P ez found Boaz alone in his chambers. Joreb had long ago given permission for the dwarf to have access to all areas of the palace—he was the only person in the entire retinue who had absolute freedom. Thus the guards were used to seeing him come and go as he pleased, whether it be to the Zar’s rooms or even to the harem. He was the only intact male permitted to visit the prized, most viciously protected place in the palace without forewarning, or any threat to his well-being.
“I thought I’d find you here,” the jester said. “Would you prefer to be alone with your sorrow?”
“Do you know,” Boaz said, “you’re the only one who has even considered that I might be grieving for my father. Everyone else is treating me as though I should get over it and get on with taking on my new role. My mother’s the worst. For her my grief is akin to a headache: something to sleep off with a mild soporific.” The last few words were uttered with such disgust that Pez remained quiet. The boy was angry and entitled to be. “Don’t they understand? My father has died! I loved him as any child loves his father.”
Pez moved deeper into the room. “So how can we help you?”
“I just want to be left alone,” Boaz replied, sullen now. He had seated himself at a window and was gazing out across the harbor.
Pez looked at the Zar and realized suddenly how tall his young friend was, and lean—as his father had been. But that was where the physical similarities ended. In looks, Boaz was all Herezah: dark hair and eyes, smooth olive skin. He possessed her strong, beautiful bone structure, and Pez imagined how hearts must already be fluttering in girls’ breasts at the thought of their new Zar.
“You know that cannot happen, Boaz,” Pez said gently. “One of the major attributes that everyone will be looking for in you is strength of character—” He held his hand up to stop the Zar. “I know you possess this but you need to show it to those who are waiting to pounce on your weaknesses and prey on them.”
“I don’t want to be happy yet,” Boaz replied. His tone was haughty now. “It’s obscene to think I should sing and dance with my father’s body barely cold.”
“I understand, truly I do, but you must demonstrate that you are strong. I don’t suggest you make merry, Boaz, but you must participate in palace life. Don’t withdraw. Be seen, be noticed. You don’t have to smile or give pretense at happiness. In fact it will be all the more powerful if you are grave. It means you’re taking your father’s death seriously and that you’re anything but a throne-hungry son. But let the palace see you around its halls and let the people know you are going about your duties stoically.”
There was silence for a minute.
“You’re right, as usual,” Boaz said eventually. “I’ll make an effort.”
“I’m proud of you. Let your mother know you are equal to the task, and that this is your throne.”
“And not hers?” Boaz finished, turning around to regard the dwarf.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I have no doubt that she can assist you immensely. But she can also undermine you.” Pez changed the subject, his voice turning bright. “So, what have you been thinking about all alone in this grand new chamber?”
There was a silence and then Boaz sighed heavily. “I’ve been staring out to sea all evening, watching Beloch and Ezram.”
“Oh yes?”
“Do you know, Pez, it’s the first time I’ve ever really paid attention to them. They’ve always been there, so I suppose I didn’t take much notice as I was growing up.”
“I think most of the city folk suffer the same disease. One of Lazar’s great gripes is that none of us appreciate the fine art all around us. Do you know their story?”
“Of the giants? No, I’ve never been taught the old legends—they think it’s sacrilegious! Me, I want to learn the stories.”
“Of course they would think this! The priests fear a return to the old ways of worshipping the Mother.”
“You’ll have to explain that, Pez,” the boy said, crossing his legs, knowing he was about to be told a story.
“How about I pour some wine first?” Pez filled two cups with watered-down sweet wine and waddled over to the window seat, where he made himself comfortable and then cleared his throat.
Boaz gave a small grin, his first in days, and raised his glass. “To a lighter heart,” he said. The two of them drank.
“Now, where to begin?”
“Tell me about the priestesses,” the young Zar suggested as he settled back into cushions.
“All right. Centuries ago, Percheron followed the ways of the Great Goddess whom we know simply as Mother, and worshipped female deities. The temples were inhabited by holy women. They were silent places, which is why you’ll see so many of the sculptures in our temples with fingers to their lips.”
“What does it mean?”
“Silence represents the soundless womb that gave birth to the first gods. Some of the oldest writings teach that Silence was the mother to the Great Goddess herself.”
“But now they’re noisy places. I don’t often enjoy a visit to the temple.”
Pez nodded. “The priests changed everything. Now the temple is a gathering place. Prayer blends with socializing. Moneylenders, as you know, now set up their stalls outside the temples because these are places where lots of people meet.”
“So temples were once quiet places of prayer and overseen by women?”
“Yes, indeed. The holiest of our people were women. Lots of the symbols you see around you, Boaz, have female connotations.”
“Oh?”
“Over here.” Pez pointed to a recurring motif on a painted frieze on one wall of the chamber. “You see this. What do we call it?”
“Wait,” Boaz said, screwing his eyes tight and concentrating. “It’s known as the universal life charm.”
“Good, your scholars teach you well, even though they don’t explain much. Did they teach you that it’s also known as the Cross of Life and that it represents the union of the female and male?” Boaz shook his head. “The oval shape on the top of the cross is female. The cross itself is male. And there’s more if you look for them.” The dwarf paused and took a sip of wine. “Think of the decoration of the great feasting hall in the palace. What symbol comes to mind first?”
“Er, the one that looks like the shell you can hear the sea in.”
Pez smiled. “Right again. That shell is called a cowrie.”
“I know that.”
“Do you know what it symbolizes, though?”
“No. Tell me.”
“It’s the female sex and was often used to represent the Goddess.”
Boaz opened his mouth in wonder and Pez grinned. “But the cowrie symbol is everywhere in Percheron—in our homes, our paintings, on our porcelain…”
“Everywhere,” Pez echoed. “This land celebrated women once; it prayed to the Mother Goddess and it revered its holy priestesses.”
“But…”
“But now they are nothing,” Pez finished for him. “Yes, people have forgotten and your generation isn’t even taught Percheron’s spiritual history. It’s the smug priests who run the temples, and the few remaining holy women are ridiculed.”
Boaz looked out to sea and digested what he had heard. Minutes passed and Pez sat comfortably in the silence. Finally Boaz turned back to his friend. “So, in truth, the Zar’s harem is a mockery of what we formerly worshipped and held dear. Women are no longer revered in the same way; they are slaves to men’s needs and whims.”
Pez had not expected the youngster to make this connection so swiftly. Perhaps there was hope for Percheron with this intelligent, perceptive young man so quickly growing into his throne.
“One might look at it that way, Boaz, yes. The women of the harem are powerless, and the luxury and decadence in their lives all but makes them useless. They have no role to play other than to serve men. The priests of yesteryear encouraged it for that reason and now in a twisted way the palace harem is all but sacred.”
“When did this happen?” Boaz asked.
“Oh, a very long time ago. At some point the holy men became jealous of the power of their female counterparts and decided to do something about it. I simplify it, of course, but only to make it easier to understand. I hadn’t planned on giving you a lecture in history tonight.” He smiled crookedly.
“But it’s all so fascinating. My father’s women were happy, of course,” the boy said. “Well, until the harem was disbanded.”
“Were they happy, Boaz? Do you think they would choose their bored, decadent, sometimes debauched existence over freedom, the right to choose their mate and have children who wouldn’t be slaughtered simply because they might threaten a throne?”
“I did not order that murder.” The boy bristled.
“Nor did I say you did. We come full circle. Your mother did what was right for today’s times. She did the only thing she could to protect the security of the Chosen’s throne. Every one of the other women would have done the same and yet that doesn’t make it sit any easier in the mind, does it?”
Boaz shook his head. “I have nightmares about it. I’m not just grieving for my father, Pez, I’m trying to come to terms with the loss of my brothers…my friends.”
“I know, child, and we must respect that.”
“Isn’t the position of Valide Zara a contradiction, then, to the way you say we now live? Surely my mother’s power harks back to the days of the Goddess when a woman was powerful?”
“Not really. You see, your mother is powerless without you, Boaz. Never overlook that. You are her power; your position nourishes her influence. She has none in her own right. If something were to happen to you she would be stripped of her title and cast onto the streets as she cast her rivals not so long ago.”
Boaz frowned. “I’ve never looked at it like that.”
Pez said no more. Enough seeds had been planted in the boy’s mind tonight. “So now, Beloch and Ezram, our magnificent giants you asked me about.”
“Oh yes, I’d forgotten.”
“Some people believe, myself included, that giants once roamed the land and that these two were the most powerful warriors amongst their race.”
“This is a myth, surely?”
“No myth,” Pez said gravely. “Beloch and Ezram worshipped the Goddess and it is said that the warlock Maliz—aided by the god Zarab—founded the new movement to dislodge holy women from their pedestal. Through Maliz, Zarab fueled the jealousies, weaved magicks upon his followers to overthrow the priestesses and install the new era of the priest.”
“The giants?”
“They were a threat to Maliz. Not only them but the rest of their kind. Also all the strange statues you see around the city. They were once beasts who revered the Goddess, who gave her power.”
“So?”
“Maliz made a bargain with the god Zarab and turned them to stone.”
Boaz clapped his hands, enjoying the tale. “What happened to Maliz?”
“No one knows. His is a murky history. The old stories say he was turned into a demon. Some believe he still works through others.”
“What, today?” the Zar asked, incredulous.
The dwarf nodded. “They say he never died, that his spirit lives on. He just moves from one body to another.”
Boaz grinned, impressed. “That sounds rather terrifying.”
“Believe me, it is.”
“How could he do that?”
“Maliz practiced the Art Noir—have you heard of this?” Boaz shook his head. “Well, suffice to say it is an unpleasant pastime. His bargain gave him everlasting life.”
“And Zarab? What did he get out of the pact?”
“The destruction of the religion of the Mother Goddess. Now Percheron prays to Zarab.”
“Oh, I see. How very neat.”
Pez ignored the flippant remark. “There’s a catch, though. Zarab knew the Goddess would rise again, so Maliz’s everlasting life was inextricably linked to her.”
Boaz frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, it is because of this link that Maliz can continue to live. It is said that he moves through bodies awaiting the coming of the Goddess, watching and studying who it might be. There will be signs of course—Iridor, for instance—and then once again they will battle it out.”
“Iridor?”
“Surely you’ve seen all the images of the owl around our city?”
“Of course. That’s Iridor from the old stories?”
“From Percheron’s history,” Pez corrected, wondering if his tale was falling on deaf ears.
Boaz’s eyes shone. “A brilliant story.”
“It’s so many centuries old, it feels like folklore,” Pez cautioned.
“We still have priestesses, though.”
“Indeed they exist, but very few. They remain powerless, though always believing that the Mother will rise again. They are tolerated because most in Percheron hardly know the history and don’t care about the women who keep to themselves and keep the ancient unused temples in good order…for posterity.”
“So do you believe Maliz exists, Pez?”
The dwarf hesitated. “Yes,” he answered truthfully. “I think he is always watching, waiting.”
“You believe he continues to reincarnate himself so that he can watch for the Goddess?”
“He doesn’t reincarnate himself, Boaz. He simply claims a fresh body as his old one begins to perish or become too frail for his needs. He is unnecessary as long as she is powerless. As her power increases, so does his.”
“So how can either win if each one’s power is balanced by the other?”
“They are not equal. At present the balance of power is with Zarab, but that might change as each of the two rivals—Lyana and Maliz—has helpers of a sort to assist them to outwit the other.”
“Oh?”
“The Goddess, for example, has Iridor. He too only comes into fleshly being as a herald of her arrival. He is her messenger, and as Iridor gets closer to incarnation, Maliz gains strength and goes looking for his new body, new victims to pull into his web.”
The mention of claiming bodies had pricked Boaz’s interest further. “Could Maliz be anyone, then?”
“Presumably,” Pez said carefully.
“Me?”
The dwarf frowned uncomfortably. “I would know if you were,” he finally replied.
“Why?”
Pez shook his head. He began to hum to himself. “I just would,” he said in a singsong voice.
Boaz ignored Pez’s antics. “So he’s always alive, then. Always looking for the next victim?”
“You could say that.”
Boaz didn’t mean to tease but it was rare for Pez to seem in the slightest ruffled, and he pushed his advantage. “Could he be you?”
Boaz had meant it playfully, to loosen Pez’s lips again, but the dwarf looked up, alarmed, the mask momentarily gone. Then, within a blink, the vulnerability was gone and Pez was laughing. “No, child. I am too stupid-looking for Maliz to want this body.” Pez suddenly became conspiratorial and surprised his companion by radically changing the subject. “Boaz, do you know your mother is welcoming forty-two of the girls from which she hopes one day you’ll select your wives?”
Boaz scowled. “I’m not ready to, er…you know.”
Pez laid a reassuring squat hand on the boy’s good arm. “I know. But she must prepare them for the day when you are ready, so they’re brought in very young and taught everything they need to know about palace etiquette and you. Some girls will be marked as special and they will learn their letters and language, dance and poetry.”
“I’m not sure I’m interested in girls,” Boaz replied glumly.
“I suspect you will be soon. Shall we spy on them?” Pez asked, a glint of wickedness in his yellow eyes.
“What?”
“I know a hiding place. We can watch the girls being presented to your mother. No one need know. Perhaps we can pick out a couple of beauties for you.” Pez nudged the Zar, who laughed unconvincingly
“You’re mad, Pez.”
“Apparently I am,” and the jester pasted his face with the grin of a lunatic.
EACH MAN WHO HAD secured his quota of girls was required to present them to the Valide. Lazar stomped gloomily through the corridors lined with marble sculpture. Snatches of torch-lit gardens and tiny, exquisite courtyards could be glimpsed through the latticed walkways; the sounds of cicadas singing and fountains gently gurgling permeated the heavy evening air scented with jasmine and honeysuckle. But the Spur was blind to the beauty of the palace tonight.
His mind was filled with worry for Ana, wondering how he might help ease her into palace life, the prison to which he had sentenced her.
There was no way out for her now. Ana had been whisked away by guards before Lazar could say good-bye. The young woman had turned solemnly as she was led away and her sad gaze had held him as though she could actually touch the deep pool of sorrow he thought he hid so well.
Bah! he said to himself. What you need, Lazar, is a soft bed, a good woman for the night, and several carafes of wine. No better way to drown your sorrows. But the words sounded as hollow in his mind as the click of his boots on the marble floor.
He was the first to arrive at the Choosing Room because he was the only man sent out to find suitable girls who had the run of the palace. Like Pez, Zar Joreb had granted Lazar access to the entire palace—except, unlike Pez, Lazar was forbidden to enter the harem. The others would probably be gathered in the Moon Courtyard, the first entry point into the palace proper, awaiting their escort of eunuch guards.
The Choosing Room was the chamber where the new odalisques were brought to be looked upon and judged. The chamber had been opened only once in the last few decades and Lazar could tell that a veritable army of slaves had been sent in to air, clean, and freshen the room. Now all the shutters were open and the glass lanterns were clean and lit; formal seating had been arranged, including a thronelike setup, presumably so Herezah could play at being a queen and forget that she too had once been brought here as a young slave.
He could feel the bitterness welling up again, knew he must get a grip on it before proceedings began. He emptied his mind—something Jumo had taught him to do—and focused on the ancient, intricately painted friezes around the walls. He had never visited this room before, and although he recognized the pattern as being common enough in Percheron, now that he was concentrating on it, he realized it wasn’t just an abstract shape but in fact was the curve of a cowrie shell. Painted in soft hues, the design rolled elegantly around the walls, framing arches and windows, small recesses and the great doors that had guided him into the chamber. And now that he studied them he noticed that the doors themselves had the same sweeping curves of the shell hammered out of the bronze they were fashioned from. The walls were washed in shell pink and the floors were a pinkish marble—all in all a thoroughly feminine hall, Lazar decided, impressed.
His pleasure was interrupted by the swish of silks and a voice he knew and despised. “Ah, Spur Lazar,” Salmeo lisped. “I hope you’ve found our boy some beauties to bed.”
“Not so fast, Grand Master Eunuch. Boaz will choose his time.”
The eunuch licked his lips and Lazar hated the way his pink tongue flicked through the gap in his teeth. There was something quietly obscene in the gesture. “I noticed you admiring the decor,” the eunuch said. “It signifies the female form—did you know that, Spur?”
Lazar shook his head and strolled away as if his interest had been caught by something on the other side of the chamber.
“Ah yes,” the huge man continued, following him, “this chamber is dedicated to women. It is where they are formally given into the care of the harem; their last contact with men.” He giggled and covered his grin with his huge hand. “But of course they’ve known no men,” he added as if in self-admonishment.
Lazar made a soft growling sound of disgust at this sudden affectation. He’d heard enough stories to know the chief eunuch took his own cruel form of pleasure at the expense of the harem women. Except there were no longer any women in the harem; they were still essentially children, who needed protecting and nurturing. He wanted to laugh at himself for his own ridiculous sentiment—it was so ironic, since he was one of the perpetrators who had brought children to the palace—and moved farther away, not wanting to smell the fragrance of violets that Salmeo habitually blew over all those he spoke with.
“Spur, Salmeo.”
Lazar turned to find Tariq bubbling over with self-importance.
“Are you required here, Vizier?” Lazar asked, his tone as casual as he could achieve. “Surely your expertise is needed elsewhere?”
The man swelled with pride. “You’re right, of course, Spur. But the Valide is keen for me to see all aspects of the palace workings. Establishing a harem is fundamental to the smooth running of the new Zar’s reign. She believed it worthwhile that I be present.” He shrugged, feigning gentle modesty at her order.
The jewels on his split beard were now accompanied by tiny bells that tinkled as he moved and Lazar was reminded of another reason why he wanted to be gone from the palace. What would happen to Percheron in the hands of Herezah and this supercilious fool? He forced a smile to cover his disgust and breathed a sigh of relief as a gong sounded somewhere close, distracting his companions’ attention.
“The Elim come,” Salmeo said.
Footsteps sounded louder, and low murmuring voices of men could be heard. Six spotters, as Herezah called them, were led in, blindfolded, flanked by twelve guards, all distinctive by their loose, pristine red uniforms. Each guard had his head shaved—there was no mistaking the Elim. The spotters themselves were mainly merchants, and among them was a man Lazar was acquainted with. Bosh could supply almost anything anyone could ever want, legal or illegal. Finding young girls for a harem would have been easy for him. Lazar had had his run-ins with him over the years, thanks to the man’s natural tendency toward breaking laws, but Bosh was good-natured enough and Lazar would rather deal with ten or even twenty of his kind than one of Salmeo’s or Tariq’s.
“Why the blindfolds?” Tariq asked.
Lazar refused to answer the mindless question but Salmeo was more enlightening. “Although the Choosing Room is not technically within the borders of the harem, it remains close enough that traditional precautions are still taken. These men have no idea where they are right now and they will never find out. The blindfolds will be removed once the great doors are shut and returned just before they open and the six are escorted back out.” Salmeo’s smile was predatory. “You are most fortunate that we did not provide similar treatment for you, Vizier.” Though the words were delivered lightly, the undercurrent in Salmeo’s tone was all too clear.
Salmeo gave a sign and the great doors were closed with a deep clang. The blindfolds were removed and the spotters blinked, got their bearings; Bosh saw Lazar immediately and nodded.
“Welcome, brothers,” the Grand Master Eunuch said. “May we offer you some refreshment?”
Curtains at the back of the room were pulled apart and a small stream of servants—all male—flowed smoothly into the room and around the newcomers. Each held a golden tray upon which sat great goblets, dewy on their sides from the iciness of the beverage they contained.
Bosh stepped over to Lazar. “Do you know they lug blocks of ice and sometimes snow from the Azareems, across thousands of leagues, just to chill the palace beverages?” he declared in wonder.
“So I’ve heard,” Lazar replied in a voice to deaden all awe.
The wealthy trader raised his goblet. “To the new harem, then. Zorash!”
Lazar couldn’t bring himself to toast the very thing that was making him feel so disturbed. “To beautiful women,” he offered instead, and Bosh drank with him, winking as he did so.
“I’m surprised you were asked to get involved in this task, Spur,” the man commented.
“So was I. Excuse me.” Lazar nodded and moved away.
Bosh was not upset by the Spur’s abrupt manner. Everyone in Percheron knew him to be a difficult man who rarely involved himself in anything deeper than cursory conversation. The man shrugged, approached another of the merchants, and was soon comparing notes on the quality of the girls.
Lazar wondered where Ana was, wished again he could change everything that had happened since he’d arrived on that ridge in the foothills. He should have left the tranquil scene as he’d found it; listened to his heart and turned for home.
He had a vague feeling of impending danger. A sense of something dark building, gathering, forming itself. And he was afraid that he was at its center.