The Lion's Daughter (22 page)

The
sensation made him anxious, then angry, then miserable, and now,
resigned, he supposed. Miserably resigned. It was hopeless and ought
to be. It was better this way, really. What had he expected?

He
heard footsteps and opened his eyes, but it was only Petro coming up
the stony path from the
pazar,
panting and muttering to himself.
Some weeks before their arrival, one of Ali's officials had passed
through, along with a large entourage, and taken all the best horses.
Mustafa had heard today that the horses had been returned at last,
and Petro had gone with one of Mustafa's relatives to secure them for
the journey west. The fat dragoman had wanted an excuse to avoid
work, as usual.

“Did
he get them?” Varian asked as Petro came to a wheezing halt
before him.

“Aye.
Good ones, though not so good as those which carried us to this
cursed place.”

“Esme
advised us to send them back to Maliq. He needs them.”

“Aye,
and halfway to
Fier,
she will say someone needs these,
and she will make us go by foot, and I shall fall by the way and die,
and be glad, for it will be the end of my sufferings.” With a
loud moan, Petro sank down upon the stone bench beside the doorway.

“Don't
be ridiculous. She'll hardly subject her young cousin to a forced
march over the mountains.”

Petro
eyed him gloomily. “There is no knowing. She is not right in
the head. I see it in her eyes. A wicked spirit lives there, and she
is surely cursed. All was well with us until we came upon her in
Durrës.
In
an instant
—
not
five minutes
—
calamity fell upon us, and since,
one calamity after another. Always you do as she says, and always,
trouble follows
—
at
the River Shkumbi and in Poshnja and here as well, for you fell
gravely ill.”

Not
right in the head. Was that
—
no,
gad, he was listening to this fat, superstitious sot.

“At
present, I mean to do as
I
wish,” Varian snapped.
“Which is, I trust, amenable to your wishes as well
—
to
leave Albania as soon as possible.”

“I
do not wish to leave with
her,”
the dragoman whined. “Let her
go her own way and take her curse with her.”

“The
man who rescued Percival wanted us to take her to Corfu. It's the
least we can do.” Varian answered impatiently.

Then
what? Percival had some fancy he was taking Esme back to England with
him, which was ludicrous. One could hardly present the girl to Sir
Gerald. That didn't bear thinking of. One needn't think of it, Varian
told himself. Mustafa had said Jason had friends in Corfu. They'd
take care of her. It had all been arranged. Esme couldn't stay here,
that was certain. All that awaited her in Albania was violence and,
if her would-be lover succeeded, degradation and slavery.

“She
does not wish to go,” Petro said. “She will make trouble.
I feel it. I see it in her eyes. Her cousin speaks, and she smiles
and answers softly, but her eyes
...”
He shuddered theatrically.

It
was a waste of breath to argue with him, and Varian didn't know why
he bothered. He was master here, after all. “Are you chilled?”
he demanded. “Perhaps you want some exercise. Why don't you
start packing? If we've got horses, there's no reason we can't start
tomorrow.” Varian pulled his cloak closed and, ignoring his
dragoman's dark looks and darker mutterings, strode off down the path
toward the
pazar.

VARIAN
HAD NEVER before ventured anywhere in Albania without an interpreter.
He was in no mood, however, for Petro's lachrymose drivel. Agimi and
Mustafa were with Percival, and Esme had taken herself off to the
stillroom. She was making a concoction of some sort for Eleni, who
suffered from swelling in her knuckles. At any rate, it was quite
clear that the last thing the girl wanted was Varian's company.

In
the marketplace, he encountered one of Mustafa's friends, Viktor, who
in rough Greek invited the lord to take a cup of
kafe
in a nearby coffee shop. A few
others joined them and, the conversation proving amiable, Varian
lingered at the
kafinet
more
than an hour. Though his own Greek was as inept as Viktor's, it was
sufficient for comprehension, and the time did not pass unpleasantly.

All
the same, by the time he'd swallowed his third cup of thick Turkish
brew, Varian was edgy. After a polite leave-taking, he decided to
settle his nerves with a longer walk.

This
section of the main road was unusually quiet for the time of day.
Apart from himself, the only other moving object was one of the
buffalo-drawn carts he'd seen before in Berat, carrying wood, hay,
and other homely necessities.

Though
the cart was some distance ahead, this was the nearest Varian had
been to one, and what he observed was not calculated to inspire
confidence. The wheels, poorly secured to the axles, wobbled like
drunkards, threatening to reel loose and collapse into the muddy
road. Varian tensed as the cart neared a narrow turn, where the road
gave onto the steep riverbank.

The
driver proved cautious, however, slowing his wagon nearly to a
standstill as he reached the curve. At that moment, a slight, ragged
youth climbed up from the bank and called out to the driver, who
answered cheerily. The boy flung two leather bags onto the cart, then
leapt in after them.

In
stunned disbelief, Varian watched the child burrow under the hay.
Then he spat out an oath and charged after the vehicle.

He
caught up in minutes, grabbed the board at the rear, and hurled
himself aboard. In the next instant, the cart struck a rut, Varian
lost his balance, and toppled into the hay.

A
woolen-encased head poked up from the mound beside him, and he caught
a glimpse of startled green eyes. As Varian started toward her, Esme
threw a mass of straw at him, then dashed for the back of the cart.
He reached out and grabbed her leg. She staggered, her arms flailing
wildly, then fell backward and landed hard upon him before he could
roll out of the way.

She
couldn't weigh more than six stone, but her head struck his right
shoulder with force enough to crack one or the other, he was sure, as
the pain ricocheted up his neck and down his arm. He'd no time to
catch his breath, though, because she was trying to struggle up. He
flung his aching arm over her, heaved her to the other side, and
rolled on top of her. She stilled instantly.

Varian
glared at her. Her woolen helmet had slipped down over her eyes. He
yanked it off and threw it out of the cart.

The
vehicle had rumbled to a stop, and the driver was shouting. Varian
ignored him. “We're getting out,” he told her. “Do
you need a clip on the jaw, or will you come peaceably?”

“Don't
hit me,” she gasped. “I'll come.”

Varian
rolled off her, grabbed the bags, and flung them into the road.

She
sat up, rubbing the back of her head, her green eyes wide with misery
as she gazed about her. Varian jumped down from the cart and held out
his hand. Esme stared at his hand a moment, then, tight-lipped,
climbed out unaided. As her feet touched the ground, she swayed and
caught at the cart for support.

Varian
picked her up, carried her the few feet to the side of the road, and
deposited her upon a large white rock.

The
driver said something in Albanian and laughed. Esme's color deepened
to scarlet.

Varian
dug into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a coin. Throwing
Esme a warning glance, he approached the driver.

“
Faleminderit,”
he told the driver. “I'm sorry
for your trouble.” He held out the coin. The Albanian hesitated
a moment, then nodded and clicked his tongue.

“Oh,
yes, you must,” Varian said. “Buy yourself some
raki.”

The
driver looked from Varian to Esme, smiled, shrugged, and took the
coin. After another incomprehensible speech, he drove away.

Varian
picked up the leather pouches and marched back to the rock. He
dropped them at her feet.

His
entire body pounded with outrage. His chest was tight with it, and it
beat in his ears, making the tranquil landscape about him throb as
well, like a great, hammering sea. He looked at her.

In
the sullen afternoon light, her hair glinted deep copper sparks. Yet
it was a rat's nest of tangles and bits of straw and several knotty
tendrils stuck damply to her face. She'd dug out her worst, oldest
garments, or, more likely, traded some beggar for these.

Had
he lingered another few minutes at the coffee shop, she'd have got
clean away. He should have let her go, to the Devil if she wanted. He
wasn't responsible for her. He didn't want to be responsible for
anybody. Percival he'd been paid to look after, and couldn't do even
that simple task properly. How was one to look after her? What was
one to
do
with
her?

Varian
looked about him, at the river glistening in the fitful light, and at
the tiny village on its opposite bank. Hills completely enclosed the
narrow valley. In Berat, even from the citadel, one could see nothing
of what lay beyond.

Varian
didn't want to see, didn't want to think about what lay beyond,
ahead. All he wanted from tomorrow was to get away. Only he wouldn't.
Even far away, Esme would haunt him. He spun round to face her.

“What
the devil is wrong with you?” he demanded. “Where in
blazes did you think you'd go? How far did you think you'd get
—
a
girl, alone and penniless? How far before your would-be lover tracked
you down, or you stumbled into the hands of others less loving?”

“A
great deal is wrong, Varian
Shenjt
Gjergj?
she said. “Keep me,
and you make it worse. I cannot go to Corfu with you.” Esme
raised her head. Her cool green gaze was steady. “You of all
people must see that. You are a man of the world. You know your
world. You have seen mine. You know me as well.”

He
clenched his fists. He wanted to shake her. A moment ago, he'd
offered to strike her. He could not recall when he'd ever felt so
desperately angry. Or angrily desperate. He knew he was a fool. He
knew he was behaving like a brute, yet he couldn't stop it. Even
while he told himself to calm down and
think,
the fury rose in his throat, nearly
choking him.

'Then
go, damn you!” he shouted. “Go to the Devil. Get yourself
raped
—
killed.
What is it to me, you little lunatic? All who care about you
—
men
older and easily wiser than I
—
are
ready to move heaven and earth to get you to Corfu. But you think you
know what's best, don't you? Never mind that you'll break Percival's
heart. Never mind that a few weeks' travel with you is the only
happiness he's got to look forward to for the next ten years. He's
just a twelve-year-old boy who doesn't know any better. And the rest
of us are just a lot of stupid men, irrational, illogical,
blind,
because we want you to be safe.”

“Listen
to me,” she said. She put out her hand. “Take my hand,
Varian. Be a friend to me, and listen.”

He
was afraid to touch her. His rage would weaken, and he didn't want to
feel what lay within it. He turned away and stared blindly into the
distance.

“Please,
Varian. Will you destroy my life without giving me a hearing?”

He
could have borne her angry reproach and all the lashing fury she was
capable of. This too-quiet plea he couldn't. The shell of rage
cracked, Varian saw himself, and shame washed over him.

She
had looked after him, attended him patiently, made his way as
comfortable as she could. In return, he'd tried to ruin her. He'd
soiled her innocent mouth with his polluted kisses, corrupted her
innocent flesh with his filthy hands. He wanted her still, more than
ever. He'd stopped her escape not for her sake but for his. In his
twisted mind, Esme had become his property. He needed her, and so,
she must stay with him.

Varian
exhaled a defeated sigh and turned to her. He took her small hand in
both of his and crouched before her. “I'm listening,” he
said.

“My
father is dead,” she said, her voice expressionless. “Of
my English kin, that leaves Percival's father and grandmother. They
do not want me. They may have tolerated me for Jason's sake, but they
would not have taken me in. They might accept a genteel young lady as
his daughter, but even Jason could not make me one. Do you think I am
mistaken in this, Varian?” she asked quietly. “Tell me
truly.”