P ez had spent most of the night talking with the Zar, who was clearly too fretful to sleep. And when the young ruler had drifted off in the early hours, Pez had been too anxious to take any rest himself. The previous evening’s intrusion had frightened him—it still did. Pez had never experienced anything like it before, and as much as he tried to convince himself that the visitor had been somehow spying on the Zar, he could not shake off the notion that the intruder was watching him, not Boaz.
By sunrise, none of the sense of dread had dissipated; worse, Pez had convinced himself that the invisible watcher had meant only harm. From now on, he would have to be intensely careful about how he conducted himself. Conversations with Boaz could no longer be open and honest. He would have to use his Lore skills to set up a special ring of protection around the two of them—and although that would prevent any spiritual being eavesdropping, it was also a clear sign of magic and it would sap his own strength.
Dawn shone brightly into Boaz’s bedroom, threatening another hot day, and the Zar had risen immediately and taken a bath in his private chamber. After his first meal he began reading through some of the day’s duties. But Pez could tell the Zar was restless, eager for news of Lazar and keen to think about something other than his council’s advice regarding the city’s homeless, the need to finance a new cistern, celebrations for the holy month…the list seemed endless. Under the dwarf ’s distracting influence Boaz was soon dispensing with Bin’s notes and instead discussing his idea of a picnic for all the new odalisques. Pez thought it was a charming notion and nodded excitedly as the young Zar outlined his plans.
“You’ll need at least eight barges, High One, to carry that number of people.”
“At least they’re all young and slim. If my father had done something like this, he’d have needed twice as many barges for the same number of women.”
Pez muttered a gentle sound of admonishment. “Shame on you, Boaz,” he said, though he grinned to soften the sting of the words. “The women couldn’t help their size. They had nothing to do but indulge themselves.”
“I know,” Boaz admitted. “I understand that now and it won’t happen in my harem. I’ll see to it that the women have plenty to occupy themselves of a more physical nature.”
“Ooh,” Pez said, pulling a face of mock embarrassment.
Boaz looked momentarily mortified but composed himself quickly. “I didn’t mean that,” he replied archly. “I meant—” He was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Come,” he called as the dwarf began rolling around the room wildly like a ball, yelling “kick me!” and bumping up against the Zar’s foot.
“What is it, Bin?” Boaz asked, ignoring the tempting invitation.
“Forgive my interruption, Zar Boaz,” the young man said, bowing low. “But you asked for any information about Spur Lazar to be delivered immediately.”
“What news?” Boaz demanded. Even Pez rolled to a stop.
“A runner has been sent from the Spur’s house, my Zar. His manservant has returned, we’re told, and he’s blind drunk.”
“Jumo, you mean?”
The youngster nodded. “I think that is his name, yes, High One.” He inclined his head, waiting for orders.
“Is the runner still here?”
“No, we have sent him away, my Zar. I presumed you would want to speak directly with the Spur’s manservant.”
“You presumed correctly. Send our own men from the palace to escort him back.”
“Should we give him some time to sober up, Zar Boaz?”
“I want to see him as fast as they can bring him here. No excuses—I don’t care how drunk he is. And I mean our men, Bin, not the Spur’s soldiers.”
“I understand, Zar.” Bin bowed once more before disappearing.
“Jumo drunk? It’s hard to imagine,” Pez commented.
“Perhaps he’s celebrating Lazar’s well-being,” Boaz said hopefully.
“Then why didn’t the runner mention the Spur’s presence? No, this doesn’t sound good.” Pez felt a fresh sense of dread grip him.
Boaz gave a moue of disdain. “Don’t put the jahash on it before we know the situation.”
“I’m not cursing it. I’m telling you what I think.”
“Then keep your baleful thoughts to yourself, Pez. I’m taking this as positive news. If anyone knows where Lazar is, Jumo will.”
Pez kept his own counsel but the feeling of trepidation simply got stronger.
JUMO WAS BROUGHT to one of the Zar’s receiving chambers. This particular room overlooked a vast courtyard with an ornamental pool and had no windows, only open archways, so that on hot days cooling breezes could blow through the less formal meeting room. Pez loved this chamber for its beautiful tiled ceiling of blue and white. The first time he had walked into the room he had instantly recognized the work of the Yaznuks, painters who had been captured and brought from the far east along with their exquisitely delicate work, most notably floral designs, that looked almost abstract from this distance. These days those designs, the paints they used, and all of their techniques were a closely guarded secret held within three families who, over history, had assumed the role of keepers of the art. They alone had royal sanction to produce the Yaznuk style and marked their work with a distinctive dragon emblem.
Pez was so mesmerized by the beauty of the room that he registered Jumo’s arrival by the man’s smell rather than by sight. A stench of liquor hit his nostrils and his attention was instantly dragged from the ceiling to the doorway where the spry man, normally so contained and correct, hung limply between the grip of two of Boaz’s private guards. Pez was taken aback; as stunned, in fact, as Boaz looked, for this was more than the merry stupor of a man intoxicated. Though Pez managed to keep up his pretense of disinterest by circling the room and humming to himself, his focus was riveted on Lazar’s manservant. Jumo appeared ashen, unfocused, and, if Pez was right, filled with grief.
“Let him go,” Boaz commanded, slightly embarrassed for Jumo, and they all watched Lazar’s closest companion in life slump and then fall hard on his knees. The guards grabbed for him to keep him upright.
“Is this how you found him?” the Zar asked, dismayed. He had always known Lazar’s quiet, foreign friend to be entirely in control of himself.
“No, Great One. When we arrived at the Spur’s house, he smelled as highly as he does now but curiously he seemed sober.” The man hesitated briefly.
“So what is this? An act for my benefit?” Boaz demanded, irritated more by the look of uncertainty in the man’s eyes than by any notion of guile on Jumo’s part.
The head guard arrived. Bowing low, he ordered, “Briz, explain what has occurred.”
Pez felt a fluttering about his heart and suddenly was breathless with tension. There was something dangerous about this situation, something not right. He watched the head guard pause, considering his words carefully before delivering them.
“O Mighty One, moments after my men arrived at the Spur’s house, so did another messenger.”
“Yes, and…?”
Pez felt himself freeze with anticipation. His humming grew softer and less manic; no one was paying him any mind anyway.
Briz was noticeably reluctant, tripping over his words. “That messenger brought the gravest of tidings, High One. This is Zafira, Majesty, of the Sea Temple.” He nodded to a tiny figure who now stepped out from behind the guards. She tiptoed closer and bent herself in half to bow with great care to the young ruler.
“Zar Boaz,” she whispered.
Pez tried to breathe in and found his lungs would not obey. If Zafira was here, everything had surely gone wrong.
Briz noted the Zar’s rising frustration and hurried on. “When she arrived at the Spur’s house, the priestess Zafira informed Jumo of his master’s death, which occurred last night.”
Jumo let out a heartbreaking groan. The anguished sound gave voice to Boaz’s silent, tightly held reaction and to Pez’s feeling of utter despair. “She said she would do everything to save his life,” the distraught man wailed softly.
“The Spur is dead?” Boaz queried, uncomprehending, his throat tight with emotion.
“Sadly it is so, Great One,” Zafira confirmed, glancing briefly toward Pez. The dwarf was so shocked he closed his eyes, hoping no one would notice how still he was.
“What happened?” Boaz growled, too stunned to make even a pretense at civility toward the old woman.
Zafira, trembling beneath her azure robes, stepped farther into the room and bowed once more before clearing her throat. “I tell this tale—as I told Jumo—with the heaviest of hearts.” They all saw her steady herself and blink away a mist of tears. “Spur Lazar took his last breath as a great cloud obliterated the moon during the small hours of this night gone. It was an omen, Highest One, for the darkness that reigned for several minutes signaled death for the Spur from the hideous injuries he sustained at the hands of those who punished him for protecting an innocent.”
It was a cleverly couched yet nonetheless direct insult to the Zar and he knew it, as did everyone in that chamber. Boaz stared at the old woman, took in the defiant lift of her chin despite the pallor of her skin and her frailty, and wondered at the long night she had spent battling to save a man’s life. He let the insult pass, almost felt he deserved it. As he glanced toward the once-proud Jumo, a surge of pity welled up in him. He registered the shock on the face of the dwarf. And realized they all needed time to digest this tragedy. “Leave us!” he said to the men.
“Zar Boaz, I think—” Briz began, but Boaz raised a hand, silencing him.
“I wish to speak to the priestess in private. You may wait outside if you insist, although I can’t imagine I will come to any harm from an old woman and a clearly incapacitated man, both of whom I presume have already been thoroughly searched. Send messengers to the Valide and the Vizier. Have them wait in the antechamber until I summon them. I will give the news to them myself. No one is to discuss anything of what has gone on here. Is that clear, Briz?”
“It is, Mighty One.”
“Good. See to it your men obey my command. And help Jumo into a seat before you depart.”
With the men dismissed, the young Zar returned his attention to the old woman, who had seated herself—with a nod from Boaz—next to Jumo, who was looking steadfastly at his feet.
As soon as the door had closed on the last man, Pez opened his eyes. “Zafira! I pray this is a ruse.”
Boaz noticed that she did not look him in the eye but shook her head sadly, and began to weep softly. “We tried everything, but in the end the poison killed him.”
“Poison?” Boaz interrupted. “What are you talking about?” Then as he realized what the dwarf had said: “Pez, do you know this priestess?”
Pez nodded gravely. “I know Zafira and she knows of my sanity. We took the injured Spur to her at his instructions.” He didn’t want to say too much more about his connection to the priestess, and he knew Boaz was too filled with despair to ask why the dying Lazar would wish to go to her. “The whip was laced with poison, High One. We only discovered this at the temple and knew it was a race against time that we would probably lose.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Boaz yelled, suddenly losing control. “So that’s where you were yesterday!”
Shocked by the outburst, everyone sat in frozen silence. Finally Pez spoke. “It never occurred to me that Lazar would not live. In hindsight, not telling you was wrong, Highness. Forgive me, but I presumed the Spur would make his own decision about where to lay blame once he recovered. I didn’t feel it was my place.”
“Not your place to tell me when you know of an intrigue that not only affects my realm but kills my head of security?” Boaz roared. And then, as suddenly as it had arrived, the anger went out of him. “But who would do such a thing? The flogging was accepted by everyone as appropriate punishment for Odalisque Ana’s indiscretion.”
“I’m sure the Snake would not have been used on one of your concubines, Zar Boaz,” Jumo said, raising his head defiantly and surprising them all with the vehemence in his voice. “This was far more deliberate than you are giving credit for.”
“You’re forgiven your insolent tone, Jumo, because of your grief,” Boaz replied mildly, surprising Pez with his maturity. “Explain the poison,” he demanded to the room at large.
Pez signaled to Zafira, and the priestess spoke up. “We discovered it was drezden, Zar Boaz.”
“What is drezden?”
“Snake poison,” Pez answered dully. “The chosen brew of assassins.”
“And you know how to deal with it?” Boaz asked, looking between the woman and the dwarf.
“I have some experience with healing snakebite,” Zafira lied. “Lazar needed the special tea known as drezia, which is formed from the venom itself. He also needed sewing, for the wounds were savage.”
Boaz shook his head in wonder. “And you did all this?”
The gray-haired woman nodded. “And anything else I could think of, but we lost him all the same. The wounds were too deep, the poison had had too long to work.”
“He was rallying,” Jumo countered angrily. “She said if I left he would likely pull through.”
Boaz frowned at Jumo’s rudeness, but Zafira squeezed Lazar’s friend’s hand and responded immediately. “I did think Jumo could be more help back in Percheron, Highness. It occurred to me that his network of contacts might yield more information and be of more assistance in the long run than to have him fretting by Lazar’s side. The Spur was all but unconscious by that time anyway. He was in a delirium before he slipped into a coma and succumbed to the full paralysis of the poison. It was probably best his close ones did not have to witness his end.”
Pez looked sharply at the priestess. Zafira was hiding Ellyana. Why? What were they so afraid of?
“Who are you suggesting brought this about?” Boaz demanded.
At this, all three pairs of eyes looked wary. Pez shrugged. It would not be politic to say the name. Zafira’s expression turned blank.
“There are those who were jealous of the Spur,” Jumo answered.
“Name them!” Boaz ordered, once again ignoring the man’s inappropriate lack of protocol.
“It is not for me to say. I have no proof.”
“Then I’ll say it for you, shall I?” Boaz threatened, his ire up again. “There are only three suspects—my mother, Vizier Tariq, or the Grand Master Eunuch.” He paused, and when a careful silence confirmed his assertion, he continued: “I do not need to defend her but you should all understand that this is not my mother’s way. She loves Percheron, its security, and above all, her own. She knew who gave us this security.” He glanced to Pez, who was nodding in agreement. “Vizier Tariq has no spine. He is sly and he has ambitions, but he would not dare risk such a death finding its way back to his hands. Salmeo is the most capable of this cunning and despicable act but I can’t imagine why he would do such a thing.” No one answered him. Even Jumo had realized he was negotiating dangerous territory. The accusation would not come from his lips.
The Zar continued. “No doubt if it was Salmeo who poisoned the whip, it is because he felt humiliated by the Spur undermining his authority. I imagine he wanted retribution for Odalisque Ana’s snubbing of harem rules. Except resorting to murder seems an overreaction, wouldn’t you say? And from my perspective, unlikely. There is more to this surely than a simple act of revenge. And I will get to the bottom of it.”
Although none agreed with his reasoning, not one of them said so, each knowing that pointing fingers and throwing around blame would not bring Lazar back to them.
“Where is the corpse?” Boaz asked Zafira, ignoring Jumo’s wince at the harsh word.
“The Spur rallied momentarily before he slipped into his coma. He begged me through his delirium to give him to the sea, my Zar. It was his last wish and we could not argue it, for he lost consciousness.”
“Gone?” Jumo was astonished. “His body is gone? He asked for this?”
The priestess nodded. “He was determined. I had no choice but to agree—it was a dying man’s request. He said nothing else. He knew he was close to death.”
“Where did he die?” Boaz asked, almost as an afterthought. “No one could find him.”
Zafira sighed. She had not taken her hand from Jumo’s. “He died at the temple. I had his body removed and taken to Z’alotny.”
Pez was surprised by the lie, but he did not question it. Perhaps Ellyana did not want it known that Lazar had died in her home. In any case, he had no reason to doubt Zafira. “The burial ground of the priestesses?”
She shrugged defensively. “It is peaceful there and I am familiar with it. In fact it is precisely the sort of place a troubled man should take his last rest on this plane. I washed his body and dressed it in fresh robes before I had him rowed out to Beloch. I dropped him out of the boat beneath the giant.” Only now did she sound unsure. “I thought it fitting it was done there.”
Jumo’s anger held him as rigid as the statue Zafira mentioned. “I should have been there,” he protested.
“I couldn’t find you, Jumo. I sent a messenger,” Zafira said softly. “I’m so sorry about all of this, but I have few resources. And the Spur won my promise about giving him to the sea. He murmured something about it carrying him back to his homeland as he slipped away from me.”
Jumo’s expression softened immediately. Gone was the anger, replaced by something new, akin to fresh pain. “He was considering leaving Percheron for a while,” he admitted softly.
His pronouncement seemed to rattle Boaz. “Was Lazar unhappy?” the Zar asked sharply.
“Not unhappy, Highness,” Jumo replied, choosing his words with care. “He struck me as…wistful in the days after we found Odalisque Ana. He was not pleased about being given that task by the Valide, it’s true, but when you’re out in the desert, Your Majesty, you often reflect about life and its possibilities.”
“So he was planning to leave us?”
“No, Zar Boaz. I believe he was simply wondering about his homeland, his family probably.”
“I never asked him about his childhood or life before Percheron,” Boaz replied, genuine regret in his voice. “I wish I had now.” Sighing, he straightened, his face suddenly resolute. “I will inform those who need to know about this tragedy and then I will declare three days of public mourning. Although sadly we will not have a body to commemorate the passing of the spirit, we will send him off nonetheless.”
“And the perpetrator?” Pez prompted.
“And after that,” Boaz declared, iron in his voice, “I will have someone ride the needle for this untimely death, so help me.”
Zafira blanched and even Jumo could not hold back a grimace. Pez felt his stomach roll over. “Oh Highness, I’m not sure—”
“I am sure, Pez. You have all, in not so many words, accused someone connected to the palace with murder. That in itself is abhorrent to me. The fact that the victim was a close friend of mine, someone I admired and respected—loved even—for most of my life, makes me more determined to see his murderer pay. I will leave no stone unturned until I uncover the treacherous wretch. And when I do I will visit the penalty of a traitor onto his cursed body and leave him for the birds and insects to devour. He will have no burning ritual from Percheron, for he has desecrated my reign with this act.”
Pez dropped his head, acquiescing. He had never seen Boaz like this, never heard his tone so terrible or commanding.
“What about the Spur’s family?” Jumo asked.
“Yes, we must send a courier, but to where? We don’t know anything about Lazar.”
“I will go, Highness,” Jumo said, his tone resolute. “I have no reason to remain here and I would welcome the diversion of tracking down his family.”
Boaz nodded. “I understand. Organize what you need at the palace’s expense. Now, the Valide Zara and Vizier Tariq will be waiting. I imagine both of you would prefer not to meet them.” He nodded to Jumo and Zafira, who both looked grateful, if ruefully so. “Pez will show you how to leave here without using this entrance. May Zarab guide you across the waters, Jumo, and bring you back to us unharmed.”
“Thank you, Highness,” the man from the north replied, meaning it and bowing low in honor of the young Zar. Boaz, he knew, had treated him with courtesy and respect when he probably had not deserved it.
Boaz turned to Zafira. “I’m not sure how to offer an appropriate blessing to you, Priestess, except may your goddess keep you safe. You have my personal thanks for doing all you could to save the life of a man I called friend. I know he didn’t die alone or without care and for that I am grateful. A donation will be made to the Sea Temple to acknowledge your commitment to Lazar.”
“It is not necessary, Zar Boaz,” the priestess replied gently, “and I fear the Vizier will not take kindly to the city donating a single karel to any temple of Lyana.”
“You misunderstand me. The donation will be made from my personal coffers. I understand that he died beneath the altar of your goddess. Consider it a private thank-you to Lyana for watching over him in his hour of need.”
Zafira nodded. She had not expected such grace or composure in one so young, or such tolerance. He was wise beyond his years to understand how dangerous it could be for her to become visible to those in power. No one had any time for the remnants of a bygone era.
With Pez’s subdued guidance, she and Jumo took their leave through a small archway that led into the beautiful but simple Mirror Courtyard, which had won its name from the reflection in the grand pool, and through a series of corridors.
Boaz waited for his visitors to be well and truly out of sight before he sat down on a divan and privately grieved. His tears fell silently but his despair at Lazar’s loss was intensely felt. With his father and the Spur gone, he had no adult male he could confer with—unless one counted Pez, but the dwarf, Boaz understood now, had his own secrets. And apart from Pez, there was now no one left in the palace he could call friend…no one except Ana. His heart lightened slightly. He had promised to bring her news of Lazar as soon as he received it. How would he ever be able to deliver these grim tidings without her hating him—or worse, holding him responsible?
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts and Bin entered at the Zar’s command.
“My Zar, the Valide is getting…” The young servant paused diplomatically.
“Testy?”
“You might say that, Mighty One. She insisted I remind you that she and the Vizier await your pleasure.”
Boaz smiled sympathetically at his servant. “Please inform the Valide that my day has been interrupted with some urgent news, which I am dealing with. Ask both herself and the Vizier to find some patience. I shall see them as soon as my time permits.”
Bin blanched. “Are they to wait in the antechamber, my Zar?”
“Yes. And pass on no further demands to me from my mother, Bin.” Boaz smirked slightly, despite his upset. “Take a deep breath and give her my message. Then come back in here.”
“OH, THIS IS RIDICULOUS. I’m not a servant to be kept waiting like this,” Herezah snarled at Bin.
The personal attendant made a soft noise of apology. “The Zar begs your patience, Valide. He has urgent matters to attend to.”
“More urgent than the one he summoned us here for?” Tariq asked, an uncharacteristic insolence creeping into his tone.
“Apologies, Vizier. Please excuse me. I must attend to the Zar’s duties,” Bin replied, backing away from his two indignant superiors.
But Tariq had not finished with him yet. “And what, pray tell, servant Bin, is keeping His Highness from his mother?”
Even Herezah was surprised at the Vizier’s defiance. Bin was only a servant but he was the Zar’s eyes and ears too, and she knew how Boaz was starting to flex his wings, to build a loyal group of men around him. Bin might not take kindly to such a pugnacious attitude from another servant, no matter how lofty.
“I am not at liberty to discuss this further,” Bin said, again apologetically, albeit firmly, and retreated more hurriedly to escape further interrogation.
Herezah turned to her companion once Bin had disappeared. “My, my, Tariq, it’s not like you to be so belligerent. Aren’t you feeling yourself today?” She smiled and the Vizier saw how her amusement mocked him.
It no longer affected him, of course. “Now that you come to mention it, Valide, no, I haven’t been feeling myself today.” He laughed, just as mockingly but gently so no offense could be taken.
Herezah lifted an eyebrow in query and noticed, as she paid him a moment’s genuine scrutiny, that the Vizier didn’t have quite the same curve to his back as she recalled. She’d gotten so used to Tariq’s stoop that it never occurred to her that he might have the capacity to straighten…and yet he certainly seemed to be sitting more upright. “What an odd thing. You seem to be your full height again,” she said, unable to miss any opportunity to offer a couched insult.
“Thank you, Valide Zara.” Tariq’s eyes glittered beneath his bushy brows. “I’ve discovered a marvelous new tonic. It’s doing wonders for my health.”
“You must share your new potion with me. There’s not a woman alive who doesn’t want to know how to look younger,” she replied, frowning slightly. Was it her imagination, or was there a new intensity in Tariq’s manner?
“I certainly shall,” he agreed.
“Does this remedy have a name?”
“Oh yes, but it’s my secret for now,” he replied, chuckling softly to himself.
Herezah didn’t understand his amusement but determined she would look into it—if there was a newly discovered herb for youthfulness, her physic would surely know it.
“Why do you think we have been called by your son, Valide?” Tariq asked, abruptly changing the subject.
“I have no immediate idea. I thought it might be about a private meeting he had with one of the odalisques that terribly incensed Salmeo. But now that you’re here, I have to assume the topic is of a more formal nature. Have you any notion?”
The Vizier nodded slyly. “I think the Grand Master Eunuch will have a lot more to worry about than an unscheduled rendezvous by the Zar with a concubine, Valide Zara.”
Her attention was riveted on him now. Since when did the Vizier have the audacity to intimate he knew something about her son that she didn’t? “What do you mean by that?”
He shrugged, self-assurance evident in the gesture. “You asked if I had a notion and I do.” He replied playfully enough that she could not be entirely offended.
Nevertheless, Herezah didn’t want to play. It was perplexing enough having Tariq behave with such confidence without him having information about her son that she did not already know. “Tell me,” she ordered evenly, troubled but careful not to display her frustration. “If you’re going to enjoy the patronage you’ve always desired from me, Tariq, you’d better start remembering your place. Don’t toy with me, Vizier.”
“Valide, I would never do such a thing,” he said, feigning surprise at the suggestion. “I just don’t want to spread rumors without evidence. It is not my place to comment on Salmeo’s position.”
“But you just did!” she hissed. “Now, what do you know?”
“I only suspect; I know nothing,” he replied. This was true. Since claiming Tariq, Maliz no longer had his omniscient view of the world. It took all of his presence and energy now to be Tariq, to work his body, to think within him, to effect the mannerisms he had studied for so long. Being the ancient Sewer Rat had required little effort, particularly as the skeletal old man did nothing more than lie still, slowly rotting away. For two centuries Maliz had roamed from frail body to frail body, never giving himself entirely over to any of them, simply killing the soul and then hovering within the host, refusing to fully claim it. Although this lack of immersion meant he could barely move the bodies, the freedom did permit him to project himself outside the body for short periods—which was how he had communicated so effectively with Tariq’s mind. Alas, no longer. He was the Vizier now—wholly. When the Vizier’s body died, he would die with it, and then his spirit would have to lie dormant in another series of frail bodies until he felt the rising of Iridor again. So from now to the moment of his next death, Maliz had only Tariq’s eyes to see with and his ears to hear with. He would definitely need to increase the network of spies the Vizier had already set up if he was to keep abreast of even half of the information he’d previously had access to.
Before becoming the Vizier, Maliz had witnessed the conversation between the Deputy Inflictor and the apprentice. It had been a chance occurrence—he had been hurrying back to the old man’s body when he’d overheard the exchange. There had been no mention of Salmeo in the conversation, of course, but Maliz knew who they referred to as “the highest authority.” He understood the blackness of the man’s soul, admired him for it.
Herezah persisted. “I want you to tell me what you suspect, Vizier.”
Maliz pasted an expression of capitulation on Tariq’s face. “Valide Zara, I have no proof but I believe we have been called to hear about the fate of the Spur.”
“Lazar?” Though she hid it well, he did not miss the tinge of hope in her voice. “I can’t imagine why it’s taken so long.”
“Can you not?” He raised an eyebrow now. “I think the delay is because he has died.”
Shock hit her eyes—the only part of her face he could see. “What?” she breathed.
“I’m sure his injuries weren’t lost on you, Valide.”
She was silent a moment. Her eyes continued to betray her alarm but she did her best to hide her true feelings. “What has Salmeo got to do with all of this?” she asked with disdain.
“Everything, Valide. I suspect he not only chose the weapon wielded against the Spur, but also who would wield it.”
“You heard what had happened to the Inflictor, what he said.”
“I heard only the excuses of a young man not ready to take on the role of delivering punishment, Valide.”
“And you think this was deliberately contrived?”
He shrugged, annoying her once again with his secretiveness. Usually Tariq fell over himself to share his thoughts with her, desperate to impress her. “I am making a personal observation, Valide. I make no accusation.”
“But Salmeo’s absence suggests you might be very much on target.”
He pulled a face of resignation. “We must be patient. I’m sure we’ll learn soon enough.”
He was right. A few moments later, Bin returned. “The Zar will see you now, Valide Zara, Vizier Tariq. If you’ll follow me.”
“About time, young man,” the Vizier grumbled, winking at Herezah. “The Valide is being kept from the important business of the harem.”
Herezah tried to keep the confusion from her face. She couldn’t believe the audacity of the man. He had never winked at her before, never even acted playful before. What in Zarab’s name was happening to the Vizier?
ONCE THEY WERE CLEAR of the Zar’s rooms and well away from prying eyes, Pez, who had been singing and skipping since leaving Boaz, led Jumo and Zafira into his own chamber, where he became instantly serious.
“Tell us everything,” he ordered the priestess.
“I told the Zar everything in front of you. I have nothing more to tell.”
“Well, how about why you’re hiding Ellyana?” Pez pressed.
“Or the fact that you said Lazar died in the Sea Temple when I know only too well he was taken to the Isle of Stars.” Jumo’s grief had hardened into anger but Pez was glad to see the little man had it under control.
Zafira dropped her gaze. “It is true that Ellyana requested that her presence not be spoken about. It is not necessary that anyone hear about her or the island.”
“Why?” Jumo demanded. “I hope she hasn’t forgotten my promise.”
“That you’d come looking for her?” Zafira asked. When he nodded, she gave a sad smile. “You won’t find her, Jumo. She is…” And here Zafira hesitated.
“She is what?” Pez asked, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
“I would have thought you of all people would know,” she replied, looking at her dwarf friend.
He stared at her for moments, his thoughts in turmoil.
“What does she mean?” Jumo asked.
Pez had his secrets but the death of Lazar changed everything—he had thought the Spur would be part of Lyana’s struggle for supremacy. Lazar was one of the critical supports Pez had hoped he could count on. Lazar’s death felt so wrong and now Pez felt as though he were suddenly part of a covert group hiding facts about his death. Ellyana, Zafira, and he alone knew the truth about where Lazar had spent his final hours, and why the women hid this fact he didn’t know. He had always trusted Zafira and there was no reason not to trust her now, yet she was confusing him.
Jumo was glaring at him, so Pez felt obliged to answer. This time he told only the truth. “Ellyana came to me once. It was a long while ago. I was in the harem and she came in with the Bundle Women. She looked different then. She was not interested in any of the odalisques or wives, not even the servants. She was interested only in me.”
“But everyone thinks you’re a dozen goats short of a herd,” Jumo queried, “so why you?”
“That’s my point,” Pez answered. “She knew otherwise. And it terrified me.”
“What did she say?”
Pez looked vaguely embarrassed. “Well, I don’t really understand it, Jumo.” He hesitated, scratched his large head. “She said I had to discover who I truly am.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know,” he lied.
“Anything else?”
Again Pez hesitated, considering all the strange events that had occurred—most recently Lazar’s death.
Jumo tired of the protracted pause. “Lazar is dead because of Ellyana—”
Zafira leaped in. “That’s not fair, Jumo. Ellyana did everything within her power. There are other things afoot. Things I don’t understand yet, but I know Ellyana is involved. We must trust her.”
Jumo rounded on the priestess, relishing the opportunity to release some of his anger. “You’re talking in riddles, Zafira. Let’s speak plainly here. Ellyana is hiding something and you’re helping her do it. And now Lazar is dead!” Though his voice cracked on the final word, it did not break, and Pez and Zafira could see how he was fighting his emotions. “He was rallying, I tell you. I could feel it, even if I’m no doctor. That moaning and groaning was Lazar fighting and don’t try and tell me otherwise. Lazar and I have a bond that goes back a decade. You don’t spend as much time together as we did and not know each other inside out. Lazar would not have given up the fight.”
“He didn’t,” Zafira said, her voice suddenly cold. “His circumstances beat him.”
But Jumo was not ready to let it go. “Pez, when I asked you if there was anything else about Ellyana, you hesitated. Do you want to tell me everything?”
“Why do you say that?” Pez asked.
“Because I’m sensing secrets all around me. I feel as though no one is being entirely honest. Lazar is dead, his body already disposed of, and Ellyana has gone. Is this not ringing any alarms in your mind, Pez…or is it just me who smells something rotten?”
Pez secretly agreed with Jumo but wasn’t ready to declare it. “When Ellyana arrived with the Bundle Women, she was young, very beautiful, but she kept herself hidden. When we spoke I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, for she seemed suddenly old. No, not old; ancient. It was most unsettling.”
Jumo said nothing, simply held the dwarf in a stare that seemed to look right into his heart.
“I forgot about her,” Pez lied, hating the deception but needing some time to sort his thoughts privately. “But then she reappeared at the Sea Temple when we all met her. I didn’t recognize her at first.”
“Yes, I remember your surprise,” Jumo admitted, frowning. “So she has been deliberately following you, do you think?”
“I have no idea,” Pez answered truthfully. “Have you met her previously, Zafira?
“I met her for the first time when Jumo did,” she replied, “although ever since, I have felt strangely comforted by her. Do you remember our conversation upstairs in the Sea Temple, Pez, when I said I felt something was happening and that I was involved but I couldn’t say what it was or why?”
“I do. You seemed unsettled, unsure.”
“Well, I think Ellyana has some answers.”
Jumo turned away, making a sound of disgust.
“Forgive us,” Pez said, taking Jumo’s hand, wanting to give him comfort. “You have a sad journey to make and are filled with grief. I will give you this promise. Whilst you are away I will find Ellyana and I will seek the answers you need.”
Jumo fixed him with an unrelenting gaze. “I will rely on you,” he said, his tone thick with emotion. “I would track her myself if not for my duty to my master.”
“Lazar always trusted me. You can too.”
Jumo turned to Zafira. “I can never forgive you, Priestess, for disposing of my master’s body without my consent.”
Zafira matched his somber tone. “I didn’t need your consent, Jumo. I had his.”
“Nevertheless. Nothing I’ve heard you say about Lazar rings true to the man I knew.”
“I am sorry you do not believe me. Make your journey and after your return we shall talk again. Perhaps then you will be more able to understand my position.”
Pez raised an eyebrow, noting Zafira’s careful wording. Perhaps Jumo was right. Perhaps the priestess was hiding something. She was being so careful about how she spoke.
Jumo nodded, too angry to speak about it any further. “I go. Have either of you any idea where to begin?”
Pez sighed. “Yes, I do, although this was a secret Lazar shared only with me.”
Jumo’s eyes narrowed. There had never been secrets between him and the master. “Why would he tell you?”
Pez shrugged. “Perhaps so that in the event of this very situation of his death…that someone know.”
“Why not me?” Jumo asked, the hurt evident in his voice.
“Because it would have affected your precious relationship with him, Jumo. Lazar loved you too much to compromise the friendship you shared.”
“What do you know?” Jumo demanded, breathing hard.
Pez looked to the priestess. “If you’ll forgive me, Zafira…I gave my word a long time ago that I would share this knowledge with no one but Jumo should the time arise.”
She looked intrigued but put her hands in the air in mock defeat. “I understand. I shall wait outside and then we can return to the Sea Temple together,” she said to Jumo.
He said nothing, and as she left, Pez fixed him with that strange yellow gaze of his and said, “You believe that Lazar is from a noble line in Merlinea. He liked to pretend he wasn’t from an important family but you have always suspected otherwise…that he was running from them; perhaps he was a second or third son who hadn’t reached his potential, or had been banished for having an affair with the wrong woman.”
“Something like that,” Jumo agreed guardedly.
Once again Pez sighed. “Lazar’s real name is Lucien. Does that mean anything to you?”
The small man shook his head, although the news clearly startled him.
The dwarf gave Jumo his final shock for this day when he said, “Lucien is…was, not from Merlinea at all. He was King Falza’s eldest son, and heir to the throne of Galinsea.”