The Lion's Daughter (6 page)

The
next instant confirmed this, as the wind carried to her ears a
hodgepodge of Albanian, Italian, and English.

“No
...
zoti
...
the boat, I beg you
...
master
...
kill me.”

As
the figures neared, their voices became more distinct, and Esme heard
the boyish tenor reply in cultivated English accents. “Nonsense.
My uncle lives in this town.”

“Please,
young master, only wait
—”

“Here
are some people. We can ask them.”

The
pair was almost upon them. Though they seemed harmless enough, Esme
let her bundle drop to the sand and took a firm grip on her rifle.
Bajo, his stance alert, stood near, his rifle ready as well.

“Tonguergot-yet-ah,”
the boyish voice called out.

He
was only a child, an English child, with accents like her father's.

“
Tungjatjeta,”
she cautiously answered the
greeting.

Encouraged,
the boy hurried up to them.

“Come
away,” Bajo whispered to her. “We have no time.”

“He's
English,”
Esme
answered. In the next instant, she wondered if her ears had deceived
her, for the boy's garb closely resembled her own. He even had a
pouch slung over his shoulder. Then, as he came closer, she felt
certain she was dreaming. The weak light glinted upon hair the color
of her father's. She backed away as the boy stopped short, his gaze
upon Bajo's rifle. His fat, timid companion cowered several feet
behind him.

“Oh,
dear, we seem to have alarmed them,” the boy said. “How
does one
—”
He cleared his throat. “Koosh
sha-pee
—
ah
—
ah
—
Jason?
I mean, it's quite all right. He's my uncle. Jason. My jah-jee. The
Red Lion, you know
—”

“
Xhaxha?”
Esme repeated, stunned. Jason
—
this
child's uncle? Incredulous, she stepped closer, all else forgotten as
she stared at him. Her father's hair, her father's eyes
...
hers, as well.

Beside
her, Bajo lowered his rifle. “He looks like your brother,”
he said.

The
boy was staring at Esme with equal astonishment.

“Who
are
you?”
she demanded in English.

He
stepped nearer, his gaze fixed on her face. “You speak English.
Good heavens, you look
—
but
Uncle Jason said she
—
you
are
a
'she,' aren't you?” His face reddened. “Oh, dear. How
rude of me. I am Percival Brentmor, Jason's nephew.”

“Jason's
nephew,” Esme repeated numbly.

“Yes.
How do you do?”

Esme
felt an insane urge to giggle. Or cry. She didn't know which. She was
aware of a rumble, far away. But perhaps she was merely dizzy. Her
ears seemed to be ringing.

“Percival,”
she said, her mouth dry. “Jason's nephew.”

“Yes.
Are you
—
are
you Esme?”

The
rumbling grew louder. Bajo had turned away. He must have heard it,
too.

Esme
glanced from him to the lad who called himself Percival, Jason's
nephew. The boy was speaking rapidly, but she scarcely heard him. Her
concentration was fixed on the building thunder. Not a storm. Riders.

Bajo
raised his rifle.

“Go
back,” she commanded harshly in English, pushing the boy away.
“Go back to your ship
—
quickly,
child.
Now!”

“What
is it? Bandits?”

“Go
back!” she shouted.
“Run,
damn you!” She gave him
another, harder push. This time he got the message and backed away.
His alarmed companion was already running for the ship. The boy gave
Esme one bewildered glance, then followed.

The
pounding hoofbeats raced toward them, and Bajo was screaming at her
to run. But the riders, coming from the east, were heading straight
for the boy, who was still far from his own ship. If she and Bajo ran
for their boat, her cousin would be caught in the crossfire.

She
had barely thought it when the dull thunder broke into a roar and a
dense, black cloud swept down from the road onto the beach. In the
thick fog, they were a whirling mass of dark shapes
—
a
score of horsemen at least. Ignoring Bajo's frantic commands, Esme
raised her rifle and fired, drawing their attention to her. Answering
shots flew over her head.

She
raced toward an overturned boat on the beach, and saw other forms
approaching. Bajo's comrades. A bullet whizzed past her. She dove for
the shelter of the boat and hurriedly reloaded.

THE
EXPLOSIONS OUTSIDE jolted Varian from a sound sleep and brought him
almost instantly to his feet. A glance about the cabin showed no sign
of Percival. Varian yanked his shirt over his head, jerked on his
trousers and boots, snatched up his pistols, and raced to the deck.

On
the shore, the light-streaked fog shrouded a writhing mass of horses
and men and a cacophony of war cries and rifle fire. He scrambled
onto the pier and dashed toward the battleground.

“Percival!”
he bellowed.

As
he leapt from the pier to the sand, he heard a high-pitched cry and
turned toward it. A half dozen riders were bearing down upon one
slight figure running clumsily across the sand. A feeble ray of early
sun broke for a fleeting instant through the haze and lit a crown of
dark red hair.

His
heart thundering as loudly as the deadly hooves closing in on the
boy, Varian aimed and fired. He saw a horse crumple to the ground,
even as he aimed and fired his other pistol. With shaking fingers, he
began to reload. There was a deafening noise close by, then something
crashed. A lightning bolt of pain shot through him
...
then darkness.

GENTLY,
ESME WIPED away the sand from the unconscious man's face. It would be
more efficient simply to empty the bucket over his head, but that
might wake him too suddenly, and the blow he'd suffered would cause
sufficient pain as it was.

The
ship rocked, and the water sloshed in the bucket beside her,
splashing her trousers. They were soaked already, though, scratchy
with sand and salt. Still, that was a negligible discomfort, her only
physical one. Some of the others had not fared so well: two of Bajo's
cousins were dead, and several friends wounded. Townsfolk had quickly
taken up the latter and would care for them.

They'd
not yet collected the six marauders' corpses when Bajo had ordered
her to the
pielago.
He'd
thrown the Englishman over his shoulder and, deaf to her arguments,
had seen them both safely aboard and ordered the captain to sail
south, to Corfu. Then Bajo had set off to rescue the boy
...
her cousin.

Esme
glared down at the haughty face beside her knees. What fiend had led
the man here, of all places, with a young boy
—
unguarded,
unarmed?

Actually,
the Englishman's face was that of a fiend, albeit a coldly beautiful
one, she thought, gazing at the dark, curling tendrils that straggled
over his high forehead. Her wary scrutiny traveled slowly over black,
high-arched eyebrows and black lashes, down the long, imperious nose,
and past the full, sculptured mouth to the clean, angular jaw. An
arrogant face. Petro, the dragoman who'd been with the boy, had said
this man was an English lord.

Esme's
glance moved to the hand that lay over his flat belly. Long fingers,
the nails manicured and clean but for a few grains of
Durrës
beach imbedded there. Not a
callous,

scar,
or scratch marred their elegant perfection. She looked at her own
tanned hands, hard and strong, then at her stained, gritty trousers.
Her belly tightened with anxiety. It was the way she always felt when
she encountered her father's countrymen: the same sense of
inadequacy, the same tense anticipation of their barely masked
distaste and scorn. Some looked right through her, as though she were
invisible, and sometimes that was worse than the more open
condescension. She knew they viewed her as little better than an
animal.

Those
she had met before were only soldiers. This man was a lord. Even now
he seemed to sneer at her. His eyes, she decided as she returned her
gaze to his face, would be cold and hard as stone.

It
didn't matter, she told herself. His opinion was of no consequence.
She threw the rag into the bucket, angrily wrung it out
...
then paused, her hand inches from
his face as his mouth worked soundlessly and his eyes slowly opened.

Her
heart skittered like a frightened mare. Gray eyes, but not like
stone. Gray smoke. As they focused with painful slowness, the rigid
countenance softened into life, and she drew the cloth away, her hand
trembling.

It
was
the
face of a dark angel. For one giddy moment, she thought it was
Lucifer himself, just hurled down by a wrathful Almighty.

“Percival,”
he murmured. “Thank
G—”
He blinked. “Who
are
you?”

The
low, hoarse voice was smoke, too, enervating as opium. Esme drew a
sharp breath and told herself to
wake
up.

“I'm
called Zigur,” she said.

Chapter
3

THE
BOY'S RESEMBLANCE TO PERCIVAL WAS startling: the same feline cast to
vividly green eyes, the same small, straight nose and assertive
little chin. He even related the dawn's events in the same patiently
logical way, though more succinctly than Percival would have done.
Had Varian been his usual self, Zigur's cool self-possession would
have amused him, for the boy could only be a year or two Percival's
senior
—
fifteen
at most. But Varian's head was pounding, his muscles shrieking, and
the tale, in any case, held no humor.

“My
father, Jason, is the uncle of the boy, Percival,” Zigur was
explaining. “This morning, I learned my father had been killed
and that men were sent to take me for their master's pleasure. In the
confusion at the harbor, these men took my cousin by mistake.”

Zigur
pushed back his thick woolen headgear slightly, and Varian saw that
the hair beneath, like the eyes, precisely matched Percival's. Then
the boy's meaning sank in. In these realms, Varian had heard,
children of both genders were commonly abducted and raped. Percival
was in the hands of pederasts.

Varian
must have looked as sick as he felt, for Zigur added hastily, “You
have no cause for alarm,
efendi.
It
was me they wanted. With Jason dead, I have no kin to avenge the
insult. Me these villains might take as easily as one collects a
pebble from the shore. But my cousin is English, and Ali Pasha wants
your government's help to extend his domains. The villains know, as
all Albania knows, that to offend any Englishman is to invite Ali's
cruelly painful revenge. When the abductors discover the boy is
English, they will leave him in one of the villages to the south,
where my father's friend Bajo will easily find him.”

“These
men killed Jason,” Varian said, sitting up hastily. He
instantly regretted it. An explosion seemed to tear his skull apart.
He sank back down. “And they attacked
me.
That's two Englishmen in a matter of
days.”

Zigur's
face tightened into a harsh mask. “Jason's kin disowned him
long ago. He is considered an Albanian. Naturally, there must be
blood payment for his murder, but it is not your feud,
efendi.
As to you
—
they
struck only to get you out of their way. Had they meant to kill, your
severed head would now be lying upon the
Durrës
shore.”

Zigur
hesitated, then placed a small, cool hand on Varian's forehead. “You
are warm, but not feverish,” the boy said. “Do not
agitate yourself. We sail to Corfu, where you will find British
soldiers to escort you to Ali in Tepelena. There you will find my
cousin Percival safe, I promise. Ali will protect him as though he
were a great, rare diamond, and your British friends will make sure
the Pasha does not demand too high a reward for his hospitality. The
matter is easily settled. Would to God all else were so simple,”
he muttered as he reached again for the damp cloth.