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“The evil will remain,” said another. “Best to give it to the priest, and the boy as
well.”
“Ismal will be furious. The little chess piece was to be returned to him.”
“In the girl’s possession, fool! The girl is dead, and Ismal cannot expect us to take it back to him now. Ali will roast us on a spit!”
“Best to hide in the mountains—and go now if we wish to keep our heads.”
While the others continued debating, Mehmet rose and crept to the sleeping boy, opened the leather pouch, and dropped the black queen, thickly wrapped in a rag, among the rocks.
Returning to his companions, he said, “I’ll take the child to the priest, because I wasn’t paid to kill little boys, merely to steal a female. Sooner or later, someone will take the boy to Ali for safekeeping, or to the British in Corfu. Perhaps Fate will lead the chess piece back to Ismal. If not, it wasn’t meant to be.” He shrugged. “If the thing’s truly cursed, it’s best out of his hands.”
Several hours later, Percival lay upon a hard pallet in the humble abode of an Albanian priest. The dying fire’s feeble glow created shadowy shapes in the dark room. The window showed only a slit of black, no glimpse of a star.
On the pallet opposite, the priest snored raucously. The irregular series of snorts, growls, and wheezes was symptomatic, Percival thought, of the nasal obstruction Mr. Fitherspine, his last tutor, had suffered. The sound was so normal that one might almost believe the last few days were just a dream. Only they weren’t, and wishing otherwise wouldn’t solve anything.
The priest had cried when he told Percival that Uncle Jason and Cousin Esme were dead. Percival hadn’t. It had all been too strange: the young priest telling the awful news in Latin—for they had no other language in common—while tears trickled down the sides of his bumpy nose. Percival would not cry now, either. If he gave way to tears, he’d give way altogether. He needed to think.
Drawing his leather pouch close, he took out the object he’d dared do no more than touch while the priest was awake and resolutely unwrapped it. There. The black queen. Proof he hadn’t dreamed. The bandit had put it in his bag…after an angry conversation with the others, of which Percival had understood only one word: Ismal. He was sure, because he’d heard it several times.
He crept toward the hearth and unscrewed the chess piece. And stared…because the slip of paper was still there. Bewildered, he took it out and, in the faint light of the embers, studied his father’s message.
The code was ludicrously simple. It merely turned the alphabet around, substituting “Z” for “A” and so on. Then the words turned into Latin. Ungrammatical, but clear enough. The ship was the Queen of Midnight, delivery in Prevesa, early November.
That was about all Percival understood. He didn’t know why his papa had put anything so incriminating in writing. Or why Ismal hadn’t destroyed the note—unless he’d never got it. Above all, Percival wondered why on earth the bandit had stuck the queen in his leather pouch.
As though it mattered. Whatever the explanation, it must be ugly because those men were ugly, and other ugly men had killed his uncle and cousin.
Percival dropped the paper onto the embers, then hastily snatched it back, brushing off the sparks. Angrily he rubbed away the tears welling in his eyes. Uncle Jason would never do such a cowardly thing. He’d been killed trying to save Albania from the man to whom this message had been sent. Someone needed this information, and that someone would never believe a twelve-year-old boy without proof. It was Percival’s duty to pass on all the evidence…and let the world know his father was a base smuggler, a criminal—oh, heavens, perhaps even responsible, albeit unwittingly, for his own brother’s murder?
“Oh, Mama,” Percival whispered, gazing down unhappily at the black queen. “What on earth am I to do?”
Chapter Five
Neither Maliq nor his company sighed or salivated over the English lord at supper. After all, they were not dissolute denizens of a corrupt court. Though gracious and hospitable, they had too much pride to fawn all over him.
Which wasn’t to say they weren’t curious. While Rrogozhina saw many visitors in the course of a year, a foreigner was a rare species, and this exotic newcomer was, in addition, tall, graceful, and handsome. They found his physiognomy, attire, and behavior thoroughly fascinating, though they had the dignity not to show this in any blatant way.
At least the men didn’t, Esme corrected herself as she followed him to his chamber and saw two plump, pretty girls peeping out at him from a doorway, their mouths hanging open. When he turned to bid them good night, they giggled and retreated. Fools, Esme thought disdainfully. If only they knew what a depraved, idle piece of worthlessness he was.
At supper, Esme had been obliged to introduce him properly to the company. When they had first arrived in the village, he appeared so tired and ill that formalities were left for later; first, the English lord must be made comfortable. Not until supper did she realize she’d never been honored with a formal introduction. Three nights she’d slept beside him, and she didn’t even know his name. The English baron, the lord. That’s all she’d heard from Petro and the captain—as though the man’s true name was too holy to be spoken aloud.
“Tell them your name,” she’d whispered harshly as the women carried in the food. “I don’t know it.”
In quick, clipped syllables, he’d tossed out a long, ridiculous set of names: Varian Edward Harcourt St. George, Baron Edenmont of Buckinghamshire, England. Then he’d given her the most obnoxiously smug smile, as though defying her to remember it all. Though she’d wanted to slap him, Esme had turned to her host and gleefully supplied a translation, at the end of which she heard several smothered chuckled in the audience.
“What the devil did you tell them?” he’d whispered, making her ear tickle.
“St. George is Shenjt Gjergj, a saint they all recognize,” she said. “I told him a baron was something like a bej, and a shire was one of England’s pashaliks.”
“What’s so hilarious about that?”
She shrugged. “Perhaps it was your Christian name. I said it was from Latin. Varian,” she said, pronouncing it with the wide vowels and burr of Albanian. “Fickle, it means.”
“Later,” he warned, “I shall spank you.”
Nonetheless, he’d laughed, and the company with him, and someone had said his laughter was like music.
Though she much doubted his lordship had the temerity to spank her, Esme was not eager to be alone with him. She trailed him into the chamber and pulled the door hanging closed behind her. She’d only make sure he had all he needed, she decided. Then she’d be quit of him for the night.
The room was small. All the same, by country village standards, it was luxurious. Few houses had more than two rooms. Maliq’s encompassed six, and this must have been fitted up to accommodate visiting dignitaries. Instead of sofas—the boards built against the walls to serve as couches and beds—the tidy space boasted one large bunk and a substantial hearth. They’d given the Englishman not only the softest cushions and thickest blankets, but privacy, a rare commodity.
Two large pitchers filled with steaming water stood by the hearth, and a kettle hung from a chain over the fire. A twinge of envy pricked her. She’d washed her face and hands earlier, all the while acutely conscious he’d hardly consider that sufficient. Petro hadn’t needed to tell her how fastidious the master was. She had a nose and eyes, didn’t she? She’d seen how clean his shirt was, and could not remember when her own had gleamed so dazzlingly white.
Still, Esme would never dream of imposing on strangers. She knew what it was to haul buckets home from the village well or nearest stream and heat kettle after kettle of water. Since she was supposed to be a boy—Petro’s nephew—at present, she must leave that work to the women, and she hadn’t wanted to add to their burdens.
“You’ll have peace and comfort now,” Esme said, glancing about the room. Her gaze lingered one yearning moment upon the pitchers of hot water and the precious cake of scented soap adorning an embroidered towel. “They’re all going t
o bed. No one will trouble you until daybreak, and I’ll be back then to interpret.”
He sat down on the edge of the bunk, brought one lean, muscular calf up to rest on his knee, and tugged at his boot. “You won’t be back, since you’re not leaving,” he said. “I won’t have you sleeping with Petro and all those men, and you can’t go with the women.”
“I had thought you would prefer your privacy.” She watched uneasily as he tossed away the boot and yanked at the other one.
“I prefer to have you nearby,” he said. “When you’re out of sight, I find myself imagining every sort of disaster. I would rather not lie awake all night in that state. It’s no reflection on your gender, I assure you. If you were Percival, I’d feel exactly the same. Recollect what happened when he took off on his own.”
“It is not the same,” she answered. “For one, my cousin and I are not at all alike, except outwardly. For another—”
“Esme, you can argue until Doomsday if you like, but the long and the short of it is, I shall not sleep a wink tonight if you leave.”
Which meant that tomorrow he’d be tired and cross, and she would be to blame. Esme set her mouth, strode to the bunk, snatched a blanket, and threw it onto the floor near the hearth.
“I didn’t mean you had to sleep on the floor.” He rose from the bunk. “Naturally, you may have the bed.”
“I shall sleep on the floor,” she said firmly. “My bones are not so tender as yours.”
He smiled. “Perhaps not, but yours aren’t very well padded.”
“They are younger and more flexible,” she answered witheringly.
“You find me decrepit?”
Esme flicked one resentful glance up and down the length of his perfectly proportioned body. “That is not what I meant. Just because you are a grown man, and strong, does not mean your endurance is greater. I should sleep contentedly upon the floor, whereas you will surely lie awake half the night in great cold and discomfort. I advise you to enjoy the soft bed while you might.”
“But I’m determined you should enjoy it,” he said. “I’ve fully made up my mind to be chivalrous.” His smile broadened into a teasing grin. “Shall we commence a war of wills, madam? Shall we see who is the more obstinate?”
