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“He is vexed with your cousin,” said Mustafa. “He ordered her to remain with the ship. Not only has she disobeyed, but she has been most indiscreet.” He explained that one of Esme’s escort had been wounded, she’d raised a fuss on his account, and it appeared she’d remain in Poshnja until the man recovered.
No wonder Bajo was cross. Now that people knew Cousin Esme was alive—and still in Albania—she was in danger again.
“Good heavens!” Percival jumped up and grabbed his pouch. “We’d better go after her—before Ismal tries—”
Mustafa waved him back down. “Do not vex yourself. Ismal is closely guarded in Tepelena, for Ali is greatly annoyed with him. Ismal is too busy preserving his own neck to trouble your cousin. He has blamed the abduction on overeager followers, who acted on their own. It is said the ringleaders confessed under torture. Of course, it is only coincidence that these men were very wealthy, with beautiful wives,” Mustafa added drily. “Their possessions, naturally, are now forfeit to Ali.”
Percival couldn’t believe his ears. “Ismal’s only under guard? Does this mean he’s still under suspicion? Is he awaiting trial? It wasn’t just abduction, after all. That is—well, surely the two events were connected. I mean, Uncle Jason’s murder. That couldn’t be a coincidence. Ali can’t believe that. No one can believe that.”
“You do not understand these men,” Mustafa said patiently. “Ismal can be most persuasive. Also, to murder Jason is not in character. Even I cannot believe Ismal would act so incautiously. I loved your uncle, and my heart, too, cries for revenge. Yet neither reason nor feeling points to Ismal.”
Bajo said something, to which Mustafa answered sharply, which led to a long debate. Meanwhile, Percival tried to sort out what he’d just heard.
Evidently they believed Ismal hadn’t any motive for murdering Uncle Jason. Even Ali must believe that, if he hadn’t executed Ismal already. Which meant that Percival Brentmor might well be the only person in Albania who knew what Ismal was up to.
There was no doubt this was the same Ismal mentioned in Otranto, and the other night by the bandits. He sounded just the sort of man who might succeed in overthrowing Ali Pasha: influential, devious, and terribly clever. Ali must be warned before it was too late and Albania erupted into bloody revolution.
Belatedly, Percival realized Mustafa was speaking to him. He stammered an apology.
“Bajo must be on his way,” Mustafa repeated. “We agree it is best that you remain with me. Your cousin and the English lord are headed to Tepelena, thinking to find you there. But they will stop here first, for Berat is on their way. From here, you may easily travel west to Fier, thence to the coast. There you can get another boat, either to take you to Corfu—which is under British control—or directly to Italy. There is no need to continue to Tepelena.”
Percival fought down his panic. “You mean, I shan’t get to—to meet Ali Pasha?”
Mustafa glanced at Bajo. “That would not be wise. The sooner Esme is out of the country, the better.”
Bajo was already rising, clearly eager to be gone.
Percival thought quickly. If anyone knew about the conspiracy Uncle Jason had been trying to unravel, it must be Bajo. Surely he could be trusted with information about Ismal. But how to tell him? He understood only Albanian. Mustafa would have to translate...but maybe he shouldn’t know about the matter. Bajo hadn’t even told him Cousin Esme was alive. Because of the spies. Everywhere.
Just as the large Albanian turned toward the door, Percival bounced up again. “Please sir, is he going to Tepelena?”
“Aye. He must explain to the Vizier what has happened.”
“Please then, would you ask him to wait? Oh, dear, I don’t mean to be a bother, but I must—that is, may I have a bit of paper and pen and ink?”
Mustafa stared at him.
Percival realized he was wringing his hands. He hastily composed himself. “I do beg your pardon—but he’s in such a hurry—and I do hope he doesn’t mind—but I really must write to Ali Pasha—and express my—my regrets that I can’t see him...”
Fortunately, Percival hadn’t to hold his breath very long. The discussion was mercifully brief.
“Bajo agrees it is an excellent idea,” said Mustafa. “Ali will be most disappointed not to meet you, but a note in your own hand will please him. It may ease his temper somewhat, which will spare Bajo a great deal of distasteful flattery and appeasement.” He patted Percival’s shoulder. “You are a thoughtful and courteous boy. Come, I will take you to my study, where you may write your note in peace. Bajo and I will bide our time with a cup of kafe.”
Nearly an hour later, Percival rejoined the men. His hands almost steady, he gave Bajo two folded notes.
Percival turned to his host. “Please tell Bajo that the one I’ve marked with his name is a present for him. It’s a riddle I made up for Uncle Jason, but—but I should like Bajo to have it. I’ve nothing else to give him in thanks. I hope he finds it interesting. And please tell him I wish him success in—in all he does.”
The translation brought a rare smile to Bajo’s stern mouth. He responded that Percival was like Jason in more than looks: not only brave but generous of heart.
With that, and a hearty handshake, the big man took his leave.
***
Though Agimi declared to one and all that he was strong as two oxen and fully capable of the journey, Esme declared otherwise.
That took care of that, Varian thought resignedly. It was a great pity madam had not been about some years ago to lay down the law to Bonaparte. England and her allies would have been spared a deal of trouble.
She had certainly neatly disposed of his lordship, hadn’t she? You can’t leave it to me. Not when you look at me so, not when you touch me. It was the crudest temptation any man could face. She’d offered herself…if he wished to take full responsibility for ruining her.
She could not possibly know how fiercely he’d wanted her at that moment. What Varian had felt before was nothing to what he felt once he knew she wanted him.
/> He was sick with it.
He wanted to kill her.
He wanted to kill everybody, and most especially Percival, because if it had not been for that wretched boy, Varian would never have clapped eyes on her.
Lord Edenmont did not, however, kill anybody or even give utterance to a cross word—except to Petro—during the remaining interminable four days they spent in Poshnja. Instead, he took a lesson every morning in the river and tried to exorcise his frustration with activity. With his host and Petro, Varian visited every house of the village, where he spent hours telling anecdotes about his native land and his countrymen, especially Lord Byron, of whom all had heard.
When he grew sick to death of Byron, Lord Edenmont played the role of lord of the manor and offered his woefully limited advice regarding defenses, architecture, and agriculture. His father had drummed—and occasionally thrashed—some farming wisdom into him, which Varian, when interrogated by his hosts, scraped out from the dustiest recesses of his mind.
He even submitted his tormented body to physical labor. To their very great astonishment—and embarrassment—the English baron helped Hasan’s sons repair their mill, which had been severely damaged in the recent storms. In the process, another storm burst without warning upon them, and Varian was drenched through before they found shelter. The morning on which they were to leave Poshnja, he woke with a burning throat and a beastly headache.
Esme took one critical look at his ashen face and announced they could not depart until he was better.
Varian turned away from her, threw his traveling bag over his shoulder, tore his cloak from the hook, and marched from the house.
“You are not fit to travel,” she cried, hurrying after him. “It begins to rain again, and you will take a very bad chill, and—”
“I’m not spending another minute in this place,” he declared.
Setting her mouth, Esme stomped off toward her horse, leaving Petro to communicate to Hasan the baron’s thanks and farewells.
