Goddess (20 page)

‘Do not worry, Spur. We are far enough away from the fortress here. They will not trouble themselves with us in this region. The Khalid are always singing and dancing and making music, and we look like any small family group.’

Lazar was not thrilled by the prospect of noise and activity suddenly invading what was meant to be a caravan of stealth but he realised that this distraction might just give him the opportunity he
needed to speak with Pez. He had to take the chance.

‘I am honoured, Salim. Please invite your women forward.’

Salim beamed. ‘Thank you, Spur. I shall fetch them.’

Lazar looked across to where the demon sat, watching them, no doubt wondering what the two had been talking about. ‘Tariq.’

‘Yes?’ The demon’s voice was not friendly.

‘I have found out what you heard.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’ve found the source of what may have disturbed you. Although I must say you do seem overly jumpy, Tariq, spilling an entire pot of precious quishtar.’

‘What is it?’ Boaz asked, his tone betraying that he was already wearying of playing the inferior youth.

‘A group of dancers has been brought to entertain us.’

‘Surely not in my hon—’

‘No,’ Lazar hastily corrected. ‘In mine. But they’re keen to dance for all of us.’

Boaz grinned. ‘Well there you are, Tariq, all that leaping about and anxiety for nothing. However, I can easily forgive your jumpiness after what you went through on your last visit into the desert.’

‘Indeed, Fayiz,’ the demon said drily, his gaze fixed firmly on Lazar as he replied.

There was no doubt in Lazar’s mind. Maliz was determined that Lazar was hiding something. But by the same token, Lazar took a measure of comfort in the fact that the demon now knew his secret was threatened. Lazar was certain Maliz couldn’t know how much he knew, or if anything at all, but a new understanding had settled between them without a word being exchanged. They had just put each other on notice that suspicions were clearly in place.

The beaming men of the Khalid had arranged cushions around a large central square of sand, with the fire in the middle. Lazar chose the furthest spot from Tariq, his mind racing as to how he might use this situation to escape. He prayed Pez was paying attention because they wouldn’t have long.

A drum sounded in the darkness, becoming more insistent as, out of the night, illuminated by burning torches, came a dozen women in the traditional festive dress of the Khalid. They wore bright colours of crimson, scarlet, purple, emerald and ultramarine, their midriffs exposed, and gauzy fabric veiling their faces, hung from chains wrought in gold. Around their wrists and ankles they wore bells, which they jangled in perfect synchrony to the drum’s rhythm. As unwelcome as this disturbance had seemed moments earlier, Lazar couldn’t help but be fascinated by the sudden explosion of colour and sound and movement. Some of these women were young, many just girls, but others were clearly in their middle years. Yet age did not seem to matter. They
all looked magnificent as they ran on tiptoe around the fire, fabric floating in their arms, making a swirl of bright colour. They split into two groups and danced, encouraging the audience to clap as they made a frenzied but supremely fluid movement, their hips tracing a pattern in the air. Lazar had seen similar dances many times—this was the traditional female dancing of the whole region, after all—but it was something very special to witness in this setting and as an act of gratitude and blessing.

The men of the Khalid clapped loudly and Lazar noticed that Boaz was entranced by this spectacle. He wasn’t so sure about the Grand Vizier, even though Maliz had the good grace to fix a smile to his face.

The driving beat slowed and new instruments joined in as a few male musicians emerged from the dark. The stringed lerz offered the tones so traditional to the Percherese and, indeed, Galinseans. The haunting sound of the zuva and kruel wind instruments filled the still night and, in spite of his mood, Lazar felt the music lift his spirits. And, as a young man—younger than Boaz—picked up the rhythm with the spoon-shaped wooden flaks and the fresh percussion took the piece to new heights, another figure stepped out from behind a dune.

She was dressed in the brightest of yellow silks, her bronzed belly taut as her hips moved at what seemed like an impossible speed, in an impossible
direction. Even veiled, Lazar could tell she was beautiful and he realised, as all the other women withdrew, that she was not as young as he’d first thought. Her shape was perfect but the way she moved suggested maturity.

Salim had moved to sit near him.

‘She is captivating,’ Lazar breathed.

‘Her name is Ganya—it means beautiful.’

‘Most appropriate. Whose family does she belong to?’

‘To mine. She is my eldest daughter.’ When Lazar turned in surprise, the man grinned, nodding. ‘It’s true. She is widowed. Very sad for she hasn’t been blessed by children.’

‘But she looks so young.’

‘As I said, no children,’ Salim replied wryly.

The rhythm of the drums changed again and both men gave their attention to Ganya. She had moved to stand directly before Lazar, a jewel studding her navel and gold chains glittering across her body. The firelight made her dark eyes, filled with invitation, sparkle. Lazar cleared his throat and beside him Salim gave a chuckle as his daughter began rotating one hip in synchrony with the beat. Her left foot was planted firmly on the ground while the ball of her right foot was responsible for creating all the movement. She truly was magnificent as she bent backwards to show perfect poise, perfect balance and a dazzling display of control as her pelvis began a series of sideways thrusts.

‘She’s incredible,’ Lazar murmured.

‘She is asking for your sword,’ Salim whispered.

‘Why?’ He couldn’t tear his gaze from her.

‘Oblige and she will show you.’

Lazar stood, drew the sword.

‘You must give it to her,’ Salim urged as the desert folk began to whistle and clap loudly.

Lazar stepped into the square and held out his sword with both hands. Ganya’s eyes glistened with mischief, but she didn’t break a step as she pointed to the hip that was still moving at fascinating speed.

‘Place it on her!’ Salim called with delight.

It would surely fall off, Lazar thought, but he was intrigued. He stepped closer and balanced the sword and, to his disbelief, Ganya didn’t slow down as he’d anticipated. If anything her dance increased in speed and complexity as she moved off around the circle, still leaning precariously backwards to balance the sword perfectly. The sinuous undulation of her hips remained unbroken, her left foot still anchoring her even though it guided her around the fire, whilst her right foot continued to do the trickier work. Lazar watched in amazement. His sword didn’t even look like it was going to fall off her hipbone, not once betraying the frantic rhythm that the musicians commanded.

The women began to add their voices to the fray and what was initially a low sound escalated into a cacophony, just short of a scream. Ganya
fell to her knees, the blade never losing its balance. And as the voices rose, the volume increased as the musicians used stunning dexterity to coax the most complex and rapid tunes on their instruments, Ganya began to move her shoulders backwards, shivering in tandem with her hips, and all the while the sword remained horizontal, secure. Back she went, further and further, the music and voices a frenzy of excitement until Lazar was sure she would have to stop, but still lower she pushed and, as her shoulder tips finally touched the sand behind her, the dance was brought to a theatrical close, the music and voices stopped dead. Though it had appeared magnificently effortless Lazar could see her sucking in deep breaths of air to slow her pulse.

Everyone clapped and cheered, including Lazar. He noticed even the Grand Vizier had a fresh gleam in his eye. Who could resist such a raw sexual display? But the dance went beyond that, Lazar was sure. This dance was telling the men that it was a woman who was in control, a woman who actually controlled the sword, a woman who was ever-balanced, always strong, and yet would submit—but only when she chose.

It was both subtle and magnificent. Lazar wasn’t aware that he was licking his lips nervously when Ganya finally stood up, still breathing hard. No woman had drawn such a purely lustful reaction from him since the day in Romea when an
experienced, very expensive and extremely pretty prostitute called Vadia had introduced him to the pleasures of the flesh. Vadia had enjoyed him and his innocence so much she’d urged him to share the night and the next at no further charge. The prince had spent several evenings tumbling around her chamber and marvelling at this exciting new pastime in his life. He had convinced himself that nothing in the world could match the pleasure offered in Vadia’s bed. And her early death at the hands of a drunken, vicious lord had sent the young Lucien into a mood so dark, so dangerous that even his seemingly uncaring parents noticed. His mother doubled the guard around him but that precaution didn’t stop the prince slipping away from his minders after careful planning and endless patience—nearly a year—to steal into the lord’s love nest, where he kept a mistress, and slash his blade across the man’s throat.

The guards suspected it was the work of Lucien but kept faith with him and said nothing; they’d sworn to a man that the prince had never left their sight that night. The lord in question had been heartily disliked by most in the palace and particularly by the soldiers for his memorable behaviour at the infamous battle of Black Rock, where too many fine young Galinseans had died after this same lord broke ranks. Though the soldiers had closed their own ranks around the prince, he had vowed privately never again to take a man’s life in such a cowardly fashion.

Since Vadia there had been plenty of women in his life and two who truly touched his heart. Only one of these could he now honestly say he loved with his very soul, would gladly give his soul for. And that was Ana. But even after all these years Lazar maintained privately that only Vadia had ever made him feel as though he were invincible. The very sight of her sweet body and full breasts could make his throat go dry. Ganya, for whatever reason, was having the same effect on him now, and it amazed him.

He watched the rise and fall of her belly; she was still breathing deeply from her exertion and the cheering and whistling was finally dying down. Lazar wasn’t sure what drove him to do it, but he stepped closer and held out his hand. Ganya’s slim brown arm snaked up from the sand and clasped it. He pulled her gently to her feet as he took his sword from her hip.

In the language of the Khalid he murmured for her hearing alone. ‘I could believe my weapon is magically stuck to that marvellous pelvis of yours.’

Ganya reached for the fabric covering her face and unveiled herself. The audience fell quiet. Lazar was unsure of himself; he was not used to any woman unveiling herself in public but Salim grinned broadly and Lazar was reassured.

‘Perhaps there is somewhere else upon my body you would like to put your weapon?’ she asked, eyebrow arching with innuendo.

Lazar’s throat felt suddenly gritty, as though he were unable to speak. He swallowed but still no pithy response came. He could tell she was around Herezah’s age, probably moving into her third decade of summers. Not only did Ganya have a superb body but she possessed dark, exotic looks. Her large black eyes held a query in them, awaiting his answer, whilst her full lips pouted slightly, amused that he was so hesitant.

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ he finally stammered, annoyed with himself for sounding so hesitant.

‘I have no husband. I invite you to lie with me,’ she answered, her expression now bold, her tone spiced with sensuality.

Lazar felt himself blush in the firelight. Not since Vadia had any woman been quite so unabashed with him. Even Herezah, so obvious in her desires, was made to look coy against Ganya’s candour.

Music struck up around them as people began to sing and dance. Lazar and Ganya had not been forgotten but they were no longer the centre of attention, although Lazar was aware of the demon’s cold stare boring into his back. An idea fell into place.

‘Are you permitted?’

She laughed. ‘Permitted? The Khalid women make these decisions on their own, Spur Lazar. And I am a free woman. Since my husband died I can take whomever I choose.’

He gave a grimace. ‘Sounds like there have been many.’

‘There have been none,’ she assured in her sultry voice. ‘I am simply telling you that I can lie with whomever I choose. You are not married?’

He felt a presence at his side and glanced around to see Salim and the Vizier approaching.

Salim answered his daughter. ‘His heart hurts for someone, Ganya, but the Spur is unmarried to my knowledge.’

‘Ah,’ she said, amusement sparkling in her eyes. ‘I can ease that pain.’ She and Salim both laughed softly.

Lazar had not ever before been propositioned in quite so direct or confident a manner. He was both excited and yet slightly unnerved by Ganya.

‘What are you talking about, Lazar?’ Tariq asked, irritation in his voice at not being able to understand.

Lazar turned and regarded the impostor. Ganya was his chance! She provided the opportunity to get to Pez. He allowed the hint of a lascivious grin to crease his face. ‘Seems as though I’m the lucky one, Grand Vizier,’ he answered. ‘I’ve been offered a proposal I’m not sure I can turn down.’

It obviously didn’t take much for Maliz to read the body language and appreciate the sensuous atmosphere that hovered around the dancer or understand the Spur’s innuendo. ‘They’re offering her to you?’ There was a note of envy in the Grand Vizier’s voice.

Lazar shrugged. ‘She alone makes the offer, Tariq. Salim here tells me it would be impolite to refuse.’

‘All part of the desert hospitality, I suppose?’ Maliz finished archly.

‘I suppose. I for one will not turn her down. Would you?’

He grinned again, fiercely this time, then lifted his eyebrows in query.

‘No, Spur. I certainly wouldn’t. Enjoy.’ The Grand Vizier moved away.

Lazar, his heart hammering, quickly returned his attention to the Khalid pair beside him.

‘Well, Spur?’ Ganya said, her voice husky.

‘How can I refuse such delectable Khalid hospitality?’ he asked, palms wide in resignation.

Ganya gave a knowing smile. ‘Follow me,’ was all she said.

Salim clapped his hands and laughed. ‘I should tell you, Lazar, that Ganya is our tribe’s lajka.’

Lazar frowned, watching the woman move away towards the dunes. ‘Lajka?’

‘Our dreamer,’ the man qualified. ‘She sees things. She is very special. You should be honoured that she has chosen you.’

‘Indeed. Salim, I want you to make sure that we are left alone.’

The man nodded, his expression saying that Lazar was stating the obvious.

‘No, really, I need to be left entirely alone with Ganya. Do not let the Grand Vizier follow me under any circumstances, no matter how much he protests.’ Now Salim was frowning. ‘He will try, my friend. Tell him Ganya will bring bad luck
down upon him, threaten him. Restrain him if you must.’

Salim nodded again, looking slightly bewildered.

Lazar moved quickly towards Boaz. ‘Fayiz, I am going with this woman. Look after Jumo.’

‘What?’

‘Make no fuss, my Zar,’ Lazar whispered, ‘It is important.’

‘Lazar! Is this dangerous?’

‘No! But keep Tariq occupied as best you can. I don’t want him following me.’

Boaz nodded, confusion creasing his brow. ‘I trust you.’

Lazar inclined his head with thanks and strode to catch up with Ganya. The Khalid folk began to clap and whistle as the pair left the light of the fire.

I hope you’re paying attention, Pez
, Lazar thought,
because this is our only chance.

Iridor watched keenly as his friend spoke to the person he had to presume was Boaz, who other than his tall and slight build looked almost unrecognisable in desert garb. He could see that Lazar was breaking from the main pack, following the magnificent dancer into the darkness. That must be the sign, he realised. This would be their chance.