The Gypsy King Read online

  Wordlessly, Azriel reached back into his leather pack, pulled out her dagger and casually offered it to her. After a moment’s breathless hesitation—as though she suspected a trick or feared that the dagger would be snatched back if she made any sudden movement—Persephone slowly reached for it.

  “Thank you,” she murmured as her fingers closed around the hilt.

  “You can thank me by promising to never slit me from bow to stern,” he said.

  “I promise,” she said absently as she tossed the dagger back and forth from hand to hand, rejoicing in its familiar weight and balance, “provided you never give me cause to slit you from bow to stern.”

  “Not exactly the response I was hoping for,” sighed Azriel, “though I am encouraged to learn that I have at least some chance of escaping disembowelment.”

  Persephone smiled faintly and shook her head at his silliness. As she did so, something caught her eye. Or rather, the absence of something caught her eye.

  “Where is your horse?” she asked with a frown.

  “I don’t have a horse.”

  She folded her thin arms across her chest. “You had one yesterday.”

  “It was only a borrowed beast,” he explained. “Last night, after you’d fallen asleep, I decided to send her home to her true master to ensure that the gentleman in question had no need to come looking for her … or me.”

  “A borrowed beast, was it?” said Persephone, arching an eyebrow. “What about the money and pendant you used to purchase me?”

  “Borrowed.”

  “And the gloves and the doublet?”

  “Also borrowed, I’m afraid,” he admitted with an air of contrition that didn’t fool Persephone for an instant. “Though the doublet suited me remarkably well, don’t you think?”

  “Not really,” she sniffed. “To be honest, I thought it made you look like a pompous, overstuffed peacock.”

  Azriel laughed loudly. “Perhaps it did, at that,” he agreed, still smiling. “Now, enough talking. Eat, for time grows short.”

  “Because you have unpleasant individuals following you,” recalled Persephone as she lifted the wedge of cheese to her lips and—mindless of her passionately expressed desire to eat like a lady—took a huge bite. “Soldiers?” she guessed through her mouthful of cheese.

  Azriel paused for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Yes,” he said.

  Persephone swallowed. “Hunting you,” she guessed again, waving the half-eaten cheese at him, “because you’re a thief.”

  Azriel gave her a hard smile. “I’m a good deal more than a thief, Persephone.”

  She opened her mouth to ask him what he meant by this, then closed it again at once. It didn’t matter to her what he was except for the fact that he was stupid. Stupid because he thought he could endear himself to her with his jolly laugh and his girl-eyes; stupid because he thought she would dutifully cleave to him just because he’d removed her fetters, given her back her own dagger and fed her bread and cheese made by her own two hands. If she lived to be a thousand years old, she would never cleave to him or any man who claimed ownership of her. In fact, the sooner she got away from this particular man the better, for the soldiers who pursued him were almost certainly filled with bloodlust and boiling over with unquenched appetites, and she knew that if they were to get their hands on her, nothing in the world would save her.

  That being said, unless she wanted to get away from him only to starve in the wilderness, she needed a plan.

  “So, where are you taking me?” she asked, since this seemed as good a place as any to begin formulating one.

  Azriel opened his mouth to reply, but before he could utter a word, they both caught the unmistakable sound of something approaching quickly through the tall, scraggly bushes behind them. With lightning-fast speed, Azriel was on his feet with his sword drawn. Grabbing Persephone by the wrist with his free hand, he yanked her off her perch, hurled her headlong into the cover of the thick reeds at the water’s edge and spun to face the threat.

  The next instant, Cur burst from the bushes and crashed into Azriel with such force that he nearly knocked him over.

  There was no time for anyone to breathe a sigh of relief, however, because it was obvious to all that there was something else charging through the bushes toward them.

  Something bigger.

  Much bigger.

  Seconds later, it came crashing into the clearing in a flurry of torn leaves and snapped branches and skidded to a halt almost nose to nose with Azriel.

  There was a moment of stunned silence. And then:

  “Fleet!” shrieked Persephone.

  Excitedly clawing at the thick reeds in an effort to pull herself to her feet, she lurched out of the water like a drunk on a bender, shoved Azriel to one side and flung her muddy arms around the sweaty neck of her beloved, broken-down old horse, who responded by whinnying and stamping his hooves with joy.

  “Look—it’s Fleet!” rejoiced Persephone, throwing Azriel the first unguarded smile she’d ever given him.

  “That’s … that’s terrific,” he said in a rather strangled voice as his gaze darted between her beaming face and her delicate curves, which were plain to see beneath the clinging fabric of her thin, sodden shift.

  “You don’t really think it’s terrific,” said Persephone, turning back to the horse. “But I don’t care and neither does Fleet. Do you, boy?” The horse peeled back his lips and neighed rudely at Azriel. Cur—evidently wanting to clarify that he also didn’t care what Azriel thought— chimed in with a wet snarl.

  “Oh, that’s nice,” muttered Azriel, sheathing his blade.

  Just then, Ivan swooped down and settled on Persephone’s thin shoulder.

  Jamming his fists on his hips, Azriel jutted his chin forward and scowled at the hawk. “I suppose you don’t care what I think, either?” he asked in a crabby voice.

  The hawk screeched once—loudly—then flew at Azriel’s head and beat upon it with his wings until he grew bored of the indignant cries of the hopping human beneath him and flew off in search of more entertaining sport.

  In between pushing tangled auburn curls out of his blazing blue eyes and picking feathers out of his mouth, Azriel—who plainly found the entire situation an unspeakable outrage—shook his fist in the air and shouted oaths after the departing bird.

  “Azriel?” gasped Persephone, who was laughing harder than she could remember ever having laughed in her entire life. “Let me give you a piece of advice for free: in the future, do not ask questions unless you are fully prepared to receive honest answers.”

  Azriel could not get over the fact that Fleet’s deep affinity for Persephone had allowed him to effortlessly follow a trail intended to confound dogs and trained trackers; Persephone could not get over her joy at being reunited with a friend she’d thought lost forever. Even so, she knew that Fleet’s careless, trampling hooves and tendency to emit sudden, noisy declarations of affection made him a less-than-ideal travelling companion for two people on the run for their lives—or for one slave girl making a desperate bid for freedom.

  But if she could not take him with her when she made her escape, neither could she abide abandoning him to fend for himself. And that is why, after she and Azriel finished wiping the foam and sweat from Fleet’s heaving flanks, she asked Azriel if he’d promise to take care of her animals if anything should happen to her. When he didn’t answer immediately, she took a deep breath and tentatively laid her hand on his bare forearm.

  “Please?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound as breathless as she felt.

  For a moment, Azriel just stared down at the small hand resting upon his arm. Then he flicked his eyes upward to meet hers and, placing his free hand over hers, said, “Very well, Persephone. I promise to take care of your animals, provided that you promise you won’t ever try to run from me.”

  Startled though she was by both his request and the feel of his hand on hers, Persephone didn’t hesitate or even blink. �
�I promise,” she lied. “Of course I do.”

  The going was hard but not quite so hard as it had been the previous day, for Azriel no longer had the luxury of a mount. For the most part, they walked single file—Azriel followed by Persephone, who was, in turn, followed by Fleet and Cur. From time to time, Cur attempted to slip forward so that he could walk at Persephone’s heels. Each time he did so, however, Fleet neighed shrilly and attempted to trample him in a fit of jealousy, so a visibly disgruntled Cur eventually resigned himself to bringing up the rear. Azriel was also visibly disgruntled by Fleet’s behaviour, because each time he tried to lead the group into a stream in order to obliterate their scent trail, Fleet not only refused to follow but galloped to and fro along the bank beside them, whinnying in panic, destroying great swaths of vegetation and leaving deep hoofprints in the sucking mud.

  “He’s never liked getting his feet wet,” explained Persephone in confidential tones. “He’ll pass through water if he absolutely has to, but he won’t stand or walk in it for any length of time. I think he must have experienced some sort of water-related trauma as a foal.”

  When Azriel responded by muttering darkly that Fleet was about to experience a boot-in-the-arse-related trauma, Persephone gave him a reproachful look.

  “You promised to take care of him,” she reminded.

  “But he is the most wilful, disruptive, irritating bag of horsemeat it has ever been my misfortune to look upon!” exploded Azriel. “He will be the death of us all!”

  “Nevertheless,” said Persephone, unruffled by his outburst, “you promised.”

  If anyone had pointed out to Persephone the irony of the fact that she fully expected Azriel to hold to his promise to care for her animals when she had no intention of holding to her promise not to run from him, she’d have told them that she had no choice in the matter. For if she was true to her word, she’d remain his slave until she was dead or sold, and if she’d refused to give her word, he’d henceforth have kept such a close eye on her that she’d remain his slave until she was dead or sold. Either way, she’d remain his slave until she was dead or sold, and that was simply not an option.

  And by mid-afternoon, she’d figured out what she was going to do about it.

  That night, after they made camp, she was going to undertake a few simple preparations and then, as soon as Cur left to hunt and Azriel and Fleet were soundly sleeping, she was going to make her escape.

  Only she wasn’t going to simply steal away and run as fast and as far as she could in the treacherous, unfamiliar dark.

  No, she was going to do something far cleverer than that.

  It was nearly dusk before Azriel finally announced that it was time to stop for the night. While he went down to a nearby stream to fetch water and catch fish for supper, Persephone hastily carried out her preparations for escape. When she was done, she swept the campsite, built a fire and helped clean and cook the fish. Then, after hastily gulping down her supper, she lay down and closed her eyes—or pretended to, anyway. In fact, through the thick tangle of her lashes, she watched Azriel and wondered about him. Wondered what it was that made her believe that this handsome rascal really would die before seeing her harmed in any way; wondered what he’d meant when he’d said that he was a great deal more than a thief. Wondered why he hadn’t even asked if she wanted to lie with him that night. Asking was not the same as forcing, after all, and everyone knew that many slave women found advantage in such arrangements. Even though Persephone was not one of those women and probably would have tried to knife Azriel if he had asked, it seemed odd that he hadn’t. Unless, of course, he found her repulsive, or beneath him, or had a beautiful sweetheart to whom he wished to stay true. For he was the type to stay true, Persephone was sure of it, and it suddenly struck her that if she’d been inclined to remain a slave, she could have done worse than to remain in the ownership of this particular man— wherever he was taking her, for whatever purpose.

  But, of course, she was not inclined to remain a slave, and so it wasn’t long before she found herself clinging to the fragrant trunk of a nearby evergreen tree, panting wildly and looking down at the still, sleeping figure by the fire who, from that great height, resembled nothing so much as a small, tousle-haired boy clutching a gleaming, much-favoured toy sword.

  The next day dawned with the promise of rain. Feeling as indecent as if she were on her knees with her eye pressed up against the keyhole at a gentleman’s bedroom door, Persephone watched breathlessly as Azriel awoke, languidly stretched and rubbed his sleepy eyes. Slipping his hand inside his shirt to scratch his broad, bare chest, he then turned his head and looked across the cold fire to where Persephone should have been sleeping. Almost before she realized he was moving, he was on his feet with his sword in hand, scanning the forest. He called her name once, twice, and when there was no reply, he muttered something she couldn’t hear and roughly jammed the sword into his scabbard. The noise woke Fleet, who took one look at the empty spot where Persephone had been lying and began charging around the campsite, whinnying in panic and trying to trample Azriel. That noise brought Cur flying out of a thicket of waist-high ferns. He didn’t even bother to look at the empty spot where Persephone had been lying but instead ran straight at Azriel and bit him. Persephone felt rather bad about this but consoled herself with the knowledge that Cur probably hadn’t been able to get a very good hold of her former owner’s leg, given the energy with which he was jumping and dodging in an effort to stay ahead of Fleet’s deadly hooves.

  Then, just as Persephone was beginning to worry that they’d never get down to the business of dashing off to look for her so that she could climb down and run away, Ivan swooped down and settled on a branch directly opposite her. She quickly put her finger to her lips to quiet him, but he was so incensed to find her—a mere human!—perched in his domain that he dropped the dead ferret in his beak and gave several loud, reproachful squawks before turning his back on her and taking to the gloomy skies once more. Persephone watched in panic as the ferret hit branch after branch before finally landing on Azriel, who bellowed in shock and nearly leapt out of his skin at the feel of the dead furry thing hitting him squarely on the top of the head. Glaring up into the tree in which Persephone was huddled, hidden from sight by the prickly boughs, he scanned for some sign of the vile ferret-dropper. Then—as though suddenly remembering that Cur and Fleet were trying to kill him—he whipped around so fast that he tripped over a tree root and went sprawling. Evidently satisfied by the sight of his nemesis so humbled, Cur barked once, turned and put his nose to the ground. He spent several fruitless moments following the scent trails Persephone had purposely left around every tree in the vicinity (including the one she was hiding in) before bolting along the scent trail she’d made walking into camp. Azriel looked to see if Fleet would tear off in the same direction, but Fleet—who’d just discovered the sugarberry juice that Persephone had rubbed all over the back of Azriel’s travelling cloak—was too busy happily chewing on the cloak to tear off in any direction. Visibly disgusted, Azriel wrestled the cloak out of the horse’s mouth, slung it over one shoulder, slung his pack over the other and took off after Cur at a run with a salivating Fleet galloping close behind him, his eyes fixed upon the delicious cloak.

  Persephone heaved a great sigh of relief. Then, quite without warning, she began to laugh—softly at first, then harder and harder, until her whole body was shaking and she had to hug the tree to keep from tumbling, ferretlike, to the ground. She’d done it! She’d really done it! Her daring plan had succeeded.

  All I have to do now, she rejoiced as a chill rain began to fall, is to wait for Azriel to give up the search and continue on his original path so that I may head back toward civilization—and freedom.

  SEVEN

  DEADLY POLEAXE CLUTCHED TIGHTLY in one hand, a liveried guard with a wine-coloured birthmark on his cheek hurriedly tiptoed across the floor of the high-ceilinged chamber. He halted a respectful distance from where his silk-and-
velvet-clad king sat absently munching on a golden pear as he studied the well-worn playing cards in his hand and cast intermittent brooding glances across the table at the stalwart opponent who’d beaten him so mercilessly and so often.

  The air was thick with tension: who could say what would happen next?

  Suddenly—recklessly!—King Finnius pushed the entire fortune with which he was gambling (a modest pile of dried white beans) into the centre of the table. With his head held high, he slowly sat back in his ornately carved mahogany chair, folded his arms across the front of his gem-encrusted doublet and waited for his opponent to crumble before his breathtaking daring.

  The guard—who had no idea what game the young king was playing, nor if his gamble had been a wise one— smiled inwardly at his theatrics. Then he remembered his purpose and quietly cleared his throat.

  “Yes?” asked the king, who seemed only mildly annoyed at being interrupted during the very moment of his triumph. “What is it?”

  “Sorry to bother you, Your Majesty,” murmured the guard, ducking his head, “but the Regent Mordecai is come to see you.”

  “Oh!” cried the king. Leaping to his feet with a distinct lack of majesty, he tossed the golden pear to one side and flung the cards across the table at his opponent. “Quick, Moira, hide these! And the beans!” he hissed. Without waiting for an answer from the woman who’d mothered him since infancy, he rifled madly beneath a messy stack of parchment for the Latin text that he was supposed to have been translating into French—a text that he’d gladly shoved to one side to make way for more entertaining pursuits.

  The woman—Moira—deftly swept the beans into the deep pocket of her apron, but before tossing the cards in after them, she took a moment to examine those that the young king had been holding. “Looks like I’d have won again, Your Majesty,” she informed him in a pleased voice.

  Grimacing at this most unwelcome news, the king flapped his hands to shush her, then flopped back into his seat, took a deep breath and regally nodded at the guard, who’d since hurried back to his spot at the door. Tugging at the hem of his tunic, the guard smartly rapped the butt of his poleaxe on the richly polished floor and bellowed, “The Regent Mordecai!”