by Glenda Larke
I was still angry with her and had not solved the problem posed by her disloyalty. No doubt if I did anything to threaten the Kardis, Aemid would warn them. I did consider having her jailed under a military guard, but the thought of incarcerating the woman who had raised me was ultimately unthinkable, just as it was impossible to consider selling her. In the end, as much as the situation galled, I decided it was better to let Aemid keep watch on me. After all, I was an expert at manipulating things to my own advantage, wasn’t I?
I turned my attention back to the preparations for our journey. The mounted legionnaires accompanying the three of us to Madrinya milled around on their gorclaks. They were clad in their uniforms: short tunics leaving their knees bare, worn with the usual cuirasses, greaves, helmets and sandals. I myself had discarded my wrap for a tunic worn over loose trousers, a Tyranian outfit more commonly worn by artisans. I didn’t care if it was unstylish; I was determined to ride rather than endure the discomforts of a litter or cart, and it was impossible to ride anything wearing a Tyranian wrap.
I caught the eye of the legionnaire officer and asked, ‘I’m told the tradeway is paved the whole distance?’
‘That’s right,’ he agreed. ‘Designed by Tyranian military engineers, built by slaves. An easy journey now compared to what it used to be. Used to take four weeks in the old days.’
Although most of Sandmurram was wholly Kardi, the administrative and commercial quarters around the Prefect’s residence had a distinctive Tyranian face and this was the area where I had spent most of my time. There was much that was familiar, toning down the strange. It was not until I left Sandmurram altogether that I appreciated just how different Kardiastan was from Tyrans.
Outside the town, even the Kardi sky had a character of its own: a vividness to the blue more intense than elsewhere, a clarity made more noticeable by the lack of clouds. When I remarked on the lack to Aemid, her reply was a terse: ‘It never rains in Kardiastan.’
Indeed, numerous tracts of stony soil and sand made her assertion easy to believe. Nothing seemed to live in these desolate areas, although they had a kaleidoscopic beauty. The sands were multicoloured, often spread with intertwined swirls of colour as though the wind had sorted out grains of different weights or densities to create patterns. Sometimes wind-blasted rocks were heaped in the centre of such patterns, their tortured shapes struggling out of the sand like the petrified remains of long-dead monsters.
And then, just when it seemed Kardiastan was a dead world, we would come upon a wide, gentle-sided valley where it was hard to believe it never rained. In these lush vales, the soil was rich, the vegetation prolific and flocks of waterbirds skimmed azure pools and lakes. I liked the contrast, the abrupt change from the hot reds and oranges and browns of the desert sands and stones to the cool greens and blues of the low-lying areas between.
‘But where does all the water come from?’ Brand asked in wonderment. Aemid’s explanation, begrudgingly given, was that in such low-lying areas water seeped up from under the ground to create havens for life; it was only the higher areas between that were dry.
Most of the valleys were settled by Kardis. Domestic animals grazed under the watchful eye of Kardi herders. Wild coppices separated fields planted with grain and other crops; fruit trees lined the meadows. Every so often, windmills with hide sails pumped water to irrigation systems. Villages and towns were never built in the centres of these dales as might have been expected, but on the edges where the soil was too dry and stony to be tilled. The houses were of adobe and blended unobtrusively into the desert landscape beyond them.
Curious to see the interiors, several times I stopped and asked an owner’s permission to enter. The request was never refused, but we were never offered the hospitality of a seat or a drink, either.
Cool and dim inside, the rooms had stone-tiled floors and simple wicker furniture. I thought them spartan and was inclined to be disparaging—until I saw what Tyrans had wrought.
Where the Tyranian civil or military administration wanted wayhouses, they had erected vast stone and marble buildings, usually on a lakeside, marking the landscape—as Brand asserted—like gorclak turds in a flowerbed. For the first time I found my admiration for Tyranian progress was tinged with embarrassment. I had once regarded such monuments as magnificent, symbolic of the might and grandeur of Tyrans; now I looked and saw an oppressive lack of imagination, a desire to dominate rather than to belong. What was Tyranian suddenly seemed to lack grace and subtlety.
The Tyranian architecture out of a Tyranian context might have irked me, but my reaction to it appalled me. I couldn’t understand how I, who had always loved all that was Tyranian, could feel that way. This strange land with its mystic beauty was shredding the solidness of the foundations on which I had built my life, and I didn’t want to look inside myself to find out why.
Still, ugly buildings or not, I was glad enough to accept the comforts of a wayhouse after a day in the saddle. To sink into a perfumed marble bath, to have clean clothes and a choice of seven or eight dishes at the evening meal, to lounge against the cushions of a divan and listen to a slave play the songs of Tyr—that was paradise, even if it meant putting up with the sullen service of Kardi slaves, slaves who became even less helpful than normal after they had spoken to Aemid.
The worst part of the journey was the crossing of the valley that furrowed through Kardiastan like a gorclak trail through snow. Kardis called it the Rift and it had a grandeur that was magnificent when seen from its southern lip: red walls sliced downwards in columns and pleats to a flat valley floor strung with lakes, far below. In the distance, two days’ ride away, was the north wall, just as steep and formidable. It took us a day to descend to the valley on a zigzag path, and once we were there, we were buffeted by fierce gales barrelling up the Rift. It may not have rained in Kardiastan, but it emulated it in that place. The wind swept up water from the lakes, mixed it with red dust and whipped it at us in stinging slashes; by the time we reached the north wall, everything we had was damply pink, including the shleths.
At least the shleths were stoic; the gorclaks were not nearly so composed. Even when the wind was at its worst, the shleths shielded their eyes with their feeding arms and plodded on; the gorclaks tended to go berserk, baulking at every movement, bellowing their displeasure and distress, swinging their great heads to and fro as if they could shred the wind with their nose horns. Every legionnaire had trouble; several were thrown and others had their mounts bolt.
There were two wayhouses in the Rift, one clinging to the foot of the south wall, the other huddled up to the north face, neither with any permanent staff. The continuous whine of the wind would have crazed anyone forced to live there. None of our party slept much during the nights we stayed in them. I suppose we all spent time thinking about the legionnaire caravan that had vanished somewhere along the paveway to Madrinya…
The arduous day’s climb out of the valley seemed a pleasurable stroll after the hell of the floor of the Rift, and by comparison the rest of the journey was almost a carefree holiday.
Aemid cried when she saw Madrinya. She had been born there, raised there, but this was no longer the city of her childhood. That old adobe town with its brown buildings and quiet well-squares had largely disintegrated in war and conquest. White Tyranian marble and pink stone edifices now glowered like ungainly monsters along what had been a wooded lakeshore, while the once-fashionable Kardi buildings had begun to crumble into a semblance of the Snarls, complete with scum-covered drains, vermin and the stink of poverty. Even I, viewing the city first from the back of my shleth, felt a moment’s pang. It seemed alien, an excrescence on the face of the land.
‘The Pavilions have gone,’ Aemid whispered as we rode in through the outskirts.
‘What were they?’ I asked.
‘The palace…and other buildings. They used to stand over there…’ She pointed to where the city’s stadium, built of local stone, now stood. There were tears on her cheeks. �
��That’s where the Magoroth died,’ she added in a whisper. ‘In the Pavilions.’
I looked across at her and felt a twinge of anxiety. She had not stood up to the journey well and now the shock of seeing the Madrinya of the Exaltarchy rather than the Kardi city of her youth appeared to have shrunk both her body and her spirit, as if by growing smaller, by being less aggressive, she could avoid further pain. She was diminished. I felt her depression like a black cloud hovering about her, darkening her spirit.
‘We’ll be at the Governor’s residence soon,’ I said, trying not to show my alarm. ‘Then you can rest. I shall make sure someone attends to you.’ I glanced at Brand, reassuring myself that he, at least, had not changed. He’d enjoyed most of the journey just as I had and now rode his shleth with the same easy grace he possessed on horseback.
Still, since that night in his room, there had been a subtle shift in our relationship. He might have been the same, but I was finding it harder to see him as a slave first, and a man second. A man with a man’s desires and needs; a man who saw me as a desirable woman before he saw me as his owner. I pushed that unsettling idea away in a hurry. It was a complication I didn’t want to deal with right then, not when I had a job to do in difficult circumstances.
Instead, I reached behind to touch the weapon I had stowed across the back of my saddle. It vibrated slightly at my touch as though it were a living thing. On the journey I had been very much aware of its presence, but oddly enough, the shleth did not seem to notice its weight any more than I had. I felt an intense desire to meet this Mir Ager face to face, to find out what sort of man carried such a weapon. If he were still alive. It occurred to me that if he were, then he might present the greatest challenge of my career as a Brother.
I felt the familiar thrill of anticipation. The excitement of a hunt, the challenge of a cunning opponent, the false trails and wrong turnings, the sudden inspiration that solved a problem, the unravelling of a plot: those things I understood and loved. Especially that final moment when everything came together, when the enemy fell into a trap of my devising—it was as satisfying as the climax of lovemaking. It made life worth living.
I was suddenly glad Rathrox had sent me to Kardiastan.
Two hours later, the Governor was droning a bitter tirade about the country and its heathen people into my ears. Like most officials I had met in Kardiastan, he seemed to have succumbed to a feeling of hopelessness, the only bright point he could see in his future being the day he would return home. Kardiastan had defeated him.
‘We’ll never change these people,’ he said. ‘Never. My wife died here, you know. They said it was a fever, but I know better. She died of a broken heart. She couldn’t take being surrounded by hate every minute of every day. I try to explain to those back in Tyrans what it’s like, but how can you put such things in writing so that others can feel it as we do? I felt myself to be still young when I came here. I was ambitious then.’ He ran a hand over his balding head. ‘Now I’m as old as the desert itself and fit only to sit in the sun by the sea in Tyrans and remember.’
I did not comment, saying instead, ‘Tell me what you know of this Mir Ager.’
‘Nothing. Except the Kardis still seem to think he’s alive, and a legionnaire officer—a good man—says he saw him a few weeks back. Rumour has it he wasn’t burnt to death and that he now runs a secret escape route for slaves, spiriting them away into the desert and so to this place called the Mirage. Some say he was the one who murdered the officers; others say he was responsible for the disappearance of the military caravan. That can’t be true. At least, he certainly couldn’t have done all those things by himself. We are not facing a single enemy, but a whole host of them—the whole Kardi nation, if you ask me. And they are slaughtering our men without mercy. The legions call them terror riders. They are no better than savage beasts.’
‘How bad is this business of runaway slaves?’
‘Terrible. Almost every household has lost someone; sometimes as many as half their slaves.’ He kneaded the worry lines of his forehead with restless fingers. ‘We hardly ever seem to catch those who escape. They just disappear like morning mist in the heat of the sun. We tried to replace them with paid servants, but the Kardis refused to work for us freely. They have to be forced. So now we seize people off the street for minor infringements and give them terms of limited enslavement. I thought perhaps if they could see an end to their slavery ahead in a year of two, they wouldn’t want to escape. It does seem to help.’ He heaved a noisy sigh. ‘What else can I do? Legata, presumably this Mir Ager, Mirager, or whoever he is, is some kind of a leader. If you can catch this man, we will be eternally obliged to you. Without him, perhaps the Kardis will lose heart.’ He spoke as though he thought such a happening was unlikely.
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Are your apartments, er, suitable?’
‘Ideal. I notice they have separate access to the street.’
‘I thought—you being a Brother—it might be best—’ He trailed off, embarrassed.
‘You were right. I do like to come and go unobtrusively. Should I disappear for a few days at any time, please do not concern yourself.’
He nodded tiredly. ‘Is there any way I can help you? The orders you brought are explicit. You are to have every facility extended to you.’
‘You have already very kindly arranged for a woman to attend my slave and for a physician to see her, but there is something else. I would like the services of a bronzesmith. Someone who is discreet and absolutely trustworthy.’
He nodded again, with a total lack of interest. ‘I’ll get a military man.’
His despair irritated me and I was relieved when I finally left his office and headed back across the gardens to the apartments where Aemid and Brand and I had been quartered.
Brand greeted me at the door. ‘Guess what,’ he said cheerfully. ‘There are no brown snakes in Madrinya.’
‘Don’t tell me—they’re yellow instead.’
He laughed. ‘You spoiled my line. No, there really are no snakes. But wait till you see the beetles. They’re the size of a man’s fist, and they’re everywhere! Be careful not to tread on them; they spit back.’ He pointed to a blistered patch of skin on his ankle.
I grimaced. ‘How’s Aemid?’
‘Worse. The Governor’s physician has been. He says she’s just worn out, emotionally as much as physically. She has to be kept quiet for a few days. He agreed she would be best sedated, just as you suggested.’
‘Good. This whole trip has been more of a strain on her than I anticipated.’ Still, I thought, this couldn’t have happened at a better time from my point of view…
PART TWO
DERYA
CHAPTER NINE
The next morning, after the smith had left, I surveyed myself in the mirror with smug satisfaction and then showed myself to Brand. ‘What do you think?’ I asked and spun on my heel so he could see me from all sides.
His lips gave the faintest of quirks. ‘Not particularly appropriate to your personality.’
‘Hmph. Why do I have the feeling you mean that as an insult?’
‘Slaves do not insult their owners. It is not wise.’
I turned to face the mirror again. The woman who stared back was not the one normally there. This woman was a slave, wearing a bronze slave collar around her neck, and she was wholly Kardi. I smiled, and felt no guilt at breaking my promise to Aemid. How could she have ever thought I would let her dictate the way in which I served Tyrans? She knew me not at all.
I turned my head to see myself better. My hair, instead of being caught up high on my head, was free about my shoulders. It was crimped because I had slept with it plaited, and it lacked its usual artificial gold highlighting. As a consequence, it appeared darker and thicker. The change made my face seem younger, but also more peasant-like. The anoudain I wore was typically Kardi: the bodice and the panels of the overskirt were pale green and embroidered, the trousers darker.
My satisfaction suddenly vanished. This wasn’t me. This was a Kardi woman. Disgust crawled my skin. Or was it foreboding?
‘You are unrecognisable, Legata,’ Brand was saying, ‘but it takes more than clothes and hair to fool people.’
‘Are you worried about my command of the Kardi language? I am fluent, I assure you. Aemid taught me well. If I use outdated idioms I can explain it away by saying I have lived in Tyrans for years, as a slave to the Legata Ligea. Don’t worry about me, Brand. I’ve gone in disguise often enough in Tyrans.’
‘But never as a slave.’ He reached out and touched my collar. ‘This does more than encircle your neck. It turns you into a chattel. A thing. You can no longer behave as though you have any rights to anything. A slave has no rights. And don’t forget, in Tyrans you had the Brotherhood behind you no matter what hellish hole you stepped into. The Brotherhood is a long way from here.’ For a brief moment he deliberately unveiled his feelings so that I was swept with his concern, his fear for me.
I turned from the mirror, sobered, to stare at him in silence. ‘Ah,’ I said at last—a sigh of understanding and acceptance. ‘Stupid of me. How long have you known I could read feelings as well as lies?’
‘Since I was a lad. It took me a little longer to find ways to hide my emotions from you. What do you do, smell them?’
I shook my head. ‘No. It’s more like having another sense altogether. One that interprets the way people feel. I don’t need to see the person, or hear them speak, and I certainly don’t need to smell them.’
He wanted to ask me more, I could tell. I did not give him time to frame another question; I didn’t want to have to explain the inexplicable. I said, ‘You are much cleverer than I ever gave you credit for, Brand. I had no idea you hid yourself deliberately. I always thought my inability to read you was a flaw in my talent—that what you did was more, um, instinctive, rather than intentional.’ I forced a smile. ‘I will be careful. Moreover, you will be following me. Get me a water ewer from the kitchens, and then we’ll go.’
