The Gypsy King (11 page)

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

D
EADLY 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!”

Almost before the words were out of his mouth, the door banged open and the Regent slouched into the room. He glowered evilly at the idiot guard who'd left him waiting in the king's outer chamber as though he were some sort of
commoner
, then turned a charming smile upon the king himself.

“Majesty,” he murmured, bowing as low as his twisted back would permit.

With a flick of his hand, the king bade him rise and approach. “Good day, Your Grace,” he said.

“Good day, Your Majesty,” said Mordecai. “How goes the translation?”

“Wonderfully well, thank you for asking,” replied the king heartily. He paused to give the Latin text a look of deep fondness, then inquired as to the purpose of the Regent's visit.

“Well, Majesty, there is a meeting of the Council this afternoon—”

“And I'm to attend at last?” interrupted King Finnius, gripping the arms of his chair and leaning forward in his eagerness.

“
Majesty
,” chided Mordecai, his head bobbing slightly. “We've discussed many times how unwise it would be for you to attend Council before you're ready to fully assume your duties as king. The men on your Council are noblemen from ancient families, but they are also hard men who need to be ruled with an iron fist.”

“They would have to obey me,” insisted the young
monarch, holding an index finger high in the air, “for I am their king. They have sworn fealty to me—loyalty unto death, upon pain of death.”

Across the table, the servant woman, Moira, placidly nodded her head. The Regent felt his blood rise that such a low creature would not only dare to sit in his presence but would also presume to offer any kind of opinion on a private exchange between a king and his Lord Regent. Not for the first time, he thought how he'd like to see that head of hers separated from her revoltingly sturdy peasant body by a drunken blind man wielding a blunt axe.

Forcibly pushing this most-satisfying image from his mind, Mordecai took a deep breath and turned his attention to the king.

“Of
course
they've sworn fealty to you,” he soothed. “But—as we've discussed many times, Majesty—a great king commands obedience and respect because of who he is as a man, not because of a few words uttered at the feet of a royal infant many years past. I fear—as I have always feared—that if you were to take your seat at the head of Council before such time as you were a man fully grown, the members of your Council would ever see you as the boy king, and you would ever rule in the shadow of your long-dead father, the great and powerful Malthusius who came before you.”

At the mention of his dead father, the young king loosened his grip on the arms of the chair and slowly sat back. “Well, it won't be long now,” he consoled himself in a subdued voice. “My seventeenth birthday fast approaches and thereafter, the men on the Council will have no
choice
but to recognize me as a man fully grown—and I shall prove myself to be a ruler the likes of which this kingdom has never known!”