Odalisque (25 page)

‘And how do I explain my absence for so long?’

It was Zafira who came up with the idea in the end. ‘You could legitimately claim that you were so overcome with grief that you found the nearest drinking hole and drank yourself into oblivion. You’d need to buy off the silence of the moshaman, of course, but that won’t be hard.’

‘I don’t drink in mosha houses,’ Jumo complained, knowing it was a hollow attempt to thwart the idea.

‘Then throw the liquor over yourself. You only have to smell of it to convince anyone listening to your torrid tale.’

‘She’s right,’ Ellyana agreed. ‘It’s a good plan.’

‘It makes Zafira out to be a villain though.’

Zafira snorted gently. ‘As if that frightens me, dear Jumo. We who worship the Goddess have lived as outcasts and villains for the entirety of my lifetime and well before that. I have my faith, it is all I need. What people think of me in my dotage is of no concern.’

Ellyana pushed harder. ‘Jumo, can’t you see that we are helping Lazar not punishing you?’

‘Yes, of course I can,’ he snapped. ‘But you don’t understand how much we’ve been through together.’ He looked at the face of the man he loved. It was devoid of expression. His lips were a
pale smudge on the once-bronzed skin that now looked leached of all colour.

‘It is best that you leave now—getting this tea down him is going to be ugly,’ Ellyana warned.

Jumo turned to her again. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He’ll rail against it with the little strength he has left and that exertion alone could cost him his life. It will be a gentle balance between forcing him to drink whilst not making him fight us as well as the poison. Leave us now, Jumo. Use the boat and row yourself back to the harbour. I promise we’ll get word within the next day or so.’

Jumo turned helplessly to Zafira for support but her expression was implacable. She agreed with Ellyana, that much was clear. He raised a finger in warning. ‘Be sure you do and be sure you save him, or so help me, Ellyana, I shall come looking for you.’

It was humid in Percheron, the air stifling within the confines of the city. Despite the heat, the bazaar hummed with its usual activity as traders encouraged the evening’s stream of humanity to buy everything from freshly baked honey puffs to painted tiles.

As usual Gold Alley was the most congested area; the Percherese did not rush into the purchase of gold but loved to roam the small corridors of glittering stalls at leisure. Many would pay close attention to the changing prices over days, often weeks, before investing. Others just liked to sit down with the traders and enjoy touching the seductive metal long before they were ready to pay good cash. There was never any hurry. The merchants gave time to each customer, often sending their subordinates to fetch tea that arrived in colourful glasses on small trays. Tea meant hospitality and fellowship. It prompted conversation and ultimately sales.

Tariq saw none of this, however, as he hurried through the sloping streets. The colour and ritual
of Gold Alley was lost on him, his eyes fixed ahead on the next corner, his mind enmeshed in visions of power and wealth. He didn’t stop to help or even apologise to the youngster whose elbow he clipped, sending a tray of dark golden tea clattering to the ground as cranberry-coloured glass, edged in gold, smashed in a hail of tinkling shards. It was fortunate no-one recognised him, for the Vizier’s forked and bejewelled beard alone normally marked him for who he was. But Tariq had taken measures this night to disguise himself. The tea boy would later blame an ignorant woman, tall and fully veiled in the jamoosh.

Tariq pressed on, his mind a whirl of possibilities mingled with fear. Was he doing the right thing? It was only temporary, he reminded himself, and then he’d be set up with unimaginable wealth for what was left of his life. He wasn’t so old, in truth; he was simply worn down, and if he were fully honest it was the riches that attracted him more than power. Power was for a younger man. If Maliz had visited him ten or fifteen years earlier then Tariq might envisage himself as contriving to be the second most powerful person in the realm, but since this afternoon he had decided he was tired of the palace, wearied of the political manoeuvrings, unhappy that he now served a Zar who was still too young to grow a beard.

He’d never had a good relationship with Joreb—this much was true, or he would already
be Grand Vizier. But to be back at the beginning, having to prime and grow a new relationship with someone who was already so untrusting of him was draining. Joreb had not cared much for Tariq but they had forged a working relationship; however, Tariq suspected Boaz was going to make changes to the old ways. So perhaps in the end Maliz’s offer of extraordinary wealth was the ultimate reason for agreeing to his terms. Tariq could see himself retiring and living the decadent life he’d always dreamed of. That kind of wealth was power in itself anyway.

He would no longer be a servant to the royals but one of the people they entertained.

He enjoyed this thought.

Maliz had come to him briefly this evening and reminded the Vizier of his decision. Tariq had hesitated and the demon chose against filling the silence with his usual urgings. This time there was no chatter. Perhaps it was the emptiness of noise in his mind that caused Tariq to agree. He wanted all the things that Maliz promised and the demon knew it so he had simply waited patiently for the capitulation.

You will never regret it,
Maliz had replied, his tone slightly mocking. He had given the Vizier directions and disappeared swiftly.

And so Tariq had disguised himself as a woman beneath the veil, the only way he could think of to hide his instantly recognisable beard. Now he was hurrying through the streets, the spilled tea
long forgotten as he made his way towards the harbour and an area known as the Ditch.

There were fewer lanterns here so the shadows were deeper, and the salty tang in the air became stronger. People were dressed more roughly but nobody gave the tall woman a second glance. A new smell permeated his senses—fragrant and strong, layering itself across the almost permanently fishy odour that hung predictably around the foreshore. His nose told him he was close to the main spice market as the mix of seeds and powders, fresh herbs and spices clamoured for his attention.

Tariq felt safer in the bazaar, not only because there was so much more activity beneath the lanes of brightly coloured wares but also because women shopped. Fewer were veiling themselves, he noticed with interest—it had been a long time since he’d wandered the streets of the common people. Full veiling of women had once been a national tradition but that had begun to die out over the last century as more liberal attitudes prevailed. Now only high-caste families preferred that their women remain veiled outside their homes. And royalty of course.

Tariq forced himself to stop at several stalls and consider the wares on offer. He figured it was more natural for him to weave his way towards the western part if he looked like a genuine shopper. It would turn no heads, he decided, and attention was the last thing he needed.

With a forced casualness he dawdled by a stall selling hot spices, picking up cloves and cardamom seeds and smelling them, turning over chillies to check colour and freshness, before moving on. This time he stopped by a store selling only variations of pepper, fascinated by the colours and choice on offer. Finally he strolled down the middle of the main thoroughfare, turning towards the western gate and maintaining his casual meander, pretending to be absorbed in the produce until his eye caught the sign that read ‘Beloch’s Table’.

It was every bit as vulgar as he’d imagined. A fat man with a dirty apron grinned at him, a calon hanging from one lip and smoking itself, it seemed, by the length of ash still clinging on.

‘My sister, can we serve you today? Quishtar perhaps or a plate of yemshi?’ he offered.

The cockroach crawling across the owner’s foot was indication enough of how he ran the establishment.

The cheek of it,
the Vizier thought, simmering beneath the veil,
using the name of one of the city’s great icons to herald this tawdry little eatery.

He passed over the karel he had readied. ‘I’ve been told to give you this. You have no memory of my being here,’ he said. If the grubby owner was surprised to hear a man’s voice from behind the jamoosh, there was no outward sign. ‘I wish to use your back door.’

‘Be my guest, er…sister,’ he said, pocketing the karel as expertly as the best thief might.
No-one had seen the coin change hands and the tall woman was instantly forgotten as the owner began soliciting new customers.

The Vizier moved quickly to the back of the eatery, pushing past servers and the two cooks until he spotted the open door and the lane beyond. He turned as instructed and could make out the small green doorway at the end of the alley, courtesy of a single lantern. It was dim, though, and deserted. Few sounds escaped to this seemingly derelict part of the Ditch. A rat scurried by, leaping over his foot and causing him to let out a small shriek of disgust. He could feel his own heart pounding now. Was this such a good idea after all? He told himself that he could still back out. Maliz would be angry but what could he do to him? He was only a voice, and even if he was more, the demon must be relatively helpless at this stage or he wouldn’t be seeking a new body to cohabit with.

He stopped, now only a dozen or so steps from the door. This was it. If he was going to flee it would have to be now. As if on cue an amused voice filled his head.

Welcome to my abode, Tariq. Please, come in.

Too late,
he thought, there was no choice any more. ‘Where are you?’ he called tentatively. Speaking aloud made him feel only marginally more secure.

Step inside. There are a few of us but you’ll know me soon enough.

Tariq found himself facing the green door. He reached for the handle, taking a deep breath. He had never been so scared in his life.

Pez turned on his usual antics for the men before knocking theatrically on the Zar’s door. At night Boaz was waited on by guards on both sides of the door to his sleeping chamber, so Pez was greeted by a grim-faced man who obviously didn’t appreciate the late-night arrival.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said, a hint of disgust in his voice. ‘We’re to permit you even if he’s sleeping so I suppose you’d better come in.’

‘Do you like custard?’ Pez asked earnestly.

‘Not particularly,’ the guard replied. ‘I’m not keen to wake His Majesty.’

‘Oh, His Majesty loves custard. I prefer dolphins. What about slugs, do you like them? They sing rather oddly.’

The man raised his eyes in frustration. The hour was weary enough without this nonsense. He turned on his heel and left Pez standing by the door.

Pez hesitated. He had made a curious decision to be not altogether truthful with Boaz, and although he couldn’t quite recall why, he was sure a voice had whispered this strange suggestion to him.

He knocked gently at the bedchamber door, wondering what in Lyana’s name he was going to say to the boy about his whereabouts these past
hours. From behind the door he heard mumbling and risked opening it.

‘Purple flowers smell strange,’ Pez muttered.

The door was pulled back fully. ‘Where have you been?’ Boaz demanded and Pez was taken aback by the vehemence. He looked around to see where the guards were, an excuse rushing to form itself when Boaz continued. ‘I’ve been worried sick about you.’

Pez turned back, relieved. ‘I’m sorry, High One,’ he replied. ‘I can explain.’

‘Come on in. I couldn’t sleep anyway. There’s hardly a breath of air.’

‘It’s worse in the city.’

‘Is that where you’ve been?’

‘Yes,’ he lied.

‘Good. I figured you’d been with Lazar. Now tell me where he is and that he’s recovering. I shall send my own physics immediately. He must have the best attention.’ The Zar shook his head. ‘I haven’t been able to think straight all evening.’ He was going to say more when he noticed his friend’s grave expression.

‘I can’t help, High One,’ Pez replied solemnly. ‘I have no idea where he is.’

‘What? You too?’

‘Me too?’

‘Pez, no-one can tell me where the Spur is. I’ve had the city combed and there’s no word on the street of his whereabouts. How can a man who looked half dead and yet so recognisable disappear like this without help?’

Pez’s voice was hard when it came. ‘He didn’t only
look
half dead, Majesty. He was dying.’ The dwarf confirmed the Zar’s worst fears.

‘Please tell me you’re jesting and that you’re now going to give me the truth,’ Boaz tried, his heart filled with dread.

‘I lie not. It’s true that I accompanied Lazar and Jumo to the Sea Temple. If they’re not there now, then I have no idea where they are,’ he said, hating himself for the fabrication.

The boy studied him. ‘But you and Lazar are such good friends. Surely you would have stayed with him?’

‘I don’t care to be abroad in the city too often or for long periods, my Zar. I was no help anyway. Lazar was unconscious and his wounds were so horrific that both Jumo and I were helpless.’

He watched Boaz force control over himself. It would have been easy for the boy to fall apart at this moment but Pez felt a gentle pride that the young Zar was rising to his station.

‘Why the Sea Temple? No-one goes there,’ Boaz queried.

Pez shrugged. ‘Jumo tells me it is a place Lazar discovered very recently. He liked its peace and the fact that it is deserted, save for an old priestess.’

‘So he asked to go there?’

‘I don’t know, Your Majesty,’ Pez lied. ‘I imagine not, for he was unconscious, as I said. I
think in his panic Jumo took him to the quietest place he could think of.’

‘But there’s no care there,’ Boaz groaned. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Even from my distant vantage it was obvious he was seriously injured.’

‘You have no idea of the extent of it,’ Pez murmured.

Boaz strode to the door, opened it and waited, presumably for a guard. The Zar muttered some angry orders before slamming the door. ‘I’ve sent some runners down to the Sea Temple.’

Pez nodded. He knew they would find it empty, but for some reason he chose to keep this to himself. He was reminded of the whispering voice that urged him to do this and he felt a crawling tendril of fear pass through him. What was happening to him? Who was talking to him?

‘It was a shocking outcome, Great One,’ he risked. ‘You know Salmeo designed it to turn out the way it did.’

‘Of course I do! When it comes to the harem, however, I don’t have as much say in it as everyone seems to think. Salmeo and the Valide
are
the King and Queen of the harem. I am merely whom it services.’ He grimaced.

‘How did your mother react?’

‘To be honest I believe it was as much a shock for her as it was for myself.’

‘Really?’ Pez didn’t sound convinced.

‘I asked her directly whether she had any
involvement and she denied it. I know my mother well enough, Pez.’

The dwarf remained silent, duly reprimanded. So far he had not mentioned the use of poison. ‘Tariq?’

Boaz shook his head. ‘No, this is all Salmeo’s work. It has his cruelty stamped all over it. As for the Inflictors, someone will swing for this if I don’t have news of Lazar soon.’

‘It was not the boy’s fault, High One. He looked more terrified than anyone.’

‘I don’t care,’ Boaz snapped. ‘Woe betide if I receive bad news about Lazar. I think you all forget that he was my friend—one of so few I have in this place.’ He slumped down on a sofa and stared out of his window. ‘I met with the Odalisque Ana today,’ he said, as if he wanted to change the subject.

‘Oh? That’s unusual. Must have delighted Salmeo.’

Boaz found a small but wicked smile. ‘He hated it. Went rushing off to my mother, who apparently told him to obey his Zar and not run to her with complaints. No doubt she has come to the same conclusion as us, that this was Salmeo’s doing. She is not pleased.’

‘How was Ana?’

‘Devastated, although I think my company was good for her, and I would be lying if I said the outcome wasn’t mutual.’