"How do you damage them?"

Salmeo looked at Kett; the boy needed to be cut before all blood was strangled by the tight bandaging. "We must hurry now," he said softly, adding: "Damage can be achieved by twisting the testicles, searing them, bruising them, or bandaging very tightly as one might an animal who is to be castrated."

"Thank you, Salmeo. I think Kett is best served by becoming Varen."

"Clean-shaven?" the priest repeated.

"Yes," Herezah affirmed. "Proceed."

The priest nodded at the assistants who flanked Kett and they immediately held down his arms. He did not struggle; he was frozen in fear, refusing to look at anyone but Ana. Two of the assistants placed a knee across his bandaged thighs. They could not risk him jerking when the blade was doing its work.

When both were satisfied they had the boy effectively pinned, they nodded. The priest carefully grasped Kett's genitals, ensuring he had them in a firm grip before he pulled them away from the boy's body, and in a single motion cut through skin and tissue until everything formerly attached came away in his hand.

Kett screamed and mercifully blanked out, as did Ana, who hung limply between the arms of her guards. Lazar, helpless to aid her, was working hard at damping down his own bile.

The priest reverently placed the bloody mass in a white porcelain bowl. "They will preserve that for him. Most of us like to keep the removed flesh," Salmeo explained.

Herezah had not so much as blinked at the ghoulish procedure. "How generous," she commented. "Actually, I should like them."

Salmeo looked at her sharply. "That is not traditional, Valide."

"Nevertheless," she said, offering no further explanation.

The priest and his assistants worked fast now, taking advantage of Kett's swoon.

"They are placing a wide needle into the tube at the root of the shaft," Salmeo said. "It is made of pewter and will keep that tube of flesh open but plugged until Kett heals."

Lazar watched as the wound was dressed with papers saturated in chilled water. Then it was bandaged. The priest sighed and nodded. "It is done," he said.

"And?" Salmeo asked.

The priest stood, wincing as he straightened. "He will live. He's young, he'll heal fast. It is a clean wound. Now he must be walked."

Salmeo looked at the Valide. "Kett will be kept conscious now and mobile for the next four hours. Only then will he be permitted to rest."

"Can you do the walking somewhere else? We need to continue with our Choosing Ceremony," Herezah replied.

The priest nodded. "Who will be looking after him?"

"I shall arrange for helpers," Salmeo said.

"Thank you. You know the routine, Grand Master, nothinga"absolutely nothing, not even a sip of watera"must pass his lips for three days."

"I remember," Salmeo said, and Lazar heard the angera"or was it pain?a"in his tone.

"He will be in agony, of course, and he will beg for relief from feeling parched. He will want to pass water but he must not, under any circumstances." Salmeo nodded. "I will return in three days to remove the spigot."

"What happens when that occurs?" Herezah asked, clearly fascinated.

The priest answered: "When the needle that has plugged the hole is removed, a fountain of bodily fluid should spurt from the opening. Kett will feel immense relief, and it will signal that he is out of danger and can begin his healing."

"And if not?" Herezah asked.

"If he cannot pass water, then he is doomed to a slow, agonizing death. I would suggest it would be easier to put him out of his misery in this instance."

Kett groaned. He was coming back to consciousness. Tears leaked out of his closed eyes and his body trembled. Ana was still slumped between her captors.

Lazar could no longer bear it. "Valide," he began.

"Yes, you are dismissed, Spur. Don't forget our appointment tomorrowa"I do not like to be kept waiting." She turned to Salmeo. "Let's get this all cleared up. The merchants will be eager to complete their business."

It was all Lazar could do to affect a terse bow before he stormed from the chamber.

Ranging swiftly through the palace, he finally emerged into the Moon Courtyard and the balmy evening. He dragged in a lungful of air to quell his mounting rage.

Furious with himself for having shown his feelings to Herezah, he was also torn apart by the loss of Ana. Thinking about Kett made him value his own body and the fact that it was whole. Perhaps what he needed was a jug of wine and a willing woman to ease his despair. But without him realizing it, he was drawn elsewhere for solace, to where a woman who could not speak might offer some comfort.

11.

Tariq sat alone on the balcony of his home and seethed. Not even the soft moonlight glinting off the calm harbor could ease his angera"not that anyone would know he was in this mood. Vizier Tariq was a master of hiding his thoughts, although he deliberately played a dangerous game within the palace. He knew they all thought he was both a shallow fool and desperately ambitious. He permitted the Validea"and to some extent the fat black eunucha"to trample him because for now it suited his purposes. Unlike the old Zar, who, although he had disliked Tariq, had sought his assistance, neither the Valide nor Salmeo took him seriously, even though his position required them to make pretense of doing so. And no doubt the Valide could see the value of being seen to have the Vizier on her side. He hoped she might consider him even more valuable in time to come.

Oh yes, he could see all of this. But they could not see him. And they did not know him or what he might have the power to do.

The harsh voice invaded his thoughts. All alone, Tariq? When it spoke it sounded like boulders chafing against one another.

As you find me, he answered carefully. Although the shock of its invasion had dissipated, its intimidation had not. He felt intensely frightened by it and hoped the voicea"whomever it belonged toa"could not see into his thoughts as easily as it seemed to enter his mind.

Your jewels glitter in the moonlight. When they do that it means your beard is trembling. And when your beard trembles, Vizier Tariq, I know you are angry and no doubt plotting.

Is that so? Tariq was impressed and terrified. He closed his eyes to steady himself, for there was no way to rid himself of the voice. It came as it chose and he had no control, no power to block it. Something in that deep, almost ancient tone suggested he not attempt to banish it. Am I that easy to gauge? Perhaps I should rid myself of the beard if it so easily reveals me. Tariq was proud of himself for feigning such a relaxed approach.

Perhaps you should. It's an affectation only. The time is drawing close when you will need none of those things.

You speak as if you know me, yet this is only the third time we have spoken.

I do know you, Tariq. I know you better than anyone.

May I ask some questions?

Why not?

Do you talk with others?

Few.

Do you visit other people as you visit me?

Now?

Yes.

No.

But you have?

Over time.

The Vizier repeated that cryptic answer in his mind. What could it mean? Where are you?

Close.

In Percheron?

Yes. But time, usually my friend, is now my enemy.

Tariq found some spine. Do not push me. He held his breath, then added: What you ask is complicated. He heard the plea in his own voicea"and was ashamed of it.

There was a silence in his mind. He waited.

What is the basis of your reluctance? the voice asked.

Tariq sensed it was less sure of itself than before and was pleased. It felt good to sow some doubt in its arrogant mind. I'm just not sure, that's all.

I have watched you for years. I have smelled your ambition, tasted your desires, felt your anguish at those who think you stupid. I admire your resolve and the way you have disguised your true self, beguiled the new Valide, tricked the black eunuch. The cunning in the voice was back.

The compliments worked; Tariq couldn't help but swell with pride. He was secretly pleased that his intruder knew how crafty he was. Why do you know all this?

Because I have chosen you.

Chosen me? Tariq took a risk despite his fear. What if I don't care to be chosen? What if I am happy as I am?

Now the sinister voice boomed laughter in his head. It sounded like mountains of granite shifting. Content? I think not, Vizier. Consider that I bring all my knowledge to you. Imagine it! Centuries of information. I can tell you anything you want to know about our historya"even where the Zar Fasha's famed treasures are buried. Tariq's beard quivered and the thing laughed again in his head. You thought it was only legend, didn't you? It is truth. He buried it with all of his wives and his heirs. He was quite mad.

The Vizier shrouded his thoughts as best he could, uncertain of how successful his attempt was. So, you can offer me riches, what else?

Isn't that enough? Isn't that what you want, Tariq? To be wealthy beyond imagination?

Oh, I have a vast imagination.

Again amusement rumbled through his mind. What else can I tempt you with?

What else can you offer? Tariq tried to sound casual.

He had heard the voice for the first time the evening before the Zar had died. It had come to him as he was relaxing on his balcony, as he was doing now, taking the night air. He had been startled, had dropped his wine. The voice calmed him, told him Joreb would be dead before noon the following day and that he, Tariq, was in a perfect position to stamp his claim as premier counsel to the new power entering the palace, the Valide Zara. The Vizier had woken before dawn the following day thinking he had simply dreamed the episode. But as his mind cleared, so did his memory, and by the time the sunlight had shyly stolen across the sky, Tariq knew he had experienced some sort of premonition and had hurriedly made his way to the palace to tell Herezah. It was only his insistence that this was an emergency that had persuaded the First Wife and Absolute Favorite of Zar Joreb to agree, irritated, to meet with him before her grooming was done. Heavily veiled, she had greeted the news with disdain, particularly as the physicians had tentatively hazarded that Joreb could recover and be back on his horse by the next moon.

When the news of the Zar's decline through the night was delivered to Herezah, she had instantly resummoned the Vizier. His confidence restored, he had smiled at her, throwing caution to the wind and his fate in with hers.

"If he dies, I shall need the right men in the right places, Vizier Tariq," she had said, a new level of respect in her tone.

"When he dies, Favorite Herezah, you will need me alone."

He had noted the flash of contempt that sparked in her eyes and imagined the scowl behind the veil at his audacious claim, but then Herezah did not know about his visitor. Tariq had realized with the news of the Zar's worsening health that the voice had spoken truth.

It interrupted his thoughts now. I offer you power.

I am already Vizier.

You are nothing, Tariq. You have a title but no real power.

Then you must explain this power. What you want of me is significant. The return for my generosity must be equal in measure. The voice had a way of firing his imagination and greed. He wanted power. That was his true desire. He wanted Herezah and that fat slave to know the truth. They would no longer dismiss him from the chambers where they whispered. He wanted to be Grand Vizier, to see fear in their eyes, to have the pair defer to him. Now who is reluctant? he gibed.

Anger this time. Controlled but certainly there. I will bring you real power, Vizier, of the sort you cannot attain alone.

Tariq persisted. As Vizier, I have authority over the whole of Percheron.

This time the voice sounded more like a growl. Pitiful! That is not the sort of power I speak about, you fool. I'm talking about sentience and sorceryathe power of the gods!

Tariq felt his skin prickle with excitement and fear. This claim was far darker, far more frightening, than the Vizier could possibly have dreamed. Sorceryapower of the gods. What could the voice mean? Who was it? The intruder had so disturbed him that he had not once had the presence of mind to ask for a name. Surely it, or he had one?

Tariq felt his heartbeat accelerate. With magic he truly would have power of the sort he could only dream of. Old Yozem and her blood-tellings would be cast into the streets. Herezah would have no need for the crone. She would have him, Tariq, and need no one else. Tell me how, he asked, glad he did not have to use his voice to speak, or the visitor would surely know how nervous he was and how dry his throat had suddenly become.

I have said enough. I offer power of a nature you have never known and can never know without me.

And all I must do is temporarily surrender my body to you?

Yes, the voice answered. A small gift in comparison.

What will you do with it?

I need a body, Tariq. That is all.

In order to do what?

Nothing that will affect your lifestyle or pleasures. You will be rich, you will be empowered, and you will be indispensable to the ambitious Valide Zara. How much more could you want?

What more indeed, Tariq privately reasoned. The bargain was more than tempting. Can you give me youth again?

You'd look rather obvious as a young man, the voice baited. Don't you think someone might notice?

Tariq gritted his teeth. Can you make me feel younger, appear less aged?

Like the Spur? The voice knew his weaknesses too well.