The Lion's Daughter (21 page)

After
his supposed death, he'd disguised himself as a peddler and headed
south, where discontent was building to fever pitch. The complaints
he heard en route were familiar. An official of Ali's would be
robbed, or pelted with refuse, or suffer some like insult, and a
group of innocent locals would be blamed. The punishments ranged from
extortionate fines to maiming and execution. When the locals loudly
objected to the injustice, the official
—
goaded,
no doubt, by the same vipers who had actually caused the
trouble
—
would
respond with greater brutality. As a result, scores of southern towns
and villages were seething.

On
his way south, Jason had listened sympathetically to the villagers'
grievances, while counseling patience. Finally, he'd sent a trusted
friend to the Vizier in Tepelena to urge Ali to replace his officials
and pacify the people. There was no assurance Ali would do so. Even
if he did, it would probably be too late.

A
few agitators and a supply of weaponry could instantly whip outrage
into open rebellion, as had happened every time before. Given the
present level of frustration, the weaponry must be expected soon.
Timing was everything. Jason guessed it was a matter of weeks. The
weapons would surely come to one of the southern ports. But which
one?

It
was the same question he'd been asking himself for weeks. Pushing his
supper away, Jason moved to the narrow window. Five days of unceasing
rain. Mid-October already. Time was running out, and Bajo still
hadn't come.

For
all one knew, the south could surge into bloody revolt in days
...
with Esme and Percival caught in
the midst of it. Jason had heard about Edenmont's arrival with the
boy, and the ensuing events, but there was nothing he could do. A
frantic dash north might, at best, be a waste of valuable time. At
worst, it might endanger friends as well as kin. Jason had no idea
what steps Bajo or other comrades had taken. His interference
—
even
if he managed to interfere without being recognized
—
could
undo whatever good others had done. He couldn't take the risk, though
it ate at him to wait, as helpless in this matter as in the other.

His
only comfort was that Ali hadn't blamed Ismal for the Red Lion's
death and taken bloody revenge. That would have promptly triggered
revolt in the north as well as the south. Jason had counted on Ali's
greed and Ismal's cleverness to avert that catastrophe. Local gossip
confirmed he'd judged correctly.

“Ismal
claims it was the work of misguided men, overeager to curry favor,”
one old man had told him. “I do not know who killed Jason, only
that Ali was happy to blame those Ismal accused, in order to have
their riches and women. Some say Ismal should have been executed,
because his followers would not act without his encouragement. I
answer that Ali will not kill the goose who lays the golden eggs.
Ismal may do as he likes, for he knows he may easily appease Ali by
feeding his greed.”

How
much longer, though, would Ismal continue to appease his cousin?
Jason swore to himself. What the devil did it matter? At present,
both Esme and Percival were in danger. He was bitterly berating
himself for hanging uselessly about Janina when he heard a pounding
at the door and a rough, familiar voice calling his assumed name.

Minutes
later, the weary Bajo sat at the low table, making quick work of the
fish stew and maize bread Jason had had no stomach for.

Bajo
took a swig from the wine bottle and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“I should have done as you advised and knocked your daughter
unconscious,” he said. “Though I fear that would have
been futile. It's clear the Fates conspire against us, for I, who'd
give my life for you, haven't stepped once since I left you without
stepping wrong.”

Despite
this ominous opening, Jason was prepared to wait patiently until his
friend had eaten. But Bajo needed to unburden himself at least as
much as he needed to fill his belly. While he ate, he talked.

The
story which distressed Bajo so much eased Jason's anxieties
considerably. Esme surely had reached Berat by now. She and Percival
might even be on their way west to the coast
—
well
protected by Maliq's men
—
or
already upon a ship. She'd be traveling with a cousin fully prepared
to like her and eager to fulfill his late mother's wish to send the
girl to England. So Jason reassured his friend.

“I'm
certainly not worried about Edenmont raising difficulties,” he
added. “He may not care a damn what becomes of

Esme,
but he cares a great deal about his own soft hide. He's probably
frantic to be gone, and he'll have to take her with him, like it or
not. Both Mustafa and Percival will see to that.”

“So
I've prayed, Red Lion,” said Bajo. “But I fear I've made
a great mistake in my haste to rejoin you.” From the ammunition
pouch at his waist he withdrew a piece of paper. Laying it on the
table before Jason, he described his last meeting with Percival.

“I'd
no time to look at it until after I left Ali,” Bajo explained.
“Since then, I've heard many things, and each night as I
studied that paper, I grew more amazed.”

Jason
stared at the paper for a long while. It was not a riddle. Percival
had drawn a boat with a black crown in one of its sails. There was a
bit of black above, with a few stars. Within the hold, the boy had
sketched a rifle. Beneath, in Greek characters, he'd written
'Prevesa.' Below that was the numeral one, followed by a question
mark, and the numeral eleven. At the bottom of the page was a black
heart, and beneath, the word 'MALIS'.

“This
is incredible,” he muttered. Yet all the facts he possessed and
all Bajo had said obliged Jason to believe it: His twelve-year-old
nephew had sent the answer. Prevesa, a southern port, was the
smugglers' destination. The numbers must indicate early November,
some two or three weeks hence, as he'd guessed. The crown and the
night must signify the ship's name. Very useful. The British
authorities might be able to identify and stop the vessel well before
it reached Prevesa.

He
raised his head. “I should have realized Percival had an urgent
reason for coming to Albania. He'd overheard me telling his mother
something of our problem, you see. I can only conclude that somewhere
in Italy he overheard another conversation and decided I must be
informed. When I turned out to be dead, he passed the information on
to you.”

“All
I could think was that the boy had visions,” Bajo answered.
“This message tells all, even to the traitor's name: 'Malis'
for Tsmal.' And all so cautiously done, Red Lion. Not a word of this
before Mustafa. No hint in the letter to Ali
—
for
Fejzi, who's trustworthy, translated it in my presence.”

“The
letter to Ali was simply an excuse to get writing materials quickly,
before you could leave. Percival knew better

than
to warn Ali in a letter because Ismal might have been by when it was
read.” That extraordinary boy of Diana's had thought of
everything.

“Still,
your nephew has dangerous knowledge. I should never have left him in
Berat.”

“If
you'd
.
taken
him to Tepelena as you'd originally planned, Esme would have had the
perfect excuse to go there as well,” Jason pointed out. “Then
we'd have reason to worry. We both know why she left the ship and
headed for Tepelena.”

“I
know, Red Lion,” Bajo said wearily. “The little warrior
wants Ismal's blood.”

“Now
she has no excuse to go anywhere near him. Mustafa will see that
Edenmont takes her and Percival west and out of the country as soon
as possible.”

“All
the same, I should have stayed in Berat and made certain.”

Jason
clicked his tongue. “If you had, I wouldn't have this. I might
have gone on looking for the answer for weeks, most likely in vain.”
He crumpled up the note and tossed it onto the fire. In seconds,
nothing remained of Percival's message but a few bits of soot,
drifting upward on the smoke of the fire.

Turning
back, Jason met Bajo's troubled gaze.

'Tomorrow
we must start out for Corfu,” Jason said firmly. “We've
got to notify the British authorities, find the ship, and track down
Ismal's agents. Esme's surrounded by men determined to get her out of
the country, men Ismal has no reason to fear. He only wanted her in
order to control me, and I'm dead, recollect. All his attention now
is fixed on southern Albania. I want to keep it there. Let him watch
while this monster he's so laboriously created is dismembered, part
by part. We can do it now, Bajo. Percival has given us the key.”
Jason smiled. “He'll be terribly disappointed if we don't use
it.”

Chapter
12

“ARE
YOU QUITE SURE YOU DON'T WANT TO come?” Percival asked for the
tenth time. “Cousin Esme said the walk would do you good.”

Varian
stood at the doorway of Mustafa's house and let his gaze travel up
the narrow path Percival, Mustafa, Mati, and Agimi were proposing to
follow.

Mustafa's
home stood in the upper reaches of the Man-galen quarter
—
a
village that hugged the base of the rocky hill above the left bank of
the River Osum. Its limestone houses crowded tightly along narrow,
twisting streets.

There
was far more to Berat, however. Above, a grim fortress crowned the
precipice. Several churches as well as the palace of Ibrahim
—
official
Pasha of Berat and currently Ali's prisoner in a Gjirokastra
dungeon
—
lay
within its walls, many of whose stones had been laid in remotest
antiquity.

Antique
or not, Varian was not about to tax his recently recovered body with
a long, virtually perpendicular hike up the mountainside.

“What
your cousin meant,” he said, “is that it would do
her
good to watch me plummet from some
crumbling stone down

to
the river, where my brain would be dashed to pieces upon the rocks.”

“Good
heavens, I'm sure Cousin Esme would never wish such a thing, and even
if she did
—
that
is to say, merely as a supposition
—
I
doubt she'd put it in such a roundabout way. She is not at all
indirect in her speech. But, of course, that's not what she meant.
It's not logical that she'd nurse you for a whole week if she wished
you ill. Obviously
—”

“She
was trying to lull me into a false sense of security,” Varian
murmured.

“I
beg your pardon, sir?”

“Nothing.”
Varian met the boy's puzzled gaze. “I was just being fanciful.
I'm not delirious, Percival, I promise you. Run along. Don't keep the
others waiting. I prefer the role of spectator.”

Percival
considered briefly. Then he gave a shrug and ran along. In a short
while, Varian lost sight of the four figures, for they were soon
swallowed up by the clustering white houses.

Berat
was lovely in its way, Varian mused, with its limestone houses
imbedded in the gray rock like rough white gems. Mustafa had said the
place was more than two thousand years old. It had survived centuries
of battle, conquest, destruction. Crushed, rebuilt, crushed, rebuilt
again, it yet stubbornly clasped the rugged peak in fierce embrace.
Like the people, Varian thought.

The
sky had cleared in places today, though ponderous masses of gray
clouds surged and rolled in the chill wind. This was not an English
sky. Here the heavens seemed farther away, the clouds wilder. Even
the great rock, thrusting up from the rolling landscape with the
ancient fortress as its crown, seemed animate. One sensed some
tumultuous presence, as though the ancient gods truly dwelt here.
Even amid this quiet landscape, one sensed the storm throbbing at its
heart.

It
was the place, Varian told himself, and something in the air. He was
simply caught in it, under its influence, like an opium eater. When
he left, he'd be free.

He
leaned against the door frame and closed his eyes. When he'd wakened
from the oppressive fog of fever and wracking pain, he'd felt
surprisingly clearheaded and strong.

He'd
smiled, and Esme had smiled in answer. But hers was a smile as
impenetrable as Berat's unforgiving mountain. Though kind, gentle,
and diligent in his care, she was shut away behind an empty smile and
evergreen eyes that told him
...
nothing.

Varian
had thought at first the change was because of Per-cival, who hovered
nearby constantly, and talked. As the days passed, though, each more
slowly than the one preceding, Varian had come to understand that
Percival wasn't the reason.

Varian
had also understood—and comprehension had come slowly, in a
series of small, chill shocks
—
that
nothing he did or said had any effect on her. It was as though he
only imagined he spoke or acted, while Esme perceived but an
inanimate lump, existing only to be arranged and examined, like one
of Percival's rocks.