The Lion's Daughter (Scoundrels 1)

“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 signed. “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 little 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 resdessly, when Agimi returned with his report.

Saranda, it turned out, was in a state of roaring chaos. 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 peace at weddings. They won’t even kill their own worst enemy. Mustafa said—”