Odalisque (14 page)

‘It’s interesting that you’ve called me friend twice now.’

‘Aren’t we?’

‘We hardly know one another.’

‘We’ve shared quishtar. It’s enough.’ And her words felt true to him. ‘But what binds us, Lazar?’ she suddenly asked. ‘What compels you here? What makes me know that it is you who approaches even when I can’t see you? What do we have in common?’

He hesitated, ‘I can tell you what attracts me, Zafira, if that would help.’

‘Please,’ she replied, ‘go on.’

‘I think I came to see the statue again. The one in the temple.’

‘Lyana.’

He nodded. ‘I have never seen anything as beautiful, and Percheron is filled with beautiful art.’

‘And you like beautiful things, Lazar. It is why you like this odalisque so much perhaps?’

‘How odd that you mention her in the same breath. At times I do feel about Ana the same way I do about the statue. I want to gaze at them for their beauty, it is so arresting, but I want to protect them from those who would do them harm. I want to communicate with them. I think I came here tonight looking for an answer.’

‘And have you found it?’

‘I don’t know. I wanted my mind to be eased and that has certainly been done in talking to you.’

The edges of Zafira’s eyes crinkled as the smile lit her face. ‘That is a high compliment, Spur.’

‘Isn’t that what friends do for one another? They comfort.’

‘Indeed they do.’

‘And does Pez come for comfort?’

‘No. He comes and stirs me up.’ They shared a moment’s amusement. ‘It’s a strange thing, Lazar, but there are times when I feel that Pez knows so much more than he lets on. There is wisdom in that curiously deformed face of his. Has it ever struck you that he looks like a bird?’

‘No!’ he laughed. ‘But I shall certainly study him now you say so. Oh,’ he said, and reached into his pocket. ‘That reminds me. The most curious thing happened around sunset. Ana spotted this old woman in the bazaar—you know, in gold alley?’

Zafira nodded absently. She began clearing away the bowls. ‘Go on, I’m listening.’

‘Well, the old girl was bargaining, selling some gold. I could have sworn it was a chain…’ He frowned to himself as he recalled the scene. ‘Anyway, she was negotiating with an alley cat.’

Zafira, her back to him, made a sound of disgust. ‘At her age she should know better.’

‘Yes, it’s what I thought too. But before the alley cat could close the deal, Ana leapt in and begged the old woman to let her buy from her instead.’

‘Why?’ the priestess said, retrieving the jug and emptying its contents into a pot plant outside one of the small windows.

‘You know, I’m not sure. She said it was because she felt the bargain would not be fair. But there was more to it than that.’

He heard Zafira chuckle quietly by the sink of water where she cleaned the bowls. ‘I suppose you bought it, did you, Lazar?’

‘I did,’ he admitted, sheepish.

She turned with a look of soft admonishment, as though he should not spoil the child so. That expression froze when she looked at what he held out in his hand.

‘Where did you get that?’ she asked in a harsh whisper, dropping the bowl in her hand. It shattered on the floor at her feet.

He was taken aback. The small gold owl sat small but heavy on his palm, warming against his skin. He could swear the jewels in its eyes glinted with a light of their own. ‘This is what Ana bought.’

‘Lazar…’ Zafira said, her tone filled with fear.

‘Yes?’

‘Hide it!’

‘What?’

‘Put it away, now!’

Alarmed, he slipped it back into his pocket. ‘What’s wrong?’ Zafira was breathing heavily and she groaned, leaning against the sideboard. ‘Do you need a healer?’ he asked, uncertainly.

‘No,’ she assured him briskly. She took several deep breaths. ‘That’s Iridor you hold in your hand…or at least his image.’

‘Yes, I know. So?’

Zafira sighed and turned to extinguish two of the three lamps burning, the shattered bowl forgotten. She took a taper and lit it from the remaining lamp then sat down at the table and lit a half-burned candle. The flame instantly threw a glow onto their faces. Lazar felt as though he was being drawn into a secret.

‘How much do you know about the owl?’

He shrugged. ‘As much as the next person, although I should admit I’m rather fond of him. He was the first of the graven images I saw on entering the city…I regard him as…well, as an old friend.’

‘I see,’ Zafira nodded gently. ‘Another coincidence or is it part of the web that binds us?’

He looked at her quizzically.

‘Let me tell you what I know. Iridor,’ she began, ‘is as old as time itself. He is a demigod
who takes the shape of an owl. The owl works for the Goddess. He is her messenger.’

‘And why are you scared by him?’

‘Not by him, Lazar. By those who would see him dead.’

Lazar leaned back and regarded her. Battling with his intrigue was scepticism; she could see that.

‘Come with me,’ she said.

Downstairs she led him again to the statue. ‘Do you see now, Lazar?’

‘Iridor,’ he murmured, looking at the owl on the woman’s shoulder, with its somewhat bemused expression.

‘What does he say to you?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘He is a messenger. What does this sculpture of him say to you?’

Lazar was as honest as he could be. ‘He has a secret.’

‘Ah,’ she replied. ‘Does he wish to share it with you?’

He looked again at the owl. ‘Yes, I believe he does. He seems faintly amused. Isn’t that how he strikes you?’

She shook her head slightly. ‘He looks extremely sombre to me.’

‘No smirk?’

‘Not at all. He has only grave tidings to give to me.’

‘Surely not?’ the Spur said, disbelieving. ‘We are both looking at the same image.’

‘That’s the way of Iridor. He brings different tidings to each; he is one thing to one person and something else to another.’

‘And he belongs to her.’ Lazar reached again to lift the golden statue from his pocket. The eyes did not glow now, although curiously the gold felt warm. He felt Zafira flinch as it emerged. ‘I haven’t told you the whole story yet.’

‘I would hear it but first put that owl away, Lazar, and promise me this, that you will never tell anyone of this possession.’

He regarded her intently, baffled by the fright he read in her eyes. ‘Ana knows of it. It is hers. She asked me to keep it for her.’

‘Then she is supposed to know of him and she was right to ask this of you. It would be confiscated at the palace anyway.’

‘Yes, that’s what she believed. She…’ He hesitated. ‘When I said I would look after it for her she insisted that I not just keep it but that I keep it close. I have no idea why.’

Something registered in the priestess’s eyes. It was like a flare of knowledge but it passed so quickly that Lazar convinced himself he had imagined it. ‘Zafira,’ he said, ‘there is another confusing aspect to our meeting with the hooded old woman.’

She looked again at the statue of Iridor and he obediently secreted it again. ‘Tell me,’ she said.

‘She was a stranger to me, and as Ana had only entered the city an hour or so previous, it was
impossible that the woman could know of her. The girl has never been anywhere beyond her dwelling in the foothills.’

‘So?’

‘So how come this woman called Ana by name?’

They stared at one another, said nothing for a moment. The wick sputtered in the oil lamp and the harbour sloshed gently outside. Otherwise there was silence and it thickened around them.

‘Are you sure Ana did not introduce herself at any time?’

‘Quite sure. It was Ana who picked up on the fact that the woman named us.’

‘Would you recognise this woman again?’

He shook his head, not releasing her gaze. She knew something, or at least suspected something, but he could not read her. ‘She was hooded.’

He saw how her lips thinned and her hands trembled slightly. They had been sure and steady when pouring the quishtar—now Zafira was nervous…or was she scared?

‘Describe what you remember,’ she asked in a somewhat choked whisper.

‘Tiny figure, hooded, dressed in dark clothes—black, I think. Gentle of voice—a beautiful voice, in fact, and if not for that recognisable quality it could be any frail old woman of Percheron.’

‘Not any. Not carrying a statue of Iridor,’ Zafira assured.

‘What are you not telling me, priestess? What is scaring you? What does your life have to do with mine or Ana’s or Pez’s? You are hiding something.’

She shook her head sadly. ‘I hide nothing. I am as confused as you sound, Spur. But I have knowledge and that can be frightening.’

‘What do you know, then?’

She raised her eyes once again to him and they regarded him fiercely.

Her voice was hard when she finally replied. ‘I know only this. With the coming of Iridor, the cycle will turn. The demon is remaking himself.’

Lazar had no comprehension of what she meant and yet her words made his blood feel cold.

‘So what now?’ he asked, lost on this strange path she was leading him.

‘We wait.’

‘For what?’

‘The rising of Iridor.’

Pez felt unsettled having left a still somewhat perplexed young Zar on the pretext that he was fatigued and feeling ill.

He roamed the palace imagining he was on some sort of slippery slope, grabbing for purchase but failing, falling fast into an abyss. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was that was disturbing him. He needed quiet to think it through.

People were used to seeing the dwarf moving through the hallways at all hours, often giggling to himself or suddenly sitting down in a corner or sliding down the banister of a staircase. He almost always appeared distracted, but tonight he needed no artfulness.

Pez’s mind was working overtime. Was it Kett? The young black slave had been the first surprise, he had to admit, and the girl had been the second.

But then this all came afterwards.

The sense of destiny had been niggling at him for a while now. The first inclination that danger was headed his way was the arrival of the old
woman into his life. He frowned. Yes, it all began there.

He pushed aside heavy curtains to enter a darkened room. Moonlight filtered through shutters and as his eyes adjusted to the depths he could see now it was a reception chamber. It looked as though it hadn’t been used in an age. No-one would come in here tonight. Still he took the precaution of hiding in the inky shadows before he allowed his memories of that strange event to filter back into his consciousness.

It was almost four moons ago, when Joreb was still healthy on his throne and the harem had been bustling with the activities of women and their idle chatter. It was an ordinary day, nothing different about it; no omens or warnings. He had been in the harem at the time, awaiting the Bundle Women who brought goods into the protected place. Each had been hand-picked by Salmeo and was required to show proof of his authority—his seal on a small parchment—permitting them to trade within the harem. The Bundle Women’s arrival always caused a stir; anything to break the tedium of another day of bathing, dressing, resting and eating. The women of the harem wanted for nothing—except freedom—but still they bartered furiously for the cheap, gaudy fabrics and silly trinkets these purveyors brought to them. Serious purchases of silks and jewellery were all handled by Salmeo. The Bundle Women were a diversion, nothing more.

One particular woman, younger and sweeter than most, had arrived to peddle ribbons. No-one seemed at all interested in her goods that morning. And so she turned to Pez of all people, a simple bystander—there for amusement and not much else—and offered him a red ribbon. He had looped it around his ear and danced energetically, weaving amongst the wives and odalisques who were rummaging through the displayed goods, making a few laugh, and then shook his head sadly and returned the ribbon to her.

As their fingers touched, she grabbed his hand. ‘I must speak with you, Pez,’ she whispered.

Naturally Pez was taken aback, not just by the nature of her message but by the fact she named him and spoke to him as though he was of sound mind.

‘Come,’ was all he said and he led her to the back of the room. No-one paid any attention but he was glad that Salmeo was not present, for the Grand Master Eunuch missed very little.

The young woman followed, bringing with her several ribbons. ‘Look as though you’re considering them,’ she suggested, although it sounded to him more of a command.

And when he looked up in response he saw that this was no young woman. Before him stood a crone. He was not imagining it—she appeared older than the oldest person he knew. He was also not imagining that she had appeared young only moments earlier. It terrified him, for
Pez, although empowered with the Lore since childhood, deliberately shrouded his talent and hid behind his deformity. If he was honest with himself he would admit that he had never really understood why. His natural abilities with the Lore could make him rich, powerful. But Pez was not seduced by either. Since he had been old enough to appreciate the extent of his skills, he had instinctively kept it secret. He could not explain why. It was as though an inner voice guided him in this decision.

Until the crone had pulled away his sanctuary of secretiveness, no-one, not even Lazar whom he felt he could trust with his life, knew of his Lore skills.

He remembered now, as he sat in the dark, how some of the women glanced over and their gazes slid back to their own negotiations. No-one could see the truth. The crone looked young and desperate to them, trying to get a fool to buy her wares. He saw differently; could see skin stretched as thin as a veil across her skull. It appeared translucent. He could see the marks of age on it and the tiny veins beneath. Her features, although he had stared at them, he could not readily bring to mind now. Her colouring had been ghostly pale and he recalled how he had found himself breathing shallowly from the fright of discovery.

‘Don’t be frightened of me, Pez,’ she said in the kindest voice, handing him a green ribbon.
‘Forgive my guile. I am your friend. We have always been friends.’

‘Who are you?’

‘That is not important. What is important is who you are.’

His expression turned to one of confused query. He did not know what she meant. Had she not just named him, knew who he was?

She seemed to read his thoughts. ‘You are Pez for this battle, yes. But you must know who you truly are. There is so little time. We must gather ourselves. It begins. He is remaking himself.’

‘What begins?’

‘Listen to me,’ she said, her urgency infectious. She looked over and saw that the Bundle Women were packing up their wares. ‘They are leaving and I with them. You must discover yourself.’

She turned to leave but he grabbed her arm, confusion warring with irritation on his face. ‘Who is remaking himself?’

The crone only said one word but it was enough to freeze him to the spot.

He had still not moved even minutes after the departure of the Bundle Women and the harem atmosphere had died back to one of bored quiet. Some of the girls had called for their pipes. Soon they would be in an opium haze of oblivion. No-one took notice of Pez, probably thinking he was off on one of his fanciful voyages in his head.

Finally he found the courage to repeat in his mind the word she had spoken.

Maliz.

Since that name was uttered Pez had committed himself to learning all that he could of the demon, once a warlock, who had given Percheron its famous stone creatures. And he had learned much.

He had learned nothing of himself, though, and that bothered him. Why had she told him to go in search of himself? What did she mean that he had another name?

Kett’s appearance and the beautiful girl presented before Herezah had for some strange reason prompted him to recall the old woman’s warning. But why?

He sat in the dark and teased at his problem. What did he know? He had spent many hours in secret wandering through the great library of the palace, which had some of the oldest tomes in Percheron. No-one else seemed to visit the library, although an old fellow by the name of Halib seemed to know his way around and didn’t appear to mind that the Zar’s jester was wandering through the silent rows of books.

And so over the past months he had learned that Maliz, originally a mortal and a warlock, had supposedly begun the campaign to topple the might of the Goddess to ensure the priestesses of Percheron—who had held such quiet power—were reduced to nothing more than a memory. His reward was immortality as a demon—perhaps the most powerful demon. Now the
priestesses, like Zafira, practised their faith very privately and humbly. Today they were no longer persecuted, for it had all happened so many centuries ago and those who pursued the faith of the Mother Goddess were so few and scattered they were considered harmless, reclusive. The Goddess’ followers had been rendered so impotent that most of today’s parents, ignorant of the history, believed the Sisterhood of Lyana was a good place to send wayward girls and unencumber themselves from ugly daughters who might never make a good marriage. More as a place of retreat than anything else.

Pez was surprised to learn that Maliz was inextricably linked with the Goddess. She was not just a passing whim of his. She was his nemesis. And, so the writing told, he remade himself—whatever that meant—when all the signs were right for her to rise again.

It was written in the tales of legend that Maliz had beaten her back thrice, but on each occasion, over many centuries, she rose stronger. It was predicted privately by those in the faith that her next return would be her final one and that Percheron would once again worship Lyana.

Pez thought about that now. The crone’s visit suggested that he was being somehow drawn into that struggle. Why? It brought him back to the same question. Who was he? Why was he important? She had told him to find himself but so far nothing had surfaced to give him a clue. It
was intriguing but unsettling. Perhaps she had sensed his magicks but until this evening with Boaz he had not wielded them. Nor would he again, he hoped. Once was dangerous enough and now Boaz appeared mistrustful and even hurt that his friend had this secret.

Thinking of Boaz gave a prick of regret for the young black boy.

He had felt an instant connection to Kett but no inclination why. He did not know the family; had never come across the child before. Perhaps that was a good place to start. Pez stirred from his shadowy spot, fixed a vacant expression on his face, and emerged into the corridor of the harem. He knew they would still be walking Kett around, keeping him conscious, and he went in search of the knifers whom he hoped would save the boy’s life.

Following the Spur’s dismissal by Herezah, Ana had been removed to a waiting chamber. She had had to be carried from the Choosing Room after witnessing Kett’s savaging but she had noticed the Valide’s intent gaze following her and she had seen the expression of despair on Lazar. Would he ever forgive her, she wondered.

Shortly Salmeo had come for her. The Choosing ceremony had obviously concluded. ‘Are you recovered, child?’

She nodded. ‘I am well but not recovered. Never will I recover from what I witnessed.’

His scar moved in tandem with his knowledgeable smile. ‘Come, my dear,’ he said, voice gentle, taking her hand. ‘There is something we must do together.’

Ana instantly recoiled. The huge eunuch was frightening but not because of his appearance. It was his manner; her instincts suggested that intimidation was always his intention despite his avuncular tone. He was the Grand Master Eunuch and she had seen enough in the Choosing Room to know that within this man lay power, driven by a hunger she was not mature enough to understand but could certainly detect.

‘Ana, you must do as we say now,’ he continued, more firmly, not perturbed by her reluctance. He had seen it many times, knew the reaction he could provoke simply by his presence. He loved that he could do this and it mattered not to him that it was a fourteen-year-old child cowering. Fear was power.

‘I don’t want to,’ she answered.

Brave, he thought, most would not challenge again. No doubt that courage would manifest itself as feistiness in future years. She was just another in a line of rebellious youngsters, including Herezah, who believed they might fight the system in the harem. But soon enough they learned the way. There was no resistance. His word was law.

‘Must I have you carried?’ He spoke in a patrician tone but it was all threat.

‘No,’ she fired back, ‘I shall walk.’

Yes, indeed, this one would be a challenge, and he smiled at her.

She did not return it. ‘Where are we going?’

‘You are already here, Ana. You are home now. We are simply moving to another part of your home.’

‘This is not my home. This is my prison.’

He made a soft sound of admonishment. ‘That attitude will not help you, child. You must work hard and learn your duties and then perhaps you will come to the notice of the right people.’

‘I already have,’ she said.

He knew she was right and felt a thrill that this one’s spirit would be fun to break. The feisty ones always were. For now he was content to continue with the charade of kindness. By tomorrow she would understand that he was never to be challenged again.

‘You are now in a part of the harem where no man may trespass, Ana. Eunuch slaves alone are permitted to walk these hallways amongst the women.’ She touched a painted frieze as she walked alongside him.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘It is the mark of the Goddess.’

‘Hush, we do not speak of that here.’ He wondered how a peasant girl might know such things.

‘Why? Does it frighten you?’

‘No. It is irrelevant, that’s all.’

‘Not at all, Grand Master Eunuch Salmeo. It is extremely relevant, considering you only move amongst women and men who are more feminine than male.’

He recognised the direct insult, quietly again admired her composure in one so young. It would desert her shortly when she understood what was about to occur. He had the patience of a crocodile. He would punish her in oh so many ways for her provocation.

They moved in silence through a series of dim hallways. Salmeo was relishing the privilege of knowledge and the fact the silent walk would aid in building tension for this youngster who would be taught her second lesson tonight. Her first had been visceral but she had been an observer. Her second would be far more personal.

They reached an arched opening, and as they stepped through, two eunuchs straightened at the sight of their chief. Both reached to push open the double doors which led Salmeo and Ana into a sparsely furnished room warmed gently by a small brazier. Arched windows were latticed and only two candles burned, flickering in a soft draught.

‘This room is very private, Ana. It is attached to my suite.’ She did not respond. ‘We are surrounded by a walled garden; all eyes are turned away, child. It is just us now.’

She found her voice. ‘I thought I was being taken to my sleeping quarters.’

‘No.’

‘But it is so late.’

‘This will not take long.’

‘You have told me where I am. Why am I here?’