The Gypsy King (25 page)

“Now, now, you needn't look so … unpleasant,” twittered Lord Atticus as he reached for the drawstring of his blue velvet breeches. “'Tis a wholly natural act between a man and a woman, and I'll see to it that you enjoy yourselves— unless, of course, you refuse to cooperate, in which case I will still enjoy myself while you, I'm afraid, will—”

Though Persephone and Rachel could well guess what would happen to them if they refused to cooperate, they never found out for certain because at that instant Lord Atticus was struck in the side of the head by something fast, furious … and feathered.

“Ivan!” breathed Persephone.

“
Say nothing
,” hissed Rachel.

“What the
devil?
” shrieked Atticus, who'd begun to bleed copiously from a vicious scratch above the eye. Whirling around, he was just able to catch a glimpse of the hawk before he was once again at the mercy of those powerful, beating wings and deadly talons.

Seeing his leader under attack, one especially drunken young nobleman clumsily unsheathed his sword and staggered forward as though he meant to slash the offending bird to bits. Whether he'd have been able to accomplish this without also removing large pieces of Lord Atticus's head and upper body was destined to
remain a mystery, however, because just as he prepared to deliver the first blow, Ivan abruptly took flight. Grunting in dismay, the drunk but determined young man flung his sword aside and fumbled for his bow so that he might shoot the hawk out of the sky. Unfortunately for him, before he could remember where he'd put his arrows (they were in the quiver on his back), Lord Atticus unsheathed his own sword and, using the flat edge, hit the man across the forehead so hard that he dropped like a sack of potatoes at Persephone's feet.

“Gods' blood, Atticus,” cried a squat, giggling nobleman in green and red hose. “You've rendered him quite unconscious!”

“Never mind him! To the horses—quickly!” ordered Lord Atticus as he hastily re-sheathed his sword, retrieved his riding crop and ran back to his own mount. “We must keep Faldo in sight!”

“Who is Faldo?” called a nobleman who'd been matter-of-factly holding back the hair of a vomiting companion but who had now joined the others in running for his horse.

“My hawk, you fool!” cried Lord Atticus as he swung up into the saddle without taking his eyes off Ivan, who was flying loop-the-loops some distance away. “Stolen from the nest as a fledgling and trained by my own hand— until the day he wilfully ignored a pheasant in plain view, shat on my doublet and flew off to destinations unknown. I never thought I'd see the feathered devil again but by the gods he's come back to me—and I mean to recapture him at once!”

At this, Persephone gasped and might have said or done something very foolish if Rachel hadn't grabbed her hand and given it a painful warning squeeze.

“But what about the wenches?” whined a pimply-faced youth, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot as though he had an itch in terrible need of scratching.

“Never mind the damned wenches, you imbecile!” screeched Lord Atticus. “Wenches—even a pair such as those—are as common as dirt. A trained hunting bird like Faldo is as rare as gold!”

“Even so, my lord,” gasped the reeking vomiter, who'd somehow managed to haul himself back onto his horse, “stealing a fledgling from the nest is one thing. Capturing a full-grown hawk is … is a bird of a different feather altogether.”

Several of the other noblemen chortled at his cleverness. Lord Atticus flung his riding crop at them.

“A clean shot through the wing will bring him down without crippling him,” he snapped. “And as long as the dogs don't get to him before we do and the wound doesn't fester, there is a chance he'll mend almost as good as new. And if he doesn't—well, we'll call it payback for his lack of loyalty.”

“And also for shitting on you,” offered the squat nobleman with mock solemnity.

The other noblemen laughed again. With a scowl, Lord Atticus turned away from them and dug the heels of his riding boots deep into the flanks of his horse. As his steed leapt forward, all the other mounted men dug their heels into the flanks of their horses. The air was
momentarily filled with dust and the sound of trampling hooves, and then the horses were gone. An instant later, a shrill whistle sounded and the hairless, grey-black dogs lit off after them, barking and baying like the hounds of hell.

In the stunned silence that followed, Persephone wrenched her hand free of Rachel's grasp, whipped out her dagger and would have bolted after the noblemen in the futile hope of gutting them all before they had a chance to harm Ivan, if two things had not happened.

The first was that, anticipating exactly this reaction from her, Azriel stepped forward to block her way so quickly that she nearly gutted
him
.

And the second was that Fayla mumbled something unintelligible, gave a thin, shuddering gasp and slowly toppled sideways out of the saddle.

EIGHTEEN

L
UCKILY, TINY CAUGHT FAYLA before she hit the ground—but a cursory examination of the unconscious Gypsy girl revealed that the luck ended there.

“It is the Great Sickness,” gasped Rachel, her nose pressed into the rough cloth of her sleeve to prevent her from breathing in the sickness.

Even Tiny recoiled at the dread pronouncement.

“We can't be sure of that,” said Azriel without conviction.

“The instant we removed her gloves
I
was sure of it,” said Rachel. Without taking her nose out of her sleeve, she gestured toward the blackened tips of Fayla's now-bare fingers, and to her swollen hands, which had the look of being severely bruised. “If you were to remove her boots her feet would look the same—for now. A short while hence,” she continued, her voice taking on the faraway quality of one reliving a powerful memory, “her hands and feet will be entirely black and the bruise-colour will begin creeping up her arms and legs. If the fever continues to
rage on, she will suffer violent fits and her entire body will become bloated and begin to smell like—”

“Enough!” blurted Persephone, who could feel her gorge rising. Turning to Azriel, she said, “Can you help her?”

He hesitated. “Our healers may be able to do something if we return to the camp at once, but.…”

“But?” prompted Persephone impatiently. “But what?”

“But if we turn back now, it is unlikely that we'll be able to get to Parthania in time to rescue the child,” he said quietly.

Persephone's heart sank like a stone. “So we must choose between Fayla and the child?” she asked, swallowing hard.

Azriel gave her a bleak smile. As he did so there came a distant screech and the sound of men cheering. Startled, Persephone looked around to see Ivan—dear, brave, funny Ivan!—plummeting from the sky with an arrow through his wing.

Oh, Ivan
, thought Persephone, squeezing her eyes shut so that she wouldn't have to watch the dogs tear him to pieces. Shoving aside her grief, she angrily thought how Ivan's death was the Gypsies' fault—how he'd still be alive if Azriel hadn't dragged her from the owner's farm and embroiled her in this ridiculous tribal goose chase. How they'd had no right to do what they'd done—and no right to expect anything from her but resentment and bitterness and a desire to flee from them at the first opportunity!

Then she opened her eyes and saw the beautiful, brave, clever, well-dressed sick girl lying at her feet. And
she thought of the child awaiting rescue—the child who, in her mind's eye, had somehow come to look very much like jolly, lisping little Sabian.

And she knew that though the tribal goose chase had nothing to do with her, freedom wouldn't be freedom if it didn't include freedom from the guilt of knowing that she hadn't done what she could to save both of them. In view of this rather irksome truth, she said, “Well, what if we were to split up?”

“Split up?” said Azriel, who'd been watching her carefully the whole time she'd been thinking.

Persephone nodded. “You, Rachel and I could carry on to Parthania to rescue the child,” she explained without much enthusiasm. “Tiny could take Fayla back to the camp.”

“I don't know—” began Tiny doubtfully.

“It is … a good plan,” came a hoarse whisper from the ground.

Startled, Persephone looked down to find Fayla awake and staring at her with glittering, red-rimmed eyes. She motioned for Persephone to kneel beside her.

“You will save the child?” she gasped, clutching at Persephone's arm with her cold, blackened fingers.

“I will try,” replied Persephone, trying not to show her fear and revulsion at being touched by those awful fingers.

Fayla nodded jerkily and mumbled something else. Unable to make it out, Persephone held her breath and leaned as close to the sick girl as she dared.

“Azriel is … as a brother to me,” Fayla mumbled again, even more faintly than before. “Do not … break his heart.”

Persephone's own heart leapt in her chest at these unexpected words. “What are you saying? Fayla, listen to me—”

But the Gypsy girl had lapsed back into the tormented slumber of her sickness and was beyond listening to anyone.

The plan agreed upon, it did not take long to change Fayla back into her lowborn smock and settle her upon the hastily fashioned sledge that Tiny had attached to the horse belonging to the now-gagged, bound and blindfolded unconscious nobleman who'd been left behind by Lord Atticus.

After the two of them had departed, Rachel and Persephone returned to the place where Fayla's sweatsoaked noble clothing had been laid out to air. Seeing Rachel's terror at the prospect of donning garments worn by someone afflicted with the disease that had killed her parents, Persephone insisted upon playing the part of the noblewoman. Rachel protested feebly for only a few seconds before capitulating with a grateful hug and quickly helping Persephone dress and fix her hair.

“
Oh
,” she sighed after she'd set the last hair pin in place. “You look beautiful—and nobler than the very noblest of noblewomen!”

Pleased in spite of the fact that she was wearing grim Death on her back, Persephone smiled, picked up her skirts and gracefully made her way back to where Fleet
was refusing to stand still so that Azriel could repack the final few items. When he finally managed to wrestle the last pannier closed, he turned, caught sight of Persephone and stopped short so abruptly that it appeared as though he'd slammed into an invisible wall.

For a breathless instant, he did nothing else. Then, with agonizing slowness, his very blue eyes began to wander from the top of her carefully coiffed head to the tender lobes of her ears, across every inch of her face and deep into her violet eyes. Here, they paused for a forever moment before plunging downward to the delicate hollow of her throat, across the graceful swell of her surprisingly generous bosom and along the curve of her slim waist. And then down, down they swept along the length of the full skirts that hid her long, bare legs, to the very tips of her polished riding boots before they began the slow climb back up again.

And all the while he was looking her over, Persephone stood paralyzed, wondering if she might faint, feeling as vulnerable as if she were standing utterly naked before him.

“Is … is something wrong, Azriel?” she finally stammered.

“Persephone … I … you.…”

“She looks terrific, doesn't she?” prompted Rachel, when it became clear that Azriel had temporarily lost the ability to form intelligible sentences.

Nodding, Azriel wordlessly held his hand out to Persephone. She slowly glided over to where he stood and then inhaled sharply when he slid his hands around her
waist. Refusing to look up at him for fear of what might happen if she did, Persephone raised her trembling hands and rested them lightly on his broad, powerful shoulders.

“Ready?” he asked as he prepared to toss her into the saddle.