The Lion's Daughter (9 page)

“You
were expecting Paris, perhaps,
efendi?
”

“I
was hoping for something connected, however distantly, to
civilization.”

Esme
experienced a powerful desire to connect her boot with his backside,
but told herself he was like a spoiled child and didn't know any
better. Also, being childish, he was relatively easily managed. If he
were not, they'd yet be huddled in the cramped shelter by the mouth
of the Shkumbi.

Fortunately,
he needed her far more than she needed him. In England he may have
been a powerful lord; in Albania he was helpless as a baby.

Efendi,
she'd called him, as a joke, from
the first. It was a title of respect, yes, but for a learned man, a
scholar or cleric. She might have called him a pile of offal, for all
he understood or cared to understand. Y' Allah, but these English
lords were ignorant provincials
—
and
proud to be so, evidently.

“I
shall not tell you,” she said now, “not to make such
remarks to the villagers, for you are an English gentleman, and Jason
told me a true gentleman is courteous.”

“I
am not a gentleman. I am an animate piece of mud, crawling with
fleas.”

“Yet
I will warn you not to flirt with the women.”

His
head turned slowly toward her. “I beg your pardon?”

“You
are not deaf. Don't flirt with the women, if you wish to depart
Rrogozhina in one piece. If we come across a whore, I shall tell you
so, but it's most unlikely we will. Albania has many more men than
women, and the women are guarded jealously. A Moslem, for instance,
may pay as much as a thousand piastres for his bride. An important
investment. Please keep this in mind.”

He
glanced ahead at the mass of structures, lumpen forms in the gray
rain, then back at her. “Certainly I will. Thank you for the
warning. How dreadful if I should run amok among Rrogozhina's hordes
of fair maidens.”

“There
is no need to be sarcastic,” she said.

“I
should like to know,” he said, “what put it into your
head that I'd flirt with every female who crossed my path.”

Petro,
at present, trailed miserably many yards behind them. Even though he
couldn't possibly hear, Esme was reluctant to reveal her source. She
didn't want the master to know she'd gossiped with his servant.

“Because
you look as though you do,” she said. “I should be
interested to watch you flirt sometime, for surely it would be
amusing, but I must wait until we reach Tepelena, I expect.”

“
Watch
me?”

“Flirt,”
she clarified. “I am certainly not curious about the rest. That
is a private matter.”

“Esme,”
he said, “do you have any idea what you're talking about?”

“Yes.
Jason told me, because I had no family to shelter me. He felt it was
best I understood these matters, lest my ignorance be used against
me.”

“I
see.”

“Are
you shocked?”

“No,
only
...”
Pausing, he turned fully toward
her. She halted as well, wondering why he looked so troubled.

“What
of your mother's family?” he asked. “Your mother
herself?”

“She
died when I was ten. Jason and I moved about a great deal. He was
always needed somewhere. My grandmother lives in Gjirokastra, but the
others are all dead.”

Now
Jason as well, she thought, and the ache sped swiftly from her heart
to catch in her throat. She resumed walking. “That was all long
ago,” she said tightly. “Let us speak of something else.”

AS
IT HAPPENED, they'd no time to change the subject Varian had so
thoughtlessly introduced. Their approach speedily attracted notice,
and in minutes all of Rrogozhina rushed out to welcome them.

There
was a great deal more to the village than Varian had guessed. He was
quickly surrounded by a crowd of men, on whose fringes stood another
crowd of women and children, all of them talking at once and never
uttering a word he could understand. Nor could Petro, evidently, who
complained that the dialect was impossible.

Varian's
head pounded and his ears rang. He was tired and hungry, and so
filthy he wanted to crawl out of his skin. Had Esme not taken charge,
he might well have sat right down in the mud and wept.

As
she'd predicted, the villagers took no notice of the ragged boy Esme
appeared to be, and nearly trampled her as they swarmed about Varian.
She doggedly elbowed her way back to his side, however, and in
minutes had fully obtained their attention.

Less
than an hour later, thanks to her, Varian was lowering his aching
frame into a large wooden laundry tub filled with steaming water.

The
tub stood in the central washing room of a cluster of connected
cottages. These belonged to the extended family of his host, Maliq.
Beyond, in the kitchen, Varian heard the chatter of women's voices as
they prepared a feast to honor his lordship. Closer to hand, in the
small passage just outside the doorway, Petro stood, dutifully
brushing his master's clothes.

Most
of Varian's wardrobe remained on the ship. None of the crew had
proved insane enough to accompany them for any price, and three
people, on foot, could only carry so much. Which meant that Varian
possessed exactly three changes of linen, one coat, one heavy cloak,
and two pairs of trousers.

Though
accustomed to changing several times a day, Varian had thought he'd
manage adequately for the day or two it would take to reach Tepelena.
It was not as though he expected to attend soirees on a regular
basis. He had never dreamed the journey would involve several tons of
mud and enough crawling creatures to fill Westminster Abbey.

He
was soaping his neck and contemplating the tragic condition of his
expensive shirts when Esme burst through the doorway, stopped dead,
then hastily backed out.

Petro'
s
roar of laughter rang through the
passage.

“Son
of a jackal!” she shouted. “Why didn't you stop me?”

“A
thousand pardons, little one,” came the chuckling answer. “I
thought you were in a great hurry to wash his back.”

“That
is not amusing,” she snapped. “Also, you are a very poor
servant to let someone interrupt your master at his bath. Have you no
respect for his modesty?”

“Modesty?”
Petro echoed. “Y'Allah, half the women of Italy have seen his—”

“Petro,”
Varian called out sharply.

Petro
hastened to the doorway.

“Yes,
master?”

“Shut
up.”

“Yes,
master.”

The
passage fell deadly quiet.

Varian
quickly finished his bath, threw on the immense robe his hostess had
left for him, and called them both inside.

Esme
entered and, without looking at him, gathered up the towels he'd
thrown on the floor and draped them over the tub handles. Then she
sat down upon the floor in her usual cross-legged position and
studied her hands.

Petro
stood cringing by the door.

“You
will apologize, Petro, for your tasteless prank,” Varian said.
“Even now, our young friend must be devising ways to get even,
and I had much rather not be caught in the middle,

thank
you.”

Petro
promptly dropped to his knees before her and commenced banging his
head on the floor in an exaggerated salaam. “A thousand
thousand pardons, little one,” he said abjectly. “May I
be forever cursed, may my limbs rot and fall off, my—”

“Don't
be ridiculous,” she snapped. “It is not as though I have
never seen a man without his shirt before.” As Petro hastily
rose and resumed his dignity, she looked up at Varian,
.
and a faint tinge of rose washed
her cheeks. “All I saw were your shoulders and that was hardly
for a moment, and
—”

“And
it's a very
deep
tub,”
Varian said.

The
rose deepened. “So it is. Also, my mind was altogether
elsewhere, I promise you, or I should never have rushed in upon you
in that mannerless way. Did I not order the bath myself? But I
forgot, because
—”

“Because
you were in a great hurry to tell me something, I think.”
Varian crouched before her. “What was it?”

She
gave a quick glance at the doorway, then turned back to Varian and
whispered, “Esme has been killed.”

“I
beg your pardon?”

“Rrogozhina
had word days ago of the abduction. That is why they all rushed out
to welcome you, and why they fall all over themselves to make you
comfortable.”

“So
it must be,” Petro agreed. “I was much amazed to see all
the women come out, with the little ones.”

“But
days ago?” Varian asked. “That's impossible. How
—”

“In
Albania, word flies through the air, like the birds,” she said.

“Aye,
master,” Petro eagerly put in before she could continue. “They
cry out from one mountain to the next. A great, ear-breaking shriek
it is. And such faces they make
—”

“Never
mind that. What about your
—
about
Esme being killed?” Varian asked her.

“Bajo
sent word, in the manner Petro tells you: mat Jason was murdered and
an English lord's son taken by bandits,” she explains. “But
Bajo also reported that Esme was killed in the villains' attack. Do
you see how clever he was? By now word has surely reached the
villains who sought me
—
that
is, Esme
—
and
—”

“And
so there won't be any more abduction attempts.”

“Now
you've no need to be uneasy,” she said confidently. “All
is as I told you
—
even
better. No one will guess I am not who I pretend to be, and the
people will make your way easy. Farther south they are doubtless
looking for Percival, or have already found him and are keeping him
safe. Also, by now the villains must surely be fleeing both Ali's and
their own master's wrath.”

ABOUT
THIS TIME, some thirty miles south of Rro-gozhina, several unhappy
villains were arguing in harsh whispers while a twelve-year-old boy
slept nearby. Half the party felt he should simply be abandoned where
he was. Even now, Ali Pasha's men might be on their trail. The other
half argued that the boy merely represented an unfortunate mistake.
If he came to harm, however, even Ismal could not protect them.
Besides, the child had given no trouble
—
except
when anyone touched his leather bag. Since it proved to contain only
rocks, of no value whatsoever, they concluded he was a trifle
unhinged by the recent excitement.

“Only
a mile west is the abode of a priest,” Mehmet pointed out. “We
can leave the boy with him.”

“Aye,
you need a priest badly enough,” said Ymer. “That game
piece the master gave you is cursed. Since we got it, there has been
nothing but trouble. We go to the house, the girl is gone. We hasten
to the shore, and half of
Durrës
waits, armed. Two of my cousins
are killed, and we carry away an English boy, a lord's son, by
mistake. Now the Red Lion is

dead,
and his daughter, and we will be blamed for everything. Ali will kill
us by inches.”

The
mention of curses made the group uneasier still.

“Bury
it,” one suggested.

“The
evil will remain,” said another. “Best to give it to the
priest, and the boy as well.”

“Ismal
will be furious. The little chess piece was to be returned to him.”

“In
the girl's possession, fool! The girl is dead, and Ismal cannot
expect us to take it back to him now. Ali will roast us on a spit!”

“Best
to hide in the mountains
—
and
go
now
if
we wish to keep our heads.”

While
the others continued debating, Mehmet rose and crept to the sleeping
boy, opened the leather pouch, and dropped the black queen, thickly
wrapped in a rag, among the rocks.

Returning
to his companions, he said, “I'll take the child to the priest,
because I wasn't paid to kill little boys, merely to steal a female.
Sooner or later, someone will take the boy to Ali for safekeeping, or
to the British in Corfu. Perhaps Fate will lead the chess piece back
to Ismal. If not, it wasn't meant to be.” He shrugged. “If
the thing's truly cursed, it's best out of his hands.”

SEVERAL
HOURS LATER, Percival lay upon a hard pallet in the humble abode of
an Albanian priest. The dying fire's feeble glow created shadowy
shapes in the dark room. The window showed only a slit of black, no
glimpse of a star.