H erezah did not need to be veiled within the privacy of the harem courtyards or, indeed, anywhere that was considered the realm of the harem proper. Nonetheless, she wore a piece of silken gauze draped over her head. She knew those present would think it was a sign of respect but her intention was to hide her expression. It was precaution only; Herezah had little doubt that she would handle the spectacle with grace, unpleasant though it was bound to be.
Salmeo had sent a unit of his eunuchs to carry a silken canopy to shade her from the sun, a special honor that symbolized the new royal she had become today.
Striding unhappily behind her was the Spur. She felt sure Lazar was angry by nature. He was abrupt and distant with everyone except Boaz and the hated dwarf. Those two alone won amusement, even the spark of friendship. She knew Lazar had liked Joreb and there had been a closeness between them, but they had not had much to do with each other in recent years as the Zar had slumped into a lazier lifestyle. His slide into more carnal activity had disappointed the Spur, or so she guessed. It was just another reason, she was sure, for Lazar’s fury at the world.
He was young to be head of Percheron’s security. Joreb had admitted as much one night after she had satisfied his latest in a line of curious fetishes.
The Zar had been relaxing in the pleasant stupor that usually followed a long session of sexual release. Her work was not done, though. Herezah, then just an odalisque, had offered to massage the Zar’s spent body into sleep. She always preferred him in this mood, when his mouth was as relaxed as the rest of him.
Herezah took her chance. “Tell me about the Spur.”
“Lazar?” Joreb asked in a lazy voice. “What a find he is for us. He was a prisoner, actually.”
Herezah knew from Lazar’s looks that he was a foreigner. No Percherese had such light eyes or that aquiline nose, the sharp angles to their face.
“Where is he from?” she asked, intrigued.
“Guess,” the Zar suggested playfully.
“I cannot, High One. I am not experienced in lands beyond our shores…I know only life in the palace.”
Joreb reached under his silk pillow and slowly withdrew the lightest of sapphires. A smile stretched across his mouth. “If you guess right, this is yours.”
She paused in her massage and looked at her Zar somberly. “I don’t want jewels, High One.”
“What is it you want, then, Herezah, my ambitious slave?”
She hated that word. Odalisque was bad enough but at least it sounded pretty. Nevertheless her expression did not betray her feelings. “I want the status of Zaradine.”
And he had laughed with genuine pleasure. “I knew it. Wife you shall be, then, if you guess correctly.”
“And the sapphire?”
“Is yours anyway for amusing me.”
“Tell me about him first and let me guess after.” Her hands were working slowly, rhythmically once again.
“You know that a captured prisoner can fight his way to freedom?” She nodded. “Although most don’t take that option, for the fights are to the death.”
“Among how many, my Zar?”
“Six is usual. As you can gather, not much chance for the prisoner.” He rested his chin on his fists as he recalled the incident. “Ha!” He laughed. “Lazar demanded twelve and the chance to speak with me. It was his audacity that won my interest. I asked the man who was Spur then to choose a dozen of his best swordsmen and pit them against the prisoner.”
Herezah’s dark eyes glowed as she pictured the scene. “He obviously won, Great One,” she said, reaching to pour the Zar a goblet of sweet wine.
Joreb turned, sat up, and sipped. “He barely broke a sweat, leaving each with broken limbs or groaning from some gash or injury, all disabling but none life-threatening, which was the amazing part. He told me later, when I fulfilled his wish for an audience, that he thought it a waste of good men to kill for exhibition purposes only. And when I asked him whether he thought it a waste to risk his own life, do you know what he answered?”
Herezah shook her head; she hardly knew Lazar even though they were of similar age.
Joreb grinned. “He said his life was never at risk! The cheek of it.”
“And what did he want with you, my Zar?”
“He wanted the freedom to live in Percheron. I offered him more—he accepted the position of Spur.”
“Why did he choose Percheron?”
“He told me that the city was a thing of such beauty it lifted his spirits. Our language, culture, people, art, architecture—he wanted to be a part of it.”
“He must have come from a place sorely lacking in all the loveliness we take for granted.”
Joreb had swallowed the goblet’s contents and laid back again on his pillows. “You are crafty, Herezah,” he said, and moved her hands to his sex. “Massage me there, but guess quickly, or I’ll forget our bargain.”
Herezah remembered how her mind had raced that evening to seek the right answer. The prize was the first major step toward her goal. As Zaradine, wife to the Zar, she could bear him a son, a prince, and that meant a chance to become Valide Zara. She knew she would seal her fate with her answer and that the Zar would never enter into such a curious bargain again.
“Well?” he asked. “My mind is drifting, pretty one. It is heading south to where your fingers are calling me.”
She took a deep breath, remembering something she had overheard horrid Salmeo once airing about getting his greatest pleasure from making a Galinsean a eunuch. I’ve only experienced such a joy once and the wretch died anyway but it was wonderful to watch a Galinsean’s manhood removed, he had explained. They are the most arrogant of races and the hardest to tame.
She risked it. “You know, my lord, if I didn’t know better I would think your Spur was Galinsean.”
“You know that cannot be, Herezah.” Joreb yawned. “True Galinseans are golden of hair and curiously light of eye, and he is dark. Besides, Lazar has no animosity toward Percheron—he begged to be allowed to remain here.”
“May I have one more try, my Zar?” She did not like to beg but she had to win this contest.
“Why not? But I warn you, Herezah, although you arouse me, I tire of conversation and should I fall asleep before I can take my pleasure, your guess will not count, so be swift.” He yawned to make his point.
“Zar Joreb, I would hazard that Lazar hails from somewhere near to Galinsea, then. I would guess at Merlinea.” She knew her geography of the region well and held her breath after giving her answer.
Joreb had moved fast, twisting her over onto her back, amusement twinkling in his no-longer-tired dark eyes. “I shall give you a son tonight, wife,” he had proclaimed, and Herezah had arched her back with unrestrained joy as the Zar kept his promise.
Later still, as the Zar curled himself around her to sleep, she suggested he call another exhibition so the women could appreciate Lazar’s fighting prowess. Joreb refused.
“Not even for your favorite?” she begged, relishing the thought of seeing a half-naked Lazar oiled and made to do combat.
Joreb shook his head sleepily. “A bond between two men.”
“He hardly counts, my Zar, he’s only a Merlinean, barely one step better, in my opinion, than a Galinsean barbarian.”
Her new husband was wide-awake then. “We should never underestimate them, my beautiful, ambitious one. We must teach our son the same. Yes, we are a cultivated nation with art and language to impress. Galinseans may seem vulgar in comparison. But, Herezah, you should fear them, not poke fun at them.”
She listened and nodded, knowing she had pleased the Zar tonight. The jewels that would be left for her tomorrow would be enough to send the other wives into a frenzy of jealousy. But Herezah wanted only one jewel now. She wanted a son and for him alone to take the title of Zar. The rest meant little to her. Power was everything—riches could follow.
She had pleased Joreb enough that night almost sixteen years ago not only to be showered with jewels but to be called back for the next four nights. This was unheard of for Joreb and this was the moment Herezah signaled her intention to take the title of Absolute Favorite. It was during these torrid nights of sexual play and favor that she had become pregnant with Boaz. She had not reached fourteen and the Zar had been an old man by her standards, but that had not mattered. She had given him a prince nine months later and he had given her the ultimate reward, calling her Absolute Favorite.
Someone cleared their throat and interrupted her private musings. She spun around to see Tariq.
“We’re here, Valide,” the Vizier said.
Herezah bit her tongue on the retort that the unhappy moans of children had told her as much. “Remove the canopy,” she ordered, and it was done.
Salmeo bowed his enormous bulk before her. She noticed he was wearing all black silks in honor of the soon-to-be-dead. His painted nail was the only patch of color amid the dark of his skin and robes. She glanced briefly to her left and saw Lazar, grinding his teeth. He had already given his orders to his men and did not need to remain. She knew that a reluctant sense of honor and respect for the young princes would keep him there.
“Shall we call for the creatures, Valide?” It was Tariq again, determined to take charge of proceedings.
She saw Salmeo scowl. “Grand Master of the Eunuchs,” she called. Much as she detested Salmeo, she knew he was vital to her success. Despite her new status, Herezah did not relish him as an enemy; besides, he would be a powerful ally. “Please take charge.” She refused to look at the Vizier, who she was sure was visibly fuming at being overlooked.
Again the huge man bowed, and as he straightened, the look that passed between him and the Valide Zara spoke much of what never needed to be said out loud. An understanding had been reached. They were now a partnership, the past set aside.
“Bring the elephants,” he bellowed in a voice the harem rarely heard. Salmeo preferred to intimidate with his gentle, lisping lilt.
At the order fresh screams erupted from the imprisoned children. Suddenly none of them felt comforted by the notion of a game. Elephants were neither cuddly nor playful. Why were they being called? All of the children had marveled at them in their father’s magnificent private zoo, but the lumbering giants were dangerous, especially the four males, which were now led by their keepers to the pit. The noise of the children’s terror increased as the large animals trumpeted loudly.
At Salmeo’s signal the huge animals were run into the pit and encouraged to raise themselves on their hind legs and stomp down, a trick they had been taught to entertain the children.
The first bag to stop moving was the smallest. Herezah winced. Ayeesha’s baby. Her thoughts went to the mother for a moment of pity; then she promised she would wince no more. All these children were potential murderers of her son. Even the other wives, demented by grief as they were, would ultimately understand, as she too would have had to do had she not been the mother of Joreb’s Chosen One.
Soon enough all the bags stopped their writhing and pitiful screams. Odd moans were quickly dealt with by an elephant’s strategically placed foot. The Vizier, Herezah noticed, did look away when one sack broke and bright blood splashed the dazzling white cotton robes of one of the handlers. She recognized the face of that child, but only just—he was Boaz’s closest half brother; they had been born just weeks apart. The back of the boy’s head was smashed, its wet contents leaking out. She did not look away but cast quiet thanks to the gods for saving Boaz this trial.
Lazar, beside her, had not spoken or moved, but she was sure if it were quieter she would be able to hear his teeth grinding, for his jaw was working furiously. However, her stolen glance from beneath the gauze told her he did not cower but stared straight ahead at the grisly scene until Salmeo called a halt to proceedings. The Grand Master Eunuch had decided that the bags contained little more than pulp now. No bodies would be handed back to grieving mothers. They would be burned immediately, following the Valide Zara’s instructions.
Herezah sighed, relieved that it was done. The throne was safe.
As if reading her thoughts, Lazar turned slowly, deliberately, and looked straight into her eyes as though he could see through the veil and deep into her soul. “Satisfied, Valide?”
She would not be baited. “Careful, Lazar. A new Spur can be appointed as easily as I blink.”
“As you see fit, Valide Zara,” he said, not intimidated at all. “Excuse me, duty calls,” he added before she could return his brittle reply.
Herezah reined in her natural reaction. She might suddenly be the most powerful woman in Percheron, but she was far too mindful of the Zar’s warning when he had called for her earlier that day.
“Keep Lazar close to our son. He alone understands the Galinsean mind.”
No, she would not be replacing this Spur when he might be all that stood between Percheron and a Galinsean uprising, especially now that a boy sat the throne. She would let him have his anger for now. Herezah was clever enough to work out more subtle ways to have her revenge and she would exercise these as soon as the old Zar was cremated.
In fact, a wonderful notion was already taking shape in her mind.