by Glenda Larke
I stirred uneasily. ‘Up until today I would have said it was all a temple scam. To make money out of the gullible. Now I’m not so sure…’
‘You’ve not become a believer, have you?’ His mockery mingled with amusement.
‘No,’ I snapped. Vortexdamn, I thought, why is it he always has the power to needle me? I took a deep breath. ‘Brand, they knew too much. About me, about my latest orders. How could they possibly have known?’
‘Without supernatural means? Could be any one of a dozen ways. Magister Rathrox told them. The Exaltarch told them. Someone else who knows told them. Perhaps they have spies in the palace. More to the point, why the whole rigmarole anyway?’
‘Why do you think?’ I asked.
Being Brand, he considered thoughtfully before answering. ‘Someone wants you to go to Kardiastan, but is afraid you will refuse. This is a way to entice you by appealing to your sense of justice and your love of a challenge. By predicting a rosy future if you go haring off to do the Exaltarch’s bidding.’ He chuckled. ‘Whoever it is, they don’t know you very well if they think you would be influenced by the muttering of a stone wall.’
I thought about that. The Exaltarch might believe I needed an incentive…and he had direct access to the Meletian Priestesses. I shivered. Was my presence in Kardiastan so important the Exaltarch would ask the priestesses to fake a prediction from the Oracle? Terror flickered, more tangible this time. And, keeping pace, that pleasurable frisson of excitement.
But there was a weakness in Brand’s argument. ‘I’m hardly likely to refuse a direct order from the Exaltarch,’ I pointed out. ‘Rathrox and Bator Korbus knew from the very beginning that I would go.’
‘Maybe they just want you to go willingly, believing you have a spectacular future ahead. Rathrox knows exactly how ambitious you are. He must guess you would like to fill his shoes if he ever retires.’
I thought back to the meeting with the Exaltarch. To the feeling I’d had that I was missing something, that they weren’t telling me the whole truth. Bator Korbus had implied Rathrox was keen to send me, but that he, Korbus, was dubious. Perhaps that wasn’t quite the case. Oh, Korbus had been dubious of my abilities, true, but perhaps the Exaltarch was the one who wanted me in Kardiastan so badly he would stoop to anything to have me enthusiastic about it.
I frowned again. It all seemed so unlikely.
I felt a moment’s intense nostalgia for my father, the man I had called Pater; I still missed his advice. He’d possessed such a talent for seeing ramifications, for visualising consequences. And always, always, his firm reassurance had given me faith in my own judgement.
‘There were a number of messages for you today,’ Brand said, changing the subject. ‘Domina Curia has sent an invitation to a poetry evening in ten days’ time—Segilus has apparently completed a new epic he wants to read to you all. Scholar Menet Senna wants to know if you’d like a seat at the debate on the validity of barbarian folk myths. A cloth merchant sent some samples of tie-dyed silk newly imported from Corsene. That rather unsavoury fellow who calls himself Bodran of Iss says he has some more information to sell about gold-smuggling, but he wouldn’t deal with me so I told him to come back early tomorrow morning. Mazentius the Trademaster wants to know if you want to order anything from the Western Reaches. He has a caravan leaving for Pilgath in a day or two and said you might be interested in the papyrus they produce there. It’s supposed to be much better quality than what we usually get from Altan. Um, I think that was all.’
Every word he said reminded me of the life I would leave.
I suppressed the sick feeling in my gut. ‘I want you to take a message to Rathrox. A note from me, together with this list of names. The so-called Orsini conspirators.’ I handed him Dorus’s clay tablet.
He glanced at it and said, ‘The fat jeweller came good, then, to save his son?’
‘Yes. Damn it, Brand, it took me weeks to uncover that plot and now I have the names, someone else is going to round up the plotters and reap the praise for a job well done, because I won’t be here.’
‘Ah well, you’ve done similar things to others often enough, and planned it that way, too,’ he said unsympathetically. ‘Crabs shouldn’t expect their fellow crabs to walk straight.’
I opened my mouth to give an irate retort, then closed it again. There was much truth in what he said. I’d a reputation for taking advantage of my fellow Compeer Brothers to further my own career—and yes, sometimes I’d prompted them into the mistakes in the first place, as Hargen Bivius could testify. ‘Huh,’ I said, a noncommittal grunt that could have meant anything.
I gave a wave of dismissal, but before he left he asked, politely enough, ‘Are you going to issue a release request for the son?’
My friends were right: Brand could overstep the line. It wasn’t his place to query things like that. Still, with Brand I preferred honesty to a dialogue based on intimidation, so I let it ride, and answered him. ‘After Rathrox has someone check the authenticity of the list of names.’
He bowed his way out, passing Aemid on the way in.
‘The Tribune Favonius Kyranon to see you,’ she said. Her tone was neutral, but her face was pinched, accentuating the lines of middle age. Aemid did not approve of the legionnaire.
I pretended not to notice.
I hurried through into the entry hall where one of the lesser slaves was beginning to unbuckle the leather and metal battle cuirass of the soldier who stood there. ‘Never mind, Dini,’ I said. ‘I’ll do that.’ I smiled up at the legionnaire and took his hands in mine. ‘Favonius—well met. I didn’t know you were back in Tyr. Welcome.’
He tapped his dusty cuirass. ‘As you can see, I came straight here from the barracks. We got in late this morning.’ He was a large man, of a size to match Brand, but his colouring was pure Tyranian: blond hair, blue eyes and a skin that tanned easily to smooth honey-gold. His nose had been broken once and was now twisted to one side; it gave his looks a toughness to match the furrows and crinkles carved on his face by the sun and wind. He was thirty-five years old, and he looked it. He added, ‘I have missed you, Ligea.’
I smiled with genuine pleasure and started to work on the buckles of his cuirass. ‘I’m flattered, Tribune. How was the patrol?’
‘Routine. Boring. Just the way we like it.’
‘Liar. You much prefer being attacked by barbarians or bandits or rebels so you can prove, yet again, that the Exaltarch’s Stalwarts are the best legionnaires in the empire.’
He laughed. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Where were you?’ I asked, curious.
‘In the mountains beyond Getria.’
That didn’t make much sense as the area was devoid of people, but I didn’t bother to think about it just then. I laid aside his body armour and sword belt and said, ‘Now if you’ll be seated, I’ll wash your feet.’
He grinned at me. It was an honour to have the lady of the house perform the welcoming ablutions herself. I knelt, undid his leather greaves and sandals, and began to wash away the dust with long caressing strokes of the sponge, each movement deliberately sensual, my lips slightly parted, my eyes on his face all the while. He stood it for a minute or two, then made a sound that was almost a groan. ‘You witch!’ he whispered, and pulled me up onto his lap. I knocked the water bowl over, but neither of us cared. I just had time to laugh before his mouth clamped over mine with a need born of long abstinence.
An hour later, as he half-drowsed in my arms on my divan, I said, ‘Ah, Favonius, I could almost imagine you haven’t had another woman in the two months you’ve been gone.’
‘I haven’t,’ he said, nibbling my ear.
‘Come now, a legionnaire of the Exaltarch’s Stalwarts, one Favonius Kyranon, without a woman? You’d be the laughing stock of your fellow officers!’
He grinned lazily. ‘It takes a brave man to laugh at a Kyranon. You have spoiled me for other women. It’s you I want and only you. Other women suddenly seem—insipid.’
‘Then doubtless you availed yourself of the camp youths,’ I said lightly. Many of the legion’s slaves were chosen for their comeliness, and it was common enough for legionnaires to help themselves to what was available, even if their preference was otherwise.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not once. They hold no attraction for me.’ He raised himself on an elbow. ‘Ah, Ligea, you think I’m joking, but it’s true. There’s only one person I want on my pallet. I wish you’d think about making this union of ours legal.’
I felt a pang of regret. He’d asked before, and my answer had always been the same. And yet, sometimes I wondered if it might not be pleasant to be married. He came from a good provincial family and such a marriage would have added yet another layer to the legitimacy of my Tyranian citizenship. And, of course, it would have helped his career to be married to a general’s adopted daughter. I smothered a sigh. ‘It wouldn’t work, Favo. And if you were honest, you’d admit it. I have all the attributes of your ideal lover, but none of your ideal wife. The very things you admire in me now would be the snags that put holes in a marriage.’
‘How so?’
‘You admire my independence, you like my fire and passion and lust for life—but you would want to tame me if I were your wife. You wouldn’t want me to be part of the Brotherhood for a start, would you?’ Favonius was one of the few people who was fully aware of the extent of my Brotherhood connections.
He gave a quick frown. ‘How can I feel happy with it? It’s dangerous. It’s not work for a woman. It’s—’
I interrupted. ‘It’s what keeps me alive, Favonius. I need excitement and challenge. But because I’m a woman I’m not allowed to be a legionnaire or a seamaster or a trademaster or anything else adventurous or challenging. So I work for the Brotherhood. You would take that away from me if I were your wife—and then wonder why I was no longer the woman you had fallen in love with.’
‘As my wife you could follow the legion, I suppose,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Would that be excitement enough?’
‘It would be eating the dust of the Stalwarts without being able to participate in their battles. Could you do it?’
He looked astounded. ‘I? A camp follower?’
‘It’s what you just asked of me.’
He thought about that and then started to laugh. ‘Now that’s one of the reasons I love you: your conversation has all the spice of a new dish; you are never predictably boring like other highborn women.’
‘Try thinking of me as a man and you may find me more predictable.’
He shook his head, still smiling. ‘I could never think of you as a man. Ligea, I have something to tell you—which I shouldn’t tell anyone, but I shall anyway. If a Brother can’t be trusted with a secret, then who can, eh? The Stalwarts are being sent to Kardiastan.’
I sat up, slack-jawed, feeling as if someone had pummelled me with a fist in the midriff. It couldn’t be true. This had to be a joke. Or fate playing a trick? Both of us being sent to Kardiastan at the same time?
Finally I managed a stifled, ‘Kardiastan? The Stalwarts on garrison duty?’
Favonius, never the most observant of men, didn’t notice just how staggered I was. ‘No. Active duty, as usual. We are to invade from the west.’
My astonishment grew. ‘Across the Alps? Riding?’ And then, ‘Invade? But why? Kardiastan is already ours!’ Inwardly, I fumed. Why hadn’t the Exaltarch told me of this?
‘That’s what I always thought too, but it seems not all of it is.’ He rolled over onto his back and put his hands behind his head. He was frowning slightly, as if he didn’t quite believe what he was saying. ‘The Exaltarchy invaded Kardiastan, what, twenty-six years ago?’
‘About that,’ I agreed.
‘It seems we invaded from the coast inwards, bringing troops by ship. But there’s one part of Kardiastan, in the west, bordering the Alps, where no Exaltarchy troops have ever been. The Kardis call the area the Mirage. An impassable desert separates this Mirage and the rest of Kardiastan.’
I began to take an even keener interest in what he was saying.
‘The Mirage is a rebels’ cauldron of intrigue and insurrection, with leaders there constantly stirring up trouble elsewhere. So we are to cross the Alps and take it.’
I stared at him in puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand. If the desert is impassable, then how can this Mirage be part of Kardiastan?’
‘That’s what I asked. Apparently it’s only impassable to Tyranians. The Kardis don’t have any trouble crossing it. And don’t ask me how that can be, because I don’t know.’
‘Surely it’s a simple matter to find a guide who would show us the secret.’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Offer enough money, and someone would oblige. Or torture someone into explaining the trick.’ A worried note crept into his voice. ‘It has been tried, of course. More than once. Those who did set off with a guide—whether paid or coerced—never came back.’
I rolled off the divan and began to pace the floor, forgetting I was naked. ‘It seems there’s a lot I don’t know about Kardiastan. Which is strange when you consider it’s where I was born. When do you leave, Favo? And how many of you go?’
‘A legion under Legate Kilmar, and as soon as we’re fitted out. We’ll leave from Getria in about two months, I s’pose. Less perhaps.’ His eyes followed me, appreciative. ‘Keep this quiet. With such a small force, surprise is essential for success.’
‘Oh, it’ll be a surprise all right. Mounted on gorclaks across the Alps? You’ll be lucky if you make it alive.’ At least I knew now why he’d been in the mountains beyond Getria—they had been reconnoitring the route.
‘Don’t underestimate the Stalwarts. We’ll be there. I just wish I didn’t have to leave Tyr again so soon. You and I see far too little of each other.’
That at least was true. The Stalwarts, for all that their permanent garrison was in Tyr, were liable to be ordered away at any time if the situation in any of the provinces or tributary states warranted it, which often seemed to happen. I had known Favonius for six years, but in all that time he’d spent less than two years in Tyr.
I said, ‘We have less time than you think, Favo. I’ll be leaving Tyrans even before you do.’ Briefly, I summarised my meeting with the Exaltarch. By the time I’d finished, the mellowbirds outside had quietened and gone to roost in the bushes around the fishpond as dusk darkened the garden.
Favonius sat up, his forehead wrinkled in dismay. A klip-klip flew into the room, the rhythmic flashing on its head still dim in the half-light, and he swatted irritably at it. ‘But that sounds as though it’s unlikely you’ll be returning to Tyr for—for Ocrastes knows how long! That bastard of a Ligatan. How can you bear to work for a snake-eyed, ungrateful turd like that?’
‘I work for the Exaltarchy, Favo. Not for Rathrox, or for the Brotherhood or even for the Exaltarch.’
‘What d’you mean? They’re all the same thing in the end.’
‘No, they’re not.’ The klip-klip landed on the back of my hand and I stared at the perfection of its delicate winged body and its tiny flashing light as I tried to put what I felt into words. ‘I work for the idea of the Exaltarchy—for what it symbolises. An empire where everyone speaks the same tongue, an empire without war or border disputes, where nations pay tribute to Tyrans or become provinces, and have peace in return. Where a man can travel along the tradeways and the seaways from one land to another in safety.
‘That is why I despise people like these Kardis, even though I myself was born one of them. They stir up rebellion and bring trouble and death and fear. They deal in terror. They destroy. They are the reason I am glad to work for the Brotherhood. The public fear us but, believe me, the prosperity of the Exaltarchy is as much due to us as to you legionnaires. It’s a pity people forget that.’
Only half listening and uninterested in my philosophy, he said mulishly, ‘Damn it, Ligea, we’re unlikely to meet in Kardiastan. You won’t be going anywhere near
the Mirage. And what if Rathrox won’t ever recall you to Tyrans?’
The klip-klip flew from my hand, its light brighter now. This time Favonius caught it and crushed it in his fingers.
I said, ‘I shall face that scorpion when it raises its tail. For now, I’ll try to do what I’m being sent to do. And who knows, we might meet there. After all, you surely won’t return to Tyr across the Alps. Once you’ve conquered the Mirage, you should be able to solve the problem of crossing the desert and be able to return through Kardiastan proper.’
‘You are scratching your left palm,’ he accused.
I looked down at my hand guiltily. It was a joke between us that whenever I was worried I itched the lump—the size and shape of half a pigeon’s egg cut lengthways—in the middle of my palm. He stood up and came to take me in his arms. ‘I don’t like this, Ligea. You are right to be worried. Kardiastan is a strange place. I’ve heard strange tales. They are an odd people.’
I looked at him, deliberately arch. ‘I am Kardi.’
He lifted my hand and kissed the deformity on the palm. It was hard and solid beneath his lips. ‘And look how different you are!’
‘I am not odd!’ I was careful not to be whenever I moved in highborn circles. I kept my work for the Brotherhood as quiet as I could, and tried to appear as Tyranian as possible. I kept out of the sun and powdered my face to lighten my skin, I had my hair highlighted to make it more blonde than brown. I was accepted as Tyranian. It was, after all, what I felt myself to be.
He asked, ‘Do you remember Kardiastan?’
‘No, not really. Except—’
‘Except what?’
‘Oh, sometimes I have the faintest recollections. About a woman; my mother, I suppose. My real mother. Sometimes, something will remind me of her. A whiff of perfume, a particular laugh, a certain colour. And then there’s this.’ I indicated the swelling on my hand. ‘I seem to remember her telling me not to show it to anyone. Goddess only knows why. I remember it as being…different then…somehow. Oh, I don’t really recall, but my mother—my adoptive mother, Salacia—told me before she died that when the General first brought me home I was so sensitive about the lump I would not unfold my fingers, not even when I was asleep. They couldn’t understand why. They were going to force my fingers up to see what it was I hid there, but Aemid persuaded them it was better not to upset me. She made me a glove to wear. And in a couple of months I opened my hand of my own accord, I suppose when I’d decided no one was going to worry about the lump there.’ I gave a wry smile. ‘I must have been a funny little thing then. I couldn’t have been three years old, but I was obviously as stubborn as a closed mussel.’
