Odalisque (7 page)

Soon Ana’s home and even the ridge she lived below was out of sight.

‘What do you want me for, sir?’ she asked, reaching from Jumo’s horse to tug at Lazar’s sleeve.

‘I do not want you for anything, Ana,’ he said, more sorrowfully than he intended. ‘You belong to the Zar now, his odalisque.’

Zafira lived in a tiny dwelling in the loft of the temple, reached by narrow stone stairs, and with a breathtaking view across the harbour. She shared it with doves mainly, who liked the high vantage of the eaves to roost amongst, but she made welcome the many small birds that came daily to her window for scraps and fresh water.

She had her back to that window and its sprawling vista right now and wondered again, as she stared into the steamy swirls rising from her cinnamon tea, about her recent visitor and his importance. The voices that haunted her dreams had told her to wait for him and to welcome him when he finally came. She had waited several years in vain, almost forgetting about it, and then suddenly two days ago the man they had spoken of had wandered into the temple. They had given her no description of him and yet she knew instinctively that the spur was the one. He was younger up close than she had expected, with rugged looks and a remote disposition. There was nothing soft about Lazar. In fact everything about
him was hard. The angular planes to his face, the way he carried himself with such bristling strength beneath the loose robes, the determined stride, the glower he regarded her with, even the anger she sensed he repressed. His words, his attitude—all of him seemed hardened. But not cruel. No; secretive perhaps, determined, bitter even, but not cruel, for all that hard exterior.

Why was he important? Important to what? She could not guess.

Her present visitor interrupted her musings. ‘I’ll pay you for them,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘Mindless stuff, Pez, I promise,’ she said and sipped. ‘Is your quishtar all right?’

‘Delicious and you know it,’ he replied, ‘no-one brews better than you, Zafira.’

‘Perhaps that’s what I’ll be remembered for then,’ she said, amused.

‘More, I imagine,’ Pez answered and there was something cryptic in his glance.

She left it alone. Pez was mysterious enough without reading into his words or second-guessing the strange machinations of his mind.

‘How did you come to be here, Pez?’ she asked suddenly, glad to move away from her confused thoughts.

‘Like most of the foreigners here I was captured and sold as a slave. Except I was such an oddity there was really only one place for me.’

‘How convenient then that you have such an amusing way.’

Pez eyed the priestess in that serious manner which very few were permitted to see. ‘You know better than to goad me, Zafira.’

She took his admonishment in the gentle manner it was given. ‘You’re such an enigma, Pez. Why is everyone around me so mysterious?’

‘Oh? Who else has you so baffled?’

‘The Spur paid the temple a visit.’

Pez nodded as if he had expected this. ‘Yes, well, he left the palace seething, I’m not surprised he came somewhere to calm himself. And where better than here?’

Her expression of query prompted an explanation from Pez and she learned of Lazar’s special duties commanded by Herezah.

‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘He did seem troubled.’

Pez’s odd collection of features rearranged themselves into a smile and it did wonders for his face. ‘Troubled is an understatement. I think it was a very good idea he left the city for a while.’

‘Why to the temple first though?’ she wondered aloud and then added, ‘I’ve been having dreams, Pez.’

‘Oh?’ he said, unfazed by the sudden switch in topic. ‘Can I help?’

‘I don’t think so. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.’

‘Because we’re friends, Zafira, and heaven knows there are few enough of those in this place.’

She nodded, understanding only too well. ‘But why are we friends? Why have we chosen each
other? How is it that I know you are perfectly sane whilst the palace believes you are the opposite?’ she pressed.

‘You question life too much, old woman,’ he replied gently, cupping his deformed hands around the cooling bowl of half-drunk tea. ‘You and I are both seeking the same thing—we recognise it in each other, it’s why we are friends.’

‘What is it we search for?’ There was a plea in her voice.

Pez shrugged. ‘We shall know it when it presents itself. And to answer your other question, I keep my sanity a secret because the semblance of madness keeps me safe. It is my only defence in a highly dangerous place.’

‘I’m sorry, Pez. I don’t know what’s come over me today. I have this sense of…’ She trailed off, shaking her head.

‘A sense of what?

The priestess turned her hands palm upwards in bafflement. ‘That something is in motion and somehow it involves me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Something important.’

‘Go on.’

She gave a look of exasperation. ‘I don’t know, Pez. That’s just it.’

‘Is it connected with your dreams?’

She nodded. ‘I’m sure of it but I can’t really remember anything specific, other than I was told to expect a man and that he was important.’

‘The voices you spoke of told you this?’

‘Whispers really. But I can’t tell you precisely what they say.’

‘How do you know they meant Lazar?’

‘I don’t but I feel very sure it’s him. Why I was told to expect this person I have no idea. Oh, Pez, I’m sorry to sound so vague.’

‘Don’t upset yourself, my friend. I myself feel I’m here for a reason but can’t tell you why.’ He smiled sadly.

‘How long have you been in Percheron, Pez?’ she asked.

He looked around and scratched his chin and Zafira was arrested by the notion that Pez looked like a bird. His nose reached so low it was almost a beak. It was the first time she had been struck by such a thought even though they had met like this many times. She tried not to smile at her silly notion. ‘It must be past two decades now,’ he answered.

‘That long!’

‘Must be. Boaz is fifteen and I was the Zar’s jester for at least six summers before our new ruler was born.’

She smiled. ‘And you’ve frustrated, exasperated and deliberately irritated Herezah for all that time, I’m sure.’

‘Oh, that’s the least I can do,’ he replied, sharing her amusement. ‘I hope you have no spies here, my friend, or our new Valide will have our heads on spikes before we pour another glass of tea.’

She stood to heat fresh water. ‘Fret not, Pez. My doves here would warn me if anyone is around…they coo at the slightest thing. I gather the changes have already begun at the palace. You’ll have to watch yourself.’

‘She hates me, that’s clear, but mainly for the reason you speak of—that I frustrate her. I know she’s using magical means to dig into my past, my mind.’

‘How so?’

‘Yozem.’

She made a sound of disgust. ‘Evil woman, a curse to her kind.’

‘She can find nothing on me,’ he said softly.

Zafira was not prepared to let this comment be swallowed and forgotten with the fresh brew. ‘Why not? Aren’t people terrified of her because she can read anyone?’

Pez pulled an expression to suggest he was not bothered by it. ‘Most don’t even know whether she exists or not. She does, of course, holed up in the horrid crypt-like chambers beneath the palace. Either I’m impervious to her dark magicks or they don’t exist and she’s a fake. Whichever way it is, Herezah has nothing she can lay at my feet, and besides, Boaz loves me to bits. She will not win an argument for my death over the new Zar—trust me.’

‘You’re very confident, Pez.’ Her tone suggested he should be more cautious.

‘I am also very careful, my friend. Don’t worry about me.’

‘What about Tariq and that vile head eunuch?’

Pez nodded. ‘With Herezah’s influence and the power she will extend to them, I think we have a right to be worried. It’s why Lazar’s presence around the palace is important. He brings balance. Boaz worships Lazar, which is good fortune for us for he listens to what the Spur advises. I don’t think our new Zar has much time for Tariq but he’s still young. We cannot expect too much of Boaz too soon—he still has a very young man’s notions and urges. In all truth I’m sure that he would rather ride and shoot, fish and play than think about political matters. This is what Herezah is counting on, of course. She’ll fuel his pleasures, all the time usurping more and more power for herself and her sycophants.’

‘A grim picture you paint,’ Zafira said.

‘Well, the assembling of a harem will keep all three of them busy for a while.’

Zafira nodded and they sat in comfortable silence for several moments as she poured a fresh bowl of tea for each and moved to the window. She sighed. ‘So, I wonder what it is that we’re both waiting for?’ She stared out to sea and, as always, marvelled at the grandeur of the twins in the harbour. ‘I feel we’re like Beloch and Ezram out there, waiting for something to happen.’

‘You might be right, old friend,’ Pez answered.

Lazar seemed in no urgency to return to the city. They had made camp on a rocky outcrop and could clearly see the sparkling waters of the Faranel now and the glittering city spreading down to her edge. It was as if pastel lava had erupted from the hilltop where the palace stood and slid down to the natural harbour, hardening on its slow journey to form the superb architecture of Percheron.

It was Ana who made this observation, much to the silent delight of Lazar, quiet at the best of times but downright sullen this evening. ‘And you’ve seen a mountain erupt and spill the earth’s hot contents, have you?’

‘In my dreams I have,’ she said, frowning. ‘I think they must exist somewhere across the lands and it was frightening, whereas Percheron lifts my heart.’

Lazar said nothing but was secretly thrilled by Ana’s description of Percheron. Since first seeing the city he too had always felt…what was it? Restored?

‘Well, I think it’s a beautiful notion, Ana,’ Jumo said, filling the silence, ‘and shall always think of the city that way from now on.’

‘Do you not like me, sir?’ Ana asked, looking at the Spur in that direct way of hers.

‘What makes you say that?’ he growled, busying himself with stirring the glowing coals of their small fire.

‘You glare a lot at me, sir. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.’

‘You’ve done nothing wrong, Ana,’ he answered.

‘That’s his happy face,’ Jumo chimed in, and Ana giggled with him. It won a fresh scowl from Lazar.

‘What are you sad about, then?’ she persisted.

‘I don’t know,’ Lazar answered and there was a wistfulness in his tone which puzzled Jumo. ‘Here, eat,’ he added, handing Ana a piece of the poultry they had cooked.

‘I don’t eat birds,’ she said apologetically.

‘This is chicken. Not a real bird,’ Jumo put in.

‘Because it doesn’t fly you mean?’ she said. He nodded. ‘It has wings, Jumo. I think a chicken would fly if it could, which makes it a bird for me.’

‘We’d all fly if we could,’ Lazar grumbled.

Ana seemed to find this amusing and laughed again at the Spur. Jumo wondered about the last person who laughed at Lazar and where their head had ended up. And yet here he was allowing a young slip of a thing tease him. Wonders would never cease.

‘Well, if you’re not going to eat, let me suggest you sleep,’ Lazar said to Ana. ‘Tomorrow we’ll ride all day and reach the city late. There won’t be time to catch your breath even. Valide Zara will be keen to see you.’

‘Who’s Valide Zara?’ she asked, all innocence.

Lazar frowned at the thought. ‘She’s your new mistress.’

‘Is that who you’re selling me to?’

‘She has already bought you, Ana, not me. Your mother sold you to the harem.’

‘Felluj is not my mother. I should prefer to stay with you and Jumo.’

The men glanced at one another. ‘You will make friends, I promise.’

‘Are you my friend, Lazar? Promise me you’ll always be my friend.’

Jumo grinned privately. He had never seen his master so disconcerted.

‘You have my word,’ Lazar promised.

They arrived before sunset, a couple of hours earlier than Lazar had anticipated, so he decided to give Ana a brief tour of Percheron, knowing she might never be permitted to see this beautiful city again. By tomorrow morning Ana would know she was a prisoner with all those qualities that made her such an intriguing free spirit stamped out of her until she performed in the remote, rehearsed manner of all the harem women. He had heard tales of their personalities surfacing in the bathing rooms and behind closed doors, and he could believe it. Wanted to believe it. But to all intents and purposes, the women of the harem lost their rights to free expression. Perhaps even Herezah had been a carefree young thing once.

Herezah! The very thought of the woman made him want to linger as long as possible outside the palace itself with his precious cargo.

‘Jumo, perhaps you could take the horses and our things back to the palace barracks?’

‘Are you not coming, master?’

‘I thought I’d show our guest a little of Percheron’s sights before I deliver her to Salmeo.’

‘Very good,’ Jumo replied, but his warning glance said far more. ‘Goodbye, Ana.’ He helped the youngster from the horse they had shared.

She surprised him with a hug. ‘Goodbye, friend Jumo. You won’t forget me, will you?’

‘Never. You will make us proud. One day I suspect Spur Lazar and I will have to bow before you.’

‘I would never make you do that,’ and she smiled softly.

Jumo straightened and took the reins of Lazar’s horse. ‘Be careful, master,’ was all he would risk.

‘I shall be back within a couple of hours at the most,’ Lazar assured. ‘Come, Ana, let me show you some of this beautiful city.’ He turned his back on both of them and strode off.

‘You’d better hurry, child,’ Jumo urged. ‘He waits for no-one.’

She spared a final glance for the tawny little man and then she was lost amongst the crowd of people pushing towards the main gates. It was not hard to spot Lazar towering erect over the shorter Percherese population. He had taken off his head covering and his dark hair had fallen loose to just above his shoulders. Ana reckoned it could do with a good wash and brushing. She imagined how this man’s hair might feel if she was attending to it, and a warmth passed through her body. It felt good to
be near Lazar yet if asked to explain why, she was not sure she could, particularly as he was so distant and grumpy, but there was something else. Her young mind could not wrap itself fully around it but she wondered if he was someone who could be badly hurt. A person who covered his weakness with his gruff manner. Despite that vulnerability, Ana sensed only intense power in the man. He was his own person. Although he might follow orders, she guessed that no-one told Lazar what to do; she knew in her heart she had a similar trait. This was obviously going to be difficult for her now that she had an ‘owner’ to answer to. Ana decided that she and Lazar were souls who were destined to meet, and as this notion gelled in her mind, she realised she had caught up with the man who claimed her thoughts. Ana startled him by taking his hand.

‘I might lose you,’ she said in answer to his surprised glare.

He nodded. ‘Look at these creatures, will you?’ he marvelled as they approached the city walls. ‘Aren’t they spectacular sculptures? They look so real.’

‘They are beautiful,’ she agreed, her eyes sparkling with equal wonder. ‘But they are not sculptures, Lazar.’

‘Oh?’

‘They look alive because they were a long time ago.’

He snorted. ‘They lived? What, that gryphon over there?’

She nodded seriously.

‘How do you know? Are you that old that you have seen them?’ he challenged with amusement in his tone.

‘I think perhaps I am what they call an old soul.’

The huge gates of Percheron were supported by two monstrously large lions with jagged manes and huge wings that folded down their strong backs.

‘Aren’t they magnificent?’ Lazar said, pausing to touch one. He always felt compelled to do so every time he passed.

‘They are Crendel and Darso.’

‘Oh, they have names too?’ he said, irony lacing his tone now.

‘Just like you and me,’ she said, unaffected by the jest in his voice.

‘I’m not even going to ask how you know,’ he said, ‘because I too can make up things, Ana, and I’m glad of your imagination.’ He surprised himself by bending to pull her close and stare at her. ‘Because it’s your imagination that will save you. You will always have it to escape to.’

‘Don’t be sad, Lazar,’ she said, stroking his lank hair.

Her touch was so innocent and yet so intimate it took his breath away. He was stunned to feel his heart melt as he stared at her large trusting
eyes. He considered her bleak future as a plaything to a man. For a fleeting moment he considered running away with her. Taking her back to the foothills, or better, trying to find her true mother. Or he could just take her into his own home; he didn’t actually live at the palace or in its barracks, so it could be done discreetly. Perhaps he could say he bought her at the slave market to help keep house for him. Then she would be safe. He would see to her education and he would help her make a good marriage. His mind raged and yet he knew in his heart he could do nothing of the sort. Herezah had demanded six girls of him. The men he had sent ahead already knew he and Jumo were last seen heading towards one of the families in the western foothills. The Valide was too cunning—she would learn of his new housekeeper. And Ana was far too beautiful to escape notice.

He looked away, resigned to her fate and hating himself that he had personally chosen her destiny. ‘Let me show you some more,’ he said, hoping his voice did not reflect the angst within. Silently he berated himself for his strange attitude these past couple of days. Suddenly he was an emotional liability; eyes misting without warning, feeling introspective, questioning his life and its meaning. And worst of all, allowing a young girl to add fuel to the fire of those insecurities.

Once again holding Ana’s hand, he weaved her through the streets of Percheron as dusk
descended and lamps were lit and the city clothed itself in its more salubrious mantle.

‘You must be hungry?’ he asked. She nodded. ‘How about a sharva?’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’ll show you,’ he said and his own mouth watered at the thought. ‘I trust you eat meat?’

‘I do. Just not birds,’ and she smiled her apology. They wended a slow path into the markets, a warren of alleyways. People meandered around them, going about their business of buying everything from fresh meat to silver bracelets.

‘I love it here,’ Lazar admitted. ‘Each narrow lane is known for a specific craft. Now this one that we’re in specialises in the flat triangular sort of hats that the everyday Percherese favour. The hats for our esteemed citizens are made in another street. Now see that woman over there?’ Ana nodded. ‘She uses twelve needles to knit the yarn.’

‘Ah yes, they do this in the foothills too.’

‘Of course, you would have seen this.’

Ana smiled. ‘It’s knitted very wide and then they dye them and shrink the hats in the huge boiling bowls.’

‘That’s right. They call them the cauldrons. After drying them, they use a dry thistle to tease up the fibres, like this.’ He pointed to another woman hard at her toil. ‘And you end up with one of these beauties.’ He put a red coriz, as it was known, on his head, its tassel dangling in his face.

She laughed. ‘Another street?’

The next alleyway was devoted to rugs, and the one after that to fabulous cushions fashioned in velvet and silk, wool and skins in every size and shape imaginable. They made their way through the torch-lit alleys past shops selling fabrics and beautiful hanging lanterns, then exquisitely painted tiles and finally into the maze of lanes given over to the art of food.

Ana was drawn to the spice sellers where sacks of brightly coloured powders and seeds, beans and pods were displayed. She stood quietly and watched as women pointed to what they wanted and gave the amount. The man who sat cross-legged near a set of scales called to his helper—a tiny boy—who scampered around scooping up the wares into squares of fabric. The man would weigh them and almost always the boy was right, rarely having to return to the designated sack to fetch more of the spice or return some. Satisfied, man and customer would exchange money whilst the child expertly tied the bought produce into the square of fabric with a piece of silk.

‘Tamara, caracan, alpse, vergun, zarakor,’ Lazar listed, pointing to the various sacks. ‘Smell this,’ he said picking up a small pod and crushing it in his palm.

‘Gezil?’ she asked.

Lazar grinned. ‘You’re very clever, Ana. Do you know what it is used for?’

Ana shook her head. ‘I know its fragrance because my father showed it to me once, growing on the long-leafed trees in the foothills. The berry hardens from red to this shiny black.’

Lazar nodded. ‘They flavour custards with it, but if it is crushed before it hardens and rubbed on raw I’m told it’s very good for toe sores,’ and he pulled a face to make her laugh.

A man was roasting nuts over a small open fire. He beckoned to them. Ana looked up at Lazar expectantly—she hoped he’d say yes but she followed his gaze and saw another man in a tiny hole in the wall, slicing roasted meat from a spit.

‘Sharva,’ Lazar said theatrically and led Ana to the tiny booth. He put two fingers in the air and dug in his pockets for coins.

The man handed them each a folded flat bread, from which emanated a heavenly smell. Inside the folded bread Ana could see thin slivers of the flame-cooked meat, green leaves she had never seen before, rounds of something else green that looked like a fruit but not one she knew. She did recognise the fat chickpeas and translucent slices of onion, though. All of this was drenched with a thick, tangy white sauce that was soon running down their chins and her slim arms.

They sat down around a central stone fountain.

‘Good?’ he asked in between bites.

Ana’s muffled response through her bulging mouthful made him laugh—it was obvious she
was enjoying her meal. When they had finished, he bought her a small sherbet made from pulped fruit.

‘This finishes it perfectly. It takes away the spiciness from your tongue and adds a cleansing tang. This sherbet is not as scrumptious as you’ll eat in the palace, of course, and I’ll let you discover why,’ he said with a wink, handing her one half of a purple berren fruit, whose flesh had been scooped out and replaced with the cool sherbet.

She used the wafer he gave her to ladle the fruit pulp into her mouth and groaned her pleasure. ‘I’ve never tasted anything like this before. I shall never forget it,’ she said, laying a small hand on his wrist. Again she felt a pulse of warmth move through her as their skin touched. Lazar didn’t say anything but she knew she had pleased him, adding, ‘And I don’t think even the palace sherbet could taste this good.’

‘Why do you say that?’ he asked.

‘Because right now I’m free as I eat this. The next time I taste anything as good I shall be a slave—I’m sure that will make it taste very different.’

Lazar nodded seriously. For such a youngster, she could philosophise with the best of them. There was something rather unsettling about Ana’s insights and yet, at the same time, they made him feel safe. As though he’d finally found a haven in someone else’s mind.

They washed their hands and mouths in the small fountain.

‘What’s through there?’ she asked, flicking water from her fingers.

‘Aha, well now, beyond that bend are the lanes of gold. Would you like to see them?’

‘Oh yes, I would.’

He guided her through. The sky overhead had deepened to black and the stars were bright and shiny like tiny jewels flickering amongst the inky cloak of night. Lazar realised he was having fun. He could not remember when he had last felt so carefree. Many people had recognised him, of course. The Spur was a distinctive man in Percheron, but it didn’t matter tonight. Normally he hated the intrusion on his thoughts but tonight he nodded at the passers-by, accepting their acknowledgment and salutations, even smiling once—much to the surprise of the courteous person hurrying past.

In Gold Alley, as it was known, Ana watched the shopkeepers haggle over prices with their customers. It was a hive of activity and yet it seemed unhurried as people were absorbed in their transactions. Her gaze was drawn to one dark corner where she saw a tiny old woman, her face veiled, pulling what looked like a gold chain from beneath her robes, but she cupped it in her hand so quickly, Ana couldn’t be sure what the jewellery actually was. The man she spoke with loomed above her, dirty, unshaven,
clearly a street seller rather than a registered shopkeeper.

Ana mentioned it, pointing to the frail woman.

Lazar nodded. ‘Yes, they’re called alley cats here. They have no set spot; you’ll see them roaming all the laneways, looking for people to buy and sell to. The shopkeepers hate them but it’s not against the law so they continue, though I imagine it will be outlawed soon as there are just too many of them suddenly. They ask no questions, need no proof that the item you’re selling is yours, give you no guarantee that the coin they pay or the gold they sell is genuine.’

‘Then why does anyone do business with them?’ she asked. ‘Surely it would make more sense to deal with someone who must trade honestly?’

‘Because the alley cats ask no questions. That woman probably needs the money so badly that she will deal with this person, even though she would prefer not to.’

‘Can we not help her?’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s a good thing to do.’

He smiled at the earnestness in her expression. ‘How, Ana?’

‘You buy her gold.’

‘What?’ he laughed. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Please, Lazar. That man will try to steal it from her. She looks desperate so he’ll not pay a fair price.’

‘You’re perceptive, Ana. That’s surely what will happen but it’s not for us to interfere.’

Her expression clouded, grew grave, determined. ‘How much did you pay for me?’

‘Pardon?’ he said, taken aback by her directness although he knew he should be used to it by now.