Emissary

by Fiona McIntosh

  Release us, the voices whispered.

  And then they were gone. Everything was silent, save the thump of his own heartbeat in his chest.

  He looked about him. He was seated, must have stumbled to a chair at some point, and Pez was at eye level.

  “Are you all right?” the dwarf asked tentatively.

  Lazar could only nod. He rubbed his face, gathered his wits. This was not an auspicious beginning for his role as reinstated Spur.

  “Can I get you something, Lazar?” Boaz asked, his voice heavy with concern. “I know you’re upset. Perhaps some wine or even something stronger, a shot of terimla?”

  “No. I shall be fine. Forgive me my behavior. The news is a true shock. I—”

  Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by a frantic knock at the door.

  Immediately Pez reached for the jamoosh that had been cast aside earlier and handed it to Lazar, who moved swiftly to cover himself.

  “Wait,” Boaz said, moving to the door. He opened it slightly and Pez and Lazar listened to him take a very brief message before he held up his hand. “Give me a moment, Bin.” He closed the door and turned back to them. “There’s something going on at the harbor and the Grand Vizier is apparently on his way to speak to me. It sounds urgent.”

  “I shall leave, Highness,” Lazar said. “And go to my house, but I shall return in an hour or so, if you’ll permit. I need to see Ana.”

  Boaz sighed. “She can see no one, my friend,” and his voice was firm enough to brook no argument, despite Lazar’s glower. “However, please do return. Salazin will take you through my private chambers so you can leave without being seen.”

  He signaled to the mute. Nothing further was said. Lazar and Pez removed themselves hurriedly behind Salazin.

  GRAND VIZIER TARIQ WAS shown into the Zar’s salon, and considering the buzz that Boaz could feel emanating even from his servants, the Vizier looked surprisingly unfazed.

  “What is this all about, Tariq?”

  “Majesty, please forgive us this interruption at such a late hour.”

  “I presume it is of vital importance to disturb me?”

  “It is, Highness. Quite vital indeed. A Galinsean ship is presently anchored in the shallow waters just outside our harbor. On board a Marius D’Argenny and his companion, Lorto Belsher, await your approval for an audience. Neither speaks Percherese beyond a few words and no one speaks Galinsean other than you, Highness. I think we have no choice but to bring the two dignitaries to the palace.”

  Boaz felt his heart skip. A Galinsean ship! “Just one ship? What do they want?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, my Zar. Captain Ghassal believes them to be messengers. The ship has been thoroughly searched and the only oddity we turned up was a strange fellow who claims to be your former Spur’s friend and once manservant.”

  “Jumo?” Boaz asked, hardly believing the coincidence.

  “Yes, I believe that’s what he called himself.”

  “Bring them before me.”

  As the Vizier departed to make arrangements, Boaz turned to Salazin and signed that he was to personally fetch the man who had been here earlier. And to return him quickly to the palace but through the back entrances, using the same seal of authority for any guards who questioned him.

  BOAZ MET THE GALINSEAN representatives in his Throne Room, a vast and magnificent chamber with an impressively tiled ceiling of crimson and deepest blue. As this room was one of the highest points of the palace, soaring windows on either side provided a near-panoramic view of the city below and onto the bay where the torches, still burning on the foreign vessel, outlined its presence just outside the harbor.

  A gentle lightening in the sky from ink to charcoal and a bright pink slash visible through the eastern bank of windows told Boaz that morning was almost upon them. His belly twisted with the knowledge that Ana would already have been woken for her dawn death. He imagined, as he waited for the Galinseans to be shown in, that she would probably be saying some prayers. She would refuse food or water. She would wear something simple, neutral, and she would no doubt look stunning all the same as she prepared to be consumed by the waters that ran into the Faranel.

  He had cast aside sorrow over her death. It was a useless emotion considering her apparent determination to go to that dark place. And having listened to the Vizier’s wise words, Boaz had realized that no matter how many times she might be saved, Ana would always find a new way to bring the wrath of the harem upon her shoulders. She did not fit here. Perhaps the drowning was a kindness to her—as she would no longer suffer, no longer have to struggle against Salmeo or Herezah, or find new ways to cope with her frustrations. He began to wish the news of her successful drowning would come.

  Then he, too, could get on with finding new mates, siring heirs, and forgetting about the woman who surprised and delighted him so much. She had his heart but he knew he didn’t have hers. So for this, too, he could let her go, could turn to the remainder of the harem for affection—even if it was contrived and came from women too scared to deny him or too cunning not to appreciate what it could earn them.

  Real love was too painful, he decided. Better to be like his parents—making a great match in mind, in bodies, in what they could both achieve. Love was immaterial. Respect, pleasure in each other, and friendship were more enjoyable, surely, than the heartache of loving someone.

  A gong sounded, bringing him out of his moody thoughts and back to the Throne Room, where the Galinseans were about to be presented. Despite its size, the room felt crowded. Soldiers, Elim, and Boaz’s mute bodyguard were in maximum attendance—there was no question that the Zar of Percheron was well protected.

  The two dignitaries were announced by the Grand Vizier and were flanked by a small company of Shield men, led by the Grand Vizier.

  Boaz weighed up the two Galinsean men. As the Vizier had explained, they certainly did not look dangerous, and having recovered from the shock of seeing Lazar with his true light coloring, he could now see the likeness that must exist among all Galinseans. Apart from Lazar, these were the first men of the western realm he had seen.

  Both men knelt without being asked or told. They touched hand to forehead, lips, and heart in the region’s way of welcome and salutation. They spoke their thanks together in their halting Percherese.

  Boaz responded stiffly with a welcome in Galinsean, and asked them to raise themselves, glad to note he got his tongue around the hard accent. As the men straightened he noticed quickly a look of stifled amusement on the face of the younger of the two.

  Setting his jaw firm, again forming the words as accurately as he could, Boaz asked them their business. They did not smile this time but they looked puzzled.

  In Percherese, the man known as Marius shrugged gently, “Forgive. No understand.”

  Boaz seethed. His Galinsean was hardly fluent but he thought he was capable of conversation—and certainly of making himself understood. He would not leave himself open to ridicule, especially with such a large audience.

  “Fetch my tutor!” he ordered Tariq.

  Everyone waited for an uncomfortable and protracted period whilst the sleepy man was dragged from his bed and summoned to the Throne Room. Soldiers brought him bowing and cringing into the room, disheveled and terrified.

  “Don’t be frightened, Rustaf. I want you to ask these men, please, in Galinsean, what their business is in our city.”

  Rustaf looked even more terrified, his eyes darting between the Zar and the foreigners.

  Boaz nodded for him to proceed. Carefully, Rustaf spoke several words in Galinsean.

  Again Marius answered, but this time in Galinsean, explaining something that Rustaf now looked baffled by.

  “Well?” Boaz demanded.

  “Majesty”—Rustaf quailed—“I do not understand their Galinsean. I can get odd words but no real meaning. From what he said, I think we’re both speaking a foreign version of the language to each other.”

&nbs
p; “You mean I’ve been learning Galinsean for all these years and can’t make myself understood?”

  Rustaf bowed. “Highness. I have taught you only what I myself was taught. I fear perhaps our library has only the Old Galinsean. We do not speak the colloquial form, not even the high court form, perhaps. Please forgive me but we have no experience of conversing directly with Galinseans.”

  Boaz growled his displeasure and stood angrily. “Grand Vizier, did you not tell me that Jumo was on that ship?”

  “Yes, my Zar. He is waiting outside.”

  “Bring him in.”

  SALAZIN KNOCKED AT THE door of Lazar’s house and was surprised to have it answered by the owner himself. Inwardly rueful, he realized that the man had been officially dead for a year, so there would be no reason for him to have servants at the ready.

  Lazar frowned. “What are you doing back here?” Then he shook his head, clearly berating himself for asking a deaf and dumb person a question. Opening the door farther, he called to Pez. “Salazin has returned.”

  Salazin’s eyebrows lifted to see the dwarf waddling out to greet him—as far as he knew, Pez had been left at the palace when he had escorted Lazar back to his house earlier. It wasn’t necessary to walk with the Spur all the way, but Salazin had wanted to see where he lived in case he needed to return one day.

  Pez looked equally quizzically at him. “Razeen? What are you doing here?”

  Salazin hesitated, his dark gaze darting toward the Spur.

  “Razeen, Spur Lazar is one of us. He is one of Lyana’s followers and he is, to put it graphically, up to his very arse in the same pursuit as us.” Pez’s expression softened at seeing the flicker of a grin in the mute’s face. “I promise, you may speak freely before him.”

  Lazar looked all but offended. “Speak? I thought this man was a mute! And why are you calling him Razeen? The Zar introduced him as Salazin.”

  Pez sighed. “Long story, Lazar. Just listen. This must be important.”

  Razeen, known as Salazin in the palace, bowed to the Spur. “I have come to fetch you again for the Zar.” His voice sounded scratchy from lack of use. He cleared his throat. “Two Galinsean dignitaries have arrived aboard a vessel that is anchored off our harbor. No one can understand them and their Percherese is sorely limited. The Vizier has organized to bring them to the palace in the hope that our Zar will be able to converse with them.”

  “Galinseans? Is it a war vessel?” Lazar looked stunned, the surprise of the mute speaking already forgotten in the wake of this alarming news.

  “No, Spur, I don’t believe so. I’ve gathered it is a ship of peace.”

  Lazar grunted. “No such thing in the Galinsean fleet. You can tell me your long story on the way back, Pez; let’s go. There isn’t much time before dawn.”

  “I’ve told you, you cannot interfere.”

  “And you think that will stop me, dwarf?”

  The odd trio, one short, one masquerading as a mute, and the other fully covered in a jamoosh, ran out of the house, bound for the palace.

  17

  Elza raised a small handheld mirror to Ana’s face. Ana didn’t even bother to glance into it. “What does it matter,” she said softly, “how I am clothed or my hair is dressed? All will be ruined shortly.”

  “Even in death you will be beautiful.”

  “Leave me, Elza,” Ana said abruptly. “I am ready. I await my summons.”

  Once alone, she said a prayer to Lyana to watch over her father and siblings, to protect Pez in his secrecy, and to give Kett strength to face his death as she now faced hers. She begged forgiveness of her Goddess for Kett’s suffering once again and also for not fulfilling what she was perhaps born to do. And surely if she were Lyana’s incarnation—she would have more internal clues? Pez had had more than enough indication that he was a disciple of Lyana. But she? All the early doubts came into sharp focus for her in this quiet hour as she faced her death. If she was Lyana, then she was failing her followers before she’d even had a chance to do anything positive for their faith. What good was she as an embodiment of the Goddess?

  Yes, there was that curiosity with Ellyana in the bazaar over the statue of Iridor, and then being able to communicate with Pez through a mind link, but there had to be a mistake. If she was Lyana, she would not be in this position. No. As much as Pez urged her to believe, Ana secretly held that it was Pez’s desire rather than truth. He wanted her to be something special. Wanted her to be part of this strange battle he was part of. She, unfortunately for him, knew in her heart that she was nothing more than a goatherd’s daughter who had consistently let down those who trusted and loved her. Death was a release from the responsibility of having to try again.

  She spared a thought for Boaz, who must still be struggling with his decision. Ana knew her fate was best for him. He wanted something from her she could never give. Love was beyond them. Her heart was no longer hers to present to any but the man who had owned it for more than a year. And now finally her thoughts turned to Lazar and her mood found the darkness she needed where he was concerned. Ana, now aware that Lazar lived, allowed the betrayal that the knowledge brought to give her the courage to face this death with gladness.

  He must hate her very much for causing the whipping that brought about this terrible lie, feigning his death, tricking all who relied upon him, and through his actions ridiculing the love she held for him. Again she reminded herself that it was but a one-sided love. He had never behaved in any manner other than formal and correct toward her; he had never sought anything from her and he had deliberately kept her at arm’s length. The fault was hers, she berated herself. She wanted his love and so she had convinced herself that he felt the same way. It was delusion to have ever thought that he had taken such a punishment because he loved her. He was noble and honorable—that’s why he took her flogging. Another Stone of Percheron—isn’t that what everyone said of him? Cold, remote, incapable of love?

  She tried to blot him from her mind, as now her tears were flowing freely. But her thoughts were treacherous. One minute they assured her he had no feelings for her, other than those of duty, and the next they were giving her the memory of him calling out her name as he suffered at the end of the Viper.

  Try as she might, she could not deny that he had spoken it in agony. But there had been such passion, too, such yearning. And she also could not forget the way he looked at her just before the suffering had begun—his gaze searing through the veils that hid her own eyes as if searching for her lips to see her speak his name in response and in love.

  Ana wept. She didn’t need to be drowned to be killed. She was well and truly destroying herself on the harem’s behalf. Now she no longer knew what to believe. Finally, as she steadied herself with the notion that death was within her reach—and thus escape from everything she despised—it mattered not how she viewed Lazar. In the end she allowed herself the small comfort that she had not misread the Spur. He had called out her name on the day of the flogging; that was how he had bid her farewell and he had done so with love. She would take that to the bottom of the river as her dying thought.

  She heard a sound behind her and turned. Shadowed in the doorway was the unmistakable shape of the Grand Master Eunuch.

  “Ah, sweet child, and so you finally shed those tears,” he lisped. His swathes of ruffled silks made a rich sound as he stepped into the pit, light of toe and bringing with him the unmistakable fragrance of violets. “It is near dawn, child, and time to go to your gods…or goddess, if you please.” He giggled like one of the young girls in the harem at his supposed jest.

  “Who will be in attendance?” she asked, drying her face with her hands hurriedly, not wanting Salmeo to see any further grief from her.

  He tutted. “Surely you don’t want an audience?”

  “No. That’s why I ask. I am hoping no one is there.”

  “We need witnesses, Ana, to sign your death statement.”

  “Who? Not the Zar?”

&
nbsp; He smiled cruelly. “You flatter yourself, child. No, myself and the Valide will be doing the honors—if that makes any difference to you?”

  “That is suitable,” she said, and then said no more, leaving him to work out precisely what she meant by it.

  “You look very beautiful, almost ethereal, and very fittingly so on this ghostly dawn. Wait until you see it, child.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Oh, you’ll see soon enough. The boatman and executioner await you, Ana, my dear. Do you need another moment to say a final prayer?”

  “No. I’m ready.”

  “Good.” He signaled to someone outside. A member of the Elim entered. “Bind her.”

  “Salmeo,” Ana said.

  “Yes?”

  “Tell me how Kett is?”

  “Oh, not nearly as brave as you, child. But I do have some good news for him. He will not be ganched as originally commanded by the Zar. He is to be drowned.”

  “How come?” she asked, secretly pleased.

  “Something to do with dignataries arriving unannounced. The Zar does not want the palace gates to be crowded by eager onlookers at an execution. I have no further details, only an order from our Zar that Kett’s sentence is to be changed to drowning.”

  “Why not drown us both together?” she asked fiercely.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “It’s certainly a warm morning and I’m not sure I could face the discomfort of standing in the hot sun later and listening to Kett’s dread wails.” And he laughed. “Now come, child. I know those shackles are tricky to maneuver but I’m sure you’d rather walk to your place of death than be carried.”

  JUMO BOWED SOLEMNLY TO Boaz. As with Lazar, the man looked as if he’d aged since Boaz had last seen him. He found a sad smile for the loyal servant.

  “Jumo, welcome back. I have some news to share later,” he said cryptically, unable to announce it so publicly yet. “But for now I must ask you if you can help us at all with our Galinsean visitors that we cannot communicate ably with.”