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Ismal, the beautiful prince with the golden hair and blue jewel eyes, reclined upon his divan and gazed thoughtfully at the ornate chess piece in his hand. “Jason is not leaving?” he asked Risto.
“Ali has convinced him to stay and help quiet the unrest.”
“That’s disappointing. He’s already captured an important store of weapons. We can’t afford continued interference.”
“You want him dead, master?”
“That would be politically unwise. The Red Lion is too well-loved, even by those who support our efforts to oust Ali. I can’t risk being suspected of his murder. Fortunately, I was prepared for this annoying setback.” Ismal smiled at his devoted servant and spy. “You did better than you knew in persuading the Englishman to give you this bit of ‘collateral.’”
Risto bowed his head. “I’d hoped to bring you the entire set. It would have been a fine addition to your treasures. Besides, Sir Gerald’s prices are excessive,” he added disapprovingly.
“I want modern British weapons, and he’s the only dependable source,” Ismal answered with a shrug. “But what a fool he was to put anything in writing, even in code. His hand is too distinctive.”
“He believed me a stupid barbarian, master. He did not trust me to remember the details correctly.”
“Most convenient.” Ismal stroked the black queen’s head. “I kept the message, in case it might be of use. Now I think it will be of great use.” Looking up at his servant, he went on, “I want a party sent to abduct the Red Lion’s daughter—immediately. Jason will know he must accept the bride-price for her, and once she’s mine, he won’t dare move against me.”
“He may go to Ali.”
“I doubt he’d risk her life in that way. But let him.” Ismal turned the chess piece in his hand. “See that this is in Esme’s possession when she’s taken. If Jason dares to make difficulties, why, I shall say he’s a traitor, and the chess piece will be my proof. I’ll advise Ali to consult the British, who’ll have no difficulty tracing the queen to the Red Lion’s brother. No trouble either, showing that the brother wrote the message. Ali knows the Red Lion has been to Italy twice this year, to visit his family. Both my cousin and the British will conclude Jason and his brother are selling stolen arms for their own profit. Both governments will be most displeased.”
His blue eyes glittered as he handed Risto the chess piece. “Now perhaps you see, Risto, how very powerful the queen can be—to a player who knows how to use her.” Then he laughed.
Dungs
Esme woke the instant she felt the hand upon her shoulder and sat bolt upright. The room was still dark. “Papa?” she said to the black shape beside her. Even as she uttered the name, she realized the man wasn’t Jason.
“It is I, Bajo,” the figure said.
A chill of anxiety seized her. “Where is Jason?”
There was a long pause, then a sigh. Even before Bajo spoke, her heart was pounding.
“I’m sorry, child.”
“Where is he?”
“Ah, little one.” Bajo laid his hand on her shoulder. “It is bad news, little warrior. Be strong. Jason has been shot.”
No. No! Her heart screamed, but her tongue was silent. Her hands tightened on the blanket and she bit her lip, refusing to shriek and weep like a weak female.
“We were…ambushed…in the straits of Vijose,” Bajo said. “They shot him in the back, and he fell over the cliff, into the river far below. I thank God it was so. A quick death—and the river swept him away so the filthy assassins could not carry his head to their lord in triumph.”
Jason. Her strong, brave, loving father. Shot in the back like a thief…the icy torrent dragging his body, dashing him against the cruel rocks…Esme closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, and willed the racking grief into rage.
“What assassins?” she demanded. “Who owes me blood?”
“Nay, little one. The Red Lion’s daughter does not seek blood,” he reproached. “The killers are dead. I saw to that. But we’ve no time for talk. Jason’s murder was only the beginning, and you are in great danger. Make haste,” he urged, pulling her from the bed.
Esme yanked free of his grip and found she was shaking. With an effort she made herself stand upright. She always slept fully dressed in her male costume, her long gun within easy reach. One of Bajo’s cousins invariably kept watch outside, even when Jason was home, but she didn’t want to be caught unprepared if the town were suddenly attacked.
“Why haste? Where are we going?”
Bajo picked up her head covering and thrust it into her hands. “North. To Shkodra.” He lit a candle, then hustled about the room, gathering up belongings and tossing them into a sack. Hardly aware of what she did, Esme pulled on the woolen helmet and tucked her hair up inside it, all the while staring at Bajo.
While he packed, he went on talking nervously. “We were hurrying home because Jason feared Ismal was planning to abduct you. Now there’s no doubt of it. Of course he’ll lie—blame the murder on bandits. And Ali will be too devastated to notice or care that Ismal steals a mere female in the meantime.” Bajo paused. “This is why we must make haste. Don’t even think about revenge. If you delay, you invite your own shame. You can’t wish to be concubine of the man who killed your father.”
“I’ll tell the Pasha of Shkodra,” Esme said. “He’ll help me. Ismal owes me blood.”
“The Pasha will help you out of the country,” Bajo answered. “That’s all. That’s what Jason intended, and we’ll do as he wished.”
He met Esme’s horrified gaze, then quickly looked away.
“No,” she said, her voice choked. “You’re not sending me to England? Alone?”
Bajo hauled the sack over his shoulder and moved to the door, where he paused. “It’s a hard thing, I know, little warrior, but the choice is plain. Either you show courage in this, or become Ismal’s slave…and your father will have died for nothing.”
Later, she told herself. Later, she’d have time to think, and she’d find a way.
Without another word, Esme collected the few things Bajo had missed, thrust them into her small traveling pouch, grabbed her rifle, and followed him out the door.
Minutes later, they reached the Dunes harbor. It was nearly dawn, but the shore was so thick with fog that the first tentative rays of light were dull spots of pink in the heavy grey blanket. Bajo’s boat was moored discreetly some distance from the main pier. As they neared the shore, Esme made out the outlines of a larger ship, one of the p
ielagos which so often called here. Rarely at this time of year, however, for they were ill-equipped to withstand the autumn gales.
A moment later, she discerned figures approaching in the mist. Though they came on foot, she tensed and glanced at Bajo.
“Foreigners,” he whispered.
The next instant confirmed this, as the wind carried to her ears a hodgepodge of Albania, Italian, and English.
“No…zoti...the boat, I beg you…master…kill me.”
As the figures neared, their voices became more distinct, and Esme heard the boyish tenor reply in cultivated English accents. “Nonsense. My uncle lives in this town.”
“Please, young master, only wait—”
“Here are some people. We can ask them.”
The pair was almost upon them. Though they seemed harmless enough, Esme let her bundle drop to the sand and took a firm grip on her rifle. Bajo, his stance alert, stood near, his rifle ready as well.
“Tongue-got-yet-ah,” the boyish voice called out.
He was only a child, an English child, with accents like her father’s.
“Tungjatjeta,” she cautiously answered the greeting.
Encouraged, the boy hurried up to them.
“Come away,” Bajo whispered to her. “We have no time.”
“He’s English,” Esme answered. In the next instant, she wondered if her ears had deceived her, for the boy’s garb closely resembled her own. He even had a pouch slung over his shoulder. Then, as he came closer, she felt certain she was dreaming. The weak light glinted upon hair the color of her father’s. She backed away as the boy stopped short, his gaze upon Bajo’s rifle. His fat, timid companion cowered several feet behind him.
“Oh, dear, we seem to have alarmed them,” the boy said. “How does one—” He cleared his throat. “Koosh sha-pee—ah—ah—Jason? I mean, it’s quite all right. He’s my uncle. Jason. My jah-jee. The Red Lion, you know—”
