The Heart of the mirage mm-1

by Glenda Larke

  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 worm 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; omers 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 mem 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 els
e 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

  DERJA

  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

  T'HAPTER NINE

  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 die 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.'

  Madrinya may have been a Tyranian city, but the area just beyond the Governor's residence managed to retain its Kardi appearance. The street leading to the well-square was of hard brown earth; the walls on either side were adobe, the plainness of their facades broken only by the house gates.

  I had no intention of lingering, but when I heard music I came to an abrupt halt. The sounds of several stringed instruments being played in harmony drifted out from one of the houses through a gate left ajar: Kardi music, a plaintive, mournful tune with a complex counterpoint weaving through the melody. It was the first music I could remember hearing in Kardiastan and so it should have been alien to my ears – yet I was suddenly awash with longing, so moved I stood as still as a temple pillar, forgetting where I was going, oblivious to the presence of Brand behind me. The clothes I wore, the language I heard spoken around me, served to reinforce something the music awakened.

  I had thought of Kardiastan as a cultureless, barbarian land. This music did more than give me the

  lie, it stirred the Kardi soul I hadnt even known I possessed. The wrench of that melody pulled me into another world, into memories of childhood I had tucked away out of reach.

  Playing hopsquares. Being cuddled when I cried. Sitting on a man's knee hearing stories told. Paddling at a lakeside. Loving and being loved…

  The thoughts I had then were of things that had never bothered me before. I'd never thought a brown skin made me a Kardi. I'd never thought an accident of birth ensured my allegiance. I was Tyranian by inclination, by upbringing, by desire, by citizenship. Yet now the mere sound of a few instruments made me question who I was.

  Shaken, I blocked out the sound, quenched the memories and walked on. Don't be stupid, Ligea. You are Gayed's daughter, educated to be a highborn woman ofTyr.

  The well-square was a wholly Kardi scene too, but at least it aroused nothing in me except a vague distaste. By the time I arrived, it was crowded. In contrast to Tyr, the market stalls along one side conducted their business without argumentative bargaining or noisy rivalry. I saw no beggars. In the middle of the square, in the scant shade of a deformed tree, slaves and free Kardis waited their turn to draw water. The stone well with its narrow steps was only wide enough for one person to go down to the water's edge at a time, but those in the queue were orderly, chatting among themselves, with no pushing or jostling for position. They came just for drinking water, I knew; professional water sellers transported water used for general household purposes up from the lake in amphorae on shlethback.

  The use of such a primitive met
hod of collecting water puzzled me. Surprising, too, were the large spitting beetles lurking around the lip of the well, their wings shining iridescent purple, their spit drying in dirty yellow pools on the brickwork. Why hadn't Tyranian culture prevailed here, as it had in most conquered cities? Why hadn't the administration replaced the well with a public fountain or channelled water to the city along aqueducts? Why hadn't they rooted out the pathetic excuse for a tree, planted parks, eradicated the beetles? How did the Kardis manage to maintain their identity so easily?

  I thought I already knew the answer, even as I framed the question. No Kardi ever cooperated on anything – and that made change difficult, especially when there was little labour other than what the Kardis cared to supply.

  Even as I hesitated at the edge of the group waiting at the well, I heard the tail end of a conversation confirming my thoughts. A youth was saying,' -¦ and so when he wasn't looking, I dropped the bag of grit into the mill mechanism. Chewed everything up beyond repair in five minutes. You should have heard what he had to say! He was as wild as a whirlwind.' The lad laughed. 'But the barracks has had to buy its flour from old Warblen ever since and I don't think they'll try to mill their own again -'

  I noticed the difference in being a Kardi among Kardis immediately. The speaker had not bothered to lower his voice at my approach, none of these people turned from me, there was no hate hanging in the air around them.

  'New here?' a voice asked in my ear. I turned to find a girl of eighteen or so, with large brown eyes and a pert, inquisitive manner, smiling at me. She was