A heavy silence fell upon the crowded courtyard. Yet another door opened and a young man, looking painfully unsure of himself, stepped into the arena. Behind him came an even younger bearer, carrying a white linen cloth upon which lay the fierce Viper’s Nest. The whip comprised six leather thongs, which currently curled around one another harmlessly but when unleashed could snap against a man’s back fast and viciously—akin to the movement of a viper. The cruel instrument was nicknamed the Snake, for each thong forked into two, like a serpent’s tongue, and on the tip of each tongue was a tiny silver bead, sharp-edged and crafted deliberately to break skin.
Lazar swallowed hard, but to the onlookers he seemed unmoved by the arrival of the weapon. He had never seen the Snake used but he had heard of the intense injuries it could inflict. No wonder Salmeo was all but shivering in anticipation. Well, he would put on a good show for them and he would bleed hard—but he would not cry out for mercy. He would sooner bite out his own tongue than vent a plea to these mongers of pain. He raised his head to look around the rim of the courtyard at the birds of sorrow that lined the high wall. They seemed to mock him but he cared not.
“Welcome, Inflictor,” Salmeo said. He bowed to Boaz again. “Your High One, may I present Shaz.”
“This man looks young to be an Inflictor,” Boaz said, estimating Shaz to be no more than a summer or two older than he was.
Salmeo dipped his head in mock humility. “Yes, Great One. Our Inflictor is away in the far north. I’m sorry to say his deputy is indisposed today—very unwell in fact—with a high fever.”
“So who is Shaz?” the Zar persisted, sensing a ruse. He glanced toward his mother, wondering if any of this might have been her idea. Herezah gave nothing away in her dark gaze but shook her head slightly, as if this was all news to her. Boaz knew his mother well enough to ascertain when she had been taken by surprise. Shaz had nothing to do with her, then.
“He is an apprentice, Your Majesty,” the Grand Master Eunuch replied.
“An apprentice!”
Salmeo shrugged innocently. “Your High One, what can I do? The sentence has been proclaimed. The rules of the harem demand that the flogging be carried out immediately. We had no idea that the Spur would choose this path or perhaps better arrangements could have been made. I would have insisted, in fact. But my understanding was that a member of the harem was to be whipped. Shaz is more than capable of lashing the odalisque Ana expertly,” he offered up obliquely, not saying that the young Inflictor was incapable of using the Viper’s Nest, and could wield only the harmless Swallow’s Tongue with any precision.
“And the Spur?” Boaz demanded.
“Shaz’s superior has indicated that he is the most talented apprentice in years,” Salmeo lied.
Boaz bristled. Growing up in the harem had prepared him for the Grand Master Eunuch’s subtleties. “Then because of the harem’s incompetence and inability to provide a senior Inflictor, I am using my authority to commute this sentence.”
Salmeo trembled with anger. “Zar Boaz, I must pro—”
“No, Grand Master Eunuch, it is I who protest. This is being handled badly. I accept that the odalisque Ana has committed a serious crime and I accept that she must be punished. We all accept, because it is written in our laws, that the Spur can claim the Right of Protectorship and take the flogging on her behalf. Finally, we all understand the law of the harem according to which the Grand Elim alone decides on the method of punishment. But, Salmeo, my word is the law of our land and I have the power to reduce this sentence, if not the way it is carried out.” Even without the fully deepened voice of manhood, Boaz’s tone brooked no argument. “Spur Lazar will receive ten less than the proposed number of lashes because of the bumbling manner in which this serious event is unfolding.” He took a deep breath. “If I could, Salmeo…”—and Boaz deliberately used the eunuch’s name rather than his title in order to reinforce his personal authority over the man—“I would postpone it until someone experienced could deal the blows. I know I cannot.” He didn’t wait for a response from the Grand Master Eunuch, looking instead to the uncertain young man awaiting the order to proceed. “Shaz.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the Inflictor replied quickly, confused and startled.
“Twenty lashes only. Do you understand?”
Shaz bowed low. “Yes, High One.” He hesitated as if to add something, but caught the sharp shake of the head from Horz. So did Lazar.
This was all planned, then, Lazar realized. Salmeo must have contrived all of this over the past few hours. Impressive. Poor Shaz. He was being set up to make a complete mess of a man’s body and Lazar understood he would have to steel himself against not just the lick of metal against skin but also the certainty of incompetence.
There was nothing he could do. Horz was already indicating that his robes were to be removed. As Shaz unrolled the Snake, Lazar quietly undressed, wishing this could have been a private debacle instead of a public event. He stripped down until he stood only in his white trousers and boots, his dark hair shining against his bronzed body.
On the balcony, behind her veil, Herezah took a long, steadying breath. She had pictured Lazar naked many times in her life; she had dreamed of him moving rhythmically above her, his expression filled with the ecstasy of riding her body. But no imagination could compare to the reality that was Lazar. He was, to her despair, infinitely more desirable in life than he had been in her dreams. He stood boldly before them, his broad chest visibly moving now with the deep breaths of anticipation. She took in the sight of his strong arms, shaped by hard muscle, which he usually hid beneath floaty robes. His light-eyed gaze was distant. He had left everyone here, she realized, and he was disappearing to a new place where perhaps he might escape the shock of what was coming. She felt vague pity that his beautiful body would be damaged before she could enjoy it, and squinted at the weapon in the young Inflictor’s hand. From the distance of the balcony where she and Boaz stood, it appeared to all intents and purposes to be no more than a normal whip.
There was nothing she could do to help Lazar—even for cynical reasons of her own pleasure. All she could do was relish this opportunity to see him bared and humbled. After all, what were a few lashes to a strong man? She hoped he would groan from the pain and give her satisfaction for all the years of private groaning she had done on his behalf.
Herezah felt a soft shiver of pleasure ripple through her body as Lazar lifted his eyes and looked at her. Oh, the exquisite defiance in that glower. She wished she could drag him off and bed him now—nothing would give her greater release than to take him when he was so flagrantly thumbing his nose at those around him.
Was he scared? Surely just a little, for the whip looked suddenly fearsome as the young man, Shaz, unfurled it and cracked it in a couple of practice lashes. Zarab’s Breath! But it was more complex than she had imagined—so many whips within the one weapon. It snapped loudly around the courtyard and she noticed Ana flinch. Good! She wanted to ensure Ana knew what she was responsible for. And Lazar, poor fool, blinded by honor, would shed blood today for a girl who would forget his very existence within a few months.
Herezah was dragged from her musings by Lazar’s movement toward the post. She looked at his broad back now as his arms were raised and tied firmly to the crossbeam. The muscles that striped his body stood out in sharp relief as they tensed in readiness and Herezah held her breath, awaiting the sound of the Snake’s first bite.
PEZ WAS RUNNING as hard as his stumpy legs could carry him. Though people laughed and some who knew him called out to the dwarf, he heeded no one. As he ran he felt a burning sensation. Though at first he thought he was getting warm from his exertion, as the feeling grew he realized it was not that sort of heat. It was not on his skin but in his mind and deep within his body. He felt suddenly connected to…what? Whatever it was, it was calling him. Compelling him. Where to? He reached out for the answer as he careened closer to the waterfront.
SHAZ NERVOUSLY FLICKED the Snake. He had not understood why the Deputy Inflictor had suddenly summoned him to his chamber barely an hour ago and given him instructions that made his hair stand on end.
“You will be inflicting a flogging today,” Rah had said flatly.
“Sir? Is this a practice on the dummies?”
“No, Shaz. This will be on a real man.”
Shaz had been understandably shocked. “I am not ready, sir. Only yesterday you said—”
Rah’s eyes had appeared shrouded. He had sounded awkward and his tone had been angry. “I know what I said. I have been given orders.”
“Sir, have I offended?”
“No. Just follow your orders.”
Shaz had risked his superior’s ire still further. “You cannot leave me to this, sir, when I can’t—”
Again he had been interrupted. “We have no say in this! It comes from the highest authority. You have been chosen to do the whipping. Do your best. Remember all that we have taught you. If anyone asks, I have been taken unwell. Do not let your own down.”
Shaz had felt his stomach turn over. “But I am not ready.”
“No. But you also have no choice. This is what you’ve trained for—it’s simply happening earlier than we or you would like.”
“But I know I will injure him. He may not recover.”
“Take a deep breath between lashes. See the place where you intend the whip to hit, visualize the tip on the spot of skin you are looking at, take aim, and snap the whip cleanly, as you’ve been taught. You know what to do—do the best with the skills you have, Shaz.”
“What if I hurt him too much?”
And then Shaz’s superior had looked down, beaten himself. “That is their intention, I imagine.”
It had all fallen into place. Shaz understood that he was merely a pawn in a much bigger game, a game played by far more important people who did not respect the work he and his superiors did, the pride they took in doing it properly. “They’re sending you away deliberately so that your apprentice makes a fool of himself and a mess of some victim’s back?” he had asked, stunned.
Rah had remained silent for a long while, then said, simply and quietly, “You are instructed to use the Snake.”
At this Shaz had quailed. “No sir, I cannot do it. I have never yet touched the Viper’s Nest. I am not ready to wield it.”
“That’s what they’re looking forward to, son.”
“Who is the victim?” Shaz had asked, unable to imagine which poor soul had so offended the Grand Master Eunuch.
“The Spur of Percheron. I am sorry for you, Shaz. Zarab guide your fist.”
And so here he now stood, trembling, terrified, the Snake lying limp in his clenched, sweaty hand, waiting to be fully awakened and unleashed mercilessly. Shaz had always admired the Spur, had watched his long stride around the palace grounds, been impressed by the way his loyal men had leaped to his bidding, had even gladly taken advice once when Lazar had caught him practicing his craft on the dummies.
“Remember that’s a man, Shaz,” the Spur had cautioned. “You must respect his body as you would your own. Keep mindful that he needs to be able to walk away from this post with a little bit of his pride intact. If you whip him too low too often, he won’t be able to walk, and if you concentrate the lashes too high, he won’t be able to lift his arms. Men have work, families, lives. They must be able to return to them. Whippings are punishment only for a transgression—you are not trying to maim or kill the man.”
Shaz had never forgotten that guidance. It echoed in his mind now as he stared at the broad, unblemished torso of the very man who had given it.
“Spur.” Salmeo addressed Lazar. “Are you ready?”
“Get on with it, curse you!” Lazar snarled.
“I am obliged to ask whether you would like something to bite on,” Salmeo offered politely, keen to prolong the high drama of this moment.
“No!” Lazar spat.
“Very well. Horz, please position the odalisque Ana behind the flogging post.”
“What?” Lazar roared, pulling against his bonds as Horz led Ana to stand in front of the Spur, saw the Elim whisper something briefly to her, although she did not respond.
“Forgive us, Spur, but this is part of the tradition when protectorship is claimed,” Salmeo replied. “The true victim must share the pain of the protector.”
“You barbarian, Salmeo.”
The eunuch could not help a small smile but he said merely, “Shaz, you may proceed.”
As the young Inflictor took a deep breath and flicked the Snake back in preparation for his first lash, Boaz turned to his mother. “I shall never forgive those involved in this.”
“It is the Spur’s choice,” Herezah replied, her voice hard and as sparkling as a diamond. “You can only admire him for it. I do.”
As she turned away from Boaz, the Snake struck for the first time.