that false
humility on me. Despite this infernal lump on my head, my faculties
are functioning.” Fighting his protesting muscles and the
lightning bolts inside his head, Varian sat up. “You think I'm
a great joke, don't you? If you'd been the one with his skull
cracked, you'd not be feeling so damned superior just now.”
“If
the Turk had struck me the blow he dealt you, I'd be dead,” the
boy replied with the faintest of smiles. “Your head is
wonderfully hard, efendi.” „
Gingerly,
Varian touched the throbbing lump near his ear and winced. “All
English lords are thickheaded. Didn't you know that?”
The
boy's smile widened, transforming his face, and for the first time,
Varian saw a countenance quite distinct from Percival's, though like
it in many ways. The mouth was different, wide and overfull, the
features altogether more delicate. This child, in short, was
beautiful. At this moment, Varian could see how the boy might appeal
to a man with that sort of appetite, though the understanding was
purely intellectual. Depraved as he was, Lord Edenmont had always
confined his carnal desires to adult women. The idea of children
being used for pleasure thoroughly nauseated him.
Banishing
the image of Percival or this poor by-blow of Jason's at the mercy of
some gross Saracen lecher, Varian returned Zigur's smile. “It's
true I don't bear illness and pain uncomplainingly,” he said.
“It's also true I'm terrified of spoiling my lovely boots. But
I'd rather not rot in the middle of a swamp, either, thank you. If
you've got a sensible alternative, then out with it.”
•
• •
ESME
LAY AWAKE beside the Englishman half that following night, assuring
herself she was doing the right thing. She'd told the truth about the
ship, as Petro and the others had confirmed when they returned. She
didn't want to linger for weeks in this wasteland any more than the
Englishman did. She wanted to see her cousin safely out of Albania as
quickly as possible, so she could take up her life. The faster they
reached Tepelena, the sooner this would happen. In the present
circumstances, journeying the hundred or so miles south by land
offered the speediest alternative.
Besides,
if they waited to sail, she'd end up in Corfu among the British, and
Bajo would be there to force her to go to England. She'd been too
numb with shock to argue with him yesterday morning in Durrës, or even to think. Since then,
she'd had plenty of time to reflect.
She
thought of her father, who'd been killed on her account. Never again
would he tease her and laugh with her. Never again would she stand
proudly beside him while he boasted of her to his friends — his
daughter, the little warrior. Never again would she hear his gentle
voice, always filled with love, even when he scolded. Her loving
father, who only wanted to return with her to his own people, had
been shot like a dog ... because of her. With him, her
life would not have been entirely empty, no matter where she went.
Without him, she had nothing, only grief ... and no one to share it with.
All
through the long day she'd shut it away, raised a fortress around her
aching heart, and done what must be done. Through that interminable
day, her rage had grown, until she thought she must go mad. She could
not run away, could never hope to find peace when her heart cried for
revenge. Bajo was wrong. He had not killed her father's murderer.
Ismal was still alive. There was only one course for the Red Lion's
daughter: blood for blood.
It
would not be difficult. She would see her cousin safely away, then
accept Ismal. With Jason dead, Ismal must pay Ali her bride-price,
and it would be a high one. But she would cost Ismal more than jewels
and coins, and when she took the life from his young body, her honor
would be wiped clean. She in turn must pay for that, she understood
well enough — either
with
her life or in the bed of one of Ali's current favorites. She was not
afraid. So long as she cleaned
humility on me. Despite this infernal lump on my head, my faculties
are functioning.” Fighting his protesting muscles and the
lightning bolts inside his head, Varian sat up. “You think I'm
a great joke, don't you? If you'd been the one with his skull
cracked, you'd not be feeling so damned superior just now.”
“If
the Turk had struck me the blow he dealt you, I'd be dead,” the
boy replied with the faintest of smiles. “Your head is
wonderfully hard, efendi.” „
Gingerly,
Varian touched the throbbing lump near his ear and winced. “All
English lords are thickheaded. Didn't you know that?”
The
boy's smile widened, transforming his face, and for the first time,
Varian saw a countenance quite distinct from Percival's, though like
it in many ways. The mouth was different, wide and overfull, the
features altogether more delicate. This child, in short, was
beautiful. At this moment, Varian could see how the boy might appeal
to a man with that sort of appetite, though the understanding was
purely intellectual. Depraved as he was, Lord Edenmont had always
confined his carnal desires to adult women. The idea of children
being used for pleasure thoroughly nauseated him.
Banishing
the image of Percival or this poor by-blow of Jason's at the mercy of
some gross Saracen lecher, Varian returned Zigur's smile. “It's
true I don't bear illness and pain uncomplainingly,” he said.
“It's also true I'm terrified of spoiling my lovely boots. But
I'd rather not rot in the middle of a swamp, either, thank you. If
you've got a sensible alternative, then out with it.”
•
• •
ESME
LAY AWAKE beside the Englishman half that following night, assuring
herself she was doing the right thing. She'd told the truth about the
ship, as Petro and the others had confirmed when they returned. She
didn't want to linger for weeks in this wasteland any more than the
Englishman did. She wanted to see her cousin safely out of Albania as
quickly as possible, so she could take up her life. The faster they
reached Tepelena, the sooner this would happen. In the present
circumstances, journeying the hundred or so miles south by land
offered the speediest alternative.
Besides,
if they waited to sail, she'd end up in Corfu among the British, and
Bajo would be there to force her to go to England. She'd been too
numb with shock to argue with him yesterday morning in Durrës, or even to think. Since then,
she'd had plenty of time to reflect.
She
thought of her father, who'd been killed on her account. Never again
would he tease her and laugh with her. Never again would she stand
proudly beside him while he boasted of her to his friends — his
daughter, the little warrior. Never again would she hear his gentle
voice, always filled with love, even when he scolded. Her loving
father, who only wanted to return with her to his own people, had
been shot like a dog ... because of her. With him, her
life would not have been entirely empty, no matter where she went.
Without him, she had nothing, only grief ... and no one to share it with.
All
through the long day she'd shut it away, raised a fortress around her
aching heart, and done what must be done. Through that interminable
day, her rage had grown, until she thought she must go mad. She could
not run away, could never hope to find peace when her heart cried for
revenge. Bajo was wrong. He had not killed her father's murderer.
Ismal was still alive. There was only one course for the Red Lion's
daughter: blood for blood.
It
would not be difficult. She would see her cousin safely away, then
accept Ismal. With Jason dead, Ismal must pay Ali her bride-price,
and it would be a high one. But she would cost Ismal more than jewels
and coins, and when she took the life from his young body, her honor
would be wiped clean. She in turn must pay for that, she understood
well enough — either
with
her life or in the bed of one of Ali's current favorites. She was not
afraid. So long as she cleaned
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