P ez fretted that he should not have left Lazar to the ministrations of a stranger. He should have stayed, kept vigil, urged his friend to hold on to life. Why did he have such a sense of doom? The only reassurance he could derive was that Jumo was present. Jumo would sooner die himself than lose Lazar. Pez knew Lazar’s companion would send news shortly whether the fight had been won or lost.
Lost? He couldn’t imagine Percheron without Lazar striding around it. Man and city belonged to each other. Surely he couldn’t die as a result of the city’s own punishment system?
These troubling thoughts put Pez into a bleak state of mind. Instead of feigning his normal ridiculous moods, he plunged into a somber one. He began counting backward in Haslin—any scholar would recognize the language but it sounded strange to the lay ear, and that’s what Pez needed. So long as he maintained an air of distraction, even of disturbance, no one at the palace would bat an eyelid over his not cavorting as usual. The numbers he muttered managed to keep him focused as he plunged deeper into the halls toward the harem. He intended to find Ana, but as he approached the forbidden entrance, he turned away. Suddenly the thought of seeing Ana made him feel even more guilty. She would look at him with her large, trusting eyes and hope to hear good news. He had none to give—no news at all, in fact, other than the grave observation that most likely Lazar would not survive.
Instead, he waddled down a different series of corridors that took him toward the eunuchs’ chambers, an area half encircled by the harem so that the eunuch slaves had easy access to the women they served.
Deliberately Pez began to mutter. “Where is Kett, must find Kett, how is Kett, our new pet?”
A passing slave heard him. “Hello, Pez.”
“Kett?” Pez asked, forcing a dazed expression onto his face and picking his nose.
The slave nodded in recognition. “Is that the new boy?”
Pez hopped around, not answering. “Poor Kett. Lost his flesh. The knifers took it.”
The slave nodded. “He’s being attended to now. They’re going to remove the stent early, I think. You’ll find them—”
Pez didn’t linger; everyone was used to the dwarf doing everything except observing good manners. He belched instead and skipped backward down the corridor. After the man had gone by, shaking his head, Pez doubled back. He didn’t need to be told that the priest and his knifers would be in the Hall of the Precious, a large, airy chamber with a glass-domed roof and a central table upon which the victim was laid for the unraveling of his bandages. It seemed to Pez to be premature for Kett to be unbound but he was no physic, and knew that sometimes it was necessary to remove the bandages early.
In the hall, he found Kett upon the table, supine and groaning. The marble table was slightly tilted and had grooved sides with a drain at the bottom. It had been used for centuries during this procedure.
Salmeo, of course, presided over the event. “Ah, Pez,” he lisped. “We wondered where you’d got to. Proceed,” he directed the priest.
Pez hummed distractedly but focused on Kett, who seemed to have lost much weight though his belly was bulging obscenely. The dwarf began to giggle, pointing at the boy’s enlarged abdomen.
“Have respect, dwarf!” Salmeo hissed, then turning back to the priest, he inquired, “Are you sure about this?”
“Do you care?” the man responded testily.
Salmeo leaned forward, the air between the priest and himself suffused with the scent of violet. “I don’t. But I think the Valide would prefer to know that her old friend’s child and the former playmate to her son survives.”
“In that case, I think this is our only choice,” the priest said unflinchingly, directing the careful unwrapping of the bandages. “See how he perspires and trembles. His body is being poisoned by itself. We must release the fluid and hope he is strong enough. Normally, I would only do this after three whole days had passed, but the swelling of his body is a dangerous sign.”
The Grand Master Eunuch nodded. “Do it.”
“If no liquid is passed when we remove the stent, then he is as good as dead.” Lowering his voice, the priest spoke in a whisper. “It would be best to help him along should that occur.”
“I understand.”
As the final bandages were removed, the horrific wound inflicted by the sharp curved blade was revealed, the pewter tube looking insanely odd as it poked upward from the mess of the boy’s groin. The men attending to him became silent and still, Pez was sure they were all remembering their own similarly traumatic experiences.
“He is young,” Salmeo muttered softly as if to reassure himself as the priest, reciting a prayer, reached for the pewter stick.
As the man pulled on the stent, Kett screamed.
“Pah! It is stuck,” the priest admitted. “Quick, warm water and oil to ease the flesh back. Hurry!” His attendants bathed the area, and although Pez presumed they were trying to be gentle, it did not sound that way. Kett continued to writhe pathetically against the strong arms that pinned him to the cool marble. They were not able to soften his protest, though, and he sang it loudly, cursing the very mothers who bore them, losing vital strength with each insult.
The priest pulled again sharply on the tube and it gave. Behind it gushed a torrent of bloodied water and the relief in Kett’s anguished sighs was obvious. The flow continued with force for several seconds and then dwindled, but didn’t stop for a long time, and Pez noted now how well designed that marble table was as it drained the waste efficiently, allowing the slightly fevered body to cool.
Salmeo looked expectantly at the priest, who nodded. “He will live,” he pronounced. “The water is running clear.”
“I shall tell the Valide,” Salmeo said, his shoulders relaxing as he departed, ignoring Pez, who danced away from beneath the approaching bulk.
Pez approached the table. “Can he hear me if I sing?”
“He is conscious,” the priest answered patiently.
“And what if I whispered?” He grinned insanely.
The priest rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Don’t upset him, Pez,” he warned.
That was the last thing Pez intended but he smiled indolently all the same, knowing that no one present could deny him anything he chose to do. Leaning close to Kett’s head, he whispered, “Kett, it’s Pez. You’ve made it.”
The boy said nothing, although his groans continued. “I’m going to make a suggestion for your work and you’re going to accept it the moment it’s offered. Understand? Don’t say anything; just take my hand,” the dwarf urged, his hand already hovering nonchalantly over Kett’s. He felt a soft squeeze. “Good boy,” he whispered. “Just trust me now. You get stronger—work hard to heal. Now cry out as if I’ve antagonized you.”
Kett gave a weak yell, and Pez giggled in response.
“Begone, Pez,” the priest said wearily. “Isn’t it enough that this boy nearly lost his life?”
Pez began to sing nonsense, dancing his way to the door. Kett was safe. Now he had to find Boaz.
LAZAR WAS SEMICONSCIOUS now and raging. The very mild sedative, which was all Ellyana could risk, had worn off and it was taking all of Jumo’s strength to hold him still while Zafira finished dressing his wounds.
“His back looks like a bad piece of child’s practice sewing,” she commented, embarrassed by her work.
“Such beautiful skin he has too,” Ellyana said softly from behind.
“Lazar! Hush!” Jumo cried. “We are tending to you.”
“He can’t help it, Jumo, and he cannot hear you, I suspect,” Ellyana advised in her quiet manner. “It’s the poison. It makes him angry.” At Jumo’s quirked eyebrows she asked, “You are amused?”
“He’s always angry,” Jumo replied drily. “But I presume this is a good omen, him being disturbed enough to fight us?”
Once again his hopes were dashed. “The opposite. It means the poison is winning.”
“I’m finished,” Zafira interrupted wearily, stretching. “His wounds are sewn—as best I can—the salve is on and I’ve dressed his entire back.”
As if the demons within had suddenly lost energy upon hearing her words, Lazar slumped against the mattress, still silent. In fact he became so still that Jumo had to look carefully to convince himself that his friend still breathed.
“They will need to be changed twice daily,” Ellyana warned.
Both listeners nodded, exhausted by their labors and concerned about the days ahead.
“Are we losing him?” Jumo asked.
Ellyana stared into his earnest expression. “I won’t tell untruths for comfort’s sake. He’s dying, Jumo. This is the final stage before the venom works on the heart. I think perhaps we were too late.”
“No!” At his exclamation she laid a hand on his arm but he shook it away. “We have to save him. You brought us here, you made him make that journey across the water and up the cliff side.” His voice broke. “You save him,” he demanded. He glanced toward Zafira through a mist of tears he refused to spill and he could see the hopelessness in her gaze. So she too understood that Lazar was as good as lost, even after all her work.
“Jumo,” Ellyana began.
“Don’t placate me,” he warned. “You wouldn’t have come here if you didn’t have a vested interest in him. I don’t know what that interest is, and to be honest, I don’t care. I just want you to try, even if you think you’re wasting your time.”
“It would be no waste to save this man’s life,” she uttered softly. “I want him to live too but I want you to understand that it’s not within my power to give him life.”
“But you can try!”
“Yes.” She nodded, resignation in the soft sigh that followed. “I will try for you.” She picked up the pot of liquid that they’d made and been forced to wait while it cooled. “This special tea we’ve brewed is made from the rare circad. It is the only thing I’ve discovered that can act aggressively against snake poison and it is especially effective against drezden…if administered quickly enough.”
“How often do we give him the tea?” Jumo asked.
“As often as he will tolerate it. It is unpleasantly bitter. The more we get into him, the better his chances of healing. He will bring it back up but we will have to persevere.”
“Then I will persevere,” he echoed firmly.
Ellyana smiled sadly. “Jumo, leave this to the women. You have done all you can.”
“What?” Jumo scowled—surely she couldn’t be suggesting he leave Lazar in such a perilous state.
“Go back to the city,” she replied calmly. “Wait for news.”
“But why not—” he began, only to be stilled by the sad smile on the face of the old woman and the way she calmly lifted a finger to quiet him.
“Jumo, we now know that Lazar has enemies within the palace who feel sufficiently threatened by him to make a very determined attempt on his life. We are presuming it is the Grand Master Eunuch at work but we are not certain. The Vizier could be involved, the Valide might have a hand in it, even the Zar, if he’s been compromised in some way.”
“Never,” Jumo whispered, further angered by the suggestion, for Lazar had such faith in Boaz.
“We cannot be sure. And we shouldn’t risk our tiny chance at reviving him by letting anyone know where he is.”
Bitterness laced Jumo’s tone as he asked warily, “What do you want me to do?”
“Return to Lazar’s house and await our message. If he lives, you can spread the good news and be our eyes. Watch for who reacts positively but mostly for who does not. Pez will be a great help in this, as regards the palace, but you can keep your ear to the ground around the city and listen to what the people are saying. We need to know that Salmeo and his cohorts aren’t spreading rumors about the Spur. We must be informed of Lazar’s position before he sets foot back in the city.”
“You speak as if you believe he will live,” Jumo observed.
“If he dies, Jumo, then you and Pez can still be of more use to Lazar in Percheron proper than here. You can see who relishes the news of his death and get word to the Zar. Either way you are serving your master best by being close to the palace.”
Jumo shook his head. “I would prefer to be with him…to the end if necessary. I don’t want this man dying alone.”
“He won’t be alone,” Ellyana countered firmly. “Zafira and I will be at his side for every minute that he breathes.”
“I can’t leave him,” he beseeched. “I couldn’t live with myself if anything should happen.”
Ellyana took his hand in hers. “I will give every bit of myself toward saving him, and so will Zafira. It doesn’t need three of us and Lazar can benefit from your presence elsewhere.”
Jumo closed his eyes in frustration. “But the very moment I return to his home, I will be besieged with inquiries. What am I to tell them?”
“You will lie. Our aim is to keep Lazar’s antagonists well away from him until we know he’s strong enough again.” Ellyana shrugged. “So, without knowing who his enemies are, we must treat everyone as foe. You will tell anyone who asks after Lazar that following your arrival at the Sea Temple, where he requested you take him, he fell deathly ill. The priestess said she would do what she could for him and suggested you leave him with her for a while until she could assess the extent of his injuries.”
“No one will believe that,” he said.
“You can say you were so shocked by Lazar’s condition that you weren’t thinking straight. The priestess gave you a drink and you had no idea that it was drugged with a sedative. When you woke, Lazar was gone and you’ve been searching ever since but have found no sign of him.”
Jumo’s incredulity deepened. “You think they’ll accept any of that story?”
“Yes, because there is no word of him. There is no sign of him. No one saw us leave with him, and no one must see you return. You will have to go in disguise.”
“And how do I explain my absence for so long?”
Zafira spoke up quietly. “You could legitimately claim that you were so overcome with grief that you found the nearest drinking hole and drank yourself into oblivion. You’d need to buy off the silence of the mosha-man, of course, but that won’t be hard.”
“I don’t drink in mosha houses,” Jumo complained, knowing it was a hollow attempt to thwart the idea.
“Then throw the liquor over yourself. You only have to smell of it to convince anyone listening to your torrid tale.”
“She’s right,” Ellyana agreed. “It’s a good plan.”
“It makes Zafira out to be a villain, though.”
Zafira snorted gently. “As if that frightens me, dear Jumo. We who worship the Goddess have lived as outcasts and villains for the entirety of my lifetime and well before that. I have my faith, and that is all I need. What people think of me in my dotage is of no concern.”
“Jumo, can’t you see that we are helping Lazar, not punishing you?” Ellyana pushed.
“Yes, of course I can,” he snapped. “But you don’t understand how much we’ve been through together.” He looked at the face of the man he loved. It was devoid of expression, the lips a pale smudge on the once-bronzed skin that now looked leached of all color.
“It is best that you leave now—getting this tea down him is going to be ugly,” Ellyana warned.
Jumo turned to her again. “What do you mean?”
“He’ll rail against it with the little strength he has left and that exertion alone could cost him his life. It will be a gentle balance between forcing him to drink whilst not making him fight us as well as the poison. Leave us now, Jumo. Use the boat and row yourself back to the harbor. I promise we’ll get word to you within the next day or so.”
Jumo turned helplessly to Zafira for support but her expression was implacable. She agreed with Ellyana, that much was clear. He raised a finger in warning. “Be sure you do and be sure you save him, or so help me, Ellyana, I shall come looking for you.”