she was doing the right thing. She'd told the truth about the
ship, as Petro and the others had confirmed when they returned. She
didn't want to linger for weeks in this wasteland any more than the
Englishman did. She wanted to see her cousin safely out of Albania as
quickly as possible, so she could take up her life. The faster they
reached Tepelena, the sooner this would happen. In the present
circumstances, journeying the hundred or so miles south by land
offered the speediest alternative.

Besides,
if they waited to sail, she'd end up in Corfu among the British, and
Bajo would be there to force her to go to England. She'd been too
numb with shock to argue with him yesterday morning in
Durrës,
or even to think. Since then,
she'd had plenty of time to reflect.

She
thought of her father, who'd been killed on her account. Never again
would he tease her and laugh with her. Never again would she stand
proudly beside him while he boasted of her to his friends
—
his
daughter, the little warrior. Never again would she hear his gentle
voice, always filled with love, even when he scolded. Her loving
father, who only wanted to return with her to his own people, had
been shot like a dog
...
because of her. With him, her
life would not have been entirely empty, no matter where she went.
Without him, she had nothing, only grief
...
and no one to share it with.

All
through the long day she'd shut it away, raised a fortress around her
aching heart, and done what must be done. Through that interminable
day, her rage had grown, until she thought she must go mad. She could
not run away, could never hope to find peace when her heart cried for
revenge. Bajo was wrong. He had not killed her father's murderer.
Ismal was still alive. There was only one course for the Red Lion's
daughter: blood for blood.

It
would not be difficult. She would see her cousin safely away, then
accept Ismal. With Jason dead, Ismal must pay Ali her bride-price,
and it would be a high one. But she would cost Ismal more than jewels
and coins, and when she took the life from his young body, her honor
would be wiped clean. She in turn must pay for that, she understood
well enough
—
either

with
her life or in the bed of one of Ali's current favorites. She was not
afraid. So long as she cleaned her wretched soul with revenge, she
could endure whatever Fate dealt her thereafter.

Beside
her, the Englishman stirred restlessly and moaned. She'd made light
of his injury, to rouse his spirit, yet she knew the pain must be
dreadful. She knew as well he was deeply anxious about Percival.
Still, this lord would have no lump on his thick head and no reason
to be anxious, if he'd only stayed where he belonged. On the other
hand, she quickly reminded herself, the Englishman's errors had
delayed her departure. This terrible mess he'd made had given her an
opportunity.

Esme
glanced over her shoulder at him. No wonder he groaned. He'd turned
to face away from her, and the tender place on his head rubbed
against the rough blanket. She sat up and carefully coaxed his
unconscious form onto his other side. The low groaning stopped. She
lay down once more, her back to him.

She
had just begun to sink into sleep when she became aware of a wall of
warmth along her backside. In his sleep, the Englishman had edged
onto her blanket. She was about to retreat when he moved, mumbled
something, then flung his arm over her.

Esme
gasped, her heart thumping crazily. Cautiously she took hold of his
arm and tried to lift it away. It was like trying to lift a stone
pillar. He shivered and nestled closer still, his arm tightening
around her. A blanket of heat enveloped her.