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  “Mother,” he said. “Rise.”

  And she did, first crawling forward—as one should before the Zar—and then straightening on her knees to place the diamond-encrusted emerald ring onto her son’s finger. She nodded reassurance before bowing her head over her son’s hand and kissing the ring fervently.

  “My lord Zar,” she said, pride catching in her throat. “How may I serve?”

  “Hail, Valide Zara,” Boaz said, and Herezah basked in the words she had longed to hear for so many years. Now, as the Zar’s mother, her very name would strike fear into the hearts of those around her.

  She accepted their obeisance, noticed the wry smile on Salmeo’s normally unreadable face, and gave her first order as the most powerful woman in the land.

  “Rise, all,” she said, turning to Tariq. “Where is Lazar?”

  “Waiting, Valide Zara,” the Vizier replied, fully recovered from the dwarf ’s insult and barely able to contain his glee at the thought of the potential riches and power spreading out before him. Hail the Valide! He had aligned himself well.

  “Admit him alone,” she ordered, resisting smiling at the notion that Lazar would share this moment of high joy with her. “The passing of the old Zar is a secret until I say differently.”

  The physicians were smoothing the formerly rumpled sheets neatly over the corpse as the tall, sun-browned Spur entered the chamber.

  “Lazar,” Boaz said, his expression lightening. The formidable warrior was the only person who walked the palace corridors whom he truly considered a friend, aside from Pez.

  The Spur spared only a fleeting glance toward the prone figure on the bed. His shock at the news of the Zar’s imminent death had already been suffered at the ratha emporium; he had concealed it with effort as he strode in disbelieving stony silence ahead of the runner who had brought the dire message. He would reflect on his grief later, in private. Right now his focus was firmly on the new Zar and on ignoring Herezah, who stared at him with the hungry gaze of a hunter.

  Lazar dropped to his knees, reaching to the huge ring that was barely able to sit straight on the slender fingers of the young man’s hand. “Zar Boaz, Your High One, I offer my services and my life to you.”

  In a show of affection, Boaz covered Lazar’s hand with his own, pale and unblemished against the tanned, strong fingers of the bowed man. “I hope we never claim it, Spur.”

  The Spur of Percheron stood and nodded at Boaz, proud of the boy’s composure. The light gray eyes that marked Lazar as a curiosity looked now to Herezah before he bowed low. “Valide Zara.”

  The Valide stifled her pleasure, hiding it behind the grave expression she had contrived; there would be plenty of time to enjoy Lazar’s new fealty to her. Right now there were urgent arrangements to make and she reveled in the thrill of finally being able to give him a direct order.

  “Take the physicians away and do what you must,” she said coldly, glad that protocol did not insist she be veiled within the palace confines so long as the Zar was present. It pleased her hugely that the Spur could see her beauty and know what he was missing.

  If he could sense her pleasure, he did not show it. “May I pay my respects?” he asked, looking toward the body draped in silken sheets.

  The new Valide inclined her head and watched the Spur cross the room in four strides, kneeling to kiss the hand of the dead Zar. He took a moment in silence before he stood and soberly turned toward the men who had tried to prevent death. “Physicians” was all he said.

  “You must be gentle with the gentlemen’s throats,” Pez began to sing. He cartwheeled once before an exasperated look from Herezah told Lazar that it was in the dwarf ’s interest to be removed as well.

  “Come, Pez. You can keep us company,” the soldier suggested.

  The dwarf agreed but not before a loud and long farewell belch to those gathered.

  Annoyed at being so insultingly upstaged, Herezah made her voice chilly. “Do it immediately, Spur, but no word of Zar Joreb’s death is to get out until I sanction it.”

  Lazar noted Herezah’s lack of deference to her son, but said merely, “As you wish, Valide,” and bowed. The Faranel Sea below blew a sweet wind into the room that was nevertheless unable to cover the stench of ambition. It revolted him and he was grateful to escape, even if it were only to carry out the unpalatable task of having the physicians executed.

  After the door had closed on the five men, Herezah turned and said, “Tariq, Salmeo.”

  “Valide?”

  “You understand what needs to be done.” It was not a question.

  “I do,” the avaricious Vizier replied.

  “Salmeo?”

  The huge black man sighed. “Enemies will be made, Valide Zara.”

  She could smell on his breath the violet-fragranced tablets that he habitually sucked. “The enemies of Boaz will be dead. The other kind will be helpless.”

  “Mother? What’s going on?” Boaz, lost in his grieving thoughts, was unable to follow the conversation.

  “Come with me, Boaz. I want to explain something to you.” The Valide took his hand, looking pointedly at the two men who had been charged with the ugly task.

  She did not need to say any more. The darkly ambitious eyes of the woman who now essentially ruled Percheron said it all.

  3

  Boaz was deeply disturbed. The morning had begun like any other in the palace and then, during a language lesson, Vizier Tariq had arrived looking grave. Initially the son of the Zar’s First Wife and Absolute Favorite had leaped at the interruption; any distraction that released him from Galinsean verbs and tenses was a blessing. It was a language that tested even the most accomplished linguists in Percheron. His mother had told him that very few could master the strange tongue and she had explained that she had also tried to learn the tiresome language for many years but failed. Boaz couldn’t imagine his mother failing at anything and he’d initially thought she was just saying as much to flatter him, but others who had tried to learn the language had confirmed its immense difficulty. The tongue of the people from the west was seemingly impossible for a Percherese to speak fluently. His mother jested that should a Galinsean suddenly arrive in the city, not a soul in Percheron would be able to conduct a worthwhile conversation with the visitor. Boaz had laughed and returned that any Galinsean landing in Percheron meant trouble, not conversation.

  The golden-haired race allegedly wanted Percheron so badly that Lazar had set up a special spy network throughout the city just to keep the Zar constantly updated on every item of news that could be gleaned from the trading ships. It had gotten to the point where no ship with Galinsean registration, or on which even a single Galinsean was aboard, was permitted to pass between the stone giants, Beloch and Ezram, who guarded the bay of Percheron, let alone dock in the harbor.

  Lazar seemed to know something about Galinsea, having apparently roamed around it for a number of years and he agreed that its King would certainly have designs on beautiful Percheron. Boaz remembered how the Spur had scowled when he spoke.

  “…not that the Galinsean royals would know art from their arses,” he had warned. “They want one thing only and that’s the harbor. They’d sack the city and then raze it without so much as a look backward.”

  Boaz didn’t believe this but grasped the sentiment behind it.

  “They may be good sailors but we can protect our waters. Our good fortune is the desert to our back. No Galinsean would know how to survive in that unforgiving terrain.”

  At the Vizier’s interruption Boaz had briefly entertained the thought that he might be allowed to play pigball with his brothers. But his anticipation of a fun afternoon was immediately dampened by the Vizier’s solemn request for Boaz to accompany him.

  The day had turned much worse, however, than discovering that pigball was not on the agenda. Having witnessed his father take his last breath, Boaz had not only had to deal with everyone suddenly on their knees to him but he had learned something so terrib
le he had fled his father’s chamber. The new Valide’s whispered words had set off such a panic within him that he had to run to the only person he knew might soothe his mind, assure him it was some horrible game his power-obsessed mother had dreamed up to frighten him. This was why he now found himself in the private chamber of the court jester, the one other person he could genuinely call friend.

  Pez sat cross-legged and cross-eyed, but he was not winning any smiles from the new Zar.

  “I thought my fart well timed,” the dwarf offered into the silence.

  “My mother didn’t.”

  The dwarf sighed and for a rare moment became serious. “You cannot escape this, Boaz.”

  “It’s barbaric!”

  Pez nodded his oversize head.

  “There must be another way.” Boaz begged.

  “Well, certainly not one your mother would entertain. You know this is her way of protecting you.”

  “My father would never have condoned this.”

  “Boaz,” Pez said mildly. “This is precisely how your father’s throne was won and held.”

  The Zar had not expected this and gave a soft sound of surprise. “I never knew that.”

  Pez shrugged. “It’s hardly something he was proud of and it was something he deliberately asked that his own sons be shielded from until his death came about. You are Zar now and your mother can’t keep the harsh realities of life from touching you.”

  “You sound as if you support her,” Boaz replied sourly. Pez said nothing and the Zar looked appalled. “They’re my brothers,” he appealed.

  “And would be your murderers if the shoe were on the other foot. Boaz, don’t be naive. Every wife in the harem thinks the same way as your mother. The Valide is doing what she must to protect you and Percheron’s throne.”

  “She is doing this for her own chance at power!”

  The dwarf shook his head sadly. “Your father chose you for succession. She only dreamed it. He made it so.”

  “Why can’t I rewrite the history books and magnanimously send them away?”

  “And watch your back forevermore? No, child, they each have a rightful claim to the throne—the older ones every bit as eligible as you—and you might not think so now, but each of those boys is your enemy. Their mothers would see to it.”

  The new Zar made a sound of anguished disgust. “I cannot be there. I will not witness it!”

  “You must!” Pez countered equally firmly. “Or you will be viewed as weak.”

  “So be it!” Boaz shouted, slamming his hand onto the table. He regretted the raised voice and his tone softened to a plea. “Save me, Pez—don’t force me to bear witness. I cannot.”

  The dwarf was torn. He understood the young man’s fear and felt sorry for him, but conspiring against the Valide Zara would be tantamount to treason and he had no desire to have that charge leveled at him, especially with Herezah searching for any excuse to have him killed, or at the very least banished from the palace. He began to shake his head when an idea struck him. It was unpleasant but effective, and hopefully without repercussions.

  “Hold out your arm.”

  “What?”

  “Do it.”

  Boaz obeyed, nervously. “Only Lazar and I know the real you, Pez. Everyone else thinks you’re demented.”

  “And you’ve never told the truth. Why not?”

  “Because you’re my secret. The only thing truly mine that my mother can’t spoil or interfere with. I don’t share it because you’re true; there is no one else I trust in the way that I trust you.”

  Pez smiled and his collection of odd features seemed to blend and become…not handsome—not by any stretch—but suddenly right. The warmth and beauty in his smile revealed his heart.

  “There will be, son.”

  Boaz frowned, confused. “Who?”

  Pez burped theatrically for his answer and Boaz had experienced the dwarf ’s evasive tactics enough times to know he would get nothing more from his friend on the subject.

  “This is going to hurt, Zar Boaz, but not nearly as much as watching your brothers die.”

  The new Zar instinctively closed his eyes.

  “HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?” Herezah growled at Tariq. “Today of all days!”

  She’d donned an exquisite black tunic over matching silk trousers, presumably her mourning garb, but no one could miss how the cut of the outfit showed off her sensuous figure. Even in grief Herezah intended to take everyone’s breath away.

  To the Vizier’s credit, his somber expression did not falter at the outburst. “Pez found him, Valide Zara. Apparently Boaz had been running to find the jester when he fell and sustained the injury.”

  Herezah made a sound of disgust at the Vizier’s pointless explanation. “I worked that out for myself, Tariq.” Her eyes blazed anger as she turned toward the Spur. “Spur Lazar, what do you have to say about this…situation?”

  “Pez fetched me when it happened. I could see that Boaz’s arm was broken and I sent for one of the city physicians immediately. I didn’t have much choice, Valide,” Lazar said. He did not wish to anger her further by reminding her that it was she who had called for the palace physicians’ deaths to be carried out immediately.

  The men had died bravely. They had said their prayers and written notes to their families before kneeling calmly in the execution courtyard and together chanting the mantra to send their souls safely to the Garden of Zarab.

  Lazar would not permit the palace soldiers to handle this sort of killing. He had assembled a small team of executioners to carry out any deaths ordered by the royals or their agents. In this instance two experienced men had arrived quietly to stand behind the physicians. A third, the most senior man, gave the signal when the mantra had been cast. The executioners had reached a blade around each victim’s throat and expertly slashed the jugular. It was not pretty but it was swift and it was honorable. The heads were later fully severed but would not be pushed onto spikes until the Valide gave permission for the city to learn of the Zar’s passing.

  “Well, I’ve sent the city physician away,” Herezah said, exasperated. “Yozem will take care of Boaz. We shall need to hire a new team of physicians for the Zar.”

  “As you wish,” Lazar murmured, still wondering at the senseless waste of life. The dead doctors would have made fine physicians for Boaz.

  “Nothing is as I wish,” she replied acidly. It was galling to know that Boaz would not be present, but having seen the gray-faced Zar sweating from the pain of his damaged arm, she knew it was impossible. Yozem had already mixed the pain-relieving opium paste, including the crushed dust of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies accorded royalty, although, from now on, Boaz would take his opiate in the gilded tablets prepared for the Zar alone.

  “If not for Pez—” Lazar began, but the Valide cut across his words angrily.

  “Yes, yes, if not for Pez! If I didn’t know he was so feebleminded, I could almost believe he works against me.” Both men made noises of gentle admonishment, which she ignored. “What have people been told?”

  Lazar answered. “They know only that the Zar is injured and that he is with his physicians. No one knows of Joreb’s death yet.”

  Herezah nodded, seemingly no longer interested. “So is everything ready, Tariq?”

  “As ordered, Valide. Salmeo is with them.”

  Herezah knew Lazar would find her latest scheme heinous but he would hide his disgust behind that irritating mask of his face. Hoping this man would ever show any emotion seemed a lost cause. The gods knew she had been trying long enough. Why he intrigued her so much she couldn’t say; perhaps it was his very remoteness that made her yearn to be able to reach him. All her life men had looked at her with lust, but this man hardly looked at her at all. And when he did, she felt as if he were looking through her. She hated him for that; it was a worse kind of humiliation, insulting her far more cruelly than being wanted purely to satisfy fleshly desires. Even a kind word beyond the courtesies he was bo
und to show would be something to cling to. Still, she thought, with no small measure of satisfaction, everything had changed as of this morning. It was obvious Lazar knew it too, which would explain his reluctant manner. Good. It was high time he had his feathers ruffled.

  “Your men will secure the area, Spur Lazar. I trust I can count on them to be discreet?”

  He bowed his head in acknowledgment but not before she saw the unhappiness flit across his face, so briefly that anyone else might believe they had imagined it. But not Herezah. She knew the planes and nuances of that face as well as she knew her own; had imagined herself touching it often enough, kissing those angry lips, staring into those furious silver-gray eyes.

  “Valide—” Lazar started.

  “Don’t,” she warned. “I will not be swayed. It is the only way to protect Boaz. You know that as well as anyone. Now, where are the women?”

  “At the pools, Valide,” the Vizier answered.

  She turned away from Lazar to make sure he understood who was controlling the reins of power now. Boaz might be Zar but his mother was the ruler. She allowed herself to watch the Spur from the corner of her eye, though. No need to waste any opportunity to feast on the looks of a man who genuinely fueled her own desire. Zarab knew there was no other man around her who could. Too long had she had been forced to serve the whims of Joreb: old, fleshy Joreb and his strange sexual habits. And then of course there were the half men, the eunuchs, with their soft tongues, who illegally satisfied many in the harem, but not her. She found them repulsive. As for finding solace in another woman—she felt her stomach twist at the thought, although she knew that a number of the odalisques and wives took their pleasures in one another. She scowled to push the notion away. Lazar alone made her heart pound.

  “Good. And the wives?” she asked her Vizier.