Free The Lion's Daughter by Loretta Chase Page A

Lion is
    dead,
and his daughter, and we will be blamed for everything. Ali will kill
us by inches.”
    The
mention of curses made the group uneasier still.
    “Bury
it,” one suggested.
    “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