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FIFTEEN YEARS LATER…

T he Spur of Percheron was oblivious to the clandestine attention he was being paid from the city’s favorite ratha emporium. Inside its kitchens a pair of women feasted their eyes on Percheron’s most eligible bachelor while patrons took similar pleasure in the sisters’ celebrated spicy pancakes.

The two women had been preparing since before sunrise for the busy morning trade. For years they had created what was considered by many to be Percheron’s finest hot rathas, and as a result it was commonplace to see a long line patiently shuffling closer to the counter where the women’s husbands took the orders. The wealthier patrons often sat at some of the small tables on offer and paid a premium for the privilege of being served their steaming rathas on warmed plates accompanied by mouth-watering sambas and chutneys.

Though the sisters never had any dealings with the customers, they seemed to know them as well as their husbands did. This was because the open windows that allowed fresh air to blow through the busy kitchen also afforded a splendid close-up view of Percheron’s city folk at work and play. With their hands lively about their work, so skilled in it now that their fingers required no thought or supervision, the sisters had become keen observers.

And no one gave them greater pleasure to watch than the revered Spur of Percheron, the long-legged, raven-haired former prisoner turned brother-friend of royalty, who was in their sights at this moment.

“Why do you think he looks at that stone carving each time he passes this way?” asked one woman, expertly kneading the dough into mounds between both hands.

“That carving is Iridor, isn’t it, and the Spur’s been doing that for years,” came the reply over the sizzle of flattened rolls of dough frying in melted butter. “Keep fanning those flames now,” the woman urged a young lad who sat between her legs, ensuring that the smoldering lumps of knotwood never lost their heat.

“I know that.” The first sister raised her eyebrows in mock exasperation. “I’m asking you what you think he sees in it.”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Mara. Perhaps he casts a silent prayer to it. Now that I come to think on it, I’m sure that owl has something to do with the old stories of the Goddess.”

“Hoosh,” said a man bustling in from behind. “You know not to speak her name.”

“No one can hear us back here, Bal. And it’s only an old myth. No one believes in all that Goddess stuff anymore. You go about your business, man, and let us get on with ours. There’s a lot of customers queuing.”

“And you stop flapping your gums, woman, and keep frying up those rathas.”

“Oh, be gone,” Mara said, shooing her husband back to the front of the shop. “You could be right, Hasha.” She returned to her chore, the dough piling up in a neat, glistening pyramid. “The Spur’s such a secretive sort, perhaps he’s atoning for something.”

“I’ll show him atonement.” Her sister rubbed her breasts and grinned wickedly. The look of disapproval on Mara’s face made Hasha laugh out loud. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought it at least once? Every woman in Percheron daydreams of a roll with the Spur.” Though the child below remained silent, his soft smile of enjoyment at the women’s banter suggested this was not the first time his mother and aunt had discussed this man and would surely not be the last. The Spur of Percheron prompted more conjecture than any other; the man with the curiously light-colored eyes was not just every woman’s dream but was spoken of admiringly by the men too.

“I haven’t,” Mara lied, and stifled her laughter. “Oh, but if I were younger, I would.”

Hasha flipped the four oiled pancakes currently in the pan and a delicious new aroma of cooked ratha spiced the air. “He always looks so serious, though. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him laugh.”

Mara stopped kneading the dough. “Oh, he’s got secrets, that one, but he never seems to put a foot wrong. I’m told the Zar holds him in higher esteem than any of his council and his men in the protectorate would die for him. That sort of loyalty isn’t won easily.”

Her sister looked up and exclaimed, “Zarab save us, Mara, he’s coming this way!”

Both sisters watched in genuine pleasure as the familiar long stride of the Spur brought him to the door of the shop and the chance to serve the highest-ranking soldier in the land became reality.

AS HE ENTERED the shop, Lazar was planning to order a dish known tantalizingly as the Feast of Seven Spices. Had he known what was to come that day, he might have found good reason to ignore the hunger pangs that made him so accessible to the Elim runner sent from the palace with such dire news.

As it was, ignorant of what was coming, Lazar sat down at a small table, smiling politely at the two middle-aged ladies who giggled coquettishly behind their veils from the kitchen, as if being visited by Zarab himself.