The Lion's Daughter (Scoundrels 1)

“Highness, a thousand pardons.” An ashen-faced Fejzi burst into the room and threw himself at Ali’s feet. “A message from Janina, most urgent—”

Jason swore violently in English and leapt up.

Fejzi winced. “Ismal—”

“Yes, yes,” Ali snapped. “He’s escaped. Obviously. What other urgent message from Janina would make you hurry your fat carcass so?” He, too, rose, but slowly and painfully. “Only hurry to the point. When did it happen, and which direction did my accursed cousin take?”

***

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 fine 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 rage. “I never wanted it. Your love is vile, disloyal. You’re glad I failed. 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 shall 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 agitates them. Tsk, tsk, Risto.” He put an arm about Risto’s shoulders 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, injustice. She has brains enough, as well, to see the lightness 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 ponder. 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 Twenty-Three

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 ha

d 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 curtly.