The Lion's Daughter (32 page)

Branko
wasn't pleased to hear her story. Still, though he said she was a
thousand times a fool and a hothead, he wasn't entirely without
sympathy. Besides, he owed her. She'd saved his life two years ago
and taken a bullet in her leg in the process.

All
she wanted, she told him, was a boat to take her north, beyond Ali's
territories, to Shkodra. There, Ali had no power, and she might stay
safely with the old man who'd years before taught her healing.

“You
needn't tell anyone else I'm here,” she assured him. “Only
help me find a hiding place for now. I won't stir until you tell me
so.”

Branko
reflected. “I don't know the town,” he said at last,

in
his slow considering way. “The only safe place I know is with
our family. Hush,” he chided when she began to protest about
endangering them. “You say no one will think to come here
looking for you. Maybe so. Maybe they won't guess you'd hide so close
to Corfu. Still, word may come any hour
—
and
the officials will be looking for a small female in boy's garb.”

“With
green eyes,” she reminded him. “I must hide. There's no
way I can disguise the color of my eyes.”

“That
won't be necessary if we make you appear a foreigner. A gypsy, maybe.
Donika will think of something,” he said. “But first I
must get you to the house without arousing notice.”

He
thought again for a long while. Esme tried to think, too, but her
brain wouldn't cooperate. It was as exhausted as her body.

“Yes,
easy enough,” Branko said, eyeing her thoughtfully. “For
now, you'll be a weary boy I found. I'll carry you over my shoulder
to the house. Only keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open
them.”

He
could not have devised a more appealing plan. She'd spent three days
endlessly thinking, planning ahead, while trying to keep panic and
misery from addling her reason. She'd sold the fancy rifle she'd
stolen from the guard and bought a horse with the money. Thereafter,
she'd made excellent progress, for the weather had held fair.
Nonetheless, Esme was tired to the bone. For a few minutes, it would
be so good to let someone else do the thinking for her. Branko's
manner might be slow, but his wits were not. Jason had always thought
highly of Donika's elder brother.

Esme
handed over her weapons and travel bags. Branko hoisted these over
one broad shoulder and Esme over the other. Her body immediately
slumped in relief, and her heavy lids fell closed. The rest was a
dull awareness of motion, voices, noise. By the time they reached the
house, even that awareness vanished. Esme was lost in black, blissful
oblivion.

FROM
THE TOP of the rocky hill above the straggling wood, Varian watched
the two riders approach the crossroads.

They
didn't pause as they reached it, but smoothly took the right branch.

“I
can't believe it.” He turned to Fejzi, who stood behind him.

“I
do not understand,” the secretary said, “but I believe
it. Ismal knows what he's about. Such a wise young man. And so kind
of him to spare us the trouble of tracking her.” He signaled to
the men waiting below, who quickly gathered up their weapons and
mounted.

“We
will wait until they collect Ismal and Risto,” Fejzi went on.
“Then your men will take you and Master Percival to the town.
It is a small place. She will not be difficult to find.”

“If
she's there.”

“She
will be there.”

So
everyone said. Varian didn't believe them; he was simply outnumbered.
What he believed
—
or
feared
...
but
he wouldn't think about that. Not now.

“You're
not coming with us?” he asked.

“I
must escort naughty Ismal to his cousin.”

“You've
two score men to escort him, and I need a competent interpreter,”
Varian said tightly.

“You
do not know Ismal. Forty men is nothing to him. In an hour he would
have those brave fighters weeping. When Ismal makes men weep, they
always do as he so sweetly asks. Fortunately, I am not a brave
fighter but a great coward. Also, I was his tutor for many years and
am immune to his arts. Fear of Ali keeps me so.”

“You
make that spoiled lordling sound like a sorcerer.”

“Some
say his mother was descended from Olympias, the mother of Alexander.
They say she was an enchantress, with hair the color of dark fire
—
the
Red Lion's color. They say she took gods as her lovers and it is of
such the beautiful Ismal is made. Of course, everyone would like to
claim kinship with Alexander. Still, even I believe there is
something inhuman about him.”

“Something
insane, more likely.” Varian's gaze returned to the two riders.

“Perhaps,”
Fejzi said. “The do say desire makes men mad.”

A
muscle twitched in Varian's jaw. “What romantics you Albanians
seem to be. Even Ali puts all his faith in Ismal's desperate passion
for Miss Brentmor. Or so he'd have one believe.”

“You
do not believe it, Lord Edenmont?”

“What
I believe appears to be of as little moment as does anything I do or
say.”

Below,
Ali's troops spilled onto the road. As they picked up speed, they
swiftly surged into order. In less than a minute, the mass of men and
beasts had shaped itself into a broad galloping wedge, racing
inexorably toward the crossroads.

Fejzi
drew nearer. “You see,” he said. “Wherever he
turns, Ali's men will be waiting for him. He cannot escape.”

“He
should have known he'd be followed. He's not stupid. I'll wager he
did know
—
and
he's only led us on a wild goose chase.” Varian's voice
tightened with rage. “They probably planned it, the two of
them. She couldn't have got away without his help.”

Fejzi
shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. The whole matter is beyond my
comprehension. It seems Ali plays some deep game with his cousin, but
what it is I do not know. Perhaps Ismal has guessed. Or perhaps he,
too, has been misled. Still, our court intrigues are not your
concern, my lord. In a short while, you shall find the girl and take
her away.”

“I
wonder if I shall.” Varian glanced past the secretary at
Percival, who sat on a boulder some yards away, his eyes fixed upon
the road. “I wonder if I should.”

“You
will do what is right, my lord. I have no doubt of that.”

“Then
you're a fool,” Varian muttered. He turned and strode down the
narrow path.

DONIKA'S
WEDDING DAY had dawned bright and warm, the sun beaming kindly upon
the new bride and sparkling upon the gold coins that adorned her dark
hair. Now, though the afternoon was waning, it beat down fiercely,
making Esme wish her accomplices had devised a lighter disguise. Her
face was sticky with paint and her body damp under the heavy layers
of her gypsy costume.

She'd
no idea what had transpired last night. Esme knew only that she'd
been roused well before dawn to find herself in a room crammed with
Donika's sisters, aunts, cousins, mother
...
and her own grandmother, Qeriba.

Had
she not been so weary the night before, Esme would have realized
Qeriba would be here, for she was both the groom's cousin and a
friend of the bride's family. She was not, she soon made clear,
Esme'
s
friend
at present.

From
the day Esme had begun menstruating, Qeriba had been obsessed with
getting her married. Thus, the instant Esme had finished her tale,
the old woman began berating her
—
not
for endangering herself or her friends, but for running away from a
perfectly good
bachelor.

She
scolded while the others dressed Esme, and all during the hasty
breakfast. She muttered throughout the wedding and was still
grumbling hours after, while they sat with a large group of women in
the terraced garden behind the bridegroom's house. He was inside with
the men, listening to indelicate songs and even more indelicate
advice, all very loud. The women were singing, too, though with
rather less volume and far more subtlety. Only Qeriba ventured the
occasional immodest suggestion—when, that is, she could spare a
moment from haranguing her granddaughter.

“A
fine-looking Englishman, of noble blood, and you ran away from him,”
she was saying for the thousandth time. “Why should he not take
money from Ali? Are you such a treasure that you think a man
—
even
a Christian
—
would
take you for nothing?”

“Grandmama,
how many times must I tell you? It has nothing to do with wedding me.
He wanted only
—”

“Men
don't know what they want. Women must show them.” Qeriba
gestured about her. “Any of these girls could have shown him.
But not you. You can read and write. You're more clever than any
dozen of them together, but this you couldn't do.”

“Any
one
of
them is twelve times prettier than I, Grandmama.”

“Men
don't know what's pretty and what isn't. Make a man happy to look at
you, and he believes you're Aphrodite. God give me patience. These
things you of all girls should understand.”

“I
don't want to understand.” Esme whispered irritably. “This
has nothing to do with ensnaring men
—
as
if I could. I just want to be left in peace.”

“And
die a virgin.” Qeriba sighed. “You won't get a husband in
Shkodra.”

“I
don't want
—”

“A
terrible place. Barbarians, all of them. Jason kept you there too
long. You learned savage ways.”

“Then
it's best I return. There at least I'll belong.” Esme rubbed
her face. The thick paint made her skin itch, and she was perspiring
heavily, though they sat in the shade. It wasn't just the heat and
the six layers of clothing she staggered under, but increasing
nervousness as the time for her departure neared.

Branko
had found a boatman who'd agreed to take her to Shkodra, but not
until nightfall, because he was in no hurry to leave the festivities.
Esme could only hope he wouldn't drink too much. She'd never handled
a boat on her own.

“You
belong with your father's kin,” Qeriba said “It was
Jason's wish.” She gazed at Esme in vexation. “A lit
de
while ago, you played at telling
fortunes. Shall I tell you yours? In all that's happened, I see
clearly the hand of Fate. You cannot escape your
kismet
by sailing away on a boat. But it's
no use to tell you. Never was there a child so obstinate.”

“
Aman,
Grandmama, grant me peace,”
Esme begged. “What's done is done. In a few hours, I'll be
gone. Must we quarrel and say farewell in anger? May I not have a few
hours' respite among those I love before I go?”

Qeriba
studied her granddaughter's face, her own countenance softening. “Ah,
well, it's bad luck to part in anger.” She glanced about. “Song
and laughter are good things, but hard on an old woman's ears. The
sun beats too strong, and no wind comes to ease its heat. Also, I'm
hungry. Let's take a bite to eat, then I'll go with you to the
harbor. It's been many years since I walked along the shores of
Saranda. Let's stroll there together, and let the sea quiet our
spirits, eh?”

WHILE
HIS MEN spread through Saranda, Varian waited on a hill overlooking
the town. He'd fretted one interminable hour, pacing restlessly, when
Agimi returned with his report.

Saranda,
it turned out, was in a state of roaring choas. The son of one of its
more prosperous citizens had just got himself

leg-shackled,
and the entire population was celebrating. The streets near the
bridegroom's house were mobbed with men. The only way to get through
without trampling drunken wedding guests was on foot. In short, Lord
Edenmont could not expect to make his way unnoticed, and word of his
presence would spread quickly through the crowd.

“I
take it Agimi considers that a problem,” Varian said to Petro.

The
dragoman scowled. “What else is to be expected? Where
she
goes, always there is trouble. Agimi
says the bride is the good friend of the little witch. They will not
help us. We shall all be killed.”

“Don't
be silly,” said Percival. “There's always general
besa
at weddings. They won't even kill
their own worst enemy. Mustafa said
—”

“I
don't care what Mustafa said,” Varian snapped. “The whole
town's drunk. A mob of drunken men could take it into their heads to
do anything. You'll stay here with Petro and make sure he keeps away
from the
raki
bottle.
I've got problems enough without worrying about you.