Goddess

by Fiona McIntosh

  “And if it’s a girl?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve had Yozem, my crone, do a foretelling. I used some of Ana’s hair.” She shrugged. “I stole a wisp as she slept. It is a male, Lazar. It is our new Zar–Boaz is not interested in any other son than that of his union with Ana.”

  “What do you gain by sending him into the desert with me?” He could still feel the sting of her slap, wondered if she’d left her livid mark upon him.

  “To keep him safe, too.”

  He gave a harsh laugh of helplessness. “Safe?”

  “Tariq said if we–”

  “Tariq? What’s he got to do with this?” he demanded, no longer lost in the sneer.

  “This was his idea!”

  His voice turned to a hiss. “The Grand Vizier put you up to this? Why?”

  She looked at him as though he was being especially thickskulled. “For the same reason, Lazar. He wants Boaz kept safe, away from the city, far from any Galinsean blade.”

  “Herezah, if you believe that, you are a fool.”

  It was her turn to show offense. “I am no fool, Spur. If not for Boaz’s sake, why would he put himself through the danger of traveling through the desert?”

  “Did Tariq specifically ask you to do this?”

  “Of a fashion.”

  The pulse at Lazar’s temple throbbed as he grabbed her arm. The hiss had become a growl. “Did the Grand Vizier tell you that he wanted to be on this journey?”

  “You’re hurting me,” she warned through gritted teeth. He squeezed harder. “Yes, damn you! Yes! He insists upon it.”

  Lazar let her go, and twisted away from her. He needed to think but there was no time. He understood her motives finally but suddenly they were irrelevant; there was so much more at stake now.

  “Lazar!” she called to his back. “Wait, I–”

  He turned and sneered. “Farewell, Herezah. Enjoy the chance to punish Salmeo in your new role.”

  Herezah had left her son almost immediately after Lazar had taken his leave of Boaz. In the meantime, the Grand Vizier had been summoned and given the news that he would accompany the Zar and the Spur into the desert.

  “I know this is a shock for you, Tariq, but we think it’s best if all the senior male counselors are removed as well. I want to ensure that the Galinseans have only the Valide to discourse with.”

  Maliz knew it would surprise Boaz when he took a philosophical approach. He shook his head. “No, my Zar, I am not shocked. I think the idea is clever. I completely agree with your view that Falza would not consider it manly to make war upon a seemingly helpless woman. It’s that damned Galinsean pride that may well save our skins.”

  “So you’re not upset?”

  “It matters not if I were, Highness. We are making vital decisions now for the good of Percheron.”

  “Tariq, you constantly surprise me. I imagine the desert is the last place you might wish to go, but I would appreciate your wise counsel alongside myself and the Spur.”

  Inwardly, Maliz smiled. Herezah had done her job so very well. “My Zar, it would be an honor to stay close to you and serve you however you see fit. I thought you said Pez was going along as well.”

  Maliz watched the Zar hesitate before replying. He wondered what that meant. “Er, yes, he is.”

  “So it’s a party of four.”

  “The Spur reckons that is three people too many.”

  The Grand Vizier obliged with a soft ghost of a smile. “I imagine he would. What can I do? Shall I make arrangements for Pez as well as us?”

  And again he noticed a slight hedging in the response from the Zar. Why was his mentioning Pez making Boaz feel uncomfortable? “My Zar, I have to tell you that I believe your royal jester is frightened of me.”

  Boaz nodded. “The Elim mentioned there was an incident this morning.”

  “A misunderstanding, Highness. Pez decided I was attacking him when I was simply checking that he was all right. He had fallen down.”

  “Pez can misconstrue anyone’s intentions, Tariq,” Boaz replied. Maliz sensed that the Zar was choosing his words with care.

  “I shall do my utmost to make friends with him on this trip.”

  “I think it would be best if you kept your distance, Tariq. In fact, I may have to insist upon it. Pez is highly agitated. I’ve seen him and whatever actually happened is of little consequence. He is disturbed and distressed…and that makes him difficult to handle. We cannot risk his jeopardizing our journey. But I cannot leave him in the palace. He can disrupt delicate talks and he is best under the control of myself or Lazar.”

  Maliz was delighted–now that his place on the caravan was secured and his plans were taking shape, he felt the time was right to deal with the dwarf and his suspicions.

  “I shall be careful to give him a very wide berth, then, Majesty, as you request.”

  It was no request, of course, but still he watched the Zar nod. “That’s good. We need Pez calm for this journey.”

  “Where is the jester now, Highness? I shall keep a distance.”

  “No need to worry yourself. He is at Lazar’s house and safe.”

  “Then let me hurry to finalize everything in my office and with my palace staff, Highness, in order that I can accompany your karak to the meeting point this evening.”

  Maliz left and hurried back to his official chambers in the palace. He wasted no time summoning a runner, scribbling a note, and giving the servant instructions as to where the note was to be delivered.

  In very little time two strangers were admitted to the Grand Vizier’s chambers.

  Pez, keeping to himself at the Spur’s house, had been deeply lost in thought at Lazar’s hastily scrawled message.

  Tariq, the Spur had carefully written, is up to something. He apparently insisted he come along, conscripted the help of the Valide to push his cause…and has been successful. What does this mean?

  Pez had been trying to work it out ever since, pondering every possible angle as to why Maliz would run the risk of this second foray into the desert and a potential clash with Arafanz.

  “It has to be Ana,” he muttered to himself. “He must sense the same potential I always have.”

  His mind drifted as he considered every possible scenario. How had the demon settled his attention on Ana and why? Astray in his meandering thoughts, Pez allowed himself to feel too secure in Lazar’s private sanctuary. His Lore sense was too preoccupied; he missed the stealthy arrival of two men, never saw the blow coming.

  He awoke groggily to find himself trussed like an animal for slaughter and to see eyes he recognized, despite the disguise of the jamoosh, staring intently at him.

  “Hello again, Pez,” the Grand Vizier said. “Now I know you must be feeling rather ill–that’s a very nasty blow you took–and whether you understand me or not, I am going to do the polite thing and warn you that you have been given the root of topriz. Do you know what that is?”

  Pez stared back, silent.

  “I’ll tell you anyway,” Maliz said calmly. “It is the essence of a plant that curiously loosens the tongue. Not many people know of it–its use has died out, you see–but it was very popular a few centuries ago in wartime to help release information from captured enemy soldiers.”

  Pez’s head was throbbing. Nausea began to overwhelm him but he didn’t dare draw on the Lore to help himself. Instead he began to recite the names of all the root plants he could think of.

  The Grand Vizier smiled. “Mad? Or somehow impossibly feigning it?”

  Pez began to weep. “My arms hurt.” He was hoping it sounded especially childish, as if he couldn’t concentrate on anything but the pain.

  “I know, but it won’t last too long. Time is short. The Spur will be back soon, I imagine. But I have him watched right now, I know his every movement.”

  Pez knew the Grand Vizier was looking for any signs that he was being understood, so he sang softly over all the man’s words.

  “I’m goi
ng to be sick,” he warned, belching.

  “Go ahead, Pez.”

  Pez ignored him. He thought about screaming but figured it would be useless; they’d just hit him again. He realized both the other men were not far away and there could be more outside. Instead he began to count, in Merlinean, in multiples of eight.

  “Pez, who is Lyana?” the Grand Vizier asked reasonably.

  Pez belched several times amidst his counting. He really did feel as though he was going to be ill all over Lazar’s floor. Blood was trickling into one eye, too. They must have hit him hard enough to open his scalp, perhaps even crack his skull. It hurt enough. Was he drifting again?

  “I think you are Iridor and I want to know who Lyana is,” Maliz pressed.

  In reply Pez spoke louder, managed to break wind twice during his recitation of the Merlinean numerals. He thought about changing into Iridor but that would achieve too little in return for giving the demon proof of what he searched for. In remaining Pez and helpless, he could keep Maliz hunting and desperate. He was glad his body and mind were stronger than the drug.

  His captor looked up, frustrated, and nodded, and Pez couldn’t help but wonder what that signal could mean. It didn’t take long to find out.

  11

  Boaz had summoned all of the Pecherese officials and dignatories–anyone of status who answered to the Crown–and now they were all crowded into the Grand Hall of the Stone Palace, their agitation evident, whispering amongst themselves.

  The young Zar realized that they were anticipating this to be his declaration of war and they feared the words that would almost certainly signify their own deaths. They believed that the Galinseans would prevail, that no Percherese male would be left alive–he could sense this notion in the room, see it reflected in their stricken gazes.

  Boaz bit his lip, vexed that the Grand Vizier was not present. At least the Valide looked stunning, and this gathering was primarily for her benefit. The announcement that Percheron was not going to war tomorrow would bring an equal measure of surprise and assurance for many present.

  At this thought his gaze fell upon the large, dark bulk of Salmeo. The eunuch looked smug, no doubt fully confident of his own safety. Boaz was certain the Grand Master Eunuch had already set up his own escape route for when the time came to flee. How unlike Salmeo was to the Elim he ruled; those warriors would gladly give their lives rather than yield their courage. The chief eunuch, by contrast, wouldn’t think twice even about the women–girls, in fact–that he would leave behind to face the abuse of the Galinsean soldiers.

  Boaz blinked as the fat eunuch’s gaze met his and he watched with a grinding hate low in his gut as Salmeo’s tongue slipped out, wetting his lips in that habitual way. Then the Grand Master Eunuch’s head nodded, a soft smile of acknowledgment lifting the rope scar along his cheek. And Boaz felt deep satisfaction that his mother would finally have status beyond Salmeo. What recriminations she might be able to make in this new role against the eunuch would be her business, and Boaz, for one, would turn a blind eye. He looked forward to seeing the effect of his announcement on the Grand Master Eunuch’s face, for no one in this room would feel the reach of the Valide’s temporary new status more keenly than Salmeo.

  He began. “Brothers…and Valide,” he said, bowing his head once to his mother. “I have asked you here this morning to share crucial news regarding Percheron’s future.” He held his hand up for silence as alarmed mutterings rose. “Let me assure you that the Crown is doing everything within its power to avoid war,” and then he began crafting the explanation for his departure to the desert in such a way that anyone listening could be forgiven for thinking it was more like a victory address than a prewar speech. Anyone that is, except Salmeo. He alone felt the undercurrent of this announcement and what it could mean.

  The Grand Master Eunuch had come to this gathering out of courtesy. He had been asked because of his position and, no doubt, because of his contacts across the realm that could be used to spread the word of the heir he was hearing so much about. But he had no intention of fighting it out to the last, of bravely dying for the harem. Zarab’s Fire! He would not put himself at the mercy of the Galinseans, who would likely take genuine glee in further punishing the senior royal eunuch and the keeper of so many beautiful girls.

  No, Salmeo was canny enough to know that remaining in Percheron, should the situation escalate to war, would be suicide. And his escape plans were well advanced. He had hoarded and stashed coin at strategic points for easy access and had supplies already in place along the river. He intended to escape by royal barge initially, then switch to a sturdy riverboat that had been positioned at a secret location. He would travel with two well-armed and capable accomplices–not Elim–who would be responsible for his needs and for rowing him to relative safety. Horses and covered cart would be waiting to whisk him further from Percheron, headed northeast to begin with, then south.

  Extraordinarily enough, he might actually be heading in the direction of home. Whether he got back to his village was left to be seen and he didn’t much care if he did or not. That place wasn’t truly home anymore but simply the country in which he had been born before being captured by slavers. He had been taken at the age of four with his father and older sister, seven at the time. The children had watched their mother’s throat slashed open with such force it had nearly taken off her head when she’d fought back against the attackers. He wondered at the luck of his two older brothers to be playing in the cave network above their village at the time of the raid. And he had watched with wonder the fight go out of his father–a huge, proud man, leader of his tribe–as the slavers had systematically begun killing a child of the village each time he refused to cooperate. In the end his father had had no choice but to capitulate to their demands; the three members of their family had been selected to go with the caravan back to Percheron. The slavers had not been Percherese, of course, but that mattered not to the young boy–Percheron was the destination and that made it the culprit in his shocked, immature mind.

  Salmeo’s father had died of an infection from one of the wounds he had sustained in the initial brawl following the attack on the village, although his youngest son knew the truth, had watched as the chieftain deliberately pushed his chained hands into the decomposing bowels of a large dead animal their captors had forced him to lie next to. Salmeo could still remember the powerful stench of rotting meat, could still recall the moment when his proud father had smeared those huge hands, now dripping with the creature’s waste, into his wound, his eyes full of apology to his son.

  “Look after your sister,” were his last coherent words to Salmeo. The chieftain had begun his slow descent into death during the course of that night, and two days later their captors had left him on the path, still bound, to die alone in terrible pain. He mercifully had slipped into a delirium by then, but Salmeo had looked into his father’s blood-filled eyes and seen the flare of pride that the chieftain had somehow beaten the slavers. That moment of despair for Salmeo but triumph for his proud father had shaped the boy. Just a few years later, when a cleric was proclaiming him “of age” and Salmeo realized what was to happen to him, he had sworn that he would rise above being simply eunuch; he would carve his own position, his own base of power. He might bow to a new royal, but privately he would never give loyalty, and everything he would do in the future would be for his own gain. He hated the world for what it had done to his family; he especially hated the Percherese and their pampered Zars. Salmeo smiled; now, almost five decades later, he had been true to that promise. He had even killed his own sister, slipping out from the palace before she was to be bedded by a man who had recently purchased her. He had kissed her gently good-bye and strangled her as she slept, for fear that she might become a plaything for a filthy Percherese. She had certainly been beautiful enough to catch the eye of a wealthy man and she had been just ten, ripe and already long-limbed and graceful as a ferez deer. He remembered brushing his fingers over her lid
s to cover those once laughing liquid eyes, dark as the feathers of a crow she had once kept as a pet. She was a chieftain’s daughter and she had been forced to be a servant, but she was bed slave to no one. He had seen to it.

  In his own particular way, over the years, he had stayed true to his oath, disrupting the life of the royals as best he could. He had been there when Zar Koriz had infamously died by the banks of the river after eating the poisonous bloatfish. No one knew that the Zar’s fine knifework had been flawless in removing the deadly fish liver but that a young, fleet-footed Salmeo had ensured that a little of the liver was tossed back into the food and eaten by the Zar. And Joreb? Oh, he had bided his time. When the Zar had chosen to display his prowess on the horse and had come uncharacteristically unstuck, Salmeo had seized the chance he had waited on for decades, and poisoned Joreb. A tiny amount of drezden added regularly to the Zar’s food had worked wonders; the physics, too frightened for their own lives, had not picked up on the poison trail and had never made the connection that the Zar had been murdered. This recollection made Salmeo think about his most recent use of drezden. Such a pity, he thought, that someone had been wary enough to spot his favored poison in the Spur not so many moons ago. He had gotten away with it, regardless, but the death of cringing Shaz, the young inflicter who had known too much, had been necessary. Again Salmeo’s patience had been rewarded. He had waited for the chaos of the first Galinsean delegation to distract everyone at the palace and then it had been so easy to contrive a drowning for the hapless Shaz. It had been reported back to his masters, of course, that he had drunk too much liquor one night with his winnings from a game of krosh, either falling into the harbor or being pushed by disgruntled losers of the game. Either way Salmeo’s secret was safe. Another loose end tied off.