Goddess

by Fiona McIntosh

  “And then what happened?”

  Maliz sighed. “I took my opportunity. He no longer needed his body. You could say I borrowed it. I have treated it with deference and I have made Tariq into a man that everyone—including Lazar—can grudgingly respect.”

  “I cannot fault you there,” Boaz admitted, wonderment in his voice. “And so now it all makes sense—the stoop is gone, the adornments disappear, the more likable Tariq emerged.”

  “Thank you, Highness. May I say you seem to be taking this news rather well—is it because you hated the old Tariq so much?” Before Boaz could answer, Maliz added, “Or has someone given you a clue to my presence?”

  Boaz hesitated. “Don’t be ridiculous. How could anyone know?”

  But Maliz heard the discomfited pause and he stored it away. Lazar was definitely onto him. He wished he could kill him right now but he needed him as a guide and protector for the desert. He would bide his time and deal with the arrogant Spur in due course.

  “I just wondered,” he said, turning suddenly, unsure of why. He frowned into the distance.

  “What’s wrong?” Boaz hissed.

  Maliz listened carefully. “I’m not sure.”

  “I can’t hear anything.”

  “No, neither did I. But I sense something.”

  “What?”

  Maliz felt distracted and irritated. He didn’t have any more time and knew this was the moment to strike. Even though his mind felt a presence nearby, he needed to push Boaz into saying yes—there might never be a better opportunity. He whispered now. “My Zar, you must make a decision. We have little time if Lazar leaves in a few hours.”

  “What must I do?”

  “You simply give me pemission to join you. The words are ancient. You must not be frightened by them. And then you must kill me.”

  “What?” The Zar instinctively stepped away.

  Maliz had expected as much. “Don’t be scared. By killing me, you release me. It is nothing. I feel nothing.”

  “But…”

  Maliz smiled, crafting his whispered lies with care. “And when we return, I will claim back the Grand Vizier’s body, heal his wounds, and reignite his life.”

  “You can do that?”

  “I did precisely that before when his heart gave up during his sexual orgy. It is easy with my powers. I know it is distasteful to plunge a blade into me but I promise you I feel nothing.” He handed Boaz a vicious-looking knife he took from his robe.

  “I…I’m not sure I can do—”

  “You can and you will. Now utter these words and all will be well. I can show you Ana in the next moment or two. You must say this: ‘Maliz, come into me. Take my soul.’”

  Boaz stared at him uncomprehendingly. “I will not say that.”

  Maliz gave a soft sound of admonishment. “Zar Boaz, these are ancient words that have no meaning today. The language is quaint. Take my soul may sound daunting but the dramatic phrasing relates only to the fact that I will claim your body, guide your spirit. In centuries gone by, soul meant body. Just ignore how theatrical it sounds.”

  “Fayiz?” Lazar’s voice suddenly drifted from the other side of the dune.

  Maliz gave a new hissing sound. The sensation he had felt must have been the Spur creeping up on them. “It’s now or never, my Zar. We shall hide both our bodies and go. Call out, tell him all is well.”

  Boaz nodded. “Lazar, we’re fine. Tariq is suffering a bad bout of the Haste.” He feigned a laugh. “He doesn’t know which end to let fly from.”

  Lazar’s reply was cautioning. “Just a minute more then and I’ll take over. You need some sleep this night.”

  Boaz hated lying to Lazar but he was shaken to his core from the revelations he had heard this night.

  “Answer Lazar, Highness,” the Grand Vizier urged.

  “One minute, I promise,” Boaz called. He heard Lazar grumble as he walked away.

  Maliz nodded. “Good. Are you ready?”

  Boaz was frightened by the magic. The demon’s offer seemed to offer a solution for his most bitter suspicions and yet it went against everything he trusted or believed in. “I’m not comfortable with—”

  “My Zar, there is nothing comfortable about your life right now. The Galinseans are threatening to raze your city; a madman rebel has stolen your wife and child, and as there’s no ransom, presumably he’s after something far more sinister. You’ve got your mother acting regent in a palace under threat whilst you’re not sure whether the wife you risk your own life for has a lover who happens to be your own head of security, and, even more tangled, he’s your mother’s new consort! Your life is certainly not comfortable but I alone have the power to bring some sanity back to it. And it begins here by either dispelling the notion that you have been cuckolded or proving it and taking appropriate action to set your house in order, Majesty. Take what I’m offering. I am more faithful to you than any of those you have previously trusted. I know you sense their betrayal—I can hear it in your tone, I can see it in how your body reacts. I know nothing angers you more than treachery. Seek the truth—and set things straight.”

  It was as though the demon could listen in on his thoughts. Everything he said was right.

  Boaz opened his mouth to voice some conditions, but before he could speak, men in dark robes melted out of the darkness, surrounding him and Maliz.

  “Boaz!” he screamed. “Do it! Say the words. I can save us.”

  “I—” The Zar felt out of his depth suddenly and utterly confused, certainly overawed by the men with curved blades advancing upon them. He heard a pain-filled roar go up at the camp, knew it was Lazar. There was no hope for them if Lazar and his blade were captured.

  “Now, now!” Maliz growled in a deep voice, chilling Boaz’s blood. “You stupid, imbecilic boy. If you are ever going to—”

  And that voice, bullying him, ordering him, forgetting who he was and what sort of respect he was due, tipped all the anger he had been doing his best to control over the limit of his tolerance. Boaz yelled words in such wrathful tones that even the men stalking him froze momentarily. And then he lunged.

  25

  They had come upon them with such terrible silence that Lazar had not even had time to reach for a sword—the best he could do had been to shout and warn Boaz. He had not even been asleep, simply standing over the embers of their small fire and giving the Grand Vizier the one final minute of agony. He had been happy to hear of the discomfort—the demon deserved all and more. But that distraction had been his undoing. Now men in black robes he recognized from many moons before surrounded them, others manhandled him to his feet, and he could hear Ganya shrieking.

  “Get away from her, leave her alone,” he yelled, straining to see the Khalid, knowing how helpless they all were.

  “My men do not understand, Spur,” said an all-too-familiar voice. “They do not speak your language. Frankly, I’m surprised that you risk yet another excursion into my land. I warned you once before—I am shocked after what you saw me do, you did not believe or heed that warning.”

  Lazar had been making guttural sounds as the men tied his hands tightly behind him. Now he addressed his attacker. “Arafanz, you—”

  “But then, I shouldn’t be too surprised,” Arafanz continued conversationally as if Lazar had not spoken, “because Ana told me you would come after her, and she knows you best of all, doesn’t she, Spur Lazar?” Ganya and Salim were brought before the rebel as he continued: “And who have we here?”

  “These people have nothing to do with—”

  “Quiet, Lazar, or I’ll have your tongue cut out. Don’t test me.” He switched to Khalid. “And what is your name, my beauty?”

  “I am Ganya, lajka of the Khalid Doraz tribe,” she said proudly, lifting her chin. If she was fearful, she was not showing it.

  “And this old man?”

  “He is my father.”

  “Why are you here?” Arafanz held a finger in the air to the Spur. “Er, carefu
l, Lazar, no speaking. You want to hang on to that tongue of yours, don’t you?” He smiled in the firelight. “Ganya—pretty name—answer my question, please.”

  Her eyes glittered defiantly as torches were lit by some of the men from the embers. “My father sold camels to the Percherese to make this trip.”

  “I see. And you are a camel?”

  No one laughed, least of all Arafanz.

  She ignored his sarcastic gibe. “Our women danced for the Percherese and our men played music to entertain them, in honor of the Spur.”

  “And you were one of the dancers?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And are you still dancing for the Spur? Is that why you’re here?” His words, spoken evenly and with no change of expression, nevertheless carried a tone of innuendo that neither Ganya nor Lazar missed.

  “That is my business.”

  “You’ve answered my question, thank you.” The rebel turned to Salim. “So, old man. What is your story? I have no quarrel with the Khalid, until they start to work with my enemy and against me. Then they become my enemy. Are you my enemy?”

  Salim stared at Arafanz. “I am here because I believe you stole my son from me. I want to find him, find out if he is still alive.”

  Arafanz shrugged. “I could not tell you. I never ask their names. I simply give them new ones.”

  Salim nodded. “I hoped he might recognize me.”

  “If he is among us, he chooses not to. If he is at my fortress, you will never know.” Arafanz moved as fast as a snake striking as he swiped a blade across the Khalid’s neck in a fluid movement.

  Ganya screamed and Lazar lunged forward, howling threats of revenge, but his captors pulled back savagely on the rope he was attached to and the Spur was dragged to his knees as Salim fell, his eyes wide with disbelief.

  The Khalid clutched at his throat, his daughter shrieking beside him as blood gushed between his fingers. He had eyes only for Lazar and he choked out two words only—“Find him!”—before he toppled to the sand, gasping one final time as the liquid of life slowed to a trickle and death claimed him.

  “Kill me now while you can because I intend to see that you die at the end of my blade for that act alone,” Lazar growled, his voice shaking with rage.

  Above Ganya’s wails, Arafanz spoke mildly. “Not yet, Lazar. I owe this much to Ana—she should see her brave Spur one more time, know that he betrayed her with a desert dancer, before I end your life.” He looked across as his men arrived from the darkness beyond the camp, dragging a haunted-looking young man. “And who is this?”

  “He is no one,” Lazar said, stunned by the expression on Boaz’s face. The Zar looked more than shocked; he looked dazed. “He is nothing but a lowly servant. Are you going to kill him, too?”

  The rebel made the soft tutting sound that a parent uses with a wayward infant. “Let him answer for himself, Lazar. Your quick defense makes me instantly suspicious.” He turned to Boaz. “Who are you?”

  The Zar did not speak. His lips moved but no sound came out. “I killed,” he stammered unable to finish his sentence. Looking up at Lazar, terrified, he managed, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  Lazar frowned. “What’s happened? What have your men done?” It was only then that he noticed the blood on Boaz. And his sense of helplessness doubled. “Are you hurt?”

  The rebel’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Quiet, Lazar. Who are you, boy?”

  “I am Fayid. I work for the Spur,” Boaz answered. He looked again at Lazar, still terrified. “Spur, the Grand Vizier is dead. I killed him.” He looked down at the blood spattered all over his white garments. “This is his blood, not mine.”

  Arafanz laughed, but Lazar barely heard him; he was still reeling from Boaz’s news. He was sure Iridor had warned that the demon could not be killed by conventional means. What did this mean? Had they been wrong all along?

  He heard Arafanz address him. “You’re to be strapped to your camels, the woman as well.”

  “What about the Grand Vizier? I want to see him, make sure he is truly dead.”

  “Here he comes now, it looks like. Bring him here,” Arafanz called.

  The Grand Vizier’s body was thrown down at Arafanz’s feet. The rebel rolled him onto his back using the toe of his boot. “It is him indeed. I’m amazed, Lazar, that both you and the Grand Vizier would return for a second helping of my wrath. I can understand your motivation, perhaps, but his? Why would he come here with you and a boy?”

  It took all of Lazar’s focus to pull his gaze from the dead Tariq. He knew he had to concentrate or Boaz’s life was surely forfeit. “I cannot say. It was the Zar’s wish that he return.”

  “How strange. The old Vizier seems more of a liability than an asset.”

  “Perhaps he preferred to risk your sort of desert justice to that of the Galinseans. I’m sure your spy network has kept you informed of what is happening in the city,” Lazar replied noncommittally.

  “Indeed. But all seems quiet just now. The Galinseans are seemingly biding their time. For what, I cannot guess. Do you know?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Even under torture?” Arafanz smiled.

  “Even under torture. But I don’t think the Galinsean war threat interests you in the slightest, Arafanz.”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t. It only makes my task easier. While the Percherese panic over their warlike neighbors, no one is noticing me or my men.”

  “As you do what?”

  “Ah, that’s our business.”

  “I thought you simply wanted Ana. But it’s beyond that, isn’t it, Arafanz? Why don’t you tell me? I’m hardly in a position to do anything about it, and as you say, there will be no amnesty granted me this time. I’m not even sure I understand why it was given the last time we met.”

  “Again you’re right. There will be no escape this time, Lazar. All right, I shall share my plans with you. I intend to kill the young Zar and all who support his right to the throne.”

  It explained everything and nothing. The shock of the truth was tempered by total confusion. “Why? What can you possibly have against Zar Boaz?”

  “You have no idea. But let’s not do this just now, Lazar.” Arafanz returned his attention to Boaz. “How old are you, Fayid?”

  Lazar was desperate to answer but it seemed Boaz was up to the task of protecting his identity.

  “I am nineteen,” the Zar lied.

  “And loyal to your young doomed Zar?”

  “Of course.”

  “You would die for him?”

  This sounded dangerous to Lazar. “Listen, Arafanz, if—”

  “Quiet, Lazar, I’m talking solely to this youngster. Answer me, Fayid.”

  “I would die for him, yes. I am a loyal servant of the Zar.”

  “Can you prove that? Would you slit your own throat if he asked you to?”

  “He would never ask me to. From what I know of him, he is above those sorts of games.”

  “Proving one’s loyalty is not a game.”

  “Making someone kill himself for no other reason but to prove it, is. But to answer your question: no, I would not slit my own throat to prove a point. I would, however, step in front of a blade for him.”

  “Does he impress you?”

  “I do not know him well enough. He is my Zar. I can think of no greater honor than to serve him.”

  “How can you care about this young man if you have not met him?”

  “I have been raised to do so. I gather from those who do know him that he is worthy of loyalty. I also hear that he is something of a scholar, that he plans to lead his people into an era of prosperity. He cherishes peace. Prefers art to weapons…I want to be a soldier but still I respect his ways.”

  “And who has told you this about your Zar?”

  “People like Spur Lazar who know him well.”

  “I see. And what is your role in this expedition, Fayiz?”
/>   “I am training to join the Protectorate. I am along on this journey to help Spur Lazar.”

  Arafanz nodded. “You must be of an age with your Zar. How old is your Zar?”

  Boaz shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. He was born after me but not by much, I don’t think.”

  “So you don’t know what he looks like?”

  Boaz shook his head. “Not really.”

  Arafanz nodded. “Neither do I,” he said regretfully. “He is elusive. But I intend to know. I plan to look into his eyes before I kill him, snuffing out the last of the Percherese Crown bearers who worship Zarab.”

  “Is this what it’s all about?” Lazar asked, aghast. “About faith?”

  Arafanz ignored him. “One last thing, Fayid, before I make up my mind whether to let you live awhile longer. Why did you kill the Grand Vizier?”

  “He…he made a lewd suggestion.”

  The rebel frowned. “What sort of suggestion?”

  Lazar watched Boaz struggle, then lift his chin with defiance. “He said he wanted to enter me.”

  Arafanz actually laughed. “I hadn’t realized that the Grand Vizier’s tastes swung that way. But I’m not surprised. And you killed him for that?”

  “He laughed at me. Mocked me for my admiration of Spur Lazar. Said he was not as honorable as I thought, that the Spur would allow any number of the soldiers to have their way with me. He said he could teach me how, so that it wouldn’t hurt.”

  Lazar felt his bile rise, even though he couldn’t imagine that Maliz would have risked Boaz’s temper in any shape or form. Clearly the Zar was crafting a story for Arafanz’s benefit. But that didn’t negate the fact that the Grand Vizier was now dead by Boaz’s hand. He stared uncomprehendingly at the corpse. He was certain that Boaz would not have resorted to such violence unless he really had felt threatened. What had scared Boaz so much? He didn’t have to wait long for an answer.