Odalisque by Fiona McIntosh

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