Pez looked at him with an expression Boaz struggled to read; it seemed to be a mixture of deep disappointment and shock. He watched with private regret as the small man gathered himself, cleared his throat. “My manner of arrival was just a jest, my Zar. A surprise,” he said, bowing, his hand touching his heart in the formal manner used for everything from salutations to apology in Percheron. “I’ve missed you,” he added with a slight tone of injury that sounded genuine to Boaz—as genuine as the swift attack that followed. “You don’t seem to really need my company these days, Highness, not now that you have your groveling Grand Vizier to play with.”
Boaz bristled. “You know he’s not groveling. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“I don’t know anything anymore, Highness, because you don’t include me. I deeply regret missing breaking bread with you. I’m sure the Vizier kept you company, though.”
“You’re not jealous, are you, Pez?” Boaz couldn’t help himself; his voice dripped sarcasm.
“Of Tariq?” Pez asked, sounding incredulous. “Now you jest, my Zar.” The dwarf ’s obvious hurt cut like a blade, and Boaz guiltily rushed to reassure his friend.
“I didn’t think so. There’s nothing to envy. He intrigues me, that’s all.”
“Is it?”
“Well, surely his chameleonlike changes fascinate you?”
“In a different way from you, perhaps, my Zar,” Pez said, his expression still pained.
“How so?”
“You say you find him intriguing. Personally, I find him dangerous.”
Boaz gave a snort of disbelief. “Dangerous? Tariq?”
Pez grew grave. He did not say anything but simply stared hard at the Zar.
Boaz filled the awkward silence. “But that’s ridiculous. Dangerous to whom?”
“I’m not sure…not yet.”
“You’re being paranoid. Who could Tariq endanger?”
“You, me, the Valide, your harem…do you want me to go on?”
Boaz shook his head. Where did Pez get such nonsense? Annoyed, he filled his voice with sarcasm again. “He’s dangerous to my mother? Do explain.”
Pez didn’t hesitate. “Prior to your father’s death, who would you say aligned himself most closely with Herezah the Absolute Favorite?”
Boaz looked away momentarily, irritated to have led himself to this point.
“You asked me to explain, so I’m trying,” Pez said, his tone friendly as ever now.
Boaz sighed. “All right, it was Tariq.”
“Indeed. I think now the Valide would have to all but make an appointment to meet him face-to-face.”
“She’s in the harem. He can’t—”
“Don’t make excuses, my Zar. You know I’m right. And while he’s been curiously withdrawing from the Valide, he has invested that time ingratiating himself with you.”
“It is his task, his duty as Vizier.” Boaz heard the defensiveness in his tone and felt his temper stoke.
Pez shrugged. “I suppose so,” he said, and began humming to himself.
“You’re infuriating, Pez.”
“Oh, but that’s my task, my duty as your royal buffoon, my Zar,” Pez replied humorlessly, echoing the Zar’s earlier words.
Boaz helplessly heard his voice rise. “I won’t have you treat me like a child.”
Pez rounded on him. “Then don’t act like one!”
It was the first time in his life that Boaz had been scolded in such stern fashion by his friend. “How dare you,” he said, a voice as wintry as though it were coming from the Shagaire ice caps.
Whether Pez had intended such provocation or not, it seemed he wasn’t going to retract his insult. “I dare, my Zar, because I care about you.”
“Is this how you spoke to my father?” Boaz snarled.
“I had no need to.”
“And you will never have an opportunity to address me so again.”
Pez nodded sadly. “Then Tariq has won, my Zar. Your father despised the Vizier…and for good reason.”
“Give me that reason!” Boaz bellowed.
Pez would not give him the satisfaction. “I shouldn’t have to. You should feel it as I do,” the dwarf accused.
Boaz pulled back as if stung. “Begone, dwarf. I’ll choose to surround myself with whomever I want.”
But Pez wasn’t quite finished. “Yes, that’s why I fear for you, my Zar. You should dismiss him as your father always wanted to. You can, you know, because your reign is still young. Mark my words, Zar Boaz, you will regret it if you don’t. And now I am gone, Majesty.” Despite his awkward gait, the dwarf managed a noble air as he walked toward the door.
Boaz spoke to his childhood friend’s back. “I shall summon you should I ever want to see you again, Pez. Don’t visit me without invitation.”
Pez turned and their gazes met, then locked, before Pez dipped his glance in required deference to the Zar and removed himself fully from the chamber.
Boaz sat down heavily as the door closed. His heart was racing. He had never felt as lonely as he did just then with Pez’s words echoing in his mind.
PEZ FELT HOLLOW. THAT conversation certainly hadn’t gone according to plan. He had hoped to use the element of his surprise arrival to bluff his way through any question of his absence. But the Zar had seemed agitated when he arrived and Pez suspected his timing had been ill chosen. And now he no longer had the ear of the Zar—or his indulgence. For the first time in over two decades, he was vulnerable. And it was his own fault; he had brought it all upon himself.
He had traveled blindly since leaving Boaz’s chambers, his legs moving as if by memory rather than by present attention, but Pez found himself crossing the threshold of the harem and knew he would find comfort here.
She was sewing, a look of disgust on her face as she poked the tiny needle through her silk.
“Pez!” one of the other girls cried with delight, and it was obvious they were all looking for a distraction.
The tutor’s pinched expression turned even more sour as Pez scratched at his crotch and belched. The class disintegrated into laughter, and the helpless tutor, unable by palace law to banish the clown, took her leave with a promise to return after the midday meal for more of the same.
“Let’s swim with the fishes,” Pez suggested, pretending to glide through make-believe water.
“We’re not allowed outside, Pez,” someone told him.
He looked to Ana, who was sucking at a finger she had pricked upon seeing him, and smiled. “We have to sew adequately first,” she agreed, sighing.
But already the class had broken up and girls were moving into groups, munching on the platters of fruit and confections a host of servants had delivered. Pez knew the garammala pipes would inevitably follow.
Pez glanced toward the food and back to Ana. It was an invitation she declined with a soft shake of her head. “You’re looking thin,” he whispered.
“And you’re looking miserable. What’s happened?”
He told her very briefly and watched as something akin to his own pain settled across her face. “With Boaz in this mood he might permit anything,” he concluded.
“Are you sure he has banished you?” she asked, referring to the Zar’s dismissal and warning.
“Quite. I could hardly mistake the finality of his words. I can only show my face if and when he summons me. Our friendship is over.”
“I don’t think so. Even the little I know of our Zar suggests he will think it through and regret the way the discussion went.”
“You may be right,” he whispered, moving to stand on his head and act out his part.
“Salmeo for sure will take every advantage of this new turn of events,” Ana said softly, frowning.
“And the Valide will relish any opportunity to return years of frustrating harassment with cruel interest,” he asserted, carefully watching that no one was paying them any attention.
“Oh, Pez. What are we going to do to help you?”
“I must lay low for a while, not be seen around too much. Forgive me if I disappear.”
“You can’t leave me.”
“I won’t, I promise. I’d better go now, but I’ll come tonight. Leave your window open.”
“My window?” she queried, watching him roll back to his feet and pull an ugly face at a girl passing by, who giggled. “I’m on the top floor.”
“Just do as I ask,” he said, winking before skipping out of the room.
THE VALIDE SMILED AS she took her seat in the Chamber of Silence. It had been so many years since she had been in this area of the palace that she had forgotten it existed. This was the chamber where she had been first presented as a newly purchased slave to the Valide Zara of the day, a stern, seemingly permanently scowling woman, who had fortunately lost her position soon after. Herezah pursed her lips as she recalled what had happened. The scowling Valide’s son, Zar Koriz, had died suddenly and with his death claimed his mother’s long-sought and powerful position. He had fallen prey to the feared bloatfish, which earned its name from the fact that it swelled grotesquely as it died in the fishing nets. Though it was considered a delicacy in Pecheron, it required very special handling to ensure that the liver was fully removed, for that organ contained some of the most powerful toxins known, and eating even the tiniest morsel of it meant certain death. Zar Koriz was a fine cook, and had prided himself on being skilled at cleaning and gutting this favorite fish with precision. He did just that after one of his regular fishing expeditions. These were days when no one dared even offer advice to the Zar unless asked, and although one of Koriz’s newest aides found the courage to suggest that it would be best to take the fish back to the palace, the Zar scoffed. He wanted to cook the fish on the banks of the Daramo, the swift-moving river that flowed into the Faranel. It was on these same shores that the aide lost his tongue for his trouble and the Zar lost his life. The poison was swift but not fast enough to prevent immense suffering as the vicious toxin gradually claimed every inch of his body with paralysis. By the time his shocked party got the Zar back into the city, all of his major organs had burst and he was bleeding from his nostrils, ears, mouth. He was dead before he could even be laid in his chamber.
This story had always stayed with Herezah, not so much because of its colorful details but because of this particular Zar. It amazed her that, despite this Zar’s predisposition to punish his servants mercilessly for something so innocent as trying to offer him protection, he nonetheless had a deep soft spot for his half brothers and had refused his mother’s pleas to execute them when he took the throne. Zar Koriz’s compassion for his siblings had worked in her favor, for his favorite brother was Joreb and it was Joreb who took the throne after Koriz’s death, his eyes still wet from weeping over his lost brother. Joreb’s mother had insisted upon tradition and the remaining half brothers had been swiftly dealt with.
The new Valide, however, chose not to dismantle the harem, for the girls were still young and new. Joreb inherited his brother’s harem and with it came a precocious girl called Herezah.
She hadn’t been in this chamber since that fateful day when the old Valide’s stern gaze had fallen upon her. She had been chosen within seconds of that first glance, her fate sealed, although her destiny—like any woman of the harem—was her own to carve.
And carve it I did, she thought now, pride catching in her throat as she saw her son enter the room. He looked taller, more imposing, and there was more color in his cheeks. He also looked miserable, which Herezah presumed was fear of what he was about to witness. He was always a squeamish one, she thought as he bent to take her hand.
“Mother,” he acknowledged, kissing her hand.
She felt a shiver of delight. He was certainly making a show of affection. And to be invited to this private event! She was going to put this morning’s pointed discussion behind them. She had overreacted, she was sure. “Darling, I’m sorry about my mood earlier. Forgive me. And thank you for sharing this with me,” she said smoothly.
To her surprise, he waved away her apology as if it had not troubled him. “I can’t promise a fun afternoon, I’m afraid,” he said, falling heavily into his chair beside her. “This is duty, not my idea of entertainment.”
Herezah was secretly pleased to know he continued to put duty ahead of his fears, but she knew better than to mention it. “Then where is your clingy clown? Surely your court jester should be here to provide that entertainment,” she replied lightly, and then, contriving concern, she looked to where the Grand Vizier stood patiently. “Tariq, where is the dwarf?”
The Vizier glided toward the royal couple and bowed. She hadn’t seen him in several weeks, and although she knew he was in his senior years, he looked more dashing than ever. His beard was neatly groomed, not oiled, and shorter now—no longer demanding to be noticed. It was also no longer the rich glossy black that the Tariq of old had insisted on achieving through dye. He had allowed the peppery gray to emerge, and to Herezah’s expert eye it looked far more distinguished. His neatly kempt hair was also now the same color. She approved.
He answered Boaz, not her. “I was told he left your chambers not so long ago, my Zar. Perhaps you know better than I do of his whereabouts,” he suggested, frowning.
Again Boaz waved away the concern as if it did not trouble him. “I know not of his location, Vizier. Carry on,” he ordered.
Tariq bowed again and withdrew. A signal was given, and as a tray of refreshments was brought in for the royals, a small line of young men was led in through another door.
“Is something wrong, son?” Herezah inquired, distracted from the Vizier and intrigued by her child’s mood. Following her instincts, she continued. “Are you upset about Pez?” Boaz turned to her, and by the surprise she could see in his eyes, she knew she was right with her wild stab in the dark. “Has something happened to him?” She knew how much he cared for the dwarf. This would be the right initial question to pose—it showed the right element of care.
“No, he is well. He has drawn my ire, that’s all,” her son said casually.
“Oh?”
“That’s all,” he repeated, and she could tell from his tone that he would not be giving her any more on this subject. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t make it her business to learn more, but she had subtle methods for achieving that. The notion that Pez had finally displeased a Zar was too delicious a prospect; this day was certainly turning out well. Herezah patted her son’s arm, smiling inwardly, but deliberately and deftly changed the subject as she reached for a glass of bloodred pomegranate juice. Quite fitting a choice of beverage considering what was about to occur, she noted. “I haven’t been in this chamber since I was chosen for the Zar’s harem.”
Boaz sipped the drink in his hand. He was clearly distracted, showed no interest in her comment. She tried again. “So tell me more about the mute guard, Boaz.”
He sat up straighter, presumably understanding now that he must appear more interested. “These men you see here,” he said, motioning with his goblet across her line of vision, “have been selected as my new private bodyguard.”
“Selected?”
“Volunteered first, then culled for suitability and finally interviewed by me as the final seal of approval.”
“And these fine young bloods are going to watch over you day and night? You mentioned that the Vizier was worried about some sort of attack.”
Boaz nodded. “These men are all trained in the fighting arts and can protect me. They have committed to memory a series of signals so we can communicate—they are all in perfect health.”
“I can see,” she said approvingly as the men stripped down to plain white baggy pants, revealing hardened, sculpted bodies, and knelt before the Zar. Herezah was reminded of the Spur in a similar stage of undress just a year ago. How that sight had brought a rush of blood to her cheeks…
Tariq cleared his throat and Herezah gave him her attention. “My Zar, Valide Zara,” he said, bowing graciously, “these
men will protect you with their lives. And though they will always be close to you, my Zar, what they see will never be revealed.”
Boaz nodded. “Do you men all freely volunteer for this role?”
Each man, with one exception, stood, bowed, and said the formal words “I do, my Zar. I give all of me.”
Boaz frowned at the last man, who, at a signal from the Grand Vizier, simply bowed and put his hand over his heart. Boaz glanced toward Tariq, who gave a smug, almost imperceptible nod.
The Zar took a slow deep breath before he gave the next command. “Let it be so,” he finally said. “Proceed.”
Boaz and Herezah watched as each man’s head was shaved in ritual fashion while the Elim who were present chanted a song of farewell, similar to that sung prior to the eunuchs’ cutting.
Each was then given a tiny glass of a dark liquid to drink.
Tariq whispered nearby, “We wait a short while for that to take effect.”
“What is it?” Boaz asked.
“The dulling potion,” Herezah answered for Tariq. “It doesn’t prevent pain, but it puts the victim into an introverted mood, I’m told.”
Tariq nodded. “The Valide is absolutely correct. It takes the men within themselves. The physic who prepared this potion says it makes them feel safe, at peace.”
“That is considerate of you, Tariq,” Boaz commented, unused to any pity being shown during the more barbaric practices of Percheron.
Herezah’s and Tariq’s gazes met, sympathetic amusement in that shared glance.
It was Herezah who responded. “This is not done out of kindness, son,” she whispered. “It is given to these men to keep them still. A struggling man is a difficult one to control. Putting your volunteers into the soft stupor we speak of will ensure an easier time of it for the administrators.”
“I see,” Boaz replied, showing none of the disappointment he felt. “Mother, do you enjoy witnessing events such as this?”
“No,” came the reply. “But I will never shirk my duty.”
“This is not your duty. I gave you the choice to attend or not attend. The decision was yours.”
Emissary Page 8
