The Gypsy King

by Maureen Fergus

  It was going to be up to her.

  And so, forcibly shoving Rachel behind her, Persephone slipped her hand into her torn pocket and closed her fingers around the hilt of the dagger at her thigh. She did not unsheathe it, however, for she could not risk having it knocked from her grasp before the young lord was close enough that she could be sure of spilling his guts. Instead, she lowered her head, squared her shoulders and readied herself to attack.

  “Now, now, you needn’t look so … unpleasant,” twittered Lord Atticus as he reached for the drawstring of his blue velvet breeches. “’Tis a wholly natural act between a man and a woman, and I’ll see to it that you enjoy yourselves— unless, of course, you refuse to cooperate, in which case I will still enjoy myself while you, I’m afraid, will—”

  Though Persephone and Rachel could well guess what would happen to them if they refused to cooperate, they never found out for certain because at that instant Lord Atticus was struck in the side of the head by something fast, furious … and feathered.

  “Ivan!” breathed Persephone.

  “Say nothing,” hissed Rachel.

  “What the devil?” shrieked Atticus, who’d begun to bleed copiously from a vicious scratch above the eye. Whirling around, he was just able to catch a glimpse of the hawk before he was once again at the mercy of those powerful, beating wings and deadly talons.

  Seeing his leader under attack, one especially drunken young nobleman clumsily unsheathed his sword and staggered forward as though he meant to slash the offending bird to bits. Whether he’d have been able to accomplish this without also removing large pieces of Lord Atticus’s head and upper body was destined to remain a mystery, however, because just as he prepared to deliver the first blow, Ivan abruptly took flight. Grunting in dismay, the drunk but determined young man flung his sword aside and fumbled for his bow so that he might shoot the hawk out of the sky. Unfortunately for him, before he could remember where he’d put his arrows (they were in the quiver on his back), Lord Atticus unsheathed his own sword and, using the flat edge, hit the man across the forehead so hard that he dropped like a sack of potatoes at Persephone’s feet.

  “Gods’ blood, Atticus,” cried a squat, giggling nobleman in green and red hose. “You’ve rendered him quite unconscious!”

  “Never mind him! To the horses—quickly!” ordered Lord Atticus as he hastily re-sheathed his sword, retrieved his riding crop and ran back to his own mount. “We must keep Faldo in sight!”

  “Who is Faldo?” called a nobleman who’d been matter-of-factly holding back the hair of a vomiting companion but who had now joined the others in running for his horse.

  “My hawk, you fool!” cried Lord Atticus as he swung up into the saddle without taking his eyes off Ivan, who was flying loop-the-loops some distance away. “Stolen from the nest as a fledgling and trained by my own hand— until the day he wilfully ignored a pheasant in plain view, shat on my doublet and flew off to destinations unknown. I never thought I’d see the feathered devil again but by the gods he’s come back to me—and I mean to recapture him at once!”

  At this, Persephone gasped and might have said or done something very foolish if Rachel hadn’t grabbed her hand and given it a painful warning squeeze.

  “But what about the wenches?” whined a pimply-faced youth, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot as though he had an itch in terrible need of scratching.

  “Never mind the damned wenches, you imbecile!” screeched Lord Atticus. “Wenches—even a pair such as those—are as common as dirt. A trained hunting bird like Faldo is as rare as gold!”

  “Even so, my lord,” gasped the reeking vomiter, who’d somehow managed to haul himself back onto his horse, “stealing a fledgling from the nest is one thing. Capturing a full-grown hawk is … is a bird of a different feather altogether.”

  Several of the other noblemen chortled at his cleverness. Lord Atticus flung his riding crop at them.

  “A clean shot through the wing will bring him down without crippling him,” he snapped. “And as long as the dogs don’t get to him before we do and the wound doesn’t fester, there is a chance he’ll mend almost as good as new. And if he doesn’t—well, we’ll call it payback for his lack of loyalty.”

  “And also for shitting on you,” offered the squat nobleman with mock solemnity.

  The other noblemen laughed again. With a scowl, Lord Atticus turned away from them and dug the heels of his riding boots deep into the flanks of his horse. As his steed leapt forward, all the other mounted men dug their heels into the flanks of their horses. The air was momentarily filled with dust and the sound of trampling hooves, and then the horses were gone. An instant later, a shrill whistle sounded and the hairless, grey-black dogs lit off after them, barking and baying like the hounds of hell.

  In the stunned silence that followed, Persephone wrenched her hand free of Rachel’s grasp, whipped out her dagger and would have bolted after the noblemen in the futile hope of gutting them all before they had a chance to harm Ivan, if two things had not happened.

  The first was that, anticipating exactly this reaction from her, Azriel stepped forward to block her way so quickly that she nearly gutted him.

  And the second was that Fayla mumbled something unintelligible, gave a thin, shuddering gasp and slowly toppled sideways out of the saddle.

  EIGHTEEN

  LUCKILY, TINY CAUGHT FAYLA before she hit the ground—but a cursory examination of the unconscious Gypsy girl revealed that the luck ended there.

  “It is the Great Sickness,” gasped Rachel, her nose pressed into the rough cloth of her sleeve to prevent her from breathing in the sickness.

  Even Tiny recoiled at the dread pronouncement.

  “We can’t be sure of that,” said Azriel without conviction.

  “The instant we removed her gloves I was sure of it,” said Rachel. Without taking her nose out of her sleeve, she gestured toward the blackened tips of Fayla’s now-bare fingers, and to her swollen hands, which had the look of being severely bruised. “If you were to remove her boots her feet would look the same—for now. A short while hence,” she continued, her voice taking on the faraway quality of one reliving a powerful memory, “her hands and feet will be entirely black and the bruise-colour will begin creeping up her arms and legs. If the fever continues to rage on, she will suffer violent fits and her entire body will become bloated and begin to smell like—”

  “Enough!” blurted Persephone, who could feel her gorge rising. Turning to Azriel, she said, “Can you help her?”

  He hesitated. “Our healers may be able to do something if we return to the camp at once, but.…”

  “But?” prompted Persephone impatiently. “But what?”

  “But if we turn back now, it is unlikely that we’ll be able to get to Parthania in time to rescue the child,” he said quietly.

  Persephone’s heart sank like a stone. “So we must choose between Fayla and the child?” she asked, swallowing hard.

  Azriel gave her a bleak smile. As he did so there came a distant screech and the sound of men cheering. Startled, Persephone looked around to see Ivan—dear, brave, funny Ivan!—plummeting from the sky with an arrow through his wing.

  Oh, Ivan, thought Persephone, squeezing her eyes shut so that she wouldn’t have to watch the dogs tear him to pieces. Shoving aside her grief, she angrily thought how Ivan’s death was the Gypsies’ fault—how he’d still be alive if Azriel hadn’t dragged her from the owner’s farm and embroiled her in this ridiculous tribal goose chase. How they’d had no right to do what they’d done—and no right to expect anything from her but resentment and bitterness and a desire to flee from them at the first opportunity!

  Then she opened her eyes and saw the beautiful, brave, clever, well-dressed sick girl lying at her feet. And she thought of the child awaiting rescue—the child who, in her mind’s eye, had somehow come to look very much like jolly, lisping little Sabian.

  And she knew that though the tribal goose chase had
nothing to do with her, freedom wouldn’t be freedom if it didn’t include freedom from the guilt of knowing that she hadn’t done what she could to save both of them. In view of this rather irksome truth, she said, “Well, what if we were to split up?”

  “Split up?” said Azriel, who’d been watching her carefully the whole time she’d been thinking.

  Persephone nodded. “You, Rachel and I could carry on to Parthania to rescue the child,” she explained without much enthusiasm. “Tiny could take Fayla back to the camp.”

  “I don’t know—” began Tiny doubtfully.

  “It is … a good plan,” came a hoarse whisper from the ground.

  Startled, Persephone looked down to find Fayla awake and staring at her with glittering, red-rimmed eyes. She motioned for Persephone to kneel beside her.

  “You will save the child?” she gasped, clutching at Persephone’s arm with her cold, blackened fingers.

  “I will try,” replied Persephone, trying not to show her fear and revulsion at being touched by those awful fingers.

  Fayla nodded jerkily and mumbled something else. Unable to make it out, Persephone held her breath and leaned as close to the sick girl as she dared.

  “Azriel is … as a brother to me,” Fayla mumbled again, even more faintly than before. “Do not … break his heart.”

  Persephone’s own heart leapt in her chest at these unexpected words. “What are you saying? Fayla, listen to me—”

  But the Gypsy girl had lapsed back into the tormented slumber of her sickness and was beyond listening to anyone.

  The plan agreed upon, it did not take long to change Fayla back into her lowborn smock and settle her upon the hastily fashioned sledge that Tiny had attached to the horse belonging to the now-gagged, bound and blindfolded unconscious nobleman who’d been left behind by Lord Atticus.

  After the two of them had departed, Rachel and Persephone returned to the place where Fayla’s sweatsoaked noble clothing had been laid out to air. Seeing Rachel’s terror at the prospect of donning garments worn by someone afflicted with the disease that had killed her parents, Persephone insisted upon playing the part of the noblewoman. Rachel protested feebly for only a few seconds before capitulating with a grateful hug and quickly helping Persephone dress and fix her hair.

  “Oh,” she sighed after she’d set the last hair pin in place. “You look beautiful—and nobler than the very noblest of noblewomen!”

  Pleased in spite of the fact that she was wearing grim Death on her back, Persephone smiled, picked up her skirts and gracefully made her way back to where Fleet was refusing to stand still so that Azriel could repack the final few items. When he finally managed to wrestle the last pannier closed, he turned, caught sight of Persephone and stopped short so abruptly that it appeared as though he’d slammed into an invisible wall.

  For a breathless instant, he did nothing else. Then, with agonizing slowness, his very blue eyes began to wander from the top of her carefully coiffed head to the tender lobes of her ears, across every inch of her face and deep into her violet eyes. Here, they paused for a forever moment before plunging downward to the delicate hollow of her throat, across the graceful swell of her surprisingly generous bosom and along the curve of her slim waist. And then down, down they swept along the length of the full skirts that hid her long, bare legs, to the very tips of her polished riding boots before they began the slow climb back up again.

  And all the while he was looking her over, Persephone stood paralyzed, wondering if she might faint, feeling as vulnerable as if she were standing utterly naked before him.

  “Is … is something wrong, Azriel?” she finally stammered.

  “Persephone … I … you.…”

  “She looks terrific, doesn’t she?” prompted Rachel, when it became clear that Azriel had temporarily lost the ability to form intelligible sentences.

  Nodding, Azriel wordlessly held his hand out to Persephone. She slowly glided over to where he stood and then inhaled sharply when he slid his hands around her waist. Refusing to look up at him for fear of what might happen if she did, Persephone raised her trembling hands and rested them lightly on his broad, powerful shoulders.

  “Ready?” he asked as he prepared to toss her into the saddle.

  For anything, she thought wildly. “Yes,” she said primly.

  It turned out that being tossed into a saddle was not as easy as Fayla had made it look, and when Azriel tossed Persephone up, in addition to smacking her tailbone on the hard edge of the saddle, she lost her balance and very nearly toppled over backward. Azriel smiled and made some comment about her still having the grace and poise of a natural dancer, but Persephone was too focused on remaining mounted to reply.

  Fortunately, it didn’t take her long to get used to the rhythm of Fleet’s movements and begin to feel comfortable in the saddle, though she was surprised to discover that in many ways, riding in the guise of a noblewoman was actually less comfortable and more tiring than walking. Regardless, she kept her back straight, her chin up and uttered not a single word of complaint. Indeed, she uttered not a single word at all until shortly before sunset, when they crested a hill and the great black walls of Parthania loomed in the distance. Silhouetted against a sky streaked orange and red with the last light of the dying day, the walls seemed to stretch from one horizon to the other and all the way up to the heavens.

  It was the most awesome sight Persephone had ever seen in her life.

  “Oh my!” she exclaimed, gaping like—well, like an ignorant slave girl on her first trip to the imperial capital.

  “Parthania,” offered Azriel unnecessarily.

  Persephone nodded and closed her mouth. Her weariness had vanished at the sight of those great walls, but now nervousness rushed in to take its place. Over the course of the day she’d deigned to nod at a few fellow travellers who looked to be about “her” station but she’d not been challenged or even had to speak. Now, suddenly, she was going to have to pass through the gates of the imperial capital under the scrutiny of soldiers who had the authority to execute her on the spot for a traitor if they discovered her deception. Rachel would be lost and the child, too. And if they discovered that Azriel was a Gypsy! They would force him to his knees right in front of her … they would grab his hair … they would … they would—

  “Steady, m’lady,” urged Azriel, gently but firmly.

  With a start, Persephone looked down to see him gazing up at her with a calm, expectant expression on his handsome face.

  As though it had never for a single instant occurred to him that she wasn’t brave and strong and clever enough to do what had to be done; as if he was just waiting for her to get on with it.

  For a long, quiet moment, Persephone concentrated on slowing her breathing and letting Azriel’s unshakable confidence in her wash over her soul, lifting her up and restoring her own faith in herself.

  And when the moment was over, a remarkable change came over her. Eyeing Azriel coldly, she said, “The next time you address me without permission, you filthy mongrel, I will have you flogged to within an inch of your life.”

  Giving Persephone the same slow, considered smile that had made her stomach do a funny kind of flip-flop in the owner’s barn on that night that now seemed so impossibly long ago, Azriel dutifully bowed his head, turned on one heel and led them all onward to the gates of Parthania.

  As it turned out, passing through the city gates was no trouble at all.

  The trouble started shortly after they got inside.

  “Something is wrong,” said Azriel softly as Fleet clip-clopped through the nearly deserted street with Cur at his heels. The door of every narrow dwelling on the street was closed and the windows were shuttered tight. “It is not yet so late—there should still be people about,” he continued. “They should be returning from their daily business, tending to the evening chores, visiting with their neighbours. Children should be playing—there should be noise and bustle and instead there is nothing. I do not
like it.”

  Persephone nodded but said nothing as Azriel warily continued to lead Fleet onward in the direction of the imperial palace. With each passing moment, the stout turrets and glittering spires loomed larger. Even as they did so, the streets grew narrower, the dwellings smaller and the air less sweet. At length, Persephone realized that she’d broken into a cold sweat. Fervently, she hoped that it was not a sign of fever but rather the result of the increasingly uncomfortable feeling she had that behind these shabbier closed doors and shuttered windows, many eyes were watching her—and waiting. Waiting for what, Persephone did not know, but she had a strong sense that she didn’t want to find out.

  “We must find a place to temporarily stable the horse,” Azriel murmured.

  “Why?” whispered Persephone, leaning forward so that she could hear him.

  “We shall shortly reach the slum that encroaches upon the north wall of the castle, where the child is being hidden,” he explained in a hushed voice. “You need to change back into your smock and we need to find an alley in which you can do so. Even if we were able to convince your beast to voluntarily join us there and stand quietly while you go for the child—which I highly doubt, given his unnatural attachment to you and unwavering determination to make life difficult for me—if a passerby was to notice a horse standing in an alley, he would almost certainly come to investigate. And I would be forced to kill a man for nothing more than ill-timed curiosity.”

  Looking about the deserted, rapidly darkening streets, it did not seem likely to Persephone that anyone would happen by. Nevertheless, she did not want to risk the slaughter of an innocent man, so she nodded and attempted to climb out of the saddle. As she did so, she became hopelessly tangled in her skirts, lost her balance and would have tumbled to the cobblestone street if Azriel had not been there to catch her.

  “You and Rachel stay here,” he whispered in her ear as he ever so slowly set her down. “I’ll be back in a moment.”