12.

As Tariq was haggling over the darkest of bargains that night, Lazar strodea"he believed aimlesslya"with only his deeply disturbed thoughts for company. He felt numb. The evening's events had unfolded so rapidly and turned into such an ugly scenario that he could hardly believe he had participated in it.

One minute he had negotiated the monthly release of Ana into his care and the next she was a prisoner for life. He knew he would never see the girl again and the thought of it made him sick. He was convinced that his heart had taken too many years to recover from the adolescent sickness of being in love and having it ripped away; it had healed over the years but badly, and it remained fragile. He had never allowed himself to open up to any woman again. Oh, he enjoyed them well enough, and he knew they responded with great fondness to his temporary affections, but that was all it was. Affection. He rarely permitted himself to see a woman more than a few times. Lazar wanted no attachments, no heartbreak for her or for himself. But Ana! How could he have let down his guard so recklessly and allowed her in?

He could hardly be in love with Ana, he reasoned through his distress, and yet he felt deeply attached to her. Was that love? He was fifteen summers her senior, almost old enough to be her father. Talking of love sounded somehow obscene even when it was safely hidden among his private thoughts. But he wanted her closea"and it had been permitted. Royal sanction. But Ana had given it up for the life of a strangera"a slave. A child. And she was all the more precious for her sacrifice. He felt nothing but admiration that she would act so selflessly while he could not.

As he acknowledged this, he looked up, expecting to find himself entering the Carafar neighborhood, and realized that he was standing once again on the steps of the tiny temple. He shook his head in wonder, with no idea what he was doing here and the realization that he had been walking with no purpose. It was late.

He ran up the stairs, two at a time, and bent to pass through the entrance into the serene peace. The temple was illuminated softly by a tiny rose-colored bowl of oil that hung from the ceiling. It threw long shadows across the altar and lit a glow around the statue of the beautiful woman with birds flitting around her skirts. The owl regarded him. He felt sure there was a hint of amusement in its gazea"as if it knew some great secret. He looked at the woman and again her soft smile seemed as though it was meant just for him. He approached and stood before her, staring. Something compelled him to touch her and he reached for her smile, expecting to feel the cool lips of the marble she was sculpted from. Except they weren't chill to the touch. Lazar could have sworn that the woman's lips were warm beneath his fingertips. He started, and looked more closely at the statue. Now he was convinced there was a blush to her face, the lips flooding with life.

"Welcome back, Spur."

Lazar stepped back, startled, only then realizing that the voice had come from behind him.

"You have superb hearing, Zafira." He bowed courteously.

"Once again I interrupt you. Forgive me."

Lazar glanced at the statue again. It was ghostly white in the soft glow. "No, I had nowhere better to go on this eve. I took a walk to clear my head and found myself here."

"As good a reason as any. Come, will you take some quishtar with me?"

"It is near midnight."

"No matter."

"I would be delighted."

He followed the tiny priestess to the back of the temple and up some stairs, finding himself in the small but airy space where she lived.

"It's adequate," she said, noting how his eyes moved swiftly around the room.

"The view is worth the climb," he said, and she smiled at his compliment.

"Make yourself comfortable, Spur."

"Call me Lazar, please."

"Thank you."

He looked at her living space: the tiny cot neatly made; a shelf with a few items, hardly valuable but no doubt precious to hera"an old vase, a tiny painted tile, some delicate glass. The furniture was sparse and battered and yet it looked lived in, appreciated. The single cushioned chair was threadbare but it too appeared comfortable, molded to her shape. A few scattered cushions looked as though they had been embroidered by her own hand.

Zafira spoke as she worked. "I prefer the dried husk of the wilder desert cherry myself. Makes for a more delicate infusion than its city or foothill cousins."

"Can you tell the difference?"

"Oh yes, Lazar, you should pay more attention. Quishtar has many flavors, depending on the region where it is made. It's part of our life's fabrica"far more than a mere beverage. It promotes fellowship, it calms, it loosens the tongue," and she smiled knowingly at him.

After the water had boiled, he watched her pour the delicately golden infusion from a spouted metal jug, deftly lengthening the stream between the spout and the bowl-like porcelain cups she aimed for. He had seen this done in the marketplace but it was a pleasure to watch it being effected with such care for his benefit alone.

"Is that just for theater?" he asked. "Where I come from, we just pour our drinks."

"And where is home for you, Lazar?"

His answer was terse. "Merlinea."

Zafira must have guessed he did not enjoy speaking of his background, for she deftly returned to their original subject of conversation. "Everything in the making of quishtar has a purpose. Quishtar needs to breathe as it arrives into the drinking bowl. I always like to think that it's sampling the air it is being exposed to. Then it knows what to reveal when it's drunk."

He laughed. "You make it sound alive."

Zafira tapped the large cup three times with a single finger before pushing it toward him. "An old custom. Seals friendship," she added, and there was the soft amusement on her lips again.

Although he hardly knew the woman, Lazar already liked her very much. There was something about her; he was surprised he had told her as much as he had. For now he was glad of her uncomplicated company and the diversion of her chatter about the customs of Percheron.

"aor you'll burn yourself," she finished.

"Forgive me," he said. "My mind was wandering. What did you say?"

"Pay attention, Lazar," she warned gently. "I said use the linen or you'll burn yourself."

He nodded. "You know I've lived here for almost as many years as I did in Merlinea, and yet I tend to take kerrosh rather than quishtar."

"Then you are in for a treat." She chuckled. "Enjoy its fragrance first. What can you smell?"

"Spice, although I can't say which one."

"Good."

He smelled again. "Um, faint citrus?"

"Yes."

"The roasted aroma is not there as I'd expected."

"Excellent, Lazar. It is not meant to be in the higher-quality infusions. Anything else?"

"Yes, but I don't know how to describe it. Vaguely floral, somehow earthy."

She smiled. "You have a good nose. This means you have keen taste."

"Explain it to me."

"Well, quishtar has no taste as such. It is not bitter. It has no sweetness, no sourness. Obviously nothing salty about it. It is not savory. It has no flavor at all."

"I don't understand."

"Quishtar is all about fragrance. Your nose does the tasting for you, which is why you were able to pick out the flavors from the fragrance. So drink, my friend, and tell me what you taste."

He sipped and instinctively closed his eyes. "All that we listed before. Spicy, citrus, something vaguely floral and earthy."

Zafira enjoyed regarding him while his eyes were shut. He was, by nature, a watchful man and having him so relaxed changed his whole demeanor. Gone was the caution and tension. She noticed the gentle lines that ran along either side of his aquiline nose to his mouth. When he smiled, they deepened, only adding to the handsomeness of his face. "You see?" she said. "You are tasting what you smell. But this only happens with the best infusion."

He opened his eyes. "How intriguing."

"Life can be like this drink, Lazar," she said, eyeing him closely over the rim of her bowl.

"How so?" He felt himself relaxing.

"It can fool you." His glance flicked away from the freshly scented steaming vapors and into her rheumy gaze. "Not everything is as it seems," she added.

He sensed she was trying to tell him something, but the message was too subtle. He groaned slightly as he finished the warm drink and she smiled. "Let me pour another bowl for you." When he didn't decline she took his cup and went through the same motions as beforea"in comfortable silence this timea"and set it down before him.

"Aren't you going to tap the bowl three times?"

"No, we are friends now."

There was something final about that comment. As though something secret had passed between them.

"Why do I feel like talking," he wondered aloud, "when I should be going?"

"Are you in a hurry?"

"Only to escape."

"What are you running from?"

He sighed. "My life." And then, for no reason he could explain, Lazar began to tell her about Ana. It seemed to pour out of him, as the quishtar had poured out of Zafira's spouted jug. He spoke at length, running his fingers through his long dark hair as he concluded, "athey made her watch it all."

The priestess took an audible breath, hissing it through her aged teeth. "Cruel," she whispered. "And so your bargain is nullified?"

He nodded, feeling intense sorrow at admitting it openly.

"The child has a curious background," Zafira mused.

"She has no background that I know of."

"The fact that any baby can survive the Samazen, when goats could not, makes her special in my eyes."

He shrugged. "She was fortunateaborn lucky, perhaps." The old woman said nothing, allowed him to continue. "She is special, though, for many reasons."

"Be careful, Lazar. She belongs to the harem now."

"Yes," he said, hearing the hateful resignation in his voice. "Untouchable."

"Of course, Pez is in the palace," she said, the merest hint of cunning in her tone.

"You know him?" Lazar looked up in surprise.

"I do."

"How?"

"Why should I not? Because he's considered a half-wit, you mean?" Lazar nodded. "Oh, come now, Lazar, we both know he is no such thing."

The Spur suddenly found himself on unsteady territory. Pez's sanity was unknown to almost everyone. Only he and Boaz knew the truth, and Pez had sworn both independently to secrecy. Lazar had shared that knowledge with no one, not even Jumo, and he never discussed it with Boaz, for they were rarely alone to talk about anything so private.

"Relax, my friend. He has revealed himself to me," Zafira assured him, although she could see that the Spur was not prepared to confirm or deny her words. Good. He was true, then.

"You have not answered my question," he began. "How do you know Pez?"

"He visits now and then."

"Here?"

"Where else?"

"When was the last time?"

"Yesterday. We shared quishtar."

"And what else?"

"If I'm being truthful, I'd say we also shared confusion." Now she looked hard at him.

"Over what?"

"Why we both feel that we have been brought together. That there is some purpose to our existence in Percheron."

Lazar snorted. It was an attempt at derision he wasn't truly feeling. "Everyone has purpose."

"Do they? What's yours? Why are you here and not in Merlinea? What keeps you here? There is anger in you tonight, and rightfully so, but nothing prevents you from walking away. Yet you stay. No one invited you to the temple, yet you came. Not once in all the years you've lived hereaand now twice in a few days."

Her observations prompted a strange new sense of disturbance in his world. The world he thought was so straight, so balanced, so controlled, suddenly felt out of kilter.

"I think I'm the one now confused."

"Don't be. Just don't shut possibility out."

"What possibility?"

"That there is a reason for Pez revealing himself to you and me; that you have felt compelled over the last few days to visit the temple; that a baby survives the Samazen and you find her some fourteen or fifteen years later."