Emissary (24 page)

‘Don’t be frightened, Rustaf. I want you to ask these men, please, in Galinsean, what their business is in our city.’

Rustaf looked even more terrified, his eyes darting between Zar and foreigners.

Boaz nodded for him to proceed. He did so.

Again Marius answered, but this time in Galinsean, explaining something that Rustaf now looked baffled by.

‘Well?’ Boaz demanded.

‘Majesty,’ Rustaf quailed, ‘I do not understand their Galinsean. I can get odd words but no real meaning. From what he said I think we’re both speaking a foreign version of the language to each other.’

‘You mean I’ve been learning Galinsean for all these years and can’t make myself understood?’

Rustaf bowed. ‘Highness. I have taught you only what I myself was taught. I fear perhaps our library has only the Old Galinsean. We do
not speak the colloquial form, not even the high court form, perhaps. Please forgive me but we have no experience of conversing with Galinseans.’

Boaz growled his displeasure and stood angrily. ‘Grand Vizier, did you not tell me that Jumo was on that ship?’

‘Yes, my Zar. He is waiting outside.’

‘Bring him.’

Salazin knocked at the door of Lazar’s house and should not have been surprised to have it answered by the owner himself. After all, the man had been dead for a year, so why would he have servants at the ready?

Lazar frowned. ‘What are you doing back here?’ Then he shook his head as if to berate himself for asking a deaf and dumb person a question. He opened the door further and called to Pez. ‘Salazin has returned.’

Salazin’s eyebrows lifted to see the dwarf waddling out to greet him—as far as he knew, Pez had been left at the palace when he had escorted Lazar back to his house earlier. It wasn’t necessary to walk with the Spur all the way but Salazin had wanted to see where he lived in case he needed to return one day.

Pez looked equally quizzically at him. ‘Razeen? What are you doing here?’

The man looked startled to be spoken to. His dark eyes darting towards the Spur.

‘Razeen. Spur Lazar is one of us. He is one of Lyana’s followers and he is, to put it graphically, up to his very arse in the same pursuit as us.’ Pez’s expression softened at seeing the flicker of a grin in the mute’s face. ‘I promise, you may speak freely before him.’

Lazar looked all but offended. ‘Speak? This is a mute! And why are you calling him Razeen? The Zar introduced him as Salazin.’

Pez sighed. ‘Long story, Lazar. Just listen, this must be important.’

Razeen, known as Salazin in the palace, bowed to the Spur. ‘I have come to fetch you again for the Zar.’ His voice sounded scratchy from lack of use. He cleared his throat. ‘Two Galinsean dignitaries have arrived aboard a vessel that is anchored off our harbour. No-one can understand them and their Percherese is sorely limited. The Vizier has organised to bring them to the palace in the hope that our Zar will be able to converse with them.’ He stopped abruptly.

‘Galinseans? Is it a war vessel?’ Lazar looked stunned, the surprise of the mute speaking already forgotten in the wake of this alarming news.

‘No, Spur, I don’t believe so, or I think everyone would be more flustered. I’m gathering it is a ship of peace.’

Lazar grunted. ‘No such thing in the Galinsean fleet. You can tell me your long story on the way back Pez. Let’s go. There isn’t much time before dawn.’

‘I’ve told you, you cannot interfere.’

‘And you think that will stop me, dwarf?’

The odd trio, one short, one masquerading as a mute and the other fully covered in a jamoosh ran out of the house bound for the palace.

Elza showed Ana how she looked in a small hand-held mirror. Ana didn’t even bother to glance into it.

‘What does it matter,’ she said softly, ‘how I am clothed or my hair is dressed? All will be ruined shortly.’

‘Even in death you will be beautiful.’

‘Leave me, Elza,’ she said abruptly. ‘I am ready. I await my summons.’

Left alone she said a prayer to Lyana to watch over her father and siblings, to protect Pez in his secrecy and to give Kett strength to face his death as she now faced hers. She begged forgiveness of her Goddess for Kett’s suffering once again and also for not fulfilling what she was perhaps born to do. She felt baffled that she was Lyana’s incarnation—surely there would be internal clues. Pez had more than enough indication that he was a disciple of Lyana. But she? All the early doubts came into sharp focus for her in this quiet hour as she faced her death. If she was Lyana, then she was failing her followers before she’d even had a chance to do anything positive towards
answering their faith. What good was she as an embodiment of the Goddess? Yes, the curiosity with Ellyana in the bazaar over the statue of Iridor and then being able to communicate with Pez through a mind-link, even his claim of transformation were oddities she could not explain but there had to be a mistake. If she was Lyana, she would not be in this position. No. As much as Pez urged her to believe, Ana secretly held that it was Pez’s desire rather than truth. He wanted her to be something special. Wanted her to be part of this strange battle he was part of. She, unfortunately for him, knew in her heart that she was nothing more than a goatherd’s daughter who had consistently let down those who trusted and loved her. Death she now welcomed as a release from the responsibility of having to try again.

She spared a thought for Boaz, who must still be struggling with the decision, but Ana knew her fate was best for him. He wanted something from her she could never give. Love was beyond them. Her heart was no longer hers to present to any but the man who had owned it for more than a year. And now finally her thoughts turned to Lazar and her mood found the darkness she needed where he was concerned. Ana, convinced that Lazar lived, allowed the betrayal that the knowledge brought to give her the courage to face this death with gladness.

He must hate her very much for causing the whipping to have pursued this terrible lie,
feigning his death, tricking all who relied upon him, and through his actions ridiculing the love she held for him. Again she reminded herself that it was a one-sided love. He had never behaved in any manner but formally and correctly towards her; he had never sought such a heartfelt commitment from her and he had deliberately kept her at arm’s length. The fault was hers, she berated herself. She wanted his love and so she had convinced herself that he felt the same way. It was delusion to have ever thought that he had taken such a punishment because he loved her. He was noble and honourable—that’s why he took her flogging. A Stone of Percheron—isn’t that what everyone said of him? Cold, remote, incapable of love?

She tried to blot him from her mind as the tears came. But her thoughts were treacherous. One minute they assured her he had no feelings for her, other than those of duty, and the next they were giving her the memory of him calling out her name as he suffered at the end of the Viper.

Try as she might she could not deny that he had spoken it in agony but there was such passion too, such yearning. And she also could not forget the way he looked at her just before the suffering had begun—his gaze searing through the veils that hid her eyes as if searching for her lips to see her speak his name in response and in love.

Ana wept. She didn’t need to be drowned to be killed. She was well and truly destroying herself on
the harem’s behalf. Now she no longer knew what to believe. Finally, as she steadied herself with the notion that death was within her reach—and thus escape from everything she despised—it mattered not how she viewed Lazar. In the end she allowed herself the small comfort that she had not misread the Spur. He had called out her name on the day of the flogging; that was how he had bade her farewell and he had done so with love. She would take that to the bottom of the river as her dying thought.

She heard a sound behind her and turned. Shadowed in the doorway was the unmistakable shape of the Grand Master Eunuch.

‘Ah, sweet child, and so you finally shed those tears,’ he lisped. His swathes of ruffled silks made a rich sound as he stepped into the pit, light of toe and bringing with him the fragrance of violets. ‘It is near dawn, child, and time to go to your gods…or goddess, if you please.’ He giggled like one of the young girls in the harem at his supposed jest.

‘Who will be in attendance?’ she asked, drying her face hurriedly with her hands, not wanting Salmeo to see any further grief from her.

He tutted. ‘Surely you don’t want an audience?’

‘No. That’s why I ask. I am hoping no-one is there.’

‘We need witnesses, Ana, to sign your death statement.’

‘Who? Not the Zar?’

He smiled cruelly. ‘You flatter yourself, child. No, the Valide and I will be doing the honours—if that makes any difference to you?’

‘That is suitable,’ she said and then said no more, leaving him to work out precisely what she meant by it.

‘You look very beautiful, almost ethereal and very fitting on this ghostly dawn. Wait until you see it, child.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Oh, you’ll see soon enough. The boatman and executioner await you, Ana, my dear. Do you need another moment to say a final prayer?’

‘No. I’m ready.’

‘Good.’ He signalled to someone outside. A member of the Elim entered. ‘Bind her.’

‘Salmeo.’

‘Yes?’

‘Tell me how Kett is?’

‘Oh, not nearly as brave as you, child. But I do have some good news for him. He will not be ganched as originally commanded by the Zar. He is to be drowned also.’

‘How come?’ she asked, secretly pleased.

‘Something to do with dignitaries arriving unannounced. The Zar does not want the palace gates to be crowded by eager onlookers of an execution. I have no further details, only an order from our Zar that Kett’s sentence is to be changed to drowning.’

‘Why not drown us both together?’ she asked fiercely.

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘It’s certainly a warm morning and I’m not sure I could face the discomfort of standing in the hot sun later and listening to Kett’s dread wails.’ And he laughed. ‘Now come, child. I know those shackles are tricky to manoeuvre but I’m sure you’d rather walk to your place of death than be carried.’

Jumo bowed solemnly to Boaz. As with Lazar, the man looked as if he’d aged since Boaz last saw him. He found a sad smile for the loyal servant.

‘Jumo, welcome back. I have some news to share later,’ he said cryptically, unable to announce it so publicly yet. ‘But for now I must ask if you can help us at all with our Galinsean visitors that we cannot communicate ably with.’

‘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 own mouth, Majesty, that you did execute the favourite 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 favourite 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 signalled 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 theatre—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 offence, 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, incredulous at such audacity. He noticed 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 towards the door behind the Zar. ‘Silence,’ he called to those still reacting to the mention of war.

Jumo cleared his throat, realising he could no longer fully protect the secret from the audience. It mattered not anyway, he now decided, with Lazar probably long picked clean by the creatures of the sea. ‘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 do that 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 back from where it came, 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 was unfazed by the sarcasm at his expense. None of this mattered to him personally, although war between the realms could aid him in his own mission. With Percheron engaged in battle, no-one would pay any attention to his more sinister business. ‘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 he had felt himself out of step with his chief counsellor. The man seemed eager for the realms to clash and he also appeared too casual about something so critical, almost enjoying everyone’s angst as though it mattered not to him. How could this be? Surely the Vizier would do anything alongside his Zar to prevent war
coming to peaceful Percheron? He didn’t have time to ponder it now but he was not going to allow his realm to go to war simply because it felt threatened or needed to save face. Thank Zarab Grand Vizier Tariq was not running this realm or they’d probably already be engaging Galinsea in battle. Of course, no-one but Pez could know he had the ultimate answer to their problem and he thanked his god again that Lazar had been returned from the dead. ‘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 and Boaz watched Jumo first, taking secret delight in watching the former servant’s eyes widen in shock and his mouth gape. There was no fooling the man from the north. He knew who this was instantly, just from the way the newcomer walked, and in spite of the beard, although it seemed no-one else reacted quite as fast.

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 but no-one except the Zar could see this. Boaz smiled as the teary man reached for Lazar as he passed, as though Jumo needed to reassure himself through touch that this man was real and not a vision. 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.’ He 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 men now kneeling, their heads touching the ground at his feet. ‘Zar Boaz, please forgive this untimely show.’ His voice was now clearly recognised by his soldiers, whose once solemn expressions were replaced
with a combined look of relief mixed with disbelief.