Boaz looked crestfallen. “My father once said something quite similar to that. He said a wise Zar lay with as many in his harem as he could, and should have many, many sons so he could choose the perfect apprentice and the most suitable heir.”
“The advice is sound. Lots of sons, Majesty. It not only keeps the women on their toes but the obvious advantage is that you can select the ideal candidate to give your precious crown to.”
Boaz sighed. “Ana’s execution is at dawn—it will be a private drowning, the harem way. I refuse to be present. Kett’s will be at noon—a public ganching.”
“That should bring a crowd running—we haven’t had one of those in a while.”
Boaz looked aggrieved. “Forgive me, Tariq, I have an appointment to keep,” the Zar said abruptly, putting down his own goblet to end their meeting.
Maliz was surprised. “So late?”
“Er, yes.”
“Must be someone important to keep a Zar from his bed,” Maliz prodded
“I won’t be doing much sleeping tonight, Tariq. I might as well keep working.”
“Of course, of course. I did have a few things to discuss with you, my Zar, but all can wait for the morning.”
“Good. Until then. Salazin will see you out.” He gave the signal.
Outside the door Maliz signed to his spy: I must know who he is seeing.
Salazin nodded, signing urgently: What about the priestess? You said you were going to see her.
She will trouble me no more, the demon signed back.
And Salazin smiled tightly.
ON HIS RETURN TO Boaz’s chambers, the Zar sent Salazin to the main gate.
“There should be a hooded figure waiting for you,” was all the Zar signed “and he will be carrying a parchment with my seal that permits him entry up to my chambers.”
He found the visitor as his Zar had instructed, but despite all the royal arrangements, four of the Elim searched the man before escorting him to the Zar’s wing of the palace. Outside his suite, the Elim broke away and left Lazar with the four fearsome-looking mutes.
Pez came skipping down the corridor to meet him.
“These are interesting fellows,” Lazar murmured.
“Vizier’s orders,” Pez muttered back before breaking into a song about crocodiles eating the royal barges.
Bin met them. He bowed as he did to all visitors. “The Zar has asked me to admit you upon presentation of his seal”—he eyed the hooded figure with unabashed curiosity—“although this is most unusual.”
Lazar said nothing, held out the small piece of thick parchment that carried the Zar’s seal, the uniqueness of the wax indisputable.
“Thank you. Please wait a moment.” Bin knocked before disappearing into the room, with Salazin hot on his heels. Pez was flapping his arms as if trying to fly and spouting a new rhyme about elephant droppings.
Bin emerged and gestured to Lazar to come forward. “You may enter.” At Pez’s movement to also join the visitor, Bin objected. “Er, Pez, don’t you think…”
“No, no, don’t touch me,” Pez shrieked. “The Zar is my friend. I need pomegranates, and he’s got them all!”
Bin stepped back. He didn’t want to provoke a repeat of Pez’s last screaming performance. He looked at the visitor, embarrassed. Lazar shrugged as if to say it mattered not to him, and so Pez, clutching the stranger’s robes, danced into the Zar’s chambers, sticking out his tongue at the astonished secretary.
Inside, Bin apologized to his Zar as Pez hopped around the room, sniffing loudly and calling for hidden pomegranates.
“He can stay,” Boaz said, his eyes on the bowing visitor, who was hidden from head to toe by the jamoosh.
“Can I serve refreshments, Majesty?”
“No. I want privacy now. We require nothing farther.”
The servant looked disappointed. “Thank you, Highness,” Bin said, bowing and backing out of the chamber.
There was a moment’s awkward pause after the door closed. Pez damped down his noise to a soft humming.
The hooded figure inclined his head toward Salazin. “A new friend, my Zar?”
Boaz smiled slightly. It felt like a comforting warmth to hear that familiar, albeit sarcastic voice again. “This is Salazin; he’s a mute. One of the new retinue of bodyguards the Grand Vizier insists upon. He can neither speak nor hear. We three are alone, in effect.”
Lazar pulled off the jamoosh and Boaz, preparing to embrace the man, stepped back, shocked. “Your hair!” was all he could stammer.
“After all that’s happened, my Zar, I thought I should be completely honest with you.”
“What does this mean?”
“This is my true coloring.”
“And the beard?”
Lazar shrugged. “In case I needed a disguise.”
“I see. Anything else I should know?” Boaz asked, still stunned both by having Lazar before him and by Lazar’s dramatic appearance.
“One more thing. I am not from Merlinea. I am a Galinsean.”
Another shock. “Galinsean! But—”
Lazar, ever impatient, interrupted. “Everything I apparently stand against, yes, Majesty. Forgive me and my past deception. It is a long story and the lie I told so many years ago was for protection—both Percheron’s and mine. I was young, cautious. And then after your father’s generosity, I didn’t want to let him down, and because I gave my heart to Percheron, the lie never felt dangerous. I have never been a threat to this realm—never once since stepping foot into your city have I given anything but profound loyalty to the Percherese Crown. Nothing has changed since the attempt on my life…other than my hair color.”
Boaz stared at the proud golden-haired man who stood before him—Lazar, yes, but not Lazar. This man looked older, leaner. His eyebrows were lighter and he had allowed a soft beard to grow; and the hair color, once so at odds with his light eyes, now fit perfectly.
“I am no enemy, Highness.” Lazar bent to one knee, pressing his point.
Boaz was moved. “I will hear that long story from you one day, Lazar, but right now let us drop the formality. You have been returned from the dead and I am grateful to Zarab for granting such a gift.”
He didn’t notice Pez wince. Lazar stood and Boaz moved forward, gripping him at the top of each arm. “I can’t believe it’s you, Lazar,” he said, beaming. “Welcome back.” And then the Zar of Percheron hugged his old friend briefly before adding, “My mother will be delighted.”
Lazar shot him a look before all three men in the room, bar the mute, laughed. “Amazing what a year does,” Lazar said. “You are a composed young man, Boaz. Boyhood has left you and you have your father’s wit.”
“I’ll accept that as a compliment. You will, of course, accept back your old position as Spur? I never filled it, you know…something beyond grief prevented me from doing so.”
Lazar glanced toward Pez. “I wouldn’t presume—” he began.
Boaz waved away Lazar’s humility. “Nonsense! Galinsean or not, I have no doubt of your loyalty. Although perhaps you should dye your hair again, especially as you’re the one who has helped put the fear of the Galinseans amongst us.” He grinned at Lazar.
Lazar considered, then smiled back. “I accept.”
“You had no choice,” Boaz said. Though he spoke lightly, no one in the room disbelieved him.
“I think Galinsea and possible invasion is something we must now really fear, Boaz,” Lazar said, dropping all formality and amusement, a new edge to his tone.
Boaz looked momentarily quizzical and then he understood, his quick mind grasping what had upset the balance. “Jumo?”
Lazar nodded.
“But surely your family, however distressed or enraged by the news, cannot move the whole of Galinsea to war?” There was a thick silence as Boaz looked from Lazar and then to Pez but received no answer. “Or maybe they can,” he finally said, unable to hide his surprise.
“I’m afraid so,” Lazar replie
d sheepishly. “You could say they are influential.”
Pez cleared his throat and Boaz caught the look he threw Lazar.
Lazar ignored the gesture. “The point is, we need to be very cautious. We have to step up training for the Shield and I believe we need to put it on alert. All the plans we’ve had in place are no longer hypothetical. This is serious. The Shield needs to understand that war could be imminent.”
Boaz raised his eyebrows, astounded. “Lazar, who in Zarab’s name are your parents?”
Lazar hesitated. “I am of noble birth, Highness. Suffice to say they have the ear of the king.”
“And he’s looking for an excuse to come against Percheron,” Boaz muttered. He sighed. “All the more reason for you to take up your role as Spur again as quickly as possible.”
“Can we keep my reemergence quiet for the time being?”
“Hardly,” Boaz said, and meant it.
“A few hours perhaps?” Pez offered.
The Zar considered the compromise and nodded. “At most. Let’s use that time to hear about everything that’s happened since the last moment I saw you.” He saw the swift pain cross Lazar’s face and added softly, earnestly, “Lazar, if I’d known the trouble you were in, I would have put the whole medical fraternity at your feet. You were hidden very effectively from us and then I was informed—reliably, I thought—that you were dead and already given to the sea. It was all so convincing, so hopeless. I wouldn’t wish the torture you endured on anyone.” He paused. “You understand, of course, Ana’s punishment could not be escaped.”
“You know I do.” Lazar’s eyes narrowed. “I am informed you have formally chosen Ana.” He said it flatly. It was not a question, simply a statement, and it held neither censure nor approval.
Boaz gave a wry shrug. “For whatever good that has done me,” he answered, trying to keep the hurt from his voice. “Yes, I have formally chosen her. She is not just the most exquisite woman in the harem but also the most engaging to me personally. The other girls are too giggly, too excitable for my taste—they are still young, I suppose, and nervous. Ana is different. She has the ability to make me feel every inch the Zar whilst somehow never being subservient…not even when she’s prostrate, giving her obeisance.” He shook his head in bewilderment and then grinned sadly as he made an attempt to lighten his speech. “A skill she has no doubt learned from you, Lazar.” It won him no amusement. “I want to be in her company all the time but it seems I am to be denied.”
He shook his head with wonder, imagined what his father might have visited on a woman who spoke to him the way Ana had. Although he had many of his father’s characteristics, he had refused to reduce himself by striking her, even if she had deserved another blow for her insolence, even if he hated her for forcing him into that position. But he had also had to quell the equally strong feeling of sickness he felt at losing her. Through it all he admired her. Admired her dauntless attitude and her ability to trust the spirit of her own convictions. She was a match for him all right, but perhaps too much of one? Now he would never know. He had taken it for granted that Ana would be his wife, his Favorite; he had envisaged many nights of pleasure as well as stimulating conversation stretching before him. He could never have foreseen that he would be required to sentence her to death.
Boaz swallowed—he had had absolutely no choice, had been forced to exert his status. He had never felt this empty and he knew now he would never love another woman as he had this one, nor permit himself to.
He saw the lips of the Spur thin as an expression of anger—or was it fear?—took hold. “Why are you to be denied, my Zar?” Lazar asked evenly.
“I’m sorry for both of you that you have to hear this now when we should be celebrating your return to the palace,” Boaz said. He eyed them both before continuing. “Odalisque Ana is to be executed in a few hours.”
16
The ship had glided near the twin giants, announcing itself with torches rather than horns. Had Lazar and Pez been rowing from Star Island just a little later, they would have seen her. She was now anchored at the mouth of the Bay of Percheron, her timbers creaking as they gently rocked on the calm waters lapping at Ezram’s feet. The night itself was no longer calm, however; soldiers of the Percherese Guard lined the shore and more arrived as each minute passed.
A flotilla of smaller craft carrying armed men bobbed silently in the bay itself. The men watched one of their senior officers board the foreign vessel, all silently wishing they had their Spur to lead them in what felt like a prelude to something infinitely more dangerous to their city.
The senior officer, also wishing Spur Lazar were handling this meeting instead of him, cleared his throat and announced himself to the two somberly dressed but nonetheless elegant men who received him.
“I am Captain Ghassal of the Shield.” He gave a clipped bow of courtesy but said no more, his mind racing as to why a Galinsean ship—that much was obvious by the flags and the crests of the Crown of Galinsea—was in the Faranel. Close behind that was the question of how many ships of war were arriving behind it. Behind him he knew his men were going through the drills they had practiced over and over under Lazar’s command, none of them at the time truly believing it would ever come to this. Attack had been promised for so long—for centuries—that the threat seemed no longer real and yet here it was standing before him. He swallowed hard and hoped the two men—who in all truth did not look like soldiers, more like dignitaries—did not notice his nervous gesture.
The elder of the two had white hair clipped back behind his head. He was clean-shaven, with a flinty gaze. His companion was still golden-haired but he, too, was whitening at the temples. They both looked to be in their sixth decade.
The elder spoke in a halting version of Percherese, his pronunciation squashing the light, almost musical language into something hard and guttural. “Captain Ghassal, we wish not to startle. I be Marius D’Argenny and he be Lorto Belsher.” They bowed deeply.
“Galinseans?” the captain asked, still incredulous enough to offer the obvious question, but glad his voice was steady.
The men nodded. “We cannot speak no more language. Need interpreter,” Marius explained with great care. Then he gestured with his arms to suggest that they were not an immediate threat. “Sailors,” he added, pointing to the men. “No fighting man.” Then he waved the Percherese soldiers to come aboard. Captain Ghassal understood this to mean that they were free to inspect the ship.
“Forgive my bluntness, brothers, but why are you here?”
Marius frowned. “Messengers. Interpreter, I beg. Zar must speak.”
It didn’t matter that they could no more understand his language than he could theirs. Ghassal reacted as if they would grasp his words with the greatest of ease. “Are you mad? Do you really believe I’m going to let you anywhere near the palace?”
Marius and Lorto put their hands up in confused submission. “Interpreter,” Marius implored once again whilst his companion encouraged Ghassal’s men to search everyone and the ship.
The captain looked around, exasperated. They could keep this up all night and still be no further by dawn. He considered the two men. It was obvious that, with so few sailors, they were not in a position to be of any threat. How would Spur Lazar have handled this? Lazar always encouraged his senior men to trust their instincts. Your gut will tell you more than the naked eye, he used to say. Listen to it. Captain Ghassal listened to what his instincts told him, and decided he could not risk the Crown’s wrath should he send these messengers on their way without at least informing the Grand Vizier. They could, after all, be making a visit that might benefit both realms. He was a soldier, not a diplomat, and could not make political decisions. He would leave it up to the Grand Vizier to make the final choice on whether or not to involve the Zar—let the blame rest with the Tariq. Ghassal signaled for his own men to board the ship. “You will not mind if we take up your offer to search the vessel?”
It was obvious w
hat he was saying; even though they did not understand the words, they grasped their meaning, gesturing for the soldiers to freely search.
“Us?” It was the first time that Lorto had spoken as he pointed to himself and Marius.
Ghassal held up a hand. “You wait here,” he said, pointing to the deck of the ship.
They understood and nodded their thanks.
He sent a runner to summon Grand Vizier Tariq in the hope that he might know someone who understood Galinsean.
A STORM WAS GATHERING within Lazar. The shock of the Zar’s news had sunk in and he now felt numb. He knew that he was losing control. A whole year’s worth of rage was coalescing into something hard and dangerous. He had to get out of the Zar’s chambers before he self-destructed or did something regrettable.
He had hardly heard a word either Pez or Boaz was saying; he knew they were talking to him, at him, but he had turned inward, trying to wrest back control of the angry creature within. With a mighty effort he focused on the Zar, who was actually shaking him by the shoulders. As Lazar looked at him Boaz let go, as if he’d been seared.
“Lazar, please, say something.”
The Spur shook his head to clear the flashes of light, the visions of Ana, the sensations of his back being stripped open and poison surging through his body, the memory of endless nights of fevered delirium and days of only near consciousness. Lies, treachery, betrayal. He thought of poor Jumo and then remembered Pez’s sickening story of how Zafira had died impaled on her own temple’s spire. And he thought of Ana facing her own death.
And amongst the images and the terror, he heard a stranger’s voice, then two voices, then a dozen voices all calling to him, all saying the same thing. They whispered but he could not hear them above the roar of his own blood and the crowding noise, like thunder, that came with his memories.
“Lazar!” It was Pez stepping into view, slapping his face.
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