S almeo’s heart was pumping hard and it was not only pushing blood around his body. Anger throbbed in tandem. The eunuch hated to reveal when his emotions were being stirred; he preferred that no one know what he was thinking or how he was reacting to a situation. But the peacock Vizier and the arrogant Spur had belittled him before the Valide—just when he had begun to win her trust and complicity.
He banged the marble wall with his fist, in a rage. Even though his eyes were open, he saw nothing, for his thoughts and boiling blood blurred everything. He wanted revenge—and the Valide had given him the means.
A knock at the door brought him out of his angry thoughts. “Enter,” he boomed.
His trusted and most senior Elim stepped inside and bowed low. “Master,” he said, not straightening until his superior gave him permission to do so.
“Horz. You have heard what we do today in the Courtyard of Sorrows?”
The man stood up. “Yes, Master. I have been informed that we do not punish the odalisque but rather the Spur.”
“Indeed we do. Who had you earmarked to perform the whipping on the girl?”
“Someone very experienced, Master, who knows how to lash softly and without marking.”
“Change him. I want one of the apprentices to do this one.”
“Master?” Horz asked in confusion. “An apprentice means it will almost certainly be badly done.”
“The Spur is to be hurt, Horz. Must I say it more plainly for you? The Spur has called the Elim into question today. He mocked me in front of the Valide. He believes it will be a simple case of taking the child’s punishment. I choose otherwise.”
Horz could feel the hate emanating from the Grand Master Eunuch. The words of his master sounded chilling. Whatever was coming was clearly going to be dangerous.
Salmeo spoke quietly and forcefully. “I want the Viper’s Nest to be used on him.”
Horz blanched. The whip Salmeo spoke of was traditionally used only to kill or as a preamble to death by other means. “Master, please—”
“Do as I command you, Horz. The Viper’s Nest it is and make sure whoever wields it has no idea how to use it. I repeat: I do not want the Spur softened; I want him hurt. And should he die…”
Die? Horz, in his horror, could barely speak. “Yes, Master?” he managed to choke out.
“We shall not be held responsible. I will see to it.”
Silently and shakily, Horz bowed, expecting to be dismissed.
“I am not finished yet,” Salmeo said, a slyness in his tone that told Horz he had yet to hear the worst of his master’s plan. “I want the tongue of each viper to be dipped in drezden.”
The Elim could not speak. His lips had gone numb.
“Have I made myself perfectly clear, Horz?” Salmeo asked, a threat in his question.
“Yes, Master,” came the strained reply.
“Good, because it’s your life and the lives of your brother and his family in the foothills if my orders are not followed to the letter. I suggest you apply the drezden yourself. Oh, and Horz—no one knows of this but the two of us…I suggest we keep it that way.”
LAZAR HAD BEEN STARING into space, his mind empty of thoughts for the first time he could remember. He wasn’t sure whether it was the dulling sense of anxious anticipation or the fear of what he planned to do beyond today. He had discussed the latter with no one yet, not even Jumo. It seemed to be the only decision he could take to rid himself of this asphyxiating sense of dread—that he was somehow connected to something far bigger than his own tightly kept world of Percheron. For some reason, his thoughts kept returning to the statue of Lyana in the tiny temple. Something in her gaze called to him—no, implored him—to do what, he didn’t know. The effect had not waned over the days since he had first seen her. In fact, if he was truthful, he would admit it had only intensified.
Was this feeling of unsettlement the power of the statue? Or a result of the surge of Herezah into such a position of authority and her relentless intention to make him dance to her chosen tune? But his irritation with Herezah paled in comparison with the frightening sense of loss he felt for Ana. And why did he feel strongly for the young odalisque? He had told himself that she was merely a naive girl, but the truth was that though she might be young, her soul was old. He had accused her of being cunning, deliberately pulling at his heartstrings, but he had failed there too; there was nothing conniving in Ana. She was true: true to herself, true to him, and true to those she dealt with. He had even tried to convince himself that she would not remember his name after a year in the harem, that she was like all women in that brood—simply trying to better themselves.
Finally he had had to accept that Ana had so profoundly affected him that he could no longer think in the neat, straight way he was used to. Life felt suddenly disordered, routine was smashed, his secure, private existence in Percheron over. And still he could not target precisely what it was about this youngster that could have such an effect. He was reacting to her as if she were of a similar age to himself and, heaven forbid, eligible. He did not want his heart touched, yet she had done just that with a single look.
Lazar knew he would never be able to stomach being so close to Ana and yet so far away. That was why he was planning on leaving Percheron. He had only to get through today and then he would be gone—fleeing from all that had suddenly become so unsettling.
Sighing heavily, Lazar laid his head back against the cool marble of the wall and closed his eyes. He was sure Jumo would find him prior to the flogging.
He was right. Jumo had arrived at the palace and with Pez’s guidance had discovered where his friend had been asked to wait. Granite-faced members of the Elim greeted the former slave and would not have permitted him access but for the presence of Pez.
“We’re here to see the Protector!” the dwarf had repeated over and again, spinning in frantic circles.
When the Elim began suggesting that they would allow Pez in but not Jumo, the dwarf had stamped his feet and grabbed Jumo’s hand. “He’s my friend,” he howled, then growled and bared his teeth at the Elim. The guards, more than used to the small man’s antics and capricious ways, looked at one another uncomfortably, and finally, one sighed and said, “What would it hurt?”
Once inside the chamber, the dwarf became serious. “They obviously agreed to it,” he said to Lazar.
The Spur nodded. “They could hardly refuse. Thank you for suggesting it.”
“I don’t think you’ll be thanking me soon, Lazar,” Pez answered. He sighed, his expression begging their indulgence as he began to jump around, screeching loudly so that the Elim outside would not wonder why he had gone quiet.
Lazar and Jumo shared a look, each thinking the same thing. Salmeo would make the Spur pay a heavy price for this humiliation. Indeed, and ominously, though Lazar originally had been taken in the direction of the barracks, the Elim had taken a sudden and unexpected turn, bringing him to a wing of the palace he had never explored.
“This is not part of the harem,” Jumo muttered.
“No. This is the Hall of Sorrows,” Pez answered, becoming still again. “It’s where prisoners of the royals are brought to wait before they face their punishment.”
“I’ve only seen it from the other side,” Lazar commented absently. “It’s a very pretty courtyard, with birds as sentries, I think, around the edge of the walls.”
“Yes, ravens,” Pez replied. “The bird of sorrows.”
Lazar nodded. “Fitting.”
Jumo knew that Lazar had made a decision and would never go back on his word but one thing continued to trouble him. “Master, I doubt very much that they will use the same whip on you as they would have used on the child.”
Pez nodded sagely. “The Elim confer with the Inflictors to choose, as I understand it.”
“Yes, so I’ve been informed,” Lazar confirmed. “I think we can stake our lives on the assumption that Salmeo will select something vicious.”
“Are you frightened?” Jumo asked tentatively.
“My only worry is for Ana,” Lazar said. “I have a feeling they’ll make her watch.”
“I think you can count on it,” Pez answered. “But she’s an incredibly assured young woman, my friend. I don’t think you should fret too much about her. She will survive this. Just consider yourself now.”
Lazar shrugged. “There is little to consider. They’ll do what they will and I must bear it.”
Jumo felt his stomach roll at the thought. His grim thoughts were silenced by the sudden movement of Pez doing a handstand against the wall and beginning what was known affectionately among the ranks of soldiers as his jibber-jabber.
The dwarf had sensitive hearing; within moments, four of the Elim had opened the door, stepping inside the courtyard. Another two guards remained outside.
“Spur, if you please,” the most senior man, Horz, said courteously.
Jumo couldn’t imagine that anyone among the Elim was too happy about his role today. The Elim were subject to the whims of their commander, the Grand Master Eunuch, and they were fearsome fighters, all of them. It was an unwise foe who imagined that because the Elim had been rendered sexless by the blade, they lacked the passion or courage that went with manhood. Far from it, in fact; most of the Elim proved their bravery by entering the service of the eunuchs as adults. The other eunuchs of the harem, those never permitted to wear the red robe, were mostly cut when they were still in childhood and unable to understand, beyond the pain and fear, what they were giving up.
The Elim expected to be rewarded in heaven for their sacrifices to the Zar, as promised by Zarab, whom they worshipped vigorously. In spite of their spiritual connection to their ruler, they still admired and respected his Spur, a fellow warrior and man of no excesses. To them, Lazar was just short of kin as he too followed a code of conduct based on honor, not dissimilar to their own.
Jumo stepped in front of Lazar. “I am his second.”
Horz nodded. “As tradition allows,” he said, speaking above the increasing din Pez was creating. Horz turned and bowed to Lazar. “I’m sorry, Spur, about the dwarf ’s interference but the Zar rules…”
“I know,” Lazar replied. “I take no notice of him at the best of times.”
“Can you tell me how this is all to be handled?” Jumo asked.
Again the senior Elim nodded calmly. “The Spur is to be flogged.”
Jumo kept his face expressionless. “By whom?”
“I do not know the Inflictor.”
“You mean you don’t know the man himself or you don’t know which of the Inflictors has been chosen?” Jumo persisted.
The Elim’s hesitation was telling. As he opened his mouth to answer, Lazar cut him off. “Leave it, Jumo. It’s going to be done, and frankly I don’t care by whom.”
Pez began chanting: “Don’t hurt him, Horz, or he’ll get angry.” No one took any notice.
“If you’ll follow us, Spur,” Horz said, glancing briefly at Jumo. Something in that single look made Jumo’s heart sink further. There was some layer to this scheme beyond what they were being told. He was sure of it.
“Thank you, Horz,” Lazar muttered. The Elim were ruthless enough when required but he understood that none would be looking forward to today’s event. He grudgingly accepted that they would probably have preferred to whip the girl than to humiliate, probably injure, a fellow warrior who was clearly innocent. That said, he could also sense their quiet admiration that he had offered himself up instead. He fell into step between the six Elim, each as tall as he was, and decided as he did so that he would not let himself down during his punishment. He would give Herezah no satisfaction this day.
THE SIX MEN and the victim stepped out into the sharp afternoon sunlight. Jumo unhappily followed, slinking into the shadow cast by the minaret outside the walls. His presence here was permitted merely as a servant available to carry, if necessary, Lazar’s body from this place. Pez came behind Jumo, all but catapulting himself from the doorway into the Courtyard of Sorrows and tumbling into a series of manic somersaults aimed purely to irritate Herezah and her sycophants. He succeeded brilliantly by rolling to a halt atop a man’s foot. Only one he knew wore jeweled slippers during the day and outside—he couldn’t have planned it better.
“Curse you, Pez!” the Vizier exclaimed, kicking at the dwarf with his free foot.
Pez rolled away in mock agony, ensuring he made a loud to-do. Two of the Elim, one of whom was Horz, hurried up to help him.
“Vizier!” the senior Elim admonished. “Pez has the highest sanction in all of Percheron. You must—”
“I know, thank you, Horz,” Tariq interrupted testily. He was angry with himself for such a blatant error but how he detested the dwarf! He especially despised that Pez had such free rein throughout the palace and especially in the harem.
Given his anger, he half expected the demon to speak but Maliz had been strangely silent since the meeting this morning. Tariq watched Horz pick up the still-writhing dwarf, carrying him to the edge of the courtyard, and he noticed Pez grinning back, mocking him. Oh, how he hated that fool. Today had been trying and now the dwarf ’s antics, which never failed to embarrass the Vizier, had allowed the tension he was feeling to boil over.
He made his final decision. Yes! He would accept Maliz’s offer. He wanted power, he wanted riches, he wanted freedom from the shackles of people who were less than himself. He would no longer answer to any of these pitiful folk, least of all a deranged dwarf. Tariq grimaced with pleasure at the thought. It would only be a temporary arrangement after all, and what did it matter if the demon had use of his body for a short period? The rewards more than outweighed the brief inconvenience.
Tariq suddenly realized he was grinning fiercely, filled with joy at reaching a decision, but his elation was interrupted by a short fanfare heralding the arrival of the Zar, looking tall and suddenly proud.
BOAZ WAS ACCOMPANIED by his mother. Herezah was fully veiled but nevertheless dazzling in robes of deep blue. Mother and son stepped out onto the balcony that overlooked the Courtyard of Sorrows. At their appearance, the entire group within the courtyard bowed.
And then another door opened and Ana was escorted by two burly Elim to the center of the Courtyard of Sorrows. She too was fully veiled; Lazar hated that her expressive face was covered. Nevertheless the softest of smiles seemed to touch her eyes and he knew it was just for him. His heart felt as though it had been shattering into countless pieces and with that deeply despairing pain came understanding. He had decided to take her punishment not for honor, or for protection, but for the oldest, most simple of reasons that drove men and women to do courageous, often ridiculously dangerous things.
He loved Ana.
At this moment of realization he felt the warmth of Iridor burning next to his leg. Placing his hand against the tiny statue, Lazar felt its comforting heat, and with that warmth came a sense of peace. He had made the right decision; Iridor was telling him as much. It was best he leave Ana to her new life. And as for himself: he must not punish himself further by remaining in Percheron and being reminded constantly of her, of roaming the palace and knowing she was separated from him by only a few walls and yet might as well be on the other side of the world. No, he would not suffer that pain easily. Instead he would return to his homeland and face the consequences, start his life anew as Ana built hers among the halls of the harem. If Pez was right and Boaz’s interest had already been triggered by the girl, then she had a future.
Salmeo’s voice broke into his thoughts as the eunuch began explaining the events leading up to Lazar’s punishment. None of it needed explanation, of course, for everyone was well aware of what had transpired, but Salmeo took pleasure in following protocol.
“…and so it is with respect that we now inflict the punishment on Spur Lazar who has claimed Right of Protectorship over Odalisque Ana, property of Zar Boaz. The slave’s transgression is considered extremely grave and by no higher authority than the Zar himself…”
Lazar returned to his reverie, considering his prospects upon returning to where he was born and what sort of welcome might await him. It wouldn’t be warm, that was for sure. He noticed Salmeo turn toward him and speak, dragging his attention back to the eunuch’s words.
“…it is out of veneration to our Zar and to our way of life in the harem that we insist this punishment be taken seriously.”
Lazar felt a stone hit the pit of his stomach. Salmeo clearly had something special in store for him. Lazar tore his gaze from Ana to stare at the timber to which he would be tied. He had seen many floggings, knew what to expect, grasped that Ana’s punishment would be symbolic, whereas his on her behalf would be more stringent. He expected that some days of healing would be required before he would be able to move with ease. But now that the moment was upon him, the post and cross-timbers looked intensely sinister.
“…It has been decided that the Spur will be given thirty lashes from the Viper’s Nest.” A murmur buzzed across the balcony as Boaz turned to his mother, concern apparent in his expression. Herezah whispered a brief response, hardly long enough to resemble anything close to a discussion. Lazar grimaced in sympathy. Poor Boaz—he was in for a harsh lesson this afternoon.
Lazar glanced toward Jumo and saw fear written across his friend’s face. How he wished he could spare his companion this trial. A quick movement caught his eye and Lazar noticed Pez, his face ashen, skipping unhappily around the courtyard, apparently accidentally treading on the toes of the silent Vizier before careening through the door and away from the Courtyard of Sorrows. Lazar knew that wherever he was headed, the dwarf would be putting things in place to help when the flogging was done.
“Let us proceed,” Salmeo proclaimed.
Before any move could be made, Ana, no doubt gathering that the Viper’s Nest was no simple whip, began to struggle against her minders. “No, this is my punishment,” she cried, tears overflowing her wide green eyes.
“Hush the girl!” Salmeo ordered.
“I demand to take my own punishment!” she yelled, cutting Salmeo off and looking directly at the Zar. “Your Majesty, overturn this decision, I beg you.”
Boaz stepped forward and placed his hands on the balcony’s stone railing. Everyone fell silent. Salmeo closed his eyes, beseeching Zarab that the Zar would not acquiesce to the girl’s plea. They saw the Valide lean slightly toward the boy—no doubt she had whispered something to him from behind that veil, for Tariq noticed how the Zar’s body tensed. There was anger in the boy, he mused. They would not have him under their collective thumb for much longer if they all did not give him more credit. He and Herezah—and yes, Salmeo, too—would need to occupy the new Zar, shower him with diversions, pander to his whims, and free him from all responsibility if they were going to take complete control of Percheron.
Boaz took a calming breath. “Odalisque Ana,” he called into the courtyard. “You have brought this despair upon yourself by your flouting of the harem’s strictest law—the law of discipline. Did you know that crimes of this nature are sometimes punishable by death?”
At his words, Ana stopped struggling. She shook her head, dumbfounded.
“It is I who will not permit such a thing. It is I who have also permitted that your brave protector, our own revered Spur of Percheron, might take a commuted sentence on your behalf. Please do not beseech my generosity further, Odalisque Ana, for I fear my kindness to the women in my harem is being tested today. I am a friend of the Spur’s”—Boaz looked around the courtyard, speaking to everyone now—“and I abhor what he is about to endure. But I admire him and respect him only more than I already did for his courage in protecting someone whom I should have protected from herself.” He looked back to Ana. “You may be excused if you prefer not to witness the infliction of your own punishment.”
Lazar bit back a smile, proud of and impressed by the boy. Reprimanding Ana so publicly would save her further torment from her superiors. Now that the Zar had spoken, no one would be permitted to add to his censure. Ana could not yet know that not even the Zar himself could overturn certain rulings within the harem. Boaz’s personal admonishment was a form of protection and now he was offering Ana a chance to escape the trauma of watching the flogging take place. The young man was becoming more canny by the day.
Everyone within the courtyard waited for Ana’s response. She bowed to her Zar and then eyed him defiantly. “I will bear witness, Your Majesty, so I never again have any misunderstanding of the barbaric dwelling in which I’m forced to live.”
Salmeo, Tariq, and Herezah gasped at her brazenness. Lazar prayed that Boaz’s personal fire had indeed been lit by Ana, for he was all that stood between her and a life of misery; the three most powerful people in Percheron save the Zar were furious with her.
Boaz spoke again. “I shall have a private audience with Odalisque Ana in my chambers once she is rested. Await my instructions.” His tone was harsh and Herezah, Salmeo, and Tariq breathed a collective sigh of relief; not only was Boaz taking charge over such insult but it appeared that he would be seeking his own private retribution later.
Tariq secretly thought Boaz should rape the girl, viciously breaking that precious hymen. Then kill her, even. What was the life of one slave girl, and a difficult one at that?
Good, Tariq. It’s fascinating to hear your angry thoughts. Tariq started as Maliz’s voice eased into his mind.
I thought you’d deserted me.
How touching. I like to be missed. Someone will need to take control of the Zar, for I fear he is taking full control himself. I trust you’ve reached your decision, Vizier.
I have made my decision.
And?
I have conditions.
I make no further bargains.
This is just a temporary arrangement. Will you confirm that?
I will leave your body the moment I’m done with it.
Tariq’s pause was barely noticeable. Then I accept.
There was a moment’s silence in his head and then deep laughter. I shall see you tonight. Go to the bazaar—pass the slaughterhouse—I shall give you directions from there. Now I truly go. Preparations must be made.
Maliz—
No! Not now. Come tonight, late. I shall explain all.
And the demon was gone. Tariq, as if snapped from a sleep, focused again as the famously handsome Spur of Percheron was led to the scaffold where, if the Vizier had his way, the man would be flogged to death.