Emissary (23 page)

‘I think Galinsea and possible invasion is something we must now really fear, Boaz,’ Lazar said, dropping all formality and amusement. There was a new edge to his tone and the Zar paid attention.

Boaz looked quizzical momentarily and then he understood, his quick mind grasping what had upset the balance. ‘Jumo?’

Lazar nodded.

‘But surely your family, however distressed or enraged by the news, cannot move the whole of Galinsea to war?’ There was a thick silence as Boaz looked from Lazar and then to Pez but received no answer. ‘I take it they can,’ he finally said, unable to hide his surprise.

‘I’m afraid so,’ Lazar replied sheepishly. ‘You could say they are influential.’

Pez cleared his throat. He and Lazar had promised each other honesty and this extended to their Zar.

Lazar ignored the gesture. ‘The point is, we need to be very cautious. We have to step up training for the Shield and I believe we need to put it on alert. All the plans we’ve had in place are no longer hypothetical. This is serious. The Shield needs to understand that war could be imminent.’

Boaz looked astounded at this warning. ‘Lazar, who in Zarab’s name are your parents?’

Lazar hesitated. ‘I am of noble birth, Highness. Suffice to say they have the ear of the king.’

‘And he’s looking for an excuse,’ Boaz muttered, deflected from his path. He sighed. ‘All the more reason for you to take up your role as Spur again as quickly as possible.’

‘Can we keep my re-emergence quiet for the time being?’

‘Hardly,’ Boaz said and meant it. His expression suggested that Lazar was deluding himself suggesting such a thing.

‘A few hours perhaps?’ Pez offered, sensing Lazar’s reluctance.

The Zar nodded. ‘At most. Let’s use that time to hear about everything that’s happened since the last moment I saw you.’ He saw the pain flit across Lazar’s face and added softly, earnestly, ‘Lazar, if I’d known the trouble you were in I would have put the whole medical fraternity at your feet. You were hidden very effectively from us and then I was informed—reliably, I thought—that you were dead and already given to the sea. Even Pez was taken in by this.’ Neither man listening glanced at the other for fear of revealing the full truth. Thankfully Boaz was speaking passionately now and missed their momentary awkwardness. ‘It was all so convincing, so hopeless. I wouldn’t wish the torture you endured on anyone, although you
understand Ana’s punishment could not be escaped.’

‘You know I do.’ Lazar’s eyes narrowed. ‘I am informed you have formally chosen Ana.’ He said it flatly. It was not a question, simply a statement and it held no censure or approval.

Boaz gave a wry shrug. ‘For whatever good that has done me,’ he answered and there was a note of injury in his voice. ‘Yes, I have formally chosen her. She is not just the most exquisite woman in the harem but also the most engaging to me personally. The other girls are too giggly, too excitable for my taste—they are still young, I suppose, and nervous. Ana is different. She has the ability to make me feel every inch the Zar whilst somehow never being subservient…not even when she’s prostrate giving her obeisance.’ He shook his head in bewilderment and then grinned sadly as he made an attempt to lighten his speech. ‘A skill no doubt she has learned from you, Lazar.’ It did not win the amusement he’d hoped. ‘I want to be in her company all the time but it seems I am to be denied.’

During Boaz’s response, Pez watched Lazar’s attitude shift from deliberately aloof—and he knew how hard that was for Lazar to achieve whenever Ana was being discussed—to intensely attentive. He saw the lips of the Spur thin as an expression of anger, or was it fear, took hold. Pez felt a similar tingle of anxiety creep through him. Boaz was building up to something
and Pez had no inkling what was coming at them, other than more bad news.

‘Why are you to be denied, my Zar?’ Lazar managed to ask evenly enough.

‘I’m sorry for both of you that you have to hear this now when we should be celebrating your return to the palace,’ he said. He eyed them both before continuing—it came almost as a warning that he was not to be questioned. ‘Odalisque Ana is to be executed in a few hours.’

The ship had glided near to the twin giants, announcing itself with torches, rather than horns. Had Lazar and Pez been rowing from Star Island just a little later, they would have seen her. She was now anchored at the mouth of the Bay of Percheron, her timbers creaking as they gently rocked on the calm waters lapping at Ezram’s feet. The night itself was no longer calm, however, with soldiers of the Percherese Guard now lining the shore and more arriving as each minute passed.

A flotilla of smaller craft carrying armed men bobbed silently in the bay itself as they watched one of their senior officers board the foreign vessel, all no doubt silently wishing that they had their Spur to lead them in what felt like a prelude to something infinitely more dangerous to their city.

The senior officer, also wishing Spur Lazar was handling this meeting rather than him, cleared his throat and announced himself to two sombrely dressed but nonetheless elegant men who received him.

‘I am Captain Veria of the Shield.’ He gave a clipped bow of courtesy but said no more, his mind racing as to why a Galinsean ship—obvious by its flags and the crests of the Crown of Galinsea all over it—was in the Faranel and how many ships of war were arriving behind it. He knew that not far away his men were going through the motions of the drills they had practised over and over under Lazar’s command, none of them truly believing it might ever come to this. Attack had been promised for so long—for centuries—that the threat seemed no longer real and yet here it was standing before him. He swallowed hard and hoped the two men—who in all truth did not look like soldiers, more like dignitaries—did not notice his nervous gesture.

The elder of the two had white hair clipped back behind his head. He was clean-shaven with a flinty gaze. His companion was still golden-haired but that, too, was whitening at the temples. They both looked to be in their sixth decade.

The elder spoke in a halting version of Percherese, his pronunciation squashing the light, almost musical language into something hard, guttural. ‘Captain Veria, we wish not to startle. I be Marius D’Argenny and he be Lorto Belsher.’ The sentence was so badly constructed it was almost comical but Veria found nothing amusing about their presence as they bowed deeply.

‘Galinseans?’ the captain asked, still incredulous enough to offer the obvious, but glad his voice was steady.

They nodded. ‘We cannot speak no more language, need interpreter,’ Marius explained with great care. Then he gestured with his arms to suggest they were not an immediate threat. ‘Sailors,’ he added, pointing to the men. ‘No fighting man.’ Then he waved the Percherese soldiers to come aboard. Captain Veria understood it meant that they were free to inspect the ship.

‘Forgive my bluntness, brothers, but why are you here?’

Marius frowned. ‘Messengers. Interpreter, I beg. Zar must speak.’

It didn’t matter that they could no more understand his language than he could theirs. Veria reacted as if they would grasp his words with the greatest of ease. ‘Are you mad? Do you really believe I’m going to let you anywhere near the palace?’

Marius and Lorto put their hands up in submission. They did not understand. ‘Interpreter,’ Marius implored once again, whilst his companion encouraged Veria’s men to search everyone and the ship.

The captain looked around, exasperated. They could keep this up all night and still be no further by dawn. He considered the two men. It was obvious they were not in a position to be of any threat with just a handful of sailors. He thought
about how Spur Lazar might have handled this. Lazar always impressed upon his senior men to trust their instincts.
Your gut will tell you more than the naked eye,
he used to say.
Listen to it.
Captain Veria listened to what his instincts told him. And he decided he could not risk the Crown’s wrath should he send these messengers on their way without at least informing the Grand Vizier. They could, after all, be making a visit that might benefit both realms. He was a soldier not a diplomat and could not make political decisions. Tariq could make the final choice on whether or not to involve the Zar—let the blame rest with the Vizier. His option chosen, the captain signalled for his men to board the ship.

‘You will not mind if we take up your offer to search the vessel?’

It was obvious what he was saying; even though they did not understand the words, they grasped their meaning. Both men shook their heads.

‘And you won’t mind if we put your crew under guard and shackled.’ Veria gestured that he would be tying up the men.

Marius shrugged as if to say it mattered not.

‘Good.’

‘Us?’ It was the first time that Lorto had spoken as he pointed to himself and Marius.

Veria held up a hand. ‘You wait here,’ he said, pointing to the deck of the ship.

They understood and nodded their thanks.

He sent a runner to summon Grand Vizier Tariq in the hope that he might know someone who understood Galinsean.

A storm was gathering within Lazar. The shock of the Zar’s news had sunk in and he now felt numb physically but emotionally he knew he was losing control and that was too dangerous in present company. A whole year’s worth of rage was coalescing into something white-hot in its burning intensity. He knew he had to get out of the Zar’s chambers before he either self-destructed from the fury he was barely repressing, or it simply exploded, taking the Zar with it.

He had hardly heard a word either Pez or Boaz was saying; he knew they were talking to him, at him, but he had turned inward, trying to wrest back control of the angry creature within. With a mighty effort he focused on the Zar who was actually shaking him by the shoulders now. Boaz let go of him as if seared. One look into that enraged gaze was frightening enough to force anyone back at least a step or two.

‘Lazar, please, say something.’

The Spur shook his head to clear the flashes of light, the visions of Ana, the sensation of his back being stripped open and poison surging through his body, the memory of endless nights of fevered delirium and days of only near-consciousness and yet they brought extreme pain
whereby he longed for the fever to roar in again and drag him away. Lies, treachery, betrayal. He thought of poor Jumo and then remembered Pez’s sickening story of how Zafira died impaled on her own temple’s spire. And he thought of Ana and her death.

And amongst the images and the terror, he heard a stranger’s voice, then two voices, then a dozen voices all calling to him, all saying the same thing in synchrony. They whispered but he could hear them above the roar of his blood and the crowding noise, like thunder, that came with his memories.

‘Lazar!’ It was Pez stepping into view, slapping his face.

Release us,
the voices whispered.

And then they were gone. Everything was silent, save the thump of his heart beating in his chest.

He looked about him. He was seated, must have stumbled to a chair at some point, and Pez was at eye level.

‘Are you all right?’ the dwarf asked tentatively.

He could only nod. Lazar rubbed his face, gathered his wits. This was not an auspicious beginning for his role as reinstated Spur.

‘Can I get you something, Lazar?’ Boaz asked, his voice heavy with concern. ‘I know you’re upset, perhaps a wine or even something stronger, a shot of terimla?’

‘No. I shall be fine. Forgive me my behaviour. The news is a true shock. I—’

Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by frantic knocking at the door.

They both turned to Boaz who had given clear instructions he was not to be disturbed. Pez reached for the jamoosh that had been cast aside earlier and handed it to Lazar, who moved swiftly to cover himself.

‘Wait,’ Boaz said, moving to the door. He opened it slightly and Pez and Lazar listened to him take a very brief message before he held up his hand to Bin at the door. ‘Give me a moment, Bin.’ He closed the door and turned back to them. ‘There’s something going on at the harbour and the Grand Vizier is apparently on his way to speak to me. It sounds urgent.’

‘I shall leave, Highness,’ Lazar said, ‘and go to my house, but I shall return in an hour or so, if you’ll permit. I need to see Ana.’

Boaz sighed. ‘She can see no-one, my friend. However, please, return in a couple of hours. Salazin will take you through my private chambers so you can leave without being seen.’

He signalled to the mute. Nothing further was said. Lazar and Pez removed themselves hurriedly behind Salazin.

Grand Vizier Tariq was shown into the Zar’s salon and, considering the buzz that Boaz could feel
emanating even from his servants, the Vizier looked surprisingly unfazed.

‘What is this all about, Tariq?’

‘Majesty, please forgive us this interruption at such a late hour.’

‘I presume it is of vital importance to disturb me?’

‘It is, Highness. Quite vital indeed. A Galinsean ship is presently anchored in the shallow waters just outside our harbour. On board a Marius D’Argenny and his companion, Lorto Belsher, await your approval for an audience. Neither speaks Percherese beyond a few words and absolutely no-one speaks Galinsean, other than you, Highness. I think we have no choice but to bring them to the palace.’

Shock upon shock. ‘Just one ship, two men? What do they want?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine, my Zar. Apparently they are messengers, or so Captain Veria seems to believe. The ship has been thoroughly searched and the only oddity we turned up was a strange fellow who claims to be your former Spur’s friend and once manservant.’

‘Jumo?’ Boaz asked, hardly believing the coincidence in timing.

‘Yes, I believe that’s what he called himself.’

‘Bring them before me.’

As the Vizier departed to make arrangements, Boaz turned to Salazin and signed that he was to personally fetch the man who had been here
earlier. And to return him quickly to the palace but through the back entrances, using the same seal of authority for any guards who questioned him.

Boaz met the Galinsean representatives in his Throne Room, a vast and magnificent chamber with an impressively tiled ceiling of crimson and deepest blue. As this room was one of the highest points of the palace, soaring windows on either side provided a near-panoramic view of the city below and onto the harbour where the torches, still burning on the foreign vessel, outlined its presence just outside the harbour.

A gentle lightening in the sky from ink to charcoal and a bright pink slash visible through the eastern bank of windows told Boaz morning was almost upon them and his belly twisted in the knowledge that Ana would already have been woken for her dawn death. He imagined, as he waited for the Galinseans to be shown in, that she would probably be saying some prayers. She would refuse food or water. She would wear something simple, neutral and she would no doubt look stunning all the same as she prepared to be consumed by the waters that ran into the Faranel.

He had cast aside sorrow over her death. It was a useless emotion for this particular person who appeared determined to go to that dark place. And having listened to the Vizier’s wise words,
Boaz had realised that no matter how many times she might be saved, Ana would probably find a new way to bring the wrath of the harem upon her shoulders. She did not fit here. There was almost a sense of relief as this thought slotted itself firmly into place in this mind and Boaz began to appreciate that perhaps the drowning was a kindness to her so that she would no longer suffer, no longer have to struggle with her life or find new ways to cope with her frustrations. He still could not witness her death but he began to wish the news would come that she was drowned. Then he, too, could get on with finding new mates, siring heirs, and forgetting about the woman who surprised and delighted him so much. She had his heart but he knew he didn’t have hers. So for this, too, he could let her go. Boaz wanted some affection now—even if it was contrived and given from women too scared not to or too cunning not to appreciate what it could earn them.

Real love was too painful, he decided. Better to be like his parents—making a great match in mind, in bodies, in what they could both achieve. Love was immaterial. Respect, pleasure in each other and friendship were more enjoyable, surely, than the heartache of loving someone.

A gong was sounded, bringing him out of his moody thoughts and back to the Throne Room where the Galinseans were about to be presented. Despite its size the room felt crowded. Soldiers,
Elim and the mute bodyguard were in maximum attendance. There was no question that the Zar of Percheron was well protected from the strangers who were brought in between a small company of Shield men, led by the Grand Vizier.

Boaz weighed the two men up. As the Vizier had explained, they certainly did not look dangerous and, having recovered from the shock of seeing Lazar with his true light colouring, he could now see the likeness that apparently existed between all Galinseans, not that anyone would know for sure. Apart from Lazar, these were the first men of the western realm he had seen.

Both men knelt without needing to be asked or told. They touched hand to forehead, lips and heart in the region’s way of welcome and salutation. They spoke together in their halting Percherese, their thanks.

Boaz responded stiffly with a welcome in Galinsean, glad to note he got his tongue around the hard accent. He reached for the words and asked them to raise themselves. As they did he noticed quickly stifled amusement on the younger of the two’s expression.

He set his jaw firm and, again forming the words as accurately as he could, he asked them their business, except in Galinsean it obviously wasn’t making much sense. They did not smile but they looked puzzled.

In Percherese, the man known as Marius shrugged gently, ‘Forgive. No understand.’

Boaz seethed. His Galinsean was hardly fluent but he thought he was capable of conversation and certainly of making himself understood. He would not leave himself open to ridicule, especially with such a large audience.

‘Fetch my tutor!’ he told Tariq.

Everyone waited for an uncomfortable and protracted period whilst the sleepy man was dragged from his bed and summoned to the Throne Room. Soldiers brought him bowing and cringing into the room, dishevelled and terrified.