"Tell me about him first and let me guess after." Her hands were working slowly, rhythmically once again.

"You know that a captured prisoner can fight his way to freedom?" She nodded. "Although most don't take that option, for the fights are to the death."

"Among how many, my Zar?"

"Six is usual. As you can gather, not much chance for the prisoner." He rested his chin on his fists as he recalled the incident. "Ha!" He laughed. "Lazar demanded twelve and the chance to speak with me. It was his audacity that won my interest. I asked the man who was Spur then to choose a dozen of his best swordsmen and pit them against the prisoner."

Herezah's dark eyes glowed as she pictured the scene. "He obviously won, Great One," she said, reaching to pour the Zar a goblet of sweet wine.

Joreb turned, sat up, and sipped. "He barely broke a sweat, leaving each with broken limbs or groaning from some gash or injury, all disabling but none life-threatening, which was the amazing part. He told me later, when I fulfilled his wish for an audience, that he thought it a waste of good men to kill for exhibition purposes only. And when I asked him whether he thought it a waste to risk his own life, do you know what he answered?"

Herezah shook her head; she hardly knew Lazar even though they were of similar age.

Joreb grinned. "He said his life was never at risk! The cheek of it."

"And what did he want with you, my Zar?"

"He wanted the freedom to live in Percheron. I offered him morea"he accepted the position of Spur."

"Why did he choose Percheron?"

"He told me that the city was a thing of such beauty it lifted his spirits. Our language, culture, people, art, architecturea"he wanted to be a part of it."

"He must have come from a place sorely lacking in all the loveliness we take for granted."

Joreb had swallowed the goblet's contents and laid back again on his pillows. "You are crafty, Herezah," he said, and moved her hands to his sex. "Massage me there, but guess quickly, or I'll forget our bargain."

Herezah remembered how her mind had raced that evening to seek the right answer. The prize was the first major step toward her goal. As Zaradine, wife to the Zar, she could bear him a son, a prince, and that meant a chance to become Valide Zara. She knew she would seal her fate with her answer and that the Zar would never enter into such a curious bargain again.

"Well?" he asked. "My mind is drifting, pretty one. It is heading south to where your fingers are calling me."

She took a deep breath, remembering something she had overheard horrid Salmeo once airing about getting his greatest pleasure from making a Galinsean a eunuch. I've only experienced such a joy once and the wretch died anyway but it was wonderful to watch a Galinsean's manhood removed, he had explained. They are the most arrogant of races and the hardest to tame.

She risked it. "You know, my lord, if I didn't know better I would think your Spur was Galinsean."

"You know that cannot be, Herezah." Joreb yawned. "True Galinseans are golden of hair and curiously light of eye, and he is dark. Besides, Lazar has no animosity toward Percherona"he begged to be allowed to remain here."

"May I have one more try, my Zar?" She did not like to beg but she had to win this contest.

"Why not? But I warn you, Herezah, although you arouse me, I tire of conversation and should I fall asleep before I can take my pleasure, your guess will not count, so be swift." He yawned to make his point.

"Zar Joreb, I would hazard that Lazar hails from somewhere near to Galinsea, then. I would guess at Merlinea." She knew her geography of the region well and held her breath after giving her answer.

Joreb had moved fast, twisting her over onto her back, amusement twinkling in his no-longer-tired dark eyes. "I shall give you a son tonight, wife," he had proclaimed, and Herezah had arched her back with unrestrained joy as the Zar kept his promise.

Later still, as the Zar curled himself around her to sleep, she suggested he call another exhibition so the women could appreciate Lazar's fighting prowess. Joreb refused.

"Not even for your favorite?" she begged, relishing the thought of seeing a half-naked Lazar oiled and made to do combat.

Joreb shook his head sleepily. "A bond between two men."

"He hardly counts, my Zar, he's only a Merlinean, barely one step better, in my opinion, than a Galinsean barbarian."

Her new husband was wide-awake then. "We should never underestimate them, my beautiful, ambitious one. We must teach our son the same. Yes, we are a cultivated nation with art and language to impress. Galinseans may seem vulgar in comparison. But, Herezah, you should fear them, not poke fun at them."

She listened and nodded, knowing she had pleased the Zar tonight. The jewels that would be left for her tomorrow would be enough to send the other wives into a frenzy of jealousy. But Herezah wanted only one jewel now. She wanted a son and for him alone to take the title of Zar. The rest meant little to her. Power was everythinga"riches could follow.

She had pleased Joreb enough that night almost sixteen years ago not only to be showered with jewels but to be called back for the next four nights. This was unheard of for Joreb and this was the moment Herezah signaled her intention to take the title of Absolute Favorite. It was during these torrid nights of sexual play and favor that she had become pregnant with Boaz. She had not reached fourteen and the Zar had been an old man by her standards, but that had not mattered. She had given him a prince nine months later and he had given her the ultimate reward, calling her Absolute Favorite.

Someone cleared their throat and interrupted her private musings. She spun around to see Tariq.

"We're here, Valide," the Vizier said.

Herezah bit her tongue on the retort that the unhappy moans of children had told her as much. "Remove the canopy," she ordered, and it was done.

Salmeo bowed his enormous bulk before her. She noticed he was wearing all black silks in honor of the soon-to-be-dead. His painted nail was the only patch of color amid the dark of his skin and robes. She glanced briefly to her left and saw Lazar, grinding his teeth. He had already given his orders to his men and did not need to remain. She knew that a reluctant sense of honor and respect for the young princes would keep him there.

"Shall we call for the creatures, Valide?" It was Tariq again, determined to take charge of proceedings.

She saw Salmeo scowl. "Grand Master of the Eunuchs," she called. Much as she detested Salmeo, she knew he was vital to her success. Despite her new status, Herezah did not relish him as an enemy; besides, he would be a powerful ally. "Please take charge." She refused to look at the Vizier, who she was sure was visibly fuming at being overlooked.

Again the huge man bowed, and as he straightened, the look that passed between him and the Valide Zara spoke much of what never needed to be said out loud. An understanding had been reached. They were now a partnership, the past set aside.

"Bring the elephants," he bellowed in a voice the harem rarely heard. Salmeo preferred to intimidate with his gentle, lisping lilt.

At the order fresh screams erupted from the imprisoned children. Suddenly none of them felt comforted by the notion of a game. Elephants were neither cuddly nor playful. Why were they being called? All of the children had marveled at them in their father's magnificent private zoo, but the lumbering giants were dangerous, especially the four males, which were now led by their keepers to the pit. The noise of the children's terror increased as the large animals trumpeted loudly.

At Salmeo's signal the huge animals were run into the pit and encouraged to raise themselves on their hind legs and stomp down, a trick they had been taught to entertain the children.

The first bag to stop moving was the smallest. Herezah winced. Ayeesha's baby. Her thoughts went to the mother for a moment of pity; then she promised she would wince no more. All these children were potential murderers of her son. Even the other wives, demented by grief as they were, would ultimately understand, as she too would have had to do had she not been the mother of Joreb's Chosen One.

Soon enough all the bags stopped their writhing and pitiful screams. Odd moans were quickly dealt with by an elephant's strategically placed foot. The Vizier, Herezah noticed, did look away when one sack broke and bright blood splashed the dazzling white cotton robes of one of the handlers. She recognized the face of that child, but only justa"he was Boaz's closest half brother; they had been born just weeks apart. The back of the boy's head was smashed, its wet contents leaking out. She did not look away but cast quiet thanks to the gods for saving Boaz this trial.

Lazar, beside her, had not spoken or moved, but she was sure if it were quieter she would be able to hear his teeth grinding, for his jaw was working furiously. However, her stolen glance from beneath the gauze told her he did not cower but stared straight ahead at the grisly scene until Salmeo called a halt to proceedings. The Grand Master Eunuch had decided that the bags contained little more than pulp now. No bodies would be handed back to grieving mothers. They would be burned immediately, following the Valide Zara's instructions.

Herezah sighed, relieved that it was done. The throne was safe.

As if reading her thoughts, Lazar turned slowly, deliberately, and looked straight into her eyes as though he could see through the veil and deep into her soul. "Satisfied, Valide?"

She would not be baited. "Careful, Lazar. A new Spur can be appointed as easily as I blink."

"As you see fit, Valide Zara," he said, not intimidated at all. "Excuse me, duty calls," he added before she could return his brittle reply.

Herezah reined in her natural reaction. She might suddenly be the most powerful woman in Percheron, but she was far too mindful of the Zar's warning when he had called for her earlier that day.

"Keep Lazar close to our son. He alone understands the Galinsean mind."

No, she would not be replacing this Spur when he might be all that stood between Percheron and a Galinsean uprising, especially now that a boy sat the throne. She would let him have his anger for now. Herezah was clever enough to work out more subtle ways to have her revenge and she would exercise these as soon as the old Zar was cremated.

In fact, a wonderful notion was already taking shape in her mind.

5.

Lazar shaded his eyes and squinted into the shimmering scene below. He and his longtime companion, Jumo, had been directed here by scouts. Out to the west the sun was already past its high point, and the fiercest heat of the day was scorching. He wrapped the tail of the white turban around his face, a gesture born purely of habit; in the foothills, sand was not a problem unless the feared Samazen whipped up, and that was a month away at least. Though it would get hotter still today before it cooled, time was against them. Night fell fast across the desert plains, and although these were only the western foothills, barely fifteen miles from Percheron, the darkness would race to claim them faster than they could ride home. Not that being away bothered Lazar. They had been out on the ridges for days and he was happiest when he was away from people.

Home! He scorned himself for thinking of it that way. Percheron had, however, become a sanctuary. It still had its distasteful elements, and immediately Herezah came to mind, but surely there could be no realm more beautiful. Percheron had seduced him and he had become her willing lover. He wondered, as he gazed down at a tiny dwelling that clung to the steppes, whether he could ever leave the stone city. Until recently he would have answered no. Now he wasn't so sure. Herezah's influence was already being felt and he sensed her bite was only going to get worse.

She had disbanded the harem the same day as Joreb's funeral procession. Once more he had been forced to grind his teeth and sit out an entirely unpleasant spectacle. The Valide Zara had masterminded the event down to the tiniest detail, to the point of ordering that the horses that pulled the open-topped carriage and the old Zar's corpse have the underneath of their eyelids smeared with pepper paste, to make it appear that even dumb beasts had shed tears for the Great One's passing.

Lazar had never heard of anything quite so ridiculous, but there was plenty more to come. Four virgins, holy women chosen for their beauty, had been drugged and thrown into the flames of the pyre. This was supposedly to symbolize each season of the old Zar's life, from birth through childhood, to adolescence and manhood. It was also a sly reminder that Joreb was the god Zarab's appointed representative on the land. Burning the holy women reinforced the destruction of the Goddess Lyana and the pointlessness of those who still privately worshipped her.

Herezah's third and final spectacle was to have the women of the harem unveiled, which was the most painful humiliation she could impose. It was more grievous than death for most of these women, who were put into ordinary clothes before being paraded on foot and forced out of the palace and into the streets. Each one was given a pouch of gold and cut loose from the protection of the harem and the lavish, lazy world she had known. These women could sew, make fine quishtar, and gossip: that was the sum total of their accomplishmentsaunless, of course, one counted their ability to pleasure men to heights of ecstasy. If they looked after their money, hopefully that talent would not need to be promoted in the outside world that these confused wretches now inhabited.

Where they went, how they lived, or even if they survived, Herezah could not have cared less about. They were no longer required. Their role as servants of the Zar died with him. As for those who claimed the title of wife, they no longer had status. That had died with the Zar and his eleven precious offspring.

Her next step was to assemble a new harem. Displaying her dark sense of humor, she had ordered the Spur of Percheron to join the hunt for suitable young girls. Fuming at his orders, personally delivered by the Valide, Lazar had considered riding out of the city gates and never returning.

To calm himself he had strode in the direction of the harbor, knowing he would pass some of the city's inexplicably beautiful sculpted beasts on his way. Despite their implacable silence and stone flesh, the creatures of myth had a warm, lifelike quality to them. The only humanlike sculptures were the twin giants, Beloch and Ezram, who presided over the city's busy harbor, a massive horseshoe-shaped sparkling bay.

No, despite Herezah's presence, Percheron's enchantment for him had not waned over the years. In fact, he felt more connected to this city than to his own.

His own. The thought made him sigh inwardly; it was his homeland across the ocean he had been thinking about as he had reached to touch his favorite creaturea"Iridor, the owlathe messenger of the Goddess Lyana.

Iridor had always attracted him and he could rarely pass any of the bird's images dotted around the city without pausing momentarily to admire the owl or share a thought. Though Lazar would never admit it to anyone, Iridor felt like an old friend. He was the first of the stone sculptures Lazar had seen when brought through the vast Golden Gates of Percheron, and the knowing expression on the owl's face had left a lasting impression. Lazar had often thought somewhat whimsically that it was the secretive bird who had urged him to put forward the reckless challenge to the Zar that had won him favor.

No one else, or so it appeared, bothered with the owl or any of the other magnificent engravings or sculptures. Some argued that Percheron was spoiled for art treasures and that the Percherese, who grew up surrounded by such beauty, took it for granted. But there was more to it than that. Lazar knew that the people had been taught from childhood that the ornate statues of the beasts and giants were linked to the Goddess, and Lyana had no place in Percheron. Her followers had long ago been dismissed as cranks, and although some women still continued to worship at her shrine, they were few and far between.

Percheron's spiritual well-being had been cared for by the priesthood for many centuries now and Lyana had faded to myth. It was thought that the statues themselves dated back to the last occasion when the cyclical battle of the gods had erupted, but no one knew for sure.

Nevertheless, whether it was truth or folklore, Lazar loved the story. He thought about it again as he stared at Iridor, sworn enemy of Lyana's nemesis, Maliz, the demon warlock granted eternal life by the jealous god Zarab. Hating Lyana's popularity, Zarab had offered Maliz the ultimate prize if he would rid the world of the Goddess and give men ultimate ruling over the matriarchal society in which form Percheron had thrived.

Lazar gave a rare smile as he thought about the rising of Iridor, which signified the return of Lyana and triggered the reincarnation of Maliz. They would do battle every four or five centuries, or so the story went. But too many battles had been fought since Lyana had prevailed, her memory all but wiped out as a result of constant defeat; the statues were the only testament to her once powerful hold over Percheron. According to the myth, these beasts had been part of her army, supposedly turned to stone by Maliz in the last great battle.

The few true believers swore Lyana would rise again to fight another battle. Lazar liked this notion.

He had left behind the city proper to stroll down to the harbor, into the more seedy area of Percheron, always a hive of activity and somewhere to lose oneself. Here, in the mass of twisting lanes that had sprung up haphazardly around the eastern rim of the harbor, he could be anonymous. This was not a place where the wealthy or famous went. It was the haunt of the peasant Percherese and thieves, sailors, low-class merchants, and prostitutes. Lazar, wearing the common robes of the streets, had moved swiftly through the market area and beyond to an open road that led to a lonely temple, a tiny one that sat on a narrow strip of a peninsula jutting a mile into the bay. Not as far out as Beloch, of course, but only people on boats could get close to the brothers. Lazar looked out to where the enormous stone giant stood proudly guarding his city. Opposite him, flanking the other tip of the harbor's horseshoe shape, was Beloch's twin, Ezram.

Arriving at the tiny place of worship, Lazar had climbed the short flight of stairs into the small vaulted space of simple design. This was a temple that harkened back to the old ways, to a time when goddesses were worshipped and priestesses led prayers. Although he had never been inside it before, Lazar liked its remoteness, and as Lyana had been in his mind, it seemed a good enough place to go for some quiet. He lit a small candle and knelt at the altar below a sculpture of a serene woman who looked down upon him. He should have bowed his head in prayer but he could not take his eyes from the statue. Her soft smile was so tranquil, her eyes so sad, reflecting his mood. He fancied that her expression had been carved just for him, for this very day when he entered her temple with a heavy heart and a question on his mind. On her right shoulder sat an owla"Iridora"and amid the folds of her dress flitted an assortment of birds and strange symbols. Just looking at her soothed his anger.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" a voice had said, and when he turned a tiny hunched woman emerged from the shadows. She was dressed in aquamarine robes the color of the sea her tiny temple overlooked.

"I am Lazar, Spur of Percheron, Priestess," he had said, standing and bowing.

When he straightened she was smiling. "We have been expecting you."

He had been taken aback. "We?"

In answer she had looked toward the sculpture. "This is Lyana. She especially welcomes you."

"She is the loveliest of all the stone sculptures in Percheron," he had replied.

"Has she helped?"

"Pardon?"

"Did she answer your question?"

He had frowned. "I haven't asked anything of her."

Again the soft knowing smile. "Not yet, perhaps. Forgive my disturbance, son. Please continue." The old woman had made as if to leave.

"Wait." When she had turned to look at him, he had hesitated. "What did you mean, you were expecting me?"

"We have been waiting many years to meet you, Lazar. You have a reason for being in Percheron. You are welcome here always."

He had had no idea what she was talking about but her soft voice had been mesmerizing, as soothing as her sculpture's smile. "I don't know your name."

"I am Zafira. We shall meet another time soon." Once more she had turned to leave and again he had stopped her.

"What can she tell me?" he had asked.

She hadn't turned that time. "Please staya"you are needed here," she had said as the shadows swallowed her.

Lazar had puzzled over that brief conversation for many days now. How could the old priestess have known he was thinking of leaving the city? In fact, it had been her words that had convinced him not to ride out of the city in anger but to remain in Percherona"for now anyway. There was something about the certainty of the way she spoke to him that made him obey.

Jumo disturbed Lazar's thoughts. "Is all well, Master?" he asked, guiding his horse to stand alongside Lazar's.

Lazar smiled. He and Jumo had long ago ceased being master and slave, ever since Lazar had granted the reed-thin man his freedom. But Jumo had neither refrained from using the title nor from serving Lazar. They were now the closest of friends, their deep bond an unspoken commitment between them. Lazar had once described to Pez that losing Jumo would be like losing his limbs or his sight.

"All is well," he answered, looking into his friend's swarthy face, the color of molasses and creased in bemusement. Jumo came from an exotic land far to the north that Lazar had never seen and was unlikely to see. "Am I making you nervous?" he asked, knowing full well that very little, least of all silence, unsettled Jumo.

They had been a party of twelve, but as each girl had been found, she had been sent off with two escorts to the city. Herezah had demanded six girls from Lazar's foray into the foothills. He had sent five safely on their way.

Jumo's face broke into the smile he reserved for very few. "No, your quiet manner is not making me nervous. What is troubling you, Master?"

Lazar sighed. "Nothing, my friend. I'm fine. Just still questioning this unpleasant task of ours."

"They will fill a harem with or without your help," Jumo offered. "We need only one more girl to fill our quota. Her family will be happy, the Valide will be happy, surely the Zar will be happy, and you, Master, you will be happy to be returning to your proper duties. Everyone will be happy."

"Typical Jumo reasoning," Lazar replied drily. "You're right, although I don't know why I feel so reluctant to disturb that gentle scene down there."

They both looked at the hut, its chimney smoking cheerfully. Outside two young girls, presumably sisters, sat, their backs to the men. They were as different as two sisters could be; the elder was dark, the younger one lighter; the sunlight picked up fiery glints in her hair as her sister brushed it. A much smaller child, a boy, buzzed around them like a fly. Nearby another female squatted, sorting rice in a large basin, her repetitive action one Lazar had often seen in the neighborhoods of Percheron. Lazar and Jumo watched her drag her hand flat across the surface of the grains, spreading them, then begin sorting grit and stones from the rice.