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  ODALISQUE

  Book One of The Percheron Saga

  FIONA MCINTOSH

  For Ian…

  who gave me an old book one evening to browse through, knowing the Topkapi Palace and its famous harem would prove irresistible to this writer

  Contents

  Map

  Prologue

  The prisoners, chained together, shuffled awkwardly into the main square…

  1

  The Spur of Percheron was oblivious to the clandestine attention…

  2

  It was going to be unpleasant, she thought, tapping perfectly…

  3

  Boaz was deeply disturbed. The morning had begun like any…

  4

  Herezah did not need to be veiled within the privacy…

  5

  Lazar shaded his eyes and squinted into the shimmering scene…

  6

  Zafira lived in a tiny dwelling in the attic of…

  7

  They arrived before sunset, a couple of hours earlier than…

  8

  Pez found Boaz alone in his chambers. Joreb had long…

  9

  Pez led Boaz through a maze of corridors the boy…

  10

  Pez and his Zar were still trapped in the corridor…

  11

  Tariq sat alone on the balcony of his home and…

  12

  As Tariq was haggling over the darkest of bargains that…

  13

  Pez, feeling unsettled, had left a perplexed young Zar on…

  14

  Jumo was relieved to see the familiar figure and distinctive…

  15

  How is your arm this morning, my lion?” Herezah asked…

  16

  Salmeo’s heart was pumping hard and it was not only…

  17

  A heavy silence fell upon the crowded courtyard. Yet another door…

  18

  Lazar had thought about closing his eyes to Ana but…

  19

  Ana was hurried away from the Courtyard of Sorrows and…

  20

  Pez fretted that he should not have left Lazar to…

  21

  It was humid in Percheron, the air stifling within the…

  22

  Pez had spent most of the night talking with the…

  23

  Boaz declared three official days of mourning for the death…

  24

  The man looked sickened. “Lie to the Zar? Admit to…

  25

  She turned at the sound, rising from her chair. “Oh,…

  26

  When Ana woke the following morning, Pez was back at…

  27

  Salmeo brooded in his chamber. Horz had been immovable but…

  28

  Pez sat alone in the marble coolness of the palace…

  29

  Boaz was given a tumultuous welcome by the city of…

  30

  Boaz’s complexion had turned so pale Pez wondered if the…

  31

  Before he went to find Ana, Pez returned to his…

  32

  There was no sign of Zafira. Pez couldn’t understand why…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise

  Other Books by Fiona McIntosh

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Map

  PROLOGUE

  The prisoners, chained together, shuffled awkwardly into the main square of the slave market of Percheron; six men, all strangers and all captives of a trader called Varanz, who had a reputation for securing the more intriguing product for sale. And this group on offer was no exception, although most onlookers’ attention was helplessly drawn to the tall man whose searing, pale-eyed stare, at odds with his long dark hair, seemed to challenge anyone brave enough to lock gazes with him.

  Varanz knew it too; knew this one was special, and he sensed a good price coming for the handsome foreigner well worth the effort it had cost six of his henchmen first to bring the man down and then to rope him securely. It puzzled him why the man had been traveling across the desert, of all places—that in itself a perilous journey—but also moving alone, which meant almost certain trouble, particularly from slavers renowned in the region.

  But Varanz had a policy of not inquiring into the background of his captives; perhaps to ease his conscience he didn’t want to know anything about them, save what was obvious to his own eye. And this one, who refused to name himself, or indeed mutter much more than curses, was clearly in good health. That was enough for the merchant.

  Trading for this cluster of slaves opened at the sound of the gong. The Master of the Market called the milling crowd of buyers to order: “Brothers, we have here Varanz Set Number Eight.” His voice droned on, extolling the virtues of each on offer, but already the majority of potential buyers were in the thrall of the angry-eyed man, clearly the pick of the bunch and the only one of the six who held his head defiantly high. Sensing a lively auction, the Master of the Market decided to state more than the obvious healthy appearance, strong structure, and good teeth. “He was found emerging from the golden sands of our desert alone, not even a camel for company. Brothers, I’d hazard this one will make a fine bodyguard. If he’s canny enough to travel our wasteland and remain as well as he looks, then I imagine he has excellent survival skills.”

  “Can he fight?” one buyer called out.

  Varanz arched an eyebrow and looked toward the slave, wondering whether he’d finally get something out of the man. His instincts were right.

  “I can fight,” the man replied. “In fact,” he challenged, “I demand to fight for my freedom.”

  A fresh murmuring rippled through the crowd. An oddity in Percheron’s slave market was its ancient and somewhat quaint rule that a slave who was captured as a free person had one chance to buy his freedom—with a fight to the death. The Crown covered the cost of his loss, either way, to the trader. It was one of the market’s oldest customs, set up by a Zar many centuries earlier who understood that such a contest from time to time would provide entertainment for the otherwise tedious business of trading in human cargo.

  Such fights were rare, of course, as most prisoners took their chances with a new life as a slave. But now and then one would risk death in a bid to win back his independence.

  Varanz strolled over to the man now that he knew his tongue was loosened. “You understand what you ask for?”

  “I do. It was explained to us on the journey here by one of your aides. I wish to fight for my freedom. I also wish to speak with your Zar.”

  At this Varanz smirked. “I can’t imagine he will want to speak with you.”

  “He might after he watches me best twelve of his strongest warriors.”

  Varanz was speechless at the man’s arrogance. He shook his head and walked to the Master, briefly explaining in a quiet mutter what the slave was proposing. Now both of them returned to stand before the man.

  “Don’t try and talk me out of it. I want my freedom back. I will pay the price if I fail to win it,” the slave warned them.

  The Master had no intention of attempting to thwart the prospect of some sport after an already long and wearying day in the market. He could see that Varanz was unfazed, knowing that he would get a good price either way.

  “What is your reserve, Varanz?” he asked.

  “No less than two hundred karels for this one.”

  The Master nodded. “I will send a message to the palace for authorization,” he said. Then, turning to the man, he insisted, “You must give us your name.”

  The slave knifed them with a cold gaze. “My name is Lazar.”


  THE PALACE DID MORE than give authorization. A runner returned swiftly with the news that Zar Joreb, his interest piqued, would be in attendance for the contest. “You understand how unusual it is for the Zar of Percheron to visit the slave traders,” Varanz informed Lazar.

  The foreigner was unmoved. “I wish to speak with him if I succeed.”

  Varanz nodded. “That is up to our Zar. We have told him you have offered to fight twelve of his men to the death. This is no doubt why he is coming to witness the contest.”

  “It is why I suggested so many.”

  Varanz shook his head, exasperated. “How can you best a dozen fighters, man? There’s still time to change your mind and not waste your life. I will ensure a cozy position for you. A fellow like you will find himself in high demand by a rich man to escort his wives, families…take care of their security.”

  Lazar snorted. “I’m no nursery maid.”

  “All right.” Varanz tried again. “I know I can sell you as a high-caliber bodyguard to a man who needs protection whilst he travels. I’ll find you a good owner.”

  “I don’t want to be owned,” Lazar snarled. “I want my freedom.”

  The trader shrugged. “Well, you’ll have it, my friend, but you’ll be carried off in a sack.”

  “So be it. I slave for no one.”

  Their conversation was ended by the Master of the Market’s hissing for silence—a troop of Percheron’s guard had arrived, signifying that the Zar’s karak was just moments away. Varanz nodded to one of his aides to escort the rest of the prisoners to the holding pen. Trading would resume once this piece of theater was done with.

  “I wish you luck, brother,” he said to Lazar, and moved away to stand with the Master, who was marshaling all the other traders into a formal line of welcome. The Zar finally arrived, flanked by several of the Percherese Guard, his karak carried by six of the red-shrouded Elim, the elite guardians of the Zar’s harem who also performed bodyguard duties to royalty. The Zar’s entry between the slave market’s carved pillars of two griffins was heralded by the trumpeting of several of the curled Percherese horns, and everyone who was not attached to the royal retinue instantly humbled himself. No one dared raise his eyes to the Zar until given formal permission.

  No one but Lazar, that is.

  He was on his knees because he had been pushed down, but he brazenly watched the Zar being helped out of the karak; their gazes met and held momentarily across the dust of the slave market. Then Lazar dipped his head, just a fraction, but it was enough to tell the Zar that the brash young man had acknowledged the person who was the closest thing to the god Zarab that walked the earth.

  The guard quickly set up the Zar’s seat and the Elim unfurled a canopy over it. Zar Joreb settled himself. He had a wry smile as the Master of the Market made the official announcement that the prisoner, Lazar, captured by Trader Varanz, had opted to fight for his freedom against a dozen warriors from the Percherese Guard. No one watched the Master or even the Zar. All eyes were riveted on the dark foreigner, whose wrists and ankles were now unshackled and who was disrobing down to the once-white, now gray and dirty loose pants he wore. They watched his measured movements, but mostly they watched him study the twelve men taking practice swipes with their glinting swords, all bearing smirks, none prepared to take the ridiculously outnumbered contest seriously.

  The gong sounded for silence and the Master outlined what was about to happen. It was a superfluous pronouncement but strict protocol was a way of life for Percheron’s various markets, especially in the hallowed presence of the Zar.

  “…or to the prisoner’s death,” he finished somberly. He looked to Zar Joreb, who, with an almost imperceptible nod, gave the signal for combat to begin.

  Those who were present at the slave market that day would talk about the fight for years to come. Lazar accepted the weapon thrown toward him and without so much as a hurried prayer to his god of choice strode out to meet the first of the warriors. To prolong the sport, the guard had decided to send out one man at a time—presumably they intended to keep wounding the arrogant prisoner until he begged for mercy and the deathblow. However, by the time the first three men were groaning and bleeding on the ground, their most senior man hurriedly sent in four at a once.

  It didn’t make much difference to Lazar, who appeared to the audience to be unintimidated by numbers. His face wore the grim countenance of utter focus; he made no sound, never once backed away, always threatening his enemy rather than the other way around. It was soon obvious that his sword skills could not be matched by any of the Percherese, not even fighting in tandem. His fighting arm became a blur of silver that weaved a path of wreckage through flesh, turning the dozen men, one after another, into writhing, crying heaps as they gripped torn shoulders, slashed legs, or profusely bleeding fighting arms. To their credit, the final two fought superbly, but neither could mark Lazar. He fought without fear, his speed only increasing as the battle wore on. Cutting one man down by the ankle, Lazar stomped on his sword wrist, breaking it, to ensure he did not return to the fray, and some moments later, fought the other into exhaustion until the man was on his knees. Lazar flicked the guard’s sword away and gave a calculated slash across his chest. The man fell, almost grateful for the reprieve.

  The slave market was uncharacteristically quiet, save for the cries of bleeding, paining men. Varanz looked around at the carnage, his nostrils flaring with the raw metallic smell of blood thick in the air, and he raised his eyebrows with surprise. No one was dead. Lazar had mercilessly and precisely disabled each of his rivals but claimed the life of none.

  Throwing down his sword, Lazar stood in the circle of hurt warriors, a light sheen of perspiration on his body the only indication that he had exerted himself. His chest rose and sank steadily, calmly. He turned to the Zar and bowed long and deeply.

  “Zar Joreb, will you now grant my freedom?” he said finally into the hush that had fallen.

  “My men would surely rather seek death than live with the dishonor of losing this fight,” was Joreb’s response.

  Varanz watched Lazar’s curiously light eyes cloud with defiance. “They are innocent men. I will not take their lives for a piece of entertainment.”

  “They are soldiers! This was a fight to the death.”

  “Zar Joreb, this was a fight to my death, not theirs. It was made clear that I either win my freedom through death or through survival. I survived. No one impressed upon me the fact that anyone had to die as part of the rules of this custom.”

  “Arrogant pup,” Joreb murmured into the silence. Then, impossibly, he laughed. “Stand before me, young man.”

  Lazar took two long strides and then went down on one knee, his head finally bowed.

  “What is it you want, stranger?” the Zar demanded.

  “I want to live in Percheron as a free man,” Lazar replied, not lifting his head.

  “Look at me.” Lazar did so. “You’ve humiliated my guard. You will need to rectify that before I grant you anything.”

  “How can I do that, Zar Joreb?”

  “By teaching them.”

  Lazar stared at the Zar, a quizzical look taking over his heretofore impassive face, but he said nothing.

  “Become my Spur,” Zar Joreb offered. “Our present Spur must retire soon. We need to inject a fresh approach. A young approach. You fight like you’re chasing away demons, man. I want you to teach my army how to do that.”

  Lazar’s gaze narrowed. His tone sounded guarded. “You’re offering to pay me to live as a free man in Percheron?”

  “Be my Spur,” Zar Joreb urged. This time there was no humor in his voice, only passion.

  The crowd collectively held its breath as Lazar paused. Finally, he nodded once, decisively. “I accept, but first you owe Varanz over there two hundred karels apparently.”

  Joreb laughed loudly in genuine amusement. “I like you, Lazar. Follow me back to the palace. We have much to speak of. I must say, I’m impre
ssed by your audacity. You put your life in danger to get what you want.”

  “It was never in danger,” Lazar replied, and the semblance of a smile twitched briefly at his mouth.

  1

  FIFTEEN YEARS LATER…

  The Spur of Percheron was oblivious to the clandestine attention he was being paid from the city’s favorite ratha emporium. Inside its kitchens a pair of women feasted their eyes on Percheron’s most eligible bachelor while 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 line 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 accompanied by mouth-watering sambas and chutneys.

  Though the sisters never had any dealings with the customers, 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 a splendid close-up view of Percheron’s city folk at work and play. With their hands lively about their work, so skilled in it now that their fingers required no thought or supervision, the sisters had 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.