Emissary

by Fiona McIntosh

  “They are here, Majesty, because of what I had tried very hard to share. That Lazar had died.”

  Boaz assumed as much. “I see. And did they understand you?”

  Marius and Lorto watched the exchange with studied interest, frowning as they tried to grasp one word in five or six as the Percherese spoke their fast, fluid, and elegant language.

  “I’m afraid they did. There were a lot of gestures and hand waving, pointing, and frustration. It took me a whole day of difficult explanation to get some semblance of the news across to them.”

  “Thank you. Can you explain, then, why they are here?”

  Jumo looked at his Zar with an expression of disbelief. “To hear it from your mouth, Majesty, that you did execute the favorite son of Galinsea.” He said this in innocence, unaware that the Zar did not already know the truth of Lazar’s heritage.

  A murmur went up around the room and the Zar glared, his eyes roving past soldiers and Elim alike. He couldn’t blame them, however. This news that Lazar was a favorite of Galinsea was a shock. All but he still assumed the man was of Merlinea.

  “And then what?”

  Jumo looked appropriately embarrassed that he had to answer this. “The obvious, Majesty,” he began, but his eyes shifted as he spoke—a mute had entered from behind.

  Boaz noticed him, too, and signaled him to come forward. “Carry on, Jumo,” he urged as the mute signed a well-disguised message to him.

  Maliz, also watching these proceedings with great interest—albeit detached—as though he were participating in a piece of high drama, felt a spike of frustration that he couldn’t make out what was being exchanged between the Zar and the mute. Salazin was being deliberately careful, which was odd—he’d have expected the mute to be deliberately careless so that he, the Vizier, could easily make out the conversation. He did not let that frustration show on his calm expression, however, as everyone heard Jumo finish what he’d begun.

  “…considering the weight of offense, Majesty, I would hazard they will declare war.”

  Now a fresh murmuring erupted.

  “They’ve come here masquerading as peacemakers but in truth to declare war?” Boaz asked, his tone incredulous. Neither of the visitors looked in the least bit fearful for their own lives, which could so easily be taken from them at a single command from the Zar. He gave a final signal to Salazin, who moved toward the door behind the Zar. “Silence,” he called to those still reacting to the mention of war.

  Jumo cleared his throat. “Highness, I cannot know for sure because I, too, am at the same disadvantage with language, but in light of who Lazar was,” he said carefully, “I can appreciate their need to seek the truth. This is not a declaration of war yet. From what I can tell, these men from the Galinsean palace hierarchy have been sent on a mission to establish the facts.”

  “But how did they think they would with the language barrier?”

  “That is my fault, Majesty. I conveyed somehow that you were fluent in Galinsean.” Jumo looked suddenly mortified that he’d insulted the Zar.

  Boaz rescued him. “Fret not, I have been taught a more ancient tongue of the Galinseans,” he said generously. “It seems their language has long since evolved.”

  The Grand Vizier stepped forward, clearly tired of the talk and keen for some action. “Your Highness, how may we solve this issue? Frankly, if these men are here to declare war, I say we execute them now and send their ship into open waters, all crew dead and the vessel torched. Let that be our message to the Galinsean pigs who covet our realm.”

  “Nothing too inflammatory, then, Tariq? Diplomacy at its most subtle.”

  Maliz appeared unfazed by the sarcasm at his expense. “A declaration of war needs to be met head on, Zar Boaz.”

  The Zar’s eyes narrowed. It was the first time in a year that he had felt himself out of step with his chief counselor. The man seemed eager for the realms to clash and he also appeared too casual about something so critical. It was almost as though he were enjoying everyone’s angst—did it not matter to him? Surely the Vizier wanted to prevent war coming to peaceful Percheron? He didn’t have time to ponder the Grand Vizier’s strange reaction now, but he was not going to allow his realm to go to war simply because it felt threatened or needed to save face. Of course, no one but Pez could know he had the ultimate answer to their problem; he thanked his god again that Lazar had been returned from the dead and for his perfect timing in returning. “I am not a warmonger, Grand Vizier. Let me show you how I will resolve this issue—without it escalating into bloodshed.”

  Boaz raised a hand and silence fell heavily across the room as a door behind him opened and a tall, golden-haired man strode into the Throne Room. Boaz did not turn to greet the man or accept his low bow.

  “Your Highness,” the man said. Boaz kept his gaze on Jumo, taking secret delight in watching the former servant’s eyes widen in shock and his mouth gape.

  The Vizier looked quizzical, the soldiers hesitant, unsure of what this stranger’s arrival meant. Pez danced in from another entrance, but even his antics could not sustain a lengthy distraction from Lazar, who had everyone’s attention but looked uncomfortable with it as he approached the visitors at a nod from the Zar.

  Jumo was now trembling in disbelief, though no one but the Zar noticed. Boaz smiled as the teary man reached for Lazar as he passed, as though Jumo needed to reassure himself through touch that he was real. A look from Lazar obviously communicated that their reunion must wait.

  “Marius,” Lazar said, holding out his hand. He looked and nodded at Lorto. “We have not met,” he said to the younger man, “but welcome to Percheron, my home for the last sixteen years or so and to its Stone Palace.”

  The familiar sound of that voice was resonating within the minds of the uncertain soldiers; even the senior members of the Elim were shaking their heads with disbelief now. But more shocking to everyone in the room was that the old man, Marius D’Argenny, fell to his knees before Lazar.

  “Lucien, Majesty.” The diplomat kissed Lazar’s feet in the Galinsean way of greeting royalty.

  “Majesty?” Boaz repeated, on his feet now, perturbed.

  Lazar bowed to Boaz and quickly spoke a few guttural words to the two now kneeling men, their heads touching the ground at his feet. “Zar Boaz, please forgive this untimely show.” His voice was now clearly recognized by his soldiers, whose once solemn expressions were replaced with looks of relief mixed with disbelief.

  “Shield!” Lazar spoke into the increasing noise. “This is your Spur commanding you to return to your barracks and posts. I shall speak with the men as one soon. Go now.” His voice softened in acknowledgment of their obvious joy. “Please,” he added. “All will be explained.”

  They hushed instantly at the command of their Spur, quietly filing out of the Throne Room; their presence was no longer required. Spur Lazar could single-handedly protect their ruler.

  “Elim. You may return to your quarters, too,” Boaz echoed, keen to clear the room and have a more private discussion. He wasn’t exactly sure what was going on but he sensed that it would be best to expose as few people as possible to it.

  The men in red followed the soldiers, leaving behind the bowed visitors, a shaken Jumo, the Grand Vizier, clearly baffled, silent Salazin, and Pez, who was walking around the rim of the room on his hands, making noises like a duck.

  Boaz spoke calmly. “Tariq, in case you haven’t guessed, may I reintroduce you to Lazar, who has returned to us from the dead and was reinstated an hour or so ago as our Spur.”

  If the Grand Vizier was surprised he didn’t show it. “Ah, the late-night visitor. Spur Lazar, welcome back. That was something of a theatrical entrance, I must say, and my, how you have changed.”

  Lazar looked at the shrouded eyes of the Grand Vizier. “I could accuse you of similar change, Tariq. You look very well, very rejuvenated,” the Spur replied.

  Boaz interrupted whatever his Vizier was going to say in response. “Laza
r, will you explain why these men are paying such homage, why they called you Majesty?”

  Lazar glanced toward Jumo as Pez also ceased his duck noises. “Your Highness, may these men stand, please?”

  Boaz nodded and Lazar spoke quickly in Galinsean. Both men moved slowly to their feet, looking at Lazar with a quiet awe that was not missed by the Zar and served to further frustrate him. “Well?” he prompted.

  “Zar Boaz, this is very difficult for me to reveal to you. It is something I kept from your father…rightly at the time we met, I thought. But maybe it was wrong of me to perpetuate the secret for so many years.”

  Boaz frowned. “Secret? What secret?”

  “My true identity, Highness.”

  Boaz was catching on. “Is Percheron in genuine danger?”

  “It was.”

  “Your parents are not Merlinean. They are not even just straightforward Galinsean aristocracy, are they?” Boaz held his breath, his quick mind had guessed but he remained incredulous at what was about to be confirmed.

  “No, my Zar. In this I have beguiled you and your father before you.”

  “Marius D’Argenny called you Lucien. Is this your true name?”

  Lazar shrugged softly. “I took on my new persona many years ago. I was once Lucien. I am now Lazar.”

  Boaz felt soft flutters of panic within his belly but refused to let them take hold and fly. He reminded himself that he was the Chosen Son of Joreb; he would not let his father down. “And Lucien, I’m presuming, is one and the same son of the King of Galinsea.”

  “He is.”

  Boaz nodded, feeling the truth thump in his chest, send tendrils of fright through his gut. “How can this be?”

  “It is a long story, Highness, as I warned earlier. But it is nothing to do with Percheron. Coming here was an accident—as you know, I was captured by Slaver Varen—not that I have regretted it. Well, perhaps recently…” He trailed off, sounding unsure.

  Boaz was hardly listening. His mind was racing. “How bad is it, Lazar? I know my history but contemporary Galinsean politics is not my specialty. There are several sons in the royal family, am I right?”

  Lazar nodded grimly. “I am one of three sons. I have a sister, too.”

  “But which son are you, Lazar?”

  Now the Spur looked deeply abashed. “Firstborn, Highness.”

  Boaz closed his eyes momentarily to stem his rising alarm. “Galinsea believes we have executed the heir to its throne?”

  “It seems so, by the presence of these dignitaries.”

  “Jumo, what in Zarab’s name possessed you? Had I known precisely where and to whom you were headed, I would never have permitted it.”

  Jumo hung his head. “Having lost my master, Highness, and in the manner we lost him—through betrayal and treachery from within the palace—I no longer cared about anything. It seemed the right thing to do. I admit I wasn’t thinking too clearly, in my grief. I had to get away from Percheron and I needed to somehow do more for my friend than I had.” He stopped, embarrassed at such a long speech.

  Boaz knew there was little point in arguing about what might have been. He returned his attention to his Spur. “Well, perhaps you could explain to them what actually occurred.”

  “Yes, Highness. Excuse me a moment.”

  The Zar and Vizier waited patiently as the Spur switched and spoke quickly in the guttural language of Percheron’s traditional enemy. Questions were asked by the messengers and Lazar replied. Boaz could tell from the dignitaries’ faces what they were learning as their expressions moved from interest to disdain, despair to dawning interest and finally puzzlement.

  “What are they frowning at?” Boaz inquired.

  Lazar looked uncomfortable again, flicking a glance toward Pez, who was miraculously quiet in the corner, smelling his shoes. “They wonder why my survival was kept a secret from you.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I have told them that it is as baffling to us as it is to them.”

  “You did tell them about Zafira? And that she has disappeared, so we cannot even ask her until she has been located?”

  Boaz noticed how Lazar stiffened at the mention of Zafira; he caught how the Spur’s gaze flicked briefly to the Grand Vizier in hesitation before he answered. “Not yet, Zar Boaz.” It was a strange response, the Zar felt; hardly a comprehensive reply, with no explanation as to why he would withhold this information. Or why he seemed reluctant to speak freely.

  “You knew the priestess?” Tariq interrupted whatever Boaz was about to say.

  Lazar looked at the Grand Vizier with disdain, and deliberately gave Boaz the impression that the question seemed irrelevant to him. “I ran across her from time to time. In my line of work, you get to know most people in the city.” He turned away.

  Maliz persisted. “But how is she connected to you?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry, Tariq, I’m only just realizing that you know none of this,” Boaz broke in. “After the flogging Zafira cared for Lazar, but she told us—that is, Jumo and myself—that Lazar had died and that she had given him to the sea at his request.”

  “Why the priestess?” Tariq continued, his voice husky with keen interest.

  Lazar shrugged. It was obvious to Boaz that the Spur didn’t have a ready answer for Tariq’s curious interrogation and appeared to be choosing his words with care. There was an undercurrent here that the Zar could not fathom, but he was sure Lazar was reluctant to explain more to the Grand Vizier.

  “I took him to the temple,” Jumo said into the silence. “Does it matter why now?” he asked, loading his question with disgust. “Lazar was dying. We needed somewhere peaceful, private. We went there in our misery. Is that wrong, Grand Vizier Tariq?”

  Boaz watched his counselor instantly withdraw his curiosity, turn it around as if it were only a source of mild interest. “No, not at all. I just can’t imagine why a man of Zarab would be taken to the place of the fallen goddess.”

  Again Tariq’s odd answer gnawed at Boaz. Jumo was right, why did it matter where Lazar had been taken? What mattered were the lies that had followed. He took control of the conversation again. “Tariq, I want you to put your ear to the ground with all your networks and see if you can find out more about Zafira’s disappearance.” He noticed Lazar quickly hide a smirk. “You, too, Spur Lazar—use all the resources required to track her down. We cannot understand your situation fully until we have her explanation. The Galinseans deserve that.”

  As Lazar translated for the visitors, the Vizier asked, “And if we cannot locate her?”

  “Well, we must find a new way to appease our aggressors.”

  “Zar Boaz?” Lazar cut in.

  “Yes, Spur? Incidentally, is that how I should address you, or is there a formal title I should now accord you? Are you still our Spur or—”

  “I am your Spur,” Lazar said, cutting across the Zar’s words.

  Boaz paused, watching Lazar intently for any guile before he nodded. “All right, go on.”

  “This small delegation is not simply on a fact-finding tour. They require that a representative of the Percherese Crown travel to the capital and explain formally what has occurred…”

  “Why?”

  Lazar continued as if the Zar had not spoken. “With your assurance that I am alive.”

  Boaz sighed, aggrieved. “Can we not just send you in person, Lazar? I hate to lose you so soon after having you returned to us, but we are still presumably under the threat of war, until this is done. Am I right?”

  “Yes, my Zar.”

  “However, your countrymen don’t seem at all intimidated by being here. They obviously don’t fear for their lives, so perhaps war is expected to be averted,” Boaz noted.

  “My father will carry out his threat if Marius and Lorto are not returned whole to Galinsea, together with your emissary.”

  “You are my emissary. Are you not proof enough?”

  Lazar looked pained. “That’s part of the long story,
Highness. I cannot return to Galinsea with ease.”

  “But Jumo told us long ago you had talked about it only—”

  “Talk is talk, Highness. I was considering taking a journey from Percheron—an extended one, yes—but whether I was going to return to Galinsea was questionable.”

  “Why? Is it dangerous for you to return there?”

  “You could describe it that way. I have been formally banished.”

  “But you’re the heir!” Boaz exclaimed, taking a step forward in his exasperation. “They’ve sent a delegation to learn of your fate. Zarab curse me, they’re prepared to declare war over you.”

  “All true,” Lazar replied, frowning uncomfortably. “But that doesn’t mean they forgive, Highness.”

  Boaz pointed, realizing only belatedly that this was a habit of his father’s when Joreb’s ire was up. “Zarab save me, Lazar. What could you do to your family that would have them pull in two such passionate directions?” he demanded, then added with incredulity, “They would slaughter a nation for you but not forgive you?”

  Lazar remained calm in the face of the Zar’s rising anger. “I’m afraid the King of Galinsea can be capricious, Highness. His Queen more so.”

  “I take it you mean potentially fatal?”

  “Potentially. At the very least I would be thrown into the dungeons for the rest of my days. I am more useful here and my loyalties are to this Crown.”

  “Why, Lazar?”

  It was as if a cloud passed through Lazar’s thoughts, for Boaz saw his Spur’s expression measurably darken as his eyes narrowed and he swallowed before answering his Zar. “I renounced the throne, Highness. The why of it seems irrelevant after so long.”

  Boaz shook his head. He briefly thought of the possibility of sending Ana, but she had no status and was now a condemned woman, about to die. Anyway, he didn’t think her Galinsean was appropriate. “So I need an emissary. I can’t send you and yet I have no one else, not even myself, who speaks Galinsean adequately to make themselves understood in that capricious court!”

  It was only then that Boaz became aware of Pez dancing nearby, mimicking a woman’s voice. He was talking nonsense but Boaz knew the dwarf ’s antics well enough to understand when his friend was conveying a message. Pez leaped onto the Zar’s back, and although this startled everyone, the Percherese in the room all knew better than to react to anything the dwarf did, including this clownish behavior toward the royal.