Odalisque (2 page)

The Spur of Percheron was oblivious to the clandestine attention he was being paid from the city’s favourite ratha emporium. Inside its kitchens a pair of women feasted their eyes on Percheron’s most eligible bachelor whilst their patrons took similar pleasure in the sisters’ celebrated spicy pancakes.

The two women had been preparing since before sunrise for the busy morning trade. For years they had created what was considered by many to be Percheron’s finest hot rathas, and as a result it was commonplace to see a long queue patiently shuffling closer to the counter where the women’s husbands took the orders.

The wealthier patrons often sat at some of the small tables on offer and paid a premium for the privilege of being served their steaming rathas on warmed plates with mouth-watering sambas and chutneys to accompany.

But the sisters never had any dealings with the customers and yet they seemed to know them as well as their husbands did. This was because the open windows that allowed fresh air to blow
through the busy kitchen also afforded them a splendid close-up view of Percheron’s city folk at work and play. And with their hands lively about their work, so skilled in it now their fingers required no thought or supervision, the sisters had instead become keen observers.

And no-one gave them greater pleasure to watch than the revered Spur of Percheron, the long-legged, raven-haired former prisoner turned brother-friend of royalty, who was in their sights at this moment.

‘Why do you think he looks at that stone carving each time he passes this way?’ asked the woman expertly kneading the dough into mounds between both hands.

‘That carving is Iridor, isn’t it, and the Spur’s been doing that for years,’ came the reply over the flattened rolls of dough sizzling in the melted butter. ‘Keep fanning those flames now,’ the woman urged a young lad who sat between her legs, ensuring the smouldering lumps of knotwood never lost their heat.

‘I know that.’ The first sister raised her eyebrows in mock exasperation. ‘I’m asking you what you think he sees in it.’

‘Your guess is as good as mine, Mara. Perhaps he casts a silent prayer to it. Now I come to think on it, I’m sure that owl has something to do with the old stories of the Goddess.’

‘Hoosh,’ said a man bustling in from behind. ‘You know not to speak her name.’

‘No-one can hear us back here, Bal. And it’s only an old myth. No-one believes in all that Goddess stuff and the owl messenger any more. You go about your business, man, and let us get on with ours. There’s a lot of customers queuing.’

‘And you stop flapping your gums, woman, and keep frying those rathas up.’

‘Oh, be gone,’ Mara said, shooing her husband back to the front of the shop. ‘You could be right, Hasha.’ She returned to her chore, the dough piling up in a neat, glistening pyramid. ‘The Spur’s such a secretive sort, perhaps he’s atoning for something.’

‘I’ll show him atonement.’ Her sister rubbed her breasts and grinned wickedly. The look of shock on Mara’s face made Hasha laugh out loud. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t thought it at least once? Every woman in Percheron daydreams of a roll with the Spur.’ The child below sensibly remained silent but his soft smile suggested this was not the first time his mother and aunt had discussed this man and would surely not be the last. The Spur of Percheron prompted more conjecture than any other; the man with the curiously light-coloured eyes was not just every woman’s dream but was spoken of admiringly by the men too.

‘I haven’t,’ Mara lied, and stifled her laughter. ‘Oh, but if I were younger, I would.’

Hasha flipped the four oiled pancakes currently in the pan and a delicious new aroma of cooked
ratha spiced the air. ‘He always looks so serious, though. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him laugh.’

Mara stopped kneading the dough. ‘Oh, he’s got secrets, that one, but he never seems to put a foot wrong. I’m told the Zar holds him in higher esteem than any of his council and his men in the protectorate would die for him. That sort of loyalty isn’t won easily.’

Her sister looked up and exclaimed. ‘Zarab save us, Mara, he’s coming this way!’

Both sisters watched in genuine pleasure as the familiar long stride of the Spur brought him to the door of their husbands’ shop and the chance to serve the highest-ranking soldier in the land became reality.

As he entered the shop Lazar was already planning to order a dish known tantalisingly as The Emporium Breakfast Feast. Of course, if he had known that what was to come this day would set off a chain of events so monumental and painful his life would change forever, he might have found good reason to ignore the hunger pangs that made him so accessible to the Elim runner sent from the palace with such dire news.

Ignorant of what was coming, Lazar sat down at a small table and even found a smile for the two middle-aged ladies who giggled coquettishly behind their veils from the kitchen, as if being visited by Zarab himself.

It was going to be unpleasant, she thought, tapping perfectly rouged lips with the tips of manicured nails buffed by a slave until they shone. But it must be done…and swiftly.

The First Wife and Absolute Favourite glanced down into the exquisite private garden where boys played amongst the cypresses with a ball made from an inflated pig’s bladder. Their laughter prompted a smile, but anyone looking at this woman would have sensed no warmth. Herezah was already imagining how different those childish squeals would be when the order was given.

An agonised groan dragged her from her thoughts. Taking a moment to settle an appropriate look of sorrow on her face, Herezah turned from the beautifully sculpted window of the Stone Palace to where Zar Joreb, Percheron’s high ruler, King of the Seas, Ruler of the Deserts, Mightiest of the Mighty, lay dying. The man had been treated as a god these past thirty years.
But even gods have to die,
Herezah thought with fierce
joy as she flicked a glance of summons to a slightly stooped man standing nearby.

Tariq spoke softly from behind the oiled beard carefully split into two narrow plaits and ostentatiously hung with a ruby at each end. These audacious accessories spoke much to Herezah about Tariq’s designs for personal grandeur. She knew he wanted the title of Grand Vizier and she was sure he had never felt himself closer to his goal than now. That was good. He was well connected; she would feed his ambition, make him her puppet.

He kept his voice low enough for her ears only. ‘My lady Herezah?’

‘Fetch Boaz,’ she whispered. The Vizier understood, bowing and withdrawing silently.

Herezah looked around the fabulously ornate chamber, gilded recklessly with gold at every turn. This was not the Zar’s usual bedroom but Herezah had moved him here because the room, already crowded, would only get more thick with people as the day drew on, for her husband would most likely die, if not this hour then within the next few.

Joreb had very particular tastes in art, which thankfully his Absolute Favourite shared, although in truth he had given her that appreciation, guiding her since childhood as to what constituted beauty. And it was certainly not this gold-laden room with its rich, gaudy colours. No, Joreb liked subtlety and understatement. His preference was
for paler hues and simpler design. Herezah felt a fleeting pang that the man who had given her the opportunity to rise out of the slush of the harem would give up his soul in a room as vulgar as this. Her regret passed quickly, however, replaced by the thrill that her ultimate goal, the one she had been striving towards these past two decades, would be achieved in barely hours.

She calmed her racing pulse and tried to focus on the Zar. Despite her thrill at what her husband’s death meant for her, Herezah had been shocked to learn that his injuries were, in fact, fatal.

The large chamber might be ungainly but it was cooled by a gentle breeze blowing from the massive, semi-circular aquamarine harbour the famed city of Percheron overlooked. It was here that for thousands of years cultures had collided and mingled to yield the Percheron of today. Its strategic position and seemingly endless reserves of precious stones and metals gave the city riches beyond most realms’ dreams.

But while those elements had once given Percheron such power, they were now its greatest threat. Herezah—keenly in tune with national security—was well aware that Joreb had begun fretting about Galinsea in particular. He had disclosed his concerns to her that their warlike neighbour to the west had designs on Percheron.

Herezah’s wandering attention was arrested by the worried expressions of the court’s most senior
physicians. The Zar would not see sunset, that much was obvious, and in turn their lives were forfeit for failing His Majesty. Understandably they continued to consult each other and desperately consider new strategies.

At the foot of the Zar’s bed cavorted a dwarf, sumptuously outfitted but looking ridiculous all the same. Herezah quelled a scowl. The fool was a constant annoyance in her life. He was ‘closed’ too, which only served to irritate Herezah further. Not even a blood-telling by her crone, Yozem, had revealed anything about him. A blank. Even though the crone claimed there could be no such thing and yet it was true, the dwarf offered no clues about himself to the practitioner of the Blood Arts. Herezah felt sickened to see his awkward antics on thick, short legs and cursed his popularity.

If Percheron was credited as the most idyllic cove in the Faranel Sea, then its Stone Palace was the most breathtaking aspect of that cove. And within that Stone Palace its harem was the magnificent prize where beauty ruled supreme. It disturbed Herezah constantly that amongst the beauty roamed such vulgar deformity as this dwarf. He was the flaw in Percheron’s jewel. Pez—she wasn’t even sure whether that was his real name—had been a favourite clown of the Zar’s for too many years for Herezah to get rid of him. She despaired that her son adored Pez in equal measure to her hatred.

She sighed; at least the palace buffoon, with his strange yellow eyes, would keep Boaz amused during the difficult times ahead. He may even prove a blessing, for there were occasions when time spent with Pez seemed to help her only child understand things. She couldn’t imagine how. The dwarf could hardly string a single sensible sentence together without breaking into song, or acrobatics, or his mind wandering elsewhere. How Boaz and Pez ever held even a simple conversation was a mystery to her.

A small movement at the corner of the room distracted her. She glanced over at the silent mountain of black flesh that went by the name of Salmeo. He put the fear of a thousand angry gods into most people around the palace, including herself. She had lost count of the times the giant man had reduced her to a shaking wreck. But never again, she promised, not now that absolute power was within her grasp.

Salmeo was the cleverest, most sly man she had ever known—no doubt ever would. He was as cunning as he was dangerous. He was also cruelty personified…but then you didn’t become Grand Master of the Eunuchs without some of those qualities.

Salmeo embodied so many unpalatable characteristics, it was hard to imagine how they all came together in one person. For the umpteenth time her amazement was triggered by the sheer size of him beneath the richly patterned
garments he draped over the folds of loose, flabby skin. Heavy folds, she knew all too well from her own experience, that had to be lifted away in order for him to be cleaned. He matched his revolting looks with a vicious demeanour more befitting a scorned woman. Which wasn’t far from the truth perhaps. Salmeo had been cut at the age of seven when his height and size fooled the chief eunuch of the day into believing he was older. He was an ‘almost complete’. Nothing much was left of his manhood save the painful yearning of desire. No toys, no tricks, no magicks helped Salmeo with his frustrations, so he took his pleasures in other ways.

Herezah’s gaze was helplessly drawn towards the sinister, sharply pointed nail on the index finger of his right hand. He stained it red, so no woman could ever forget its purpose and no naive boy went beyond wondering at its use. She masked the shudder of the memory of that nail’s cruel touch when she was twelve.

Salmeo must have sensed her attention and she just had time, before hurriedly looking away, to see the pale rope of a scar that ran the length of one of his fleshy cheeks pull as he raised an eyebrow at her interest.

In turning away, Herezah’s focus finally fell upon the Zar himself. He groaned and moved restlessly beneath silken sheets, fighting unseen spirits who had come to claim him.

Death is ugly indeed,
Herezah thought, watching
the great one’s lips draw back in a silent howl as a fresh wave of punishment rode his body. The door opened and to her relief she saw her son ushered in by Vizier Tariq.

‘My lion,’ she said softly to the boy, reaching out her arms theatrically.

‘Mother.’ He dutifully kissed her cheek but twisted away from the embrace.

Herezah did not react to his cloaked rejection and made a promise to herself that she would try harder with Boaz. After all, within hours she would be his regent, quietly ruling from behind the figurehead Zar of so few summers. She watched his intelligent dark eyes observing her and felt a momentary loss of guard, as if he understood precisely what she had been thinking before his gaze slid away to his father moaning on the bed.

‘You must be brave, Boaz,’ she warned. ‘He will not last long.’

‘Can we not stop his pain?’ he asked tersely, ignoring her concern.

‘The physicians minimise it,’ Tariq offered, eager to include himself in the royal conversation.

Boaz ignored the sycophantic Vizier as well. It was shock enough for him to see his father in this state—especially as he had seemed to rally in the early days of the fall—but having his mother displaying her new-found devotion and feeling his emotions used as some sort of circus
ground for everyone else’s benefit was making him angry.

‘Come, my son,’ Herezah said, taking his soft hand. ‘You are fifteen now and old enough to witness your father’s final breaths.’

Final breaths?
Boaz scowled. He could hear the predatory tone in his mother’s voice. He knew only too well what his father’s death meant—especially for his mother who had comforted him to sleep when he was a young child with stories about how one day the two of them would rule Percheron. That was all well and good if love existed between them, but his mother had, for the past six or seven years, essentially ignored him and he had learned to live without the maternal love he craved. Instead he had been raised by royal servants. Still, it amused him that both parents adored him: his mother because of the power he could bring her, and his father because he recognised in Boaz a future leader. Boaz knew the Zar loved his sharp mind and especially his scholarly pursuits and love of the arts. It didn’t hurt that he was described as handsome these days either—he could see how all of these attributes made him the most eligible heir. Nevertheless, it was sickening to watch his mother revelling in this same knowledge and using it to get precisely what she wanted, not for his benefit, but for hers.

Yet she was his only ally—not friend, not loved one, but someone he could count on to look after his interests because they served hers so
well. It was a terrible thing to admit but he needed Herezah and her bright, agile mind that could plot and plan faster and more skilfully than anyone he knew.

Accepting this only made him angrier still, but these dark thoughts were put on hold as Pez scampered up. Boaz smiled inwardly at the dwarf’s oversized pantaloons which, because they had insufficient length to billow properly, instead pooled comically around his thick ankles. Nevertheless, the swathe of fabric hid the savage bow of his legs that made Pez’s gait sway so oddly. He arrived pulling silk squares from his nose. It was a trick that had always amused Boaz, but not today.

‘Hello, Pez,’ Boaz muttered.

‘Master,’ Pez replied.

The boy looked sadly at the dwarf. ‘Is he truly dying?’ he said, as if, by asking his friend rather than those he disliked, the reality might be different.

‘We all die,’ Pez replied in a singsong voice. ‘You, birds, fish, me…your parents too.’ Herezah glared at the dwarf as Pez’s gaze slid past her in a deliberate provocation. ‘You must carry yourself proudly now, young prince. Do you know why?’

Boaz looked at his friend—the only one he trusted in this room—and nodded. ‘Because I’m to be Zar.’

‘That’s right, my darling.’ Herezah gushed, clearly surprised that the dwarf was making sense
for once. ‘Your father awaits,’ she urged, pulling Boaz away from the jester.

The young man glanced at Pez, who blinked slowly in that curious manner of his. Then the dwarf bowed theatrically, the bells on his velvet cap tinkling into strained silence, for the groaning had now subsided.

Aware that all eyes in the room were trained upon him, Boaz took his father’s hand. It felt dry, too cold, as if death had indeed arrived, although a rasping groan put an end to that fright. Through puffy eyes, the King of Kings tried to focus.

‘My lord,’ Herezah spoke lovingly near the Zar’s ear, ‘our son, Boaz.’

The man rallied ever so slightly, a brief smile immediately replaced by another grimace. ‘Boaz.’

‘Father, I—’

‘Hush. Listen now,’ he growled and it took all his effort to load his weak voice with the tone needed to make the youngster pay attention. ‘You are the Chosen One. No-one else! You alone. Never forget it!’ he forced out. The stricken physicians watched the last struggling breath arrive and expel in a desperate gasp. The head of the Zar lolled to one side; spittle escaped to run down his chin. Herezah looked away in pretend despair, the action hiding her triumph. The men of medicine hung their heads, imagining what their own last words would be that evening when their throats would be cut. No point in fighting it
now. Their wills were written and they knew their families would be looked after well. They had enjoyed position and wealth for many years and had always understood that when Joreb died, they would too, if they were in attendance at the time of death.

They went about their duty now, one checking that no pulse was present whilst the other held a small mirror against the Zar’s mouth and nose. As a final precaution a large pin was drawn from a pouch and his body was pricked repeatedly. Herezah was busy removing the large ring from her husband’s finger. Boaz, his ears ringing from his father’s clear message about his mother, his eyes stinging from tears, could not believe his father had lost the fight.

He objected to the pin angrily and Pez, sensing his distress, suddenly dropped to his knees before him. As if the dwarf’s sudden movement was a signal, everyone in the chamber came out of the mental paralysis the Zar’s death had prompted and also dropped. They bent to touch their heads on the floor before Boaz, for all in the room knew of Joreb’s decree, that the son of his Absolute Favourite would succeed him.

Salmeo took longer than anyone to kneel, but after much grunting he too paid the new Zar appropriate homage.