The Lion's Daughter (40 page)

ISMAL
KNOCKED THE bowl of gruel away with the back of his hand, splashing
the contents over the already-damp blanket. “This rathole of a
vessel pitches so,” he muttered. “What's the good of
swallowing when I can't keep it down? Unless you mean to choke me to
death, you black whoreson.”

Risto
picked up the bowl. “Ali's poison left you weak,” he
said. “You must try to eat something, else you'll be dead long
before we reach Venice.”

“I
won't die,” came the grim answer. “Not until I've settled
my score with that English swine.”

“You
don't know it was him.” Risto found a rag and scrubbed at the
blanket. “You've no proof he betrayed you. Even if he did,
you'd be far wiser to let it go.”

“And
hide in Constantinople, for who knows how long, with no money and
only two blackguard servants to lend me countenance? The Sultan would
laugh in my face
—
most
likely while it lay upon a silver tray.”

“You've
money still,” Risto said. “More than I'd ever see in
three lifetimes.”

“Sir
Gerald Brentmor took thousands from me
—
then
cheated me of the goods. Who else knew each and every ship, each and
every route and destination? One, even two shipments lost, I might
believe an accident of Fate. But
all?”

Risto
flung the rag to the floor. “Ships! Guns! For what? To rule a
wretched piece of land, nothing but rocks and swamps? To waste your
youth and beauty fighting every marauder who

wants
those same filthy rocks and swamps? To spend your life kissing
foreigners' fat behinds, for yet more guns to defend your
precious
pashalik?
God gave you beauty and wit. Your
own cousin sent you among the Franks to learn their ways, so you
might go freely among them and win honor and respect. Aye, and bend
them to your will. Yet you wish to dirty your fi
ne
white hands with the blood of
ignorant savages.” “My people need me to lead them out of
savagery.” “It's not your
kismet,”
Risto said stubbornly. “The
Almighty warns you, time and again, but you won't heed. Like a
hotheaded boy, you chased after that red-haired whore
—
and
nearly died for it.”

“I
paid for her,” Ismal ground out. “She was mine by right.”
“She was never yours, and you only wanted to keep her from the
English lord. Ali played cat and mouse with you, but the cat kills
the mouse in the end, doesn't he? As Ali nearly killed you. You
better than anyone know his games, yet you played into his hands. If
I hadn't found Mehmet, you'd be dead. Without his help, I could never
have saved you. For what
?
That you may risk your neck
again
—
for
revenge on a low English smuggler? What curse is on me that I love
such a madman?”

“I
don't want your love.” Ismal's eyes were blue-black with i ige.
“I never wanted it. Your love is vile, disloyal. You're glad I
Tailed. You wish I'd lost everything, so I'd need you. I don't need
you! Run away to Constantinople. To the devil if you like. Find
yourself some weak boy to pamper. I'm not your boy. I've never been,
never will be.” Risto whipped out his dagger.

“Yes,
do it!” Ismal taunted. “Kill me, my loving Risto. I hall
die with Esme's image in my heart, her name on my lips. I'll die
smiling, thinking of her firm white breasts and the red curls of
her
—”

The
cabin door swung open, and Mehmet's big, ugly form filled the
doorway. “Peace, I beg you, master. All the crew can hear you.”
He stepped inside and calmly took the shaking Risto's dagger. “Though
Greek, they might understand a word or two of our tongue. Besides,
this arguing and shouting agitat
es
them. Tsk, tsk, Risto.” He
put an arm about Risto's shouders and led him to the door. “Why
do you vex the master?”

“Keep
him away from me,” Ismal said, as he sank back down onto the
narrow bunk. “He hovers over me like a nagging grandmother.”

Mehmet
grinned over his shoulder. “Aye, master, and you'd rather a
pretty young nurse. In Venice, we shall find you three: one dark, one
fair, one red fire, eh? Sleep now, and dream of them.”

Leading
Risto to the upper deck, Mehmet ordered him to breathe deeply of the
brisk sea air to calm his angry spirit. “The trouble with you
is, you don't understand human nature,” he told the miserable
servant.

“He's
not human,” Risto grumbled. “The Devil gave him that
tongue to lash me with
—
while
he throws sweet honey at everyone else.”

“Because
he trusts no one else. It's a sad burden for you, my friend. Still,
you should pity him. It's a hard thing to be half god, half man
—
and
more boy than man, at that. What good humor can you expect when he's
been crossed in everything he's attempted?”

“He's
been crossed because he attempts the wrong things.”

“Satan
makes work for idle hands. Lord Ismal has a busy mind and spirit and
wishes to conquer the world. But he's not that kind of conqueror. I
see this, as you do.” Mehmet stared out at the sea. “It's
a pity he didn't get the girl.”

“That
whore of a hellcat
—”

“You
can't keep him from women.”

“Do
you think I didn't learn that long ago? It isn't women. It's
her,”
Risto spat out. “A cutthroat
who acts like a man, even reads and writes. She's bad-tempered and
willful. And a foreigner's slut besides.”

“You
fear this prodigy of a female will enslave him, do you?” Mehmet
laughed. “Better for you if she does. Her heart's brave like a
fighter's, but just and generous, too. Were she his wife, and you
treated her kindly, she'd make him treat you kindly, too, in justice.
She has brains enough, as well, to see the Tightness of your wishes
for him. If you made her your friend, she might well help you.”

“I
want no female's
help?”

“What
do you care who he obeys, so long as the result's what you want?
You're a clever enough man, Risto. Cleverer
than
I, surely. Yet even ignorant
Mehmet can see the value of a wife the master dotes upon.”

Risto
looked closely at his companion. “Why do you tell me this?”

Mehmet
turned his gaze to the sea. “It's something to pon-der. The
British found all the ships and confiscated their
cargos.
For this, the master blames the
English smuggler. And so, we pursue him to Venice. If we don't reach
Venice in time, where shall we go next, I wonder?”

“Not
England,” Risto whispered, aghast. “You can't believe
he'd go so far for revenge.”

“He
might, especially if he learns the girl goes there as well
—”

“Then
we must take care he doesn't learn.”

“You've
known him since he was a boy. When have you ever succeeded in keeping
any secret from him?”

“Never,”
Risto answered gloomily. “Even the one locked in
my heart he knows
—
and
mocks me with.”

“And
so he knows you'll follow where he goes.” Mehmet shrugged. “For
my part, I'm glad enough to go. I don't mind travel and the farther
from Ali and his spies, I say, the better. Wherever Ismal goes, and
whether he goes for revenge or money or a female, I don't object to
going with him.” He turned his gaze to Risto's anxious
countenance. “If he succeeds, we'll prosper with him. If he
fails
—
well,
what's the difference where a man dies?”

Chapter
23

THE
HOUSE WAS ENORMOUS, A GREAT STONE fortress, except that no sensible
fortress builder would have designed such large windows, or so many
of them. Row after row of gray rectangles stonily confronted the
sunless January day. The steadily falling snow had blanketed the flat
stretch of land about the house and dressed the dark, naked trees in
ribbons of white.

Esme
had seen snow before, but never so much as in England on this last
day of traveling to her grandmother's house. Still, snow was
preferable to the bitter cold which had preceded it. The countryside,
with its squat, fat hills, did not look nearly so somber and dull
under the white carpet.

Here
there were no mountains, only farmland broken by a patch of woodland
now and then, and miles of stone walls, twisting about and
crisscrossing the hills. Varian had said there were fine, beautiful
mountains to the north, surrounding lovely looking-glass lakes. Esme
would have liked to go there. Anywhere but here.

As
she climbed the front steps with Varian, she glanced behind her at
the battered old coach that had brought them. In minutes, it might
well be ordered to carry them right back.

That
would be fine with her
—
except
they hadn't any more money. They'd spent their last coins to get
here.

Esme
winced as Varian slammed the knocker for the second time. This time,
however, the door was opened by a very small, thin man with a very
long, sharp nose. He looked without expression first at Varian, then
at Esme. Then he blinked his round black eyes very hard.

“Lady
Brentmor's granddaughter to see her,” Varian said c
urtly.

The
man made a sound, quite incomprehensible, and let them in as far as
the foyer. “I shall ascertain whether her ladyship is at home,”
he whispered. Immediately he turned his back and marched away, his
shiny shoes clicking upon the marble floor.

“Where
else would an old woman be on such a day?” Esme muttered. “How
rude he is, to leave guests at the door. H
e
did not greet us, or welcome us,
or ask after our health.”

“Servants
are usually discouraged from making inquiries of so personal a
nature, love. Especially when they're unsure of a visitor's welcome.
At least he didn't turn us out directly. That's something.”
Varian drew her arm through his. “I hope you're not too
chilled. Still, I expect the temperature will go up very shortly.”

A
full ten minutes later, the servant returned, relieved
them
of their wraps, and led them down
a maze of hallways to an
immense set of doors, thickly
carved and painted gold. He quietly opened them and nodded Esme and
Varian inside. Not sure if it was correct to thank him, Esme made do
with a tight smile. To her surprise, the servant flashed one in
return, but so quickly was it gone, she wondered if she'd imagined
it.

An
instant later, she was inside the lion's den. Lioness, rather, and
this was hardly a den.

The
room, in keeping with the house's exterior, was im
mense.
Every stick of furniture from a
dozen large Albanian town would have fit inside easily, with room to
spare for fifty people besides. All the same, some determined
individual had managed to fill it nearly to bursting. The draperies,
rugs, and most of the furniture were green and gold. Every solid
materia ornately carved, every fabric thickly trimmed or embroidered
with gold, the great, heavy room seemed determined to press Esme down
and squash her flat.

As
the great mass of
things
resolved
into individual objects, Esme discovered the other living being in
the place.

An
old woman stood straight as a pike by the windows, glaring down at
her visitors, though she wasn't much taller than Esme. Her hair was
thick, gray with streaks of faded brown, and elegantly arranged. She
was sumptuously dressed in dark green velvet with gold lace at her
neck and wrists.

“Well,
what are you gaping at?” she barked, making Esme start. “Come
here where I can get a look at you. It's black as Hades in here, and
those lazy fools ain't lit the candles. Come here, gel.”

“My
lady,” Varian said. “Lady Edenmont, my wife.”

“Did
I ask you, coxcomb?” the old woman cried. “I know who you
are. Let me see the chit who calls herself my granddaughter.”

Esme
yanked her hand from Varian's, marched to the windows, dropped a deep
curtsy, then rose to glare at her father's mother, who glared back.

“There,”
Esme snapped. “You see me. Call me what you like. It is nothing
to me. You did not wish to see me. I did not wish to come. But my
husband said it was my duty. And so I have done it. Goodbye.”

“I
ain't excused you, Miss High and Mighty. You just hold your tongue
and show some respect for your elders. Damnation, Edenmont,”
the insufferable creature went on, still scowling at Esme, “she's
but a child! What the devil was you thinking of?”

“I
am not a child! I shall be nineteen in
—”