by Glenda Larke
‘I had the best teachers.’ But having the best hadn’t made him wise. Blast. Why did everything bring back memories best forgotten? ‘So you won’t see your daughter in Madrinya?’
‘No. I am anxious to get home to Asufa.’
‘Oh.’ His mouth went dry.
Garis didn’t seem to notice his consternation. ‘Let’s take a room in the wayhouse and see what they have to eat. The next two nights will be unpleasant, let me warn you, so you had better enjoy the comfort here. Even though the wayhousekeeper is as crazy as a fish in a cloud. Mashet. Poor fellow; they say he went mad down there, crossing the Rift. He keeps hearing voices in his head, telling him to do daft things, and no one can convince him they aren’t orders from real people. I guess they are real to him. He once wrestled your father to the floor because he thought a perfectly innocent trader was a Tyranian assassin.’
Garis was right, Arrant decided a little later. Mashet was indeed daft. When Garis introduced them, the man gripped Arrant’s hand tightly. ‘Magori,’ he whispered. ‘You must be careful. There are people who will harm you. They chase you through the night. Be careful! Be watchful! Be mindful!’
Later that night, at dinner, Mashet’s glance never ceased to rove the room, as if searching for the unseen attacker. ‘I shall stand guard,’ he told Arrant as he and Garis went up to bed. ‘I shall keep you safe while you sleep. I shall die in your stead, defending the Magor.’
When Arrant and Garis rose in the morning, they found their room barricaded from the outside with a pile of furniture as high as the door transom. They had to shout for other travellers to come and let them out. Mashet didn’t seem to remember what he had done, and served them breakfast with a sunny smile, remarking—as if it were an everyday occurrence—that the voices in his head had warned him crocodiles were flying down the Rift, dropping rocks on unwary travellers.
Arrant was glad to leave the wayhouse, but the two nights in the wayhouses of the Rift were even more uncomfortable. The places were unstaffed, damp and muddy. The wind howled all night long like numina whining for their brethren, and the ride across the floor of the Rift was one of the worst days Arrant had ever spent on the back of an animal. They travelled with a caravan of howdah shleths piled high with goods, and they positioned their mounts next to one of the burdened beasts to lessen the impact of that continuous gale, but even so, at the end of the day the fine silt in the water picked up from the lakes had been driven so deeply into their cloaks and clothing that everything was red and sodden. As far as Arrant was concerned, the only good thing about the Rift was that the memory of it made the rest of the ride to Madrinya seem easy.
What wasn’t so pleasant for him was the thought of having to explain what he had done to the father he barely knew. Every time he woke up in the morning, he remembered the reason he felt that pain in the centre of his chest, that twist in his gut, that tightness across his temples.
Brand was dead, and he could never bring him back.
They rode into Madrinya late one afternoon, the shleths padding on silent feet over the hard brown earth of the streets.
‘Don’t they ever pave streets in Kardiastan?’ Arrant asked. He had expected the capital city to be grander than the other towns they had passed through. It didn’t seem right that the roads were just earth.
‘No, they don’t. Why bother? The earth is packed so hard it’s like rock anyway, and stays that way because it never rains. Shleths are soft-footed and we use them more than wagons, which would break up the street surfaces, so there’s no need for paving.’
‘I suppose not.’ He wasn’t convinced though. Dirt underfoot in the land’s greatest city seemed, well, uncivilised. Although he was glad to see that the streets weren’t covered in shleth droppings. Horse dung, he remembered, had been one of Tyr’s problems once Ligea had banned slavery. No one had wanted to pay to keep the streets swept clean.
‘The Tyranians did pave some of the more important thoroughfares,’ Garis said, ‘and those we have left like that, even though some of the City Council wanted to rip up the stones simply because they were perceived as being Tyranian.’ He shook his head in amusement. ‘Temellin managed to convince them that the paving was good native Kardi rock. People who think with their hearts instead of their heads can be a trial to a ruler sometimes—as you will find out one day.’
He blinked, startled. The words gave an unwelcome immediacy to something that had always been distant and vague. He, Arrant, one day governing a land of which he had no experience, ruling a people who were strangers to him? The notion was suddenly preposterous.
Around him there was so much that was still strange to his eyes. Instead of fountains, there were wells, and each one had people lining up with ewers, awaiting their turn. Instead of water channels and pipes, there were water sellers, with amphorae of water transported up from the lake in howdahs on the backs of the pack shleths. He overheard one woman berating the seller for trying to sell her smelly water.
The streets were lined with adobe walls, punctuated every now and then by closed wooden gates. When someone opened a gate as they passed, sounds and smells spilled into the street—a child’s laughter, an odd snatch of music played on a strange instrument, the scent of nectar-laden flowers mixed with a tantalising whiff of cooking food. He glimpsed a garden within the walls, a blaze of red flowers, fruit vines climbing the brown adobe walls of a house. So many new sights and sounds and scents. It didn’t seem like home, and he wondered if it ever would. Yet the emotions that stirred inside him were sympathetic; even with the earthen roadways, part of him liked what he saw. The language of the streets was his, the tongue he associated with being a child at Narjemah’s knee, or sharing childish secrets with Ligea. The people looked like him. For once, it was good to look into another’s eyes and see the same shade of brown gazing back at him. For once, he knew for sure that his appearance didn’t label him as unusual, as not quite belonging.
‘What are those boys doing over there?’ he asked, reining in to point with his shleth prod to where a youth of about his own age appeared to be attempting to pull another from the saddle of his shleth.
‘Ah, that’s a game of dubblup. Doubling-up—two people on one shleth. The aim is to get yourself from the ground into the saddle behind the rider, all done at a gallop.’ They watched as the runner tried to put his foot into the palm of the shleth’s feeding arm, while the youth in the saddle hauled him up. Garis winced as the rider tumbled off instead, and said, ‘You’ll be doing it yourself soon, I suppose, and end up being better than everyone else too, I’ll wager. There’s not a lad who hasn’t tried to perfect the technique, and not a mother who hasn’t scolded a son for trying and a father who hasn’t secretly been proud when he succeeded.’
The words, meant to comfort and encourage, served only to remind Arrant that he was an outsider, about to meet his father again after a gap of eight years. Gods, he knew Garis better than he knew Temellin. It was hard to love a father he could hardly remember, except for his moment of rejection. Garis, on the other hand—Garis had been there in the first days after Brand’s death, stilling his panic, gentling the terror he’d felt at the idea of living with what he’d done, encouraging him when he’d wondered if he wanted to live another day. Garis had been there to remind him that the only way he could make sense of Brand’s death was to make something of his own life.
On the month-long journey he had done more: he’d prepared Arrant as far as he was able for all that lay ahead. He’d spent hours describing the workings of the Magoroth Council. ‘Your father is the overall ruler of Kardiastan, make no mistake about that,’ he’d said, ‘but a Mirager has to have the consensus of his peers on policy matters. So every major decision has to go to the Magoroth Council for debate.’
‘And ordinary Kardis?’ he’d asked.
‘Oh, they have their own realm of authority. They govern the day-to-day life of the cities and towns and villages largely without interference, although each area has its own Ma
gor administrative adviser reporting back to Temellin.’
Best of all, Garis had talked about the people Arrant would meet: who they were, how they interacted, who would be likely to make trouble for him, and who would be friends. ‘As for the list of potential troublemakers,’ Garis had said, ‘Korden’s at the top, although Temellin probably wouldn’t agree with that assessment. Korden’s intentions are always noble, and he’s been a good friend to Temellin.’
‘But?’
‘He didn’t like Sarana and he hates all Tyranians with a deep loathing. That is going to prejudice him against you.’
‘That’s silly. I’m not a Tyranian, for a start.’
‘You were raised there, by a woman who was raised there. That’s the way he sees it. Don’t forget, almost everyone he knew as a child, his parents, his older sisters—they were killed by Tyranians when he was ten years old. He will regard your loyalties as suspect because you were brought up in Tyr. He will question your abilities because there have been rumours you can’t control your power. People say he would like his eldest son to be Mirager-heir, a man called Firgan.’
‘But you don’t like Firgan.’
‘For someone who doesn’t have a working cabochon, you are uncannily acute, Arrant Temellin.’ Garis hesitated. ‘He’s not my kind of man. He likes war and killing too much. He has a vision of expansion for Kardiastan and he is constantly bringing these ideas before the Council. He makes young men restless with stories of conquest and power. I find his father cold and impersonal and Firgan seems to have inherited tenfold that aspect of Korden. I don’t see his heart. A good soldier, a brave man, a leader—those attributes don’t necessarily mean an…an upright man. I have never felt empathy from Firgan. But then, I’ve never felt ill will either.’ He shrugged. ‘Best you make up your own mind, rather than listen to me. Anyway, you will have Temellin to guide you and he knows far more than me. I was forever roaming the Exaltarchy, not living in Madrinya.’
Roaming the Exaltarchy. With Brand.
‘Gods help me,’ Arrant thought, ‘why must I keep remembering?’
He repressed a shiver. As a five-year-old, he’d loved his father. But now Temellin was someone he knew only by reading his words on an occasional letter-scroll, or by hearing others speak of his exploits. Hero, warrior, liberator…tales gave Temellin a stature that made Arrant proud to be his son, but didn’t make it easier for him to contemplate the meeting ahead.
‘Scared?’ Garis asked.
He nodded. ‘Do you know why my father didn’t want me to come back until now?’
‘Well, it made sense at first—believe me, when the Ravage takes a dislike to you, it’s better to be somewhere it is not. And to hide a child with a cabochon outside of the Mirage in a country occupied by legionnaires on the lookout for anyone with a gemstone in their palm would not have been easy. So it made more sense for you to stay hidden in the mountains of Tyrans. But once we ousted the legions from Kardiastan? Well, we all thought you should have come back. Only Temel said you should stay where you were. None of us could understand it. I guess you’ll have to ask him. I can tell you this: it would not have been a decision made on a whim.’
He pointed. ‘You can see the pavilions from here. Traditionally there have always been eight, but the old Magoroth Council Hall was burned to the ground during the Shimmer Festival massacres and the others were deliberately razed by the legions later. We haven’t rebuilt them all yet. The tallest one there in the centre is the new hall, those to the right are the three Academies. Right now we’ll go straight to the Mirager’s Pavilion, the one closest to us.’
‘Will my father be there?’
‘Probably. That’s not just where he lives, but where he works, too. It’s the heart of our administration. You will stay with him in the Mirager’s private apartment, at the back.’ He glanced across at Arrant. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’
But Arrant was anxious, nonetheless. Perhaps Temellin had already heard what his son had done. The couriers who carried letter-scrolls from Tyr to Madrinya and back were known for the speed of their journey, and they took the Ordensa route, while Garis and Arrant had travelled at a more leisurely pace. How would Temellin react, knowing Ligea had been injured?
‘Cabochon help me,’ he thought. ‘How can I ever explain without saying why I was jealous of Brand?’ Yet his jealousy was the only explanation he had, poor as it was, for the behaviour that had ultimately betrayed Ligea to her enemies.
‘It’s got to come from you, you know,’ Garis said gently. ‘I’m not going to tell Temellin a thing.’
Arrant swallowed and nodded.
Garis continued, ‘He’ll certainly hear the details one day, from someone, somewhere—and probably garbled. It will be better if it comes from you.’
‘He might have already heard.’
‘It’s possible.’
Arrant subsided in misery.
‘You can’t run from this, Arrant. Remember that once confronted, problems often seem to diminish in size.’
His voice was gentle rather than admonitory, but Arrant didn’t believe the words. ‘I don’t know him. It’s hard to talk to someone you don’t know.’
‘No one said this is going to be easy. But he is a fine man who has been looking forward to this day ever since you were born. And it won’t be as difficult as you think.’
Yes, it will. His brother, popping into his head, unheralded as usual.
Arrant jumped, startling his mount in turn, and had to spend a moment calming the animal.
Thanks, he replied sourly. That’s just what I wanted to hear. What are you doing here now anyway? Come to see our papa nail one of his sons to the city gate for terminal idiocy?
Don’t be ridiculous! As if he’d do any such thing.
He doesn’t have to, Arrant thought morosely. Just facing his father and having to tell him what had happened was punishment enough, but he kept that thought tucked away in the private part of his mind.
I can give you moral support if you need it, Tarran said. And I want to see Madrinya. I’ve never been here, you know. Besides, Temellin’s my father too, and I haven’t seen him for years. Not since he left the Mirage along with everyone else when you and I were, what, seven or so? Arrant, I want you to tell him about me. I want him to know me. I want to talk to him, through you. I—I want to have a father. Sort of, anyway.
That would be wonderful! But—um, later, huh?
Yes, of course. Today, you need to get to know him, and he needs to know you, too.
Why do you think it’ll be difficult for me to talk to him, apart from the obvious point that I have to tell him I behaved like a brat, got Brand killed and Ligea hurt?
Mirage Maker memories tell me he has a temper. He was very jealous of Brand, you know. And he once tried to kill Ligea.
Arrant was appalled. His jaw dropped. He what?
‘What’s the matter?’ Garis asked.
He closed his mouth. ‘Oh, um, nothing.’ He tried to kill her?
He threw his sword at her from a few feet away. She would have died, except that she had fitted her cabochon into the hilt. Do you know what it means if you do that? Neither the sword nor its magic can ever hurt you. And you had better stop looking as if you’ve been clobbered with a wet fish, or Garis will think you’re moondaft.
Arrant attempted to look unflustered.
‘Just tell him the truth,’ Garis said.
‘I’ve just heard—um, I mean, I heard that he has a temper.’
‘You’re his son, Arrant. He’s not going to be mad at you.’
‘Oh, gods,’ Arrant thought. ‘Yes he is.’
He was not looking forward to this.
Shortly after Arrant left Tyr, Ligea announced to Gevenan that she wanted to visit Getria, Tyr’s sister city at the foot of the Alps. ‘Rumours have spread about how I was badly injured by Rathrox Ligatan, so I need to show the Getrians I am not only alive, but quite capable of ruling Tyrans,’ she told him by way of exp
lanation.
He just snorted and made a remark under his breath about mother hens—feeling bereft when their chickens fled the coop—having to fuss about something or another. She glared at him, irritated. Damn the man, she couldn’t keep anything hidden from his probing shrewdness. She did indeed need to do something, and a ride to Getria promised diversion.
She took Gevenan with her and stayed half a month. She met with city leaders, made appearances at a number of city banquets and plays, lit votive lamps at several of the city’s temples, and donated generously to the Temple of the Unknown God in support of indigent ex-slaves. She even made a call on Paulius Vevian, head of the Getrian branch of the Lucii, and his wife.
‘Horrible man,’ she said to Gevenan after they had returned to the Exaltarch’s Getrian villa. Paulius had grumbled the whole evening about how he couldn’t be a proper host because his servants didn’t work as hard as slaves and if he threatened to whip them, they had the audacity to leave. ‘He could hardly contain his distaste for having me in his house, and his wife took me aside to beg me to reinstate slavery—just to placate him so she has a husband who is halfway bearable!’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You look as if you’ve drunk a goblet of vinegar. Did he upset you that much?’
