Iridor flew harder, ignoring fatigue, hunger, fear. Lazar needed to know that it was time to veer north, into the area known as the Empty Quarter.
It took Iridor the rest of that day, resting only a few hours in the hottest hours of the next day before flying through the early evening and night–before he first spotted the dark, snaking shape of the camels moving ponderously. From the height at which he was traveling, they were at first just a dark smudge on the relentlessly burned yellow landscape. As he flew slightly lower and got closer, Iridor could recognize the Khalid. He was sure it would be Salim and his men again. The Khalid didn’t care to travel without hawks or falcons but Iridor knew the hunting birds would be hooded for the night, so he dropped as low as he dared, skimming just above the desert sand, hoping none of the men would seem him. He could feel the heat of the earth searng into his belly. It was the summer heat, the sort to invite the Samazen to come and play in the desert. He would stay a relatively far distance from the men whilst daylight lasted and hope to see Lazar during the dark.
He had been too frightened to use any sort of mindspeak. It didn’t matter that Maliz was nowhere near; his experience in nearly being revealed had scared him off from reaching out with the Lore.
By the time dusk had arrived, the fires were going, decent food was being prepared–they still had fresh meat at this stage, of course–and he could hear the low voices of men carrying across the darkening silence. Iridor flew soundlessly to alight atop a low dune, remaining in the shadows.
Now he just had to remain patient and pick his moment. The Spur was sitting quietly, removed slightly from the rest of the group, as was his way. There were seven other men and most had their backs to Iridor. They were all dressed so plainly, with blankets around their shoulders to keep out the desert chill, that he could not tell which was Boaz. He hoped Lazar wasn’t taking such a large party toward the fortress. Arafanz would know of it long before they came within sighting of the cunningly concealed structure.
Lazar…it’s me, I’m here. He spoke across the sand directly into the Spur’s mind.
There was silence from Lazar although he suddenly looked agitated, Iridor noted. Worse, one of the group suddenly stood up and a commotion ensued.
“What was that for?” It was Boaz’s voice that he heard.
Lazar! Iridor tried again.
The man who had been hopping around–and now Iridor could see had dropped his mug of quishtar–had his head cocked slightly to one side and was scanning the dunes as if looking for him.
In surprise, Iridor dropped his body low and flat. He heard Lazar’s voice, uncharacteristically loud. “What are you doing, Tariq?”
Tariq! So Maliz was here. In his haste and the trauma of his near death, he had forgotten Lazar’s warning. Iridor felt a tingle of fear pass from his body through to his wing tips.
“What is it?” he heard Boaz’s irritated voice again, then he recognized Salim’s voice asking Lazar something in the desert language.
He peeped over the dune and saw Lazar stand and bark various orders. Iridor picked out the Zar, who had cast off his blanket in surprise at the Grand Vizier’s behavior. He heard Lazar speak to Boaz briefly, as if he were a mere servant and not his Zar. To Salim he said something low, angry, that Iridor couldn’t make out. But to the demon he spoke clearly, loud enough that his words carried to Iridor hiding in the dunes.
“Tariq, are you all right?”
Finally Iridor locked his keen gaze on the Grand Vizier. He could feel his tendrils of magic reaching out in an ever-widening arc. Iridor dragged in every ounce of his Lore, gathered it up into a tiny ball as best he could, and buried it deep inside himself. Maliz must not, under any circumstances, know of his survival, let alone that Iridor was now present. He felt sickened that he had been so careless. He should have checked, should have waited and watched the group for a longer time. He couldn’t bear to look and dipped behind the dune again, listening intently.
“Tariq!” It was Lazar again, doing his best to distract the demon.
“I’m sorry,” Maliz said finally. “I thought…”
“Fayiz, go help make a new brew,” Lazar said, disgusted.
Iridor wondered who Fayiz was. He had to be one of their group, rather than Khalid, because Lazar was speaking Percherese.
“Are you burned?” Lazar asked, obviously to the Grand Vizier. Iridor hoped he was.
“I thought I heard something,” Maliz replied. Iridor knew better. The demon had more likely felt a rush of magic wash over him.
“I heard nothing,” Lazar replied matter-of-factly.
“I think we should do a search of the dunes.”
Lazar laughed. “And which of the twenty or so in the immediate vicinity did you mean?”
“All of them,” Maliz replied, and his tone was not respectful.
“Tariq, believe me, the Khalid are more attuned to the sound of the desert than you could ever hope to be. Had something disturbed them, they would have reacted faster than you. Swords would already be drawn.”
“I insist, Lazar.”
“Out here, Grand Vizier, you insist on nothing. There is only all of you and there is me, your superior. Fayiz, hurry up with that quishtar,” Lazar growled. “Now, I suggest you settle back down. I heard nothing, other than the sigh of the desert, and I am thirty years younger than you.”
Inwardly Iridor had to smile. There was nothing more biting than an angry Spur Lazar. He realized now that talking to his friend was going to be impossible unless they met in person. He would have to be patient. In the meantime he would hunt. He needed nourishment, even if it was desert rat. Silently he flew away into the deep of the night.
Lazar’s heart was hammering. That had been close–too close. Maliz was drinking the fresh brew but Lazar could tell the demon was far from relaxed. He noted how he pretended to gaze at the flames of the fire, but the dark, shrouded eyes were constantly scanning the dunes for any sign of the owner of the magic that had disturbed him.
As much as the manner in which Iridor had announced his arrival had terrified Lazar, he could not escape the heartfelt sense of relief to hear his old friend’s voice in his head again. He wanted to shout his delight either aloud or across the strange mindlink but he dared not do either.
Iridor would be sensibly watching now from a safe vantage, he was sure. At some point Lazar would have to excuse himself, although he suspected the demon would now watch his every move. He’d need an excuse to disappear. He could claim he needed to relieve himself but that would not permit him to be gone long, and no one would care or notice if the Grand Vizier followed, as he almost certainly would. No, he needed a far more compelling excuse to get away from the main group and be left private enough to speak with Iridor face to face.
Suddenly he realized that Boaz was talking to him; Lazar hadn’t been paying the Zar any attention. Was he imagining it, or was Boaz acting strangely? He knew the young man was excited to be away from the palace, and to be out amongst men alone was an additional treat. But something suddenly niggled Lazar’s mind about the royal. He felt that Boaz was not being truthful with his Spur–this camaraderie and determination to hunt down Ana’s captor felt somehow contrived.
Lazar had known Boaz all of the youngster’s life and Boaz was nothing if not a cautious and serious individual. He was measured in all that he did–that was part of his charm and part of the reason his father had chosen him to succeed him. It also explained why he had risen so well to the challenge of ruling. He was well beyond his years in maturity and Lazar had never seen him behave any differently.
Boaz was a passionate person—Lazar would certainly acknowledge that–but now there seemed to be something else burning in him. This coming to the desert to stalk Arafanz was odd. Lazar felt sure that if Boaz was forced to make a choice between the good of his realm or Ana, the young Zar would follow duty and choose Percheron. And the city was where the most senior royal should be–and Boaz knew that–for he had the Spur to hunt Araf
anz, to find his Zaradine. No. This curious decision felt contrived, and although there was certainly a feeling of zeal, Lazar didn’t understand what was driving it. Boaz might be courageous but he was not a fighter and he was far too sensible to put his role as Zar into any threatening situation. Boaz knew his role above all was to protect the status of the Zar. Without an heir, this was even more paramount and all this talk of finding his heir–a child who could be dead, could be killed on the journey home, could be a girl!–was not worth endangering the Zar. That was the Spur’s job. This whole situation gave off a bad smell. Why had Herezah and the Grand Vizier encouraged Boaz to risk his life so carelessly?
Lazar had to find a way to speak with his friend Iridor.
Salim innocently provided an answer, sidling over to the Spur. “You look far away in your thoughts, Lazar.”
“Sorry. I’m thinking of what’s ahead of us, whether I’m taking us all to our deaths.”
“It is out of your hands,” the desert man said, his eyes raised to the skies. “You can only do what your heart and your head tell you from the knowledge you have.”
“More desert wisdom?” Lazar asked wryly.
Salim grinned. “This is our last night in safe Khalid territory.”
Lazar nodded. “I know. Your men will need to leave us tomorrow. Are you still sure you want to come? There’s no guarantee we’ll find him–in fact, I’d say our chances are remote–and your own life is at risk…think about the rest of your family, Salim.”
“I do. My son means everything to us. We are incomplete without him. If I knew he was dead I would let him go, but I don’t know that, and until I have proof, I must continue my search. Would you ever stop looking for Zaradine Ana if she were your daughter–in fact, whether or not she was your daughter, would you halt your search simply because it was impractical?”
Lazar shook his head, ashamed that he had not made the comparison himself or comprehended that anyone could feel the same depth of love for another person as he did.
“You love her, Lazar, don’t you? But not as a daughter.”
Lazar nodded again, slowly, sadly this time. “Even though we speak a private language, you must never repeat that claim in this company. It would mean my death. Our love is forbidden and she is married to the Zar. Promise me you will never repeat it in this company.”
Salim looked at him, a bemused expression creasing his face. “The Vizier and a servant boy aspiring to being a soldier?”
“Even to them, never speak of it again. Yes, I love her more than life.”
“Then you do understand now why I must find my son.” Lazar nodded. “But that is not what I am here to tell you. I sense tension in the camp between you and Tariq.”
“You could say that. I don’t want him here–he’s a liability for all of us. Watch him, Salim. He’s unpredictable and I would be lying if I didn’t tell you that I think he’s dangerous for us. Just look at his odd behavior of just moments ago.”
“I think I know what he heard,” Salim said, offering a low chuckle.
Lazar was sure his heart skipped a beat. “What do you know?” he asked, worried afresh for Iridor.
“I know who is here, hiding in the dunes.” Again the man smiled conspiratorially.
The Spur felt all his breath leave him. How could he know? “Salim, I–”
The desert man spoke over him in a rush of glee. “I thought we’d give you some real Khalid entertainment to wish you well and to bless our journey.”
Lazar held his tongue, surprised at what he was hearing. He frowned in query.
Salim continued, “A few of our women have come. They will provide some traditional dance and music as a welcome to you, Spur Lazar–it is actually for you rather than your companions. We want you to know that we hold you in high esteem. And our women want to wish you Lyana’s speed.”
He wasn’t sure whether to be appalled or touched. Salim sensed his confusion.
“Do not worry, Spur. We are far enough away from the fortress and his men. They will not trouble themselves with us in this region. The Khalid are always singing and dancing and making music, and we look like any small family group.”
Lazar was not thrilled by the prospect of noise and activity suddenly invading what was meant to be a caravan of stealth, but he realized that this distraction might just give him the opportunity he needed to speak with Pez. He had to take the chance.
“I am honored, Salim. Please invite your women forward.”
Salim beamed. “Thank you, Spur. I shall fetch them.”
Lazar looked across to where the demon sat, watching, no doubt wondering what the two had been talking about in the desert language. “Tariq.”
“Yes?” The demon’s voice was not friendly.
“I have found out what you heard.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve found the source of what may have disturbed you. Although I must say you do seem overly jumpy, Tariq, spilling an entire pot of precious quishtar.”
“What is it?” Boaz asked, his tone betraying that he was already wearying of playing the inferior youth.
“A group of dancers has been brought to entertain us.”
“Surely not in my hon–”
“No,” Lazar hastily corrected. “In mine. But they’re keen to dance for all of us.”
Boaz grinned. “Well there you are, Tariq, all that leaping about and anxiety for nothing. However, I can easily forgive your jumpiness after what you went through on your last visit into the desert.”
“Indeed, Fayiz,” the demon said drily, his gaze fixed firmly on Lazar as he replied.
There was no doubt in Lazar’s mind now. Maliz was certain that Lazar was hiding something. But by the same token, Lazar took a measure of comfort in the fact that the demon now knew his own secret was threatened. Lazar was certain Maliz couldn’t know how much he knew, if anything at all, but a new understanding had settled between them without a word being exchanged. They had just put each other on notice that suspicions were now clearly in place.
16
The beaming men of the Khalid had arranged cushions around a central large square of sand, with the fire burning in the middle. Lazar chose the spot farthest from Tariq, his mind racing as to how he might now use this situation to escape. He prayed the owl was paying attention because they wouldn’t have long.
A drum sounded in the darkness, becoming more insistent as out of the night, illuminated by burning torches, came a dozen women in the traditional festive dress of the Khalid. They wore bright colors of crimson, scarlet, purple, emerald, and ultramarine, their midriffs exposed and gauzy fabric veiling their faces, hung from chains wrought in gold. Around their wrists and ankles they wore bells, which they jangled now in perfect synchrony to the drum’s rhythm. As unwelcome as this disturbance had seemed moments earlier, Lazar couldn’t help but be fascinated by the sudden explosion of color and sound and movement. Some of these women were young, many just girls, but others were clearly in their middle years. And yet age did not seem to matter. They all looked magnificent as they ran on tiptoe around the fire, fabric floating in their arms, making a swirl of bright color. They split into two groups and danced, encouraging the audience to clap as they hit a frenzied but supremely fluid movement, their hips tracing a pattern in the air. Lazar had seen similar dances many times–this was the traditional female dancing of the whole region after all–but there was something very special to witness it in this setting as an act of gratitude and blessing.
The men of the Khalid clapped loudly and Lazar noticed that Boaz was entranced by this spectacle. He wasn’t so sure about the Grand Vizier, even though Maliz had the good grace to fix a smile to his face.
The rhythm of the drum slowed and new instruments joined as a few male musicians emerged from the dark. The stringed lerz offered the tones so traditional to the Percherese and indeed Galinseans. The haunting sound of the zuva and kruel wind instruments echoed into the still night, and in spite of his mood,
Lazar felt the music lift his spirits. And as a young man–younger than Boaz–picked up the rhythm with the spoon-shaped wooden flaks and the fresh percussion took the piece to new heights, another figure stepped out from behind a dune.
She was dressed in the brightest of yellow silks, her bronzed belly taut as her hips moved at what looked like an impossible speed, in an impossible direction. Even though she was veiled, Lazar could tell she was beautiful, and he realized, as all the other women withdrew, that she was not as young as he’d first thought. Her shape was perfect but the way she moved it suggested maturity.
Salim had moved to sit near him.
“She is captivating,” Lazar breathed.
“Her name is Ganya–it means ‘beautiful.’”
“Most appropriate. Whose family does she belong to?”
“To mine. She is my eldest daughter.” When Lazar turned in surprise, the man grinned, nodding. “It’s true. She is widowed. Very sad, for she hasn’t been blessed by children.”
“But she looks so young.”
“As I said, no children,” Salim replied wryly.
The rhythm of the drums changed and both men gave their attention to Ganya. She had moved to stand directly before Lazar, a jewel studding her navel and gold chains glittering across her body. The firelight made her dark eyes, filled with invitation, sparkle. Lazar cleared his throat and beside him Salim gave a chuckle as his daughter began rotating one hip in synchrony with the beat. Her left foot was planted firmly on the ground, while the ball of her right foot was responsible for creating all the movement. She truly was magnificent as she bent backward to show perfect poise, perfect balance, and a dazzling display of control as her pelvis began a series of sideways thrusts.
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