The Lion's Daughter (Scoundrels 1)

“Now she has no excuse to go anywhere near him. Mustafa will see that Edenmont takes her and Percival west and out of the country as soon as possible.”

“All the same, I should have stayed in Berat and made certain.”

Jason clicked his tongue. “If you had, I wouldn’t have this. I might have gone on looking for the answer for weeks, most likely in vain.” He crumpled up the note and tossed it onto the fire. In seconds, nothing remained of Percival’s message but a few bits of soot, drifting upward on the smoke of the fire.

Turning back, Jason met Bajo’s troubled gaze.

“Tomorrow we must start out for Corfu,” Jason said firmly. “We’ve got to notify the British authorities, find the ship, and track down Ismal’s agents. Esme’s surrounded by men determined to get her out of the country, men Ismal has no reason to fear. He only wanted her in order to control me, and I’m dead, recollect. All his attention now is fixed on southern Albania. I want to keep it there. Let him watch while this monster he’s so laboriously created is dismembered, part by part. We can do it now, Bajo. Percival has given us the key.” Jason smiled. “He’ll be terribly disappointed if we don’t use it.”

Chapter Twelve

“Are you quite sure you don’t want to come?” Percival asked for the tenth time. “Cousin Esme said the walk would do you good.”

Varian stood at the doorway of Mustafa’s house and let his gaze travel up the narrow path Percival, Mustafa, Mati, and Agimi were proposing to follow.

Mustafa’s home stood in the upper reaches of the Mangalen quarter—a village that hugged the base of the rocky hill above the left bank of the River Osum. Its limestone houses crowded tightly along narrow, twisting streets.

There was far more to Berat, however. Above, a grim fortress crowned the precipice. Several churches as well as the palace of Ibrahim—official Pasha of Berat and currently Ali’s prisoner in a Gjirokastra dungeon—lay within its walls, many of whose stones had been laid in remotest antiquity.

Antique or not, Varian was not about to tax his recently recovered body with a long, virtually perpendicular hike up the mountainside.

“What your cousin meant,” he said, “is that it would do her good to watch me plummet from some crumbling stone down to the river, where my brain would be dashed to pieces upon the rocks.”

“Good heavens, I’m sure Cousin Esme would never wish such a thing, and even if she did—that is to say, merely as a supposition—I doubt she’d put it in such a roundabout way. She is not at all indirect in her speech. But, of course, that’s not what she meant. It’s not logical that she’d nurse you for a whole week if she wished you ill. Obviously—”

“She was trying to lull me into a false sense of security,” Varian murmured.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Nothing.” Varian met the boy’s puzzled gaze. “I was just being fanciful. I’m not delirious, Percival, I promise you. Run along. Don’t keep the others waiting. I prefer the role of spectator.”

Percival considered briefly. Then he gave a shrug and ran along. In a short while, Varian lost sight of the four figures, for they were soon swallowed up by the clustering white houses.

Berat was lovely in its way, Varian mused, with its limestone houses imbedded in the gray rock like rough white gems. Mustafa had said the place was more than two thousand years old. It had survived centuries of battle, conquest, destruction. Crushed, rebuilt, crushed, rebuilt again, it yet stubbornly clasped the rugged peak in fierce embrace. Like the people, Varian thought.

The sky had cleared in places today, though ponderous masses of gray clouds surged and rolled in the chill wind. This was not an English sky. Here the heavens seemed farther away, the clouds wilder. Even the great rock, thrusting up from the rolling landscape with the ancient fortress as its crown, seemed animate. One sensed some tumultuous presence, as though the ancient gods truly dwelt here. Even amid this quiet landscape, one sensed the storm throbbing at its heart.

It was the place, Varian told himself, and something in the air. He was simply caught in it, under its influence, like an opium eater. When he left, he’d be free.

He leaned against the door frame and closed his eyes. When he’d wakened from the oppressive fog of fever and wracking pain, he’d felt surprisingly clearheaded and strong. He’d smiled, and Esme had smiled in answer. But hers was a smile as impenetrable as Berat’s unforgiving mountain. Though kind, gentle, and diligent in his care, she was shut away behind an empty smile and evergreen eyes that told him…nothing.

Varian had thought at first the change was because of Percival, who hovered nearby constantly, and talked. As the days passed, though, each more slowly than the one preceding, Varian had come to understand that Percival wasn’t the reason.

Varian had also understood—and comprehension had come slowly, in a series of small, chill shocks—that nothing he did or said had any effect on her. It was as though he only imagined he spoke or acted, while Esme perceived but an inanimate lump, existing only to be arranged and examined, like one of Percival’s rocks.

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 Durres. 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 still-room. 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 kafe 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.