I t was humid in Percheron, the air stifling within the confines of the city. Despite the heat, the bazaar hummed with its usual activity as traders encouraged the evening’s stream of humanity to buy everything from freshly baked honey puffs to painted tiles.
As usual, Gold Alley was the most congested area; the Percherese did not rush into the purchase of gold but loved to roam the small corridors of glittering stalls at leisure. Many would pay close attention to the changing prices over days, often weeks, before investing. Others just liked to sit down with the traders and touch the seductive metal long before they were ready to pay good cash. There was never any hurry. The merchants gave each customer time, often sending their subordinates to fetch tea that arrived in colorful glasses on small trays. Tea meant hospitality and fellowship. It prompted conversation and ultimately sales.
Tariq saw none of this, however, as he hurried through the sloping streets. The color and ritual of Gold Alley were lost on him, his eyes fixed ahead on the next corner, his mind enmeshed in visions of power and wealth. He didn’t stop to help or even apologize to the youngster whose elbow he clipped, sending a tray of dark golden tea clattering to the ground as the cranberry-colored glass, edged in gold, smashed in a hail of tinkling shards. No one recognized him, for although the Vizier’s forked and bejeweled beard alone normally marked him for who he was, on this night Tariq had taken measures to disguise himself. The tea boy would later blame an ignorant woman, tall and fully veiled in a jamoosh.
Tariq pressed on, his mind a whirl of possibilities mingled with fear. Was he doing the right thing? It was only temporary, he reminded himself, and then he’d be unimaginably wealthy for the rest of his life. He wasn’t too old to enjoy riches, and if he was fully honest, it was the riches that attracted him more than the power. Power was for a younger man, he now realized. If Maliz had visited him ten or fifteen years earlier, Tariq might have bartered for influence with the Zar, but since this afternoon he had decided he was tired of the palace, wearied of the political maneuverings, unhappy that he now served a Zar who was still too young to grow a beard.
He’d never had a good relationship with Joreb—that much was clear, or he would already be Grand Vizier. But to be back at the beginning, having to prime and grow a new relationship with someone already so untrusting of him, was draining. Joreb had not cared much for Tariq but they had forged a working relationship; Tariq suspected Boaz was not interested in such a relationship. So perhaps in the end Maliz’s offer of extraordinary wealth was the sole reason for agreeing to his terms. Tariq could see himself retiring and living the decadent life he’d always dreamed of. That kind of wealth was power in itself anyway. He would no longer be a servant to the royals but one of the people they entertained.
You will never regret it, Maliz had assured Tariq, his tone slightly mocking. He had given the Vizier directions and disappeared swiftly from the Vizier’s mind.
And so Tariq had disguised himself as a woman beneath the veil, the only way he could think of to hide his instantly recognizable beard. Now he was hurrying through the streets, the spilled tea long forgotten as he made his way toward the harbor and an area known as the Ditch.
There were fewer lanterns here, so the shadows were deeper, and the salty tang in the air became stronger. People were dressed more roughly but nobody gave the tall woman a second glance. A new smell permeated Tariq’s nostrils—fragrant and strong, layering itself across the almost permanently fishy odor that hung predictably around the foreshore. His nose told him he was close to the main spice market as the mix of seeds and powders, fresh herbs and spices, clamored for his attention.
Tariq felt safer in the bazaar, not only because there was so much more activity beneath the lanes of brightly colored wares but also because the lanes were crowded with women. Fewer were veiling themselves, he noticed with interest—it had been a long time since he’d wandered the streets of the common people. Full veiling of women had once been a national tradition but it had begun to die out over the last century as more liberal attitudes prevailed. Now only high-caste families insisted that their women remain veiled outside their homes. And royalty, of course.
Tariq forced himself to stop at several stalls, pretending to consider the wares on display. He figured it was more natural for him to weave his way west if he looked like a genuine shopper. Attention was the last thing he needed.
With a forced casualness, he dawdled by a stall selling hot spices, picking up cloves and cardamom seeds and smelling them, turning over chilies to check color and freshness before moving on, pausing briefly by a store selling only variations of pepper, feigning fascination in the colors and choice being offered. Finally he strolled down the middle of the main thoroughfare, turning toward the western gate and maintaining his casual meander, pretending to be absorbed in the produce until his eye caught the sign that read BELOCH’S TABLE.
It was every bit as vulgar as he’d imagined. A fat man with a dirty apron grinned at him, a calon hanging from one lip and smoking itself, it seemed, by the length of ash still clinging to it. “My sister, can we serve you today? Quishtar perhaps or a plate of yemshi?” he offered, oblivious to the cockroach crawling across his foot.
The cheek of it, the Vizier thought, simmering beneath the veil, using the name of one of the city’s great icons to herald this tawdry little eatery. He passed over the karel he had readied. “I’ve been told to give you this. You have no memory of my being here,” he said. If the grubby owner was surprised to hear a man’s voice from behind the jamoosh, he gave no outward sign. “I wish to use your back door.”
“Be my guest, er…sister,” the man welcomed him, pocketing the karel as expertly as a master thief. No one had seen the coin change hands and the tall woman was instantly forgotten as the owner began soliciting new customers.
The Vizier moved quickly to the back of the eatery, pushing past servers and the two cooks until he spotted the open door and the lane beyond. He turned as instructed and could just make out, courtesy of a single lantern. the small green doorway at the end of the alley. It was dim, deserted, the noise from the bazaar muffled. A rat scurried by, leaping over Tariq’s foot and causing him to let out a small shriek of disgust. He could feel his heart pounding. Was this such a good idea after all? He told himself that he could still back out. Maliz would be angry but what could the demon do to him? He was only a voice.
Tariq paused, now only a dozen steps from the door. This was it. If he was going to flee, it would have to be now. As if on cue, an amused voice filled his head.
Welcome to my abode, Tariq. Please, come in.
Too late, he thought, there was no choice anymore. “Where are you?” he called tentatively.
Step inside. There are a few of us but you’ll know me soon enough.
Tariq reached for the handle of the green door, taking a deep breath. He had never been so scared in his entire life.
PEZ TURNED ON his usual antics for the men before knocking theatrically on the Zar’s door. At night Boaz was waited on by guards on both sides of the door to his sleeping chamber, so Pez was greeted by a grim-faced man who obviously didn’t appreciate the late-night arrival.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, a hint of disgust in his voice. “We’re to permit you even if he’s sleeping, so I suppose you’d better come in.”
“Do you like custard?” Pez asked earnestly.
“Not particularly,” the guard replied. “Nor am I keen to wake His Majesty.”
“Oh, His Majesty loves custard. I prefer dolphins. What about slugs, do you like them? They sing rather oddly.”
The man raised his eyes in frustration. The hour was late enough without this nonsense. He turned on his heel and left Pez standing by the door.
Pez hesitated. He had made a curious decision to be not altogether truthful with Boaz. He couldn’t say exactly why he had decided as he had, he only knew that it felt somehow right.
He knocked gently at the bedchamber door, wondering what in Lyana’s name he was going to say to the boy about his whereabouts these past hours. From behind the door he heard mumbling and risked opening it.
“Purple flowers smell strange,” Pez muttered.
The door was pulled back fully. “Where have you been?” Boaz demanded. Pez was taken aback by the vehemence in the youngster’s voice. He looked around to see where the guards were, an excuse rushing to form itself when Boaz continued, “I’ve been worried sick about you.”
Pez turned back, relieved. “I’m sorry, High One,” he replied. “I can explain.”
“Come on in. I couldn’t sleep anyway. There’s hardly a breath of air.”
“It’s worse in the city.”
“Is that where you’ve been?”
“Yes,” the dwarf lied.
“Good. I figured you’d been with Lazar. Now tell me where he is and that he’s recovering. I shall send my own physics immediately. He must have the best attention.” The Zar shook his head. “I haven’t been able to think straight all evening. I—” He closed his mouth at his friend’s grave expression.
“I can’t help, High One,” Pez replied solemnly. “I have no idea where he is.”
“What? Not even you?”
“Not even me.”
“Pez, no one can tell me where the Spur is. I’ve had the city combed and there’s no word on the street of his whereabouts. How can a man who looked half dead and yet so recognizable just disappear?”
Pez’s voice was hard. “He didn’t only look half dead, Majesty. He was dying.”
Boaz was silent a long moment. Then he said quietly, “Please tell me you’re jesting.”
“I lie not. It’s true that I accompanied Lazar and Jumo to the Sea Temple. If they’re not there now, I have no idea where they are,” Pez replied, hating himself for the fabrication.
The boy studied him. “But you and Lazar are such good friends. Surely you would have stayed with him?”
“I don’t care to be abroad in the city too often or for long periods, my Zar. I was no help anyway. Lazar was unconscious and his wounds were so horrific that both Jumo and I were helpless.”
He watched Boaz force control over himself. The boy was close to falling apart but Pez felt a gentle pride in noting that the young Zar was rising to his station.
“Why the Sea Temple? No one goes there,” Boaz queried.
Pez shrugged. “Jumo tells me it is a place Lazar discovered very recently. He liked its peace and the fact that it is deserted, save for an old priestess.”
“So he asked to go there?”
“I don’t know, Your Majesty,” Pez lied again. “I imagine not, for he was unconscious, as I said. I think in his panic Jumo took him to the quietest place he could think of.”
“But there’s no care there,” Boaz groaned. “It doesn’t make sense. Even from my distant vantage, it was obvious he was seriously injured.”
“You have no idea of the extent of it,” Pez murmured.
Boaz strode to the door, opened it, and waited, presumably for a guard. The Zar muttered some angry orders before slamming the door. “I’ve sent some runners down to the Sea Temple.”
Pez nodded. He knew they would find it empty. “It was a shocking outcome, Great One,” he risked. “Though you know Salmeo designed it to turn out the way it did.”
“Of course I do! When it comes to the harem, however, I don’t have as much say as everyone seems to think. Salmeo and the Valide are the King and Queen of the harem. I am merely he whom it services.” He grimaced.
“How did your mother react?”
“To be honest, I believe it was as much a shock for her as it was for myself.”
“Really?” Pez didn’t sound convinced.
“I asked her directly whether she had any involvement and she denied it. I know my mother well enough, Pez.”
The dwarf remained silent, duly reprimanded. So far the Zar had not mentioned the use of poison. “Tariq?”
Boaz shook his head. “No, this is all Salmeo’s work. It has his cruelty stamped all over it. As for the Inflictors, someone will swing for this if I don’t have news of Lazar soon.”
“It was not the boy’s fault, High One. He looked more terrified than anyone.”
“I don’t care,” Boaz snapped. “Woe betide him if I receive bad news about Lazar. I think you all forget that he was my friend—one of so few I have in this place.” He slumped down on a sofa and stared out his window. “I met with the odalisque Ana today,” he said, as if he wanted to change the subject.
“Oh? That’s unusual. Must have delighted Salmeo.”
Boaz managed a small but wicked smile. “He hated it. Went rushing off to my mother, who apparently told him to obey his Zar and not run to her with complaints. No doubt she has come to the same conclusion as us, that this was Salmeo’s doing. She is not pleased.”
“How was Ana?”
“Devastated, although I think my company was good for her, and I would be lying if I said the outcome wasn’t mutual.”
“So you like her?”
Boaz turned his gaze from the window to the dwarf. “You knew I would. That’s why you risked so much that night of her presentation to the Valide. What are you up to, Pez?”
Pez leaped onto a seat. “Nothing, High One. I had seen her beauty and heard from Lazar of her intelligence,” he lied. “I thought she might be someone who could offer you honest friendship as much as pleasant company. I’m just glad you liked her.” He hesitated briefly, then asked quietly. “May I ask a boon?”
“You will whether I give permission or not,” Boaz said, not unkindly.
“I sense Ana is about to be elevated to a status beyond simple slave and I’m wondering if you would be generous enough to appoint a single slave solely to serve her.”
“What? She’s only been here a few days. My mother would object fiercely.” Boaz shook his head. “Though I’ll admit that the whims of my mother are beyond me.”
Pez didn’t hesitate. “No, she’ll be quite firm, I imagine, so you have to order that Ana has her own slave. Your mother already dislikes Ana, I’d suggest, because of Lazar. His obvious sense of commitment to Ana, so brilliantly and rather sadly displayed by today’s bit of theater, has piqued your mother’s curiosity. You and I both know how he fascinates her. She wants to know what’s behind his interest in Ana, what drives it…” His voice trailed away as a knock sounded at the door.
“Come,” Boaz answered.
It was the head guard. “Your High One.” He bowed low and long.
“Do you have news of the Spur?”
The man straightened. “Majesty, the Sea Temple is deserted, although we did find bloodstains in front of the altar.”
“And no one knows of the Spur’s whereabouts?” Boaz persisted, knowing it was a pointless query.
“I had men ranging throughout the harbor for any news. A child thought she saw a man being loaded into a boat but the mother was scared of us asking questions and the little one clammed up. When we tried again she denied it and claimed she had dreamed it.”
“What sort of boat?”
“A rowboat, she said,” the man replied doubtfully, “but there is nowhere, Majesty, that is close enough to row to where help can be sought.”
“What’s that island not so far away?”
Pez held his breath as the guard frowned and then brightened. “There is the Isle of Stars, High One, but that’s a leper colony.”
Pez belched. “And who’d go there?” he murmured.
Boaz sighed. “All right, Briz, keep trying with your men. He must be found.”
“There’s fifteen of them still hunting down anything they can.”
“Wake me if you hear anything at all.”
“Yes, High One.” The guard touched hand to heart and took his leave.
“Take some rest, Boaz,” Pez suggested.
“What were you going to ask me about Ana?”
Pez sighed. “The newly made eunuch,” he began.
“Kett.”
“Yes. He would make a good servant for Ana.”
Boaz nodded. “I share your guilt, Pez. But now is not the time to be singling Ana out for special status. She has begged me to treat her the same as the other odalisques, and because of my mother’s interest, I’m inclined to acquiesce.”
“We should help him,” Pez persisted, unsure why he felt so strongly but somehow certain that Kett was important—though whether to him, Ana, Boaz, or someone else he could not say.
“Leave it with me,” Boaz compromised. “I will not see him badly done by—he could begin by being directly on hand in the harem to assist her and perhaps in time we can consider the position you have suggested.”
Pez nodded. It would have to be enough for now.
“You never did tell me where you’ve been all this time,” Boaz urged, and Pez realized he was not going to be let off the hook that lightly.
TARIQ STEPPED GINGERLY through the doorway, only to be confronted by several people in various stages of decomposition. Most were old—or at least that’s how they appeared—and each was filthy, dressed in rags. All were ravaged by starvation. He knew these to be members of the city’s lost, which was how people with a conscience referred to them. Most called them the Sewer Rats. These were people wholly forgotten and ignored by all but the Vizier and his council, who wanted them “removed.” Tariq himself meant “removed from the earth” and would have gladly signed their death warrants, but more conservative council members were still arguing as to whether the Isle of Stars—already designated as a place for the unwanted—could be used as a convenient spot where these undesirables could waste away. Tariq was fearful that Boaz would demand that Percheron take better care of its lost people. The Vizier wanted no drain on the city’s budget for these fools, who were, in his opinion, too lazy or useless to lead a productive life. The city was far better off without them.
He grimaced as one toothless hag staggered toward him; fortunately for Tariq, the woman was almost blind with cataracts and he pushed her aside, kicking at another body in front of him. “Maliz!” he called, emboldened by his power over the wretches around him. He avoided a third of the damned, dropping his shoulder and callously shoving the helpless man into a wall, sending him spinning into the shadows. Tariq sneered. “Demon! I seek you.”
And I hear you, came a familiar voice in his head.
I can’t see you.
Come closer, Vizier.
Suddenly Tariq felt the spike of fear he had held at bay take full hold. Perspiration broke out beneath his robes and he threw off the jamoosh as much to see more easily as to cool himself. “Where?” he whispered into the darkness.
Not far.
The voice might be coming from behind him, he thought. He swung around wildly, leaping back at the same time, but no one was there, save the same pathetic souls he’d already dealt with.
“I…I have no idea where you are,” he called, far less confidently. “Show me.” He smelled rather than heard or saw the tiny figure that crept out of the darkness to stand before him.
“Do you see me now?” asked a frail voice.
“You?” Tariq asked, incredulous.
The feeble old man, barely able to stand and seemingly ravaged by disease, nodded. “Don’t be fooled, Tariq,” the man said in a wispy voice. “I am he who you feared meeting.”
Tariq stepped back. His arrogance returned. “Who could be scared of you?”
“Are you testing me?” Maliz asked evenly, his fetid breath making Tariq wince. “I’d advise against it. You are beguiled by appearance alone, Vizier, and that is a mistake. You should keep in mind that I choose to walk in this form.”
“Why?” Tariq asked, trying to avoid breathing through his nose.
“It suits my purposes,” replied the frail man. “Who would think to find the demon Maliz here amid Percheron’s unfortunates?”
“Who indeed?” echoed Tariq, lacing his voice with sarcasm.
Suddenly the more familiar voice boomed in his head. You are the one who is pathetic, Vizier. You look at me as if you could snap me in half and be done with it. Why bother? Go back to your life, Tariq. Return to the palace and be abused by Herezah and upstaged by Salmeo and treated like a filthy servant by the Zar. You are nothing to them. Nothing! An inferior, aging politician with nothing to contribute to any of their goals, save being a useful punching bag…
Maliz continued the stream of insults but Tariq didn’t hear any more. His anger was roused as the truth of the demon’s words exploded in his mind. He was nothing. They did all treat him as though he were dirt on their shoes. “Enough!” he roared.
The old man gave a black-toothed, diseased smile. “Does the truth hurt, Vizier? I can make it all so different for you.”
“Prove it! Show me your powers, show me riches, give me unequivocal proof that you are who you say you are.”
The old man sighed as Maliz’s deep and ancient voice spoke in Tariq’s mind. If I’m to show you such things, you will need to leave your body here.
Tariq baulked. “No!”
Fret not, you will still own it, still belong to it, but I can take you to places you have seen only in your dreams.
“And I will not die by leaving my body?”
No.
“Will you steal it?” Tariq persisted suspiciously.
Maliz laughed but there was no humor in it. I can’t. I am not permitted by Zarab. You must offer me your body before I’m permitted to enter it as anything other than a voice.
Tariq heard the truth in Maliz’s confession. “Do it, then. Show me all you can to convince me to utter the invitation you so desire.”
The Vizier closed his eyes instinctively and felt a mighty push, as though all the breath were being squeezed out of him.
See for yourself, said Maliz.
Tariq knew he was trembling with fear—or was it anticipation?—yet could not feel himself shaking. And similarly, though he told himself to open his eyes, he sensed that there was no physical movement but he could suddenly simply see.
Herezah? he exclaimed.
I thought you’d like to look in on the person whose attention you crave most.
I’m in the harem!
Not physically, Tariq.
Herezah was taking a late-night tea infusion alone but Tariq could see she wasn’t sipping from her cup. She looked maudlin and disinterested. Sadly she was clothed—he would like to have seen her naked.
I can give you that too, Maliz breathed into his mind.
Tariq ignored the way the demon read his mind. Why is she so moody tonight?
Think! You want to be Grand Vizier yet you ask the simplest of questions, which perhaps even that fool, Pez, could work out. The Vizier felt the sting of criticism. You are aware of why she is angry, depressed tonight, I promise you. Work it out. There is rarely more than this reason for any woman to be so low of mood.
A man.
Which one?
Tariq paused, nervous. Boaz?
Maliz growled his disappointment. Don’t be naive, Tariq. Herezah plays her game better than any other. Try again.
Lazar.
Yes! Of course Lazar. There is no other man that interests her sexually.
She’s depressed because of his flogging?
Because of his apparent death, I should think. It isn’t looking good for the Spur.
Do you know everything, Maliz?
Sadly, no. I know only what I see or eavesdrop on, and everything I see or hear is open to interpretation. Fortunately I am sharp enough to get it right most times. Herezah is not so shortsighted, by the way. A lot more is at stake than her own desires.
She’s worried about Percheron’s security.
Correct.
I see. I hate Lazar. I hope he is dead.
I know. I know everything about you, Tariq.
Tariq uncomfortably brushed aside Maliz’s assertion. Show me more.
What do you want to see now?
The harem proper. The girls.
Tsk-tsk, Vizier, Maliz admonished. Then look, he said. And Tariq was moving through the empty halls of the harem.
It’s beautiful, he gushed.
Always the best is hidden, Maliz said, laughing. The girls are asleep.
Except one, Tariq replied as he spotted Odalisque Ana sitting on the bench of a window. Can you eavesdrop on her thoughts?
I have not tried. I can if you wish, but not everyone is as open to me as you have been.
No, show me the Zar instead, Tariq demanded.
He was instantly aware of Boaz, also slumped at a window in his suite. Nearby sat the dwarf.
Another person I hate is Pez.
He is no one, not worthy of your hatred, the demon reassured Tariq. They watched Pez suddenly cock his large head to one side.
Tariq gave a sound of disgust. As usual, he’s not paying attention. The Zar is talking to him. This is so typical of the ingrate.
Now they watched Pez stand, his body tensed.
“Now what’s wrong?” the Zar asked.
The dwarf began to leap around the furniture, singing madly.
“Pez, stop,” Boaz urged. “No one is—”
Pez’s sudden high-pitched squeal shocked the young Zar into silence.
“Must write, must write!” Pez began to moan.
“Write what?”
Boaz and his two invisible visitors watched the dwarf scrawl something onto a tablet of paper. Then he coughed at it, repeatedly. He sat on it and farted.
Tariq groaned. I truly despise Joreb for bringing this troll into our lives.
He’s harmless but I take your point. It’s a pity that the son thinks so highly of him. Maliz watched Pez suddenly rise again, lift the crumpled sheet of paper, and fling it at the astounded Zar.
“The birds are pecking me,” he shrieked at Boaz. “My flesh is burning,” he howled, running out the door.
I just hope he has a seizure and dies sometime soon, Tariq said caustically.
Maliz said nothing, watched Boaz read the note absently, and then, curiously, set it alight from a nearby candle. The parchment burned, the Zar watching it disintegrate to ash. Both Tariq and Maliz observed how Boaz suddenly looked angry. Striding to the door, the young Zar demanded one of his guards to enter.
“Yes, High One?” the man said, bowing and straightening with a concerned frown.
“You tell Pez that if he ever writes such obscenity to me again, I will bar him from entering my rooms. Make it clear to him, will you?”
The man nodded, stunned by the outburst. “He never takes any notice, Great One.”
“Tell him anyway,” Boaz ordered, flinging the door closed behind the retreating guard.
Oh, that’s interesting, Tariq said. Perhaps a falling-out between our Zar and the fool. Maybe the half-wit went too far this time.
It appears so, Maliz admitted. I’d love to know what he wrote that so upset the Zar.
Finally, show me riches, Maliz, Tariq said, no longer interested in eavesdropping on the royal apartments.
As you wish. Is this our final journey?
Yes. You have convinced me of your magical power. All I need now is to see some of the treasures you’ve promised and we will seal our bargain.
BOAZ FOUND PEZ, as instructed, in the Golden Garden, a private courtyard to which no one but the Zar himself had access. Sometimes it was used to entertain one of his favorites or to impress a new odalisque, but mainly it was a place for peace and reflection away from the palace life.
“What was that all about?” Boaz hissed.
“Forgive me, Boaz,” Pez said, sounding unusually rattled. “I had to get us away from there.”
“What in Zarab’s name happened?”
The dwarf shook his large head. “I don’t really know, in truth, but something chilled me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, neither do I. I think something or someone was with us in your chamber.”
“You jest.”
“Do I look like I’m trying to entertain?” Pez snarled.
“No, you look frightened. I’ve never seen you like this. You think someone was eavesdropping? But where? There aren’t many places to hide in that particular room.”
“No, I don’t mean like that. I mean someone was with us in spirit.”
Boaz raised his eyebrows in mock defeat. “Oh, I see. An invisible eavesdropper.”
“Don’t mock me, Boaz. I did what I did for our own protection. Someone was listening, I tell you. I don’t know who it was or why or even how they were doing it, but my Lore skills picked it up instantly.”
Boaz looked chastened. “Sorry, Pez. I don’t mean to make fun. It’s just so hard to believe.”
“Zar Boaz, you witnessed and experienced firsthand the power of the Lore. You must trust me when I use it as protection for us.”
“I do trust you.”
“Then know that whoever was listening to our conversation was not friendly. There was something dark and malevolent in its presence.”
“I can’t believe this,” Boaz said, standing from the fountain edge he’d been sitting on. “What do you expect me to do?”
“Nothing! Just don’t ignore my warnings or devalue them by not taking them seriously. Someone who is not your friend visited you today, Boaz, and it was done using magic. From now on, we must be on our guard.”
“Well, if I can’t see or hear this person, how will I know when I must be careful?”
“You won’t but I will. If I should behave as I did tonight, you’ll know I am warning you.”
“All right…are we safe here now?”
“If I’m discovered—”
“What would it matter, in truth, to anyone in the palace?” Boaz asked quietly but not aggressively. “What could anyone do if it was revealed that you have your wits about you, that this has been a trick you’ve pulled for years?”
“It’s not the people of the palace I worry about, my Zar,” Pez replied cryptically. “Come, the feeling of being observed is gone. You can return to your chambers to sleep.”
Boaz sighed. “I won’t be doing much sleeping until I hear about Lazar.” But he followed Pez anyway as the dwarf crawled out of the Golden Garden braying like a donkey.
“ALL RIGHT, HOW?” Tariq demanded, his mind still reeling from the riches he had seen. Maliz had shown him the hidden treasure of the legendary Zar Fasha, who had insisted on his corpse being entombed in the desert along with his fabulous wealth and entire harem. The people of the harem, unlike their Zar, had been very much alive when entombed; their twisted skeletons, jaws open in agony, were testimony to the desperate way in which they’d perished, screaming to be let free of their deep prison beneath the sands. Tariq had barely noticed the people, however—all he could focus on was the treasure itself, imagining the decadent way he would soon be living. “Although I’ve never understood how it is that you mean to share my body,” he added carefully.
Maliz was back in his wizened guise of the near-toothless man. “I have explained everything. You want what I can give you. Now either you take what I’m offering or you leave and never come back. I can find another.”
Another what? Tariq wondered, his mind racing. Another fool?
Another host, came the deep-voiced reply in his mind. Let me be your guest, he offered, more gently now. And I will teach you and show you all that you have desired these years gone. I will keep my promise.
Have you always used another?
Yes. When I am dormant I deliberately seek old, unremarkable bodies to live within. They don’t require much effort from me and they can move around without drawing too much attention to themselves. This one is my favorite so far. The demon laughed nastily.
“What do you mean, dormant?”
Maliz gave a despairing sigh and spoke in the old man’s voice again. “Must I explain everything? Surely you know your history. I rise when Iridor does.”
“Iridor?” Tariq asked, clearly baffled.
“The Messenger.”
“Whose Messenger?”
“Hers! The Goddess…Lyana!”
Tariq couldn’t stop the nervous laugh that escaped. “Lyana? Are you mad? I know Maliz was a great sorcerer once—legend says he made some terrible bargain with Zarab—but Lyana is just someone the priestesses of old fabricated to win favor.”
“You are the one fooled. Lyana is as real as I am! I sense her coming and I know Iridor has returned. He is cunning; he can hide himself better than she can. I must find them and destroy them.”
“Is that your bargain with Zarab? Everlasting life?”
The old man nodded, his vile grin wide on the ravaged face. “Life everlasting has its advantages, Vizier. You can be part of it.”
“What do you mean?”
A weak groan issued from the darkness of the building. Both Vizier and demon ignored it. “Youth. I can provide you with it along with all the other promises I’ve made.”
“You mean my body can actually become younger as well as looking younger?” Tariq asked, astonished.
“You can be anything I want you to be. You just have to tell me,” Maliz answered, his tone seductive. “We are a partnership. You lend me your body—for a while. I bring all your dreams to life. I am not interested in your pursuits, Tariq. I have my own mission and the two don’t have to conflict. We just help each other achieve our desires.”
“As simple as that,” Tariq said flatly.
“It need not be any more complicated.”
“And then you will leave my body…when you have achieved your dreams?”
“Of course,” Maliz assured him. “I have no need of it beyond such time.”
Tariq hesitated, tempted but still wary. “Why don’t you just enter a young man’s body, then?”
Maliz’s patience was running out. “You can only make a bargain with someone who wants what you’re offering. You were an easy choice. I need someone with intelligence, with some wisdom of years, and with a desire to help me as much as I can help him.” Tariq nodded, close to giving in now. “I find the young too selfish, self-absorbed. They don’t aim high enough these days. They want everything given to them. They are lazy. Not like you, Vizier. You’ve worked hard to make something of yourself and it’s fitting that your efforts be recognized. You are everything I have searched for. Will you not invite me in, brother?”
“All right, Maliz. I give you permission.” Tariq capitulated, hardly daring to breathe now that he’d uttered the words.
The demon was silent a moment, then said, triumph in his voice, “You must say this: Maliz, come into me. Take my soul.”
Had Tariq thought through the careful phrasing, he might have sensed the trap, but his thoughts were swollen with notions of power and grandeur. Without thinking, he repeated the phrase dutifully.
And felt the spine-tingling entry of Maliz into his being and heard the cold, malevolent laugh of the demon as he gleefully betrayed Tariq. In the end, the person who had been the Vizier didn’t even have the strength to make a fight of it. It was probably the shock of discovering Maliz’s treachery, and all the lies that had been spun simply to have the Vizier’s body for his own, that left him unable to do anything but capitulate to the mighty force that was the demon Maliz. He gave a sad scream of impotent rage as his soul was shredded and spat out through his own mouth in a red mist of surrender.
Maliz smiled, Tariq’s mouth stretching wide. The demon had risen.