The Heart of the mirage mm-1

by Glenda Larke

  wearing an iron slave collar. 'I haven't seen you before,' she added.

  I gave what I hoped was a shy smile.

  'Put the jug down in the queue first,' she said, indicating my ewer. 'Someone will move it along for you. Come and sit on the wall with me.'

  I did as she suggested. I glanced up the street as I settled down on the low wall bordering the steps to a house, to see Brand lounging beside a horse outside a shop, as though he were caring for the animal while waiting for his master.

  'I'm Parvana,' the girl said. 'What's your name?'

  'Derya.' It was a Kardi name, of course, one I had chosen for myself.

  'Where are you from?'

  'Sandmurram – once,' I said and added the story I hoped would explain any gaps in my knowledge, 'but my mistress took me to Tyr some years ago. We've only just come back to Kardiastan.' I stopped, afraid of saying something inappropriate.

  Luckily Parvana was happy to do most of the talking and before long I'd learned her father was a street sweeper, her mother carded shleth wool for a spinner, while Parvana herself had sold twine for a string-maker. She was newly enslaved, bonded for deliberately untethering a military gorclak which had been tied to the gatepost of her house. Her term was only six months and she was working for one of the military officers and his family. As she told her story, I realised there was one aspect of the Kardi language, at least among people of her class, that Aemid had failed to teach me. Parvana used swearwords with a flair and variety that spoke of much practice; unfortunately I didn't know what most of them meant.

  'The (curse) work's not (curse) hard,' she was saying, 'but those (curse) sods think we poor (curse) bints are only (curse) here to be (curse) screwed.' I blinked. It was an impressive string of expletives for one short sentence, and Parvana hadn't repeated herself once.

  However, I didn't need to know the meaning of the words to realise she was far from philosophical about her position; the only decent part of her day was when she had to fetch the water; the rest was torment. The officer's wife fondled her whenever she could and Parvana was sure it was only a matter of time before she insisted on more. Then, because they lived in military quarters, it was a constant battle to dodge randy soldiers, many of whom did not have their wives or families with them and ached to relieve their frustrations on any available female. And slaves were considered available.

  Sitting there listening to this recital, I had a sense of unreality. The girl was describing a life that seemed more fable than truth; did the Exaltarchy really make slaves of people for so little? What could it possibly be like to be someone's toy, to be fondled at will? Did legionnaires really hunt down slave women to use as they pleased without fear of disciplinary action? This was not Tyranian law. This was not the kind of civilisation the Exaltarchy was supposed to extend to the conquered peoples of its provinces.

  I must have let some of my distress show on my face, because Parvana said, with numerous more unidentifiable words in between, 'Ah, don't look so upset, Derya. I've more or less decided how to wriggle my backside out of this one – if I can't escape, that is. I'm going to let the cat think she can bed me eventually.' She grinned. 'Maybe she'll get me a pretty

  bronze necklace like yours, instead of this bloody big castration ring. And if I play it right, she'll at least keep the other pricks out of my trousers. What's the matter? You look as if you've got a beetle up your arse -'

  I saw my opportunity. I made a show of looking around to make sure no one else was listening. 'I have a problem,' I whispered. 'I don't know what to do.'

  As I had intended, my secretive, conspiratorial tone immediately had her interested. 'What is it?'

  'Parvana, listen, my owner was sent here from Tyr by the Brotherhood. Have you heard of the Brotherhood?' ',

  She shook her head, her eyes already wide with wonder. She wasn't quite as jaded as the rest of her conversation had suggested.

  'It's a secret, um, cabal of men – well, mostly men, working directly for the Magister Officii. My owner was sent here by the Exaltarch himself to find a man the Tyranians know only as Mir Ager.'

  I had worded the latter sentence carefully and was rewarded by her breathless, 'The Mirager!'

  I nodded. 'Yes. Parvana, I've been in Tyr. I don't know what has been happening here. I heard the Mirager was burnt alive in Sandmurram…'

  She snorted. 'You don't want to believe what Tyranian sods say! Of course he's still alive.'

  I endeavoured to look relieved. Inside, I was perplexed. Could the man really have survived? I said, 'I have something of the Mirager's that must be returned to him. Something left behind at the slave auction in Sandmurram. And I have to warn him of danger from the Brotherhood. I must talk to him, but I don't know how to contact him. What can I do?'

  Parvana's air of world-weary disenchantment vanished fast. 'Don't worry – I don't know any of

  those cold-arsed Magor bastards, but we all know how to pass a message – one that will get right to the balls at the top if need be. Will you be sent for water tomorrow?'

  I both heard and felt her breathless awe and guessed she wasn't as disparaging of the Mirager as her vocabulary suggested. 'Yes,' I said, 'I will.'.' 'Then be here. I shall tell you what to do then.' She jumped down from the wall. 'It's my turn to get the water. I'll see you tomorrow.' She gave a happy smile and went to pick up her ewer, now at the head of the line because an obliging slave had been moving it along in front of his own.

  That was easy, I thought. But the Mirager may well be a different matter… What sort of man survived his own execution?

  My thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a thunder of hoofs. I turned my head to see two gorclaks being ridden at racing speed down a lane that disgorged into the square. The riders, both junior officers, were whipping their beasts and calling for a free way ahead. The people at the well scattered in fright as the animals ploughed into them. One older woman who wasn't quick enough was brushed aside, a child disappeared under churning legs, ewers were smashed. The first rider, laughing, brought his whip down on a Kardi man who shook his fist at the racing men. The other gave a whoop of delight and caught the awning over a fruit stall as he rode by, so that the whole stall collapsed in on itself, spilling produce.

  Then they were gone and the silence they left behind them was deathly. The child, ripped open from throat to pelvis by a gorclak spur, lay in a widening pool of blood so thick it seemed black. A woman rose to her feet, looked around in a panic – and saw what

  she didn t want to see. She sank down again, onto her knees this time, twisting her hands over and over as if she were participating in some strange ritual of cleansing, of absolution. Her mouth caverned open, but no sound came out.

  The square was filled with hate and I found myself part of it, hating with a black hate, despising those laughing men for their casual murder, dreaming revenge.

  The crowd closed in on the body and the grieving mother. I slipped down from the wall and went to fill my ewer, but my thoughts were elsewhere.

  'I've written a message for the Military Commander,' I said harshly. 'See that he gets it, Brand.' I had removed my slave collar – unlike other such collars it snapped open – and I'd changed my clothing, but the atmosphere of the square was still acid in my mind.

  Brand took the scroll I handed him and, after a nod from me, read it. He raised a sardonic eyebrow. 'Harsh words, Legata.'

  'Officers, Brand! Behaving like that! Fortunately the gorclaks had their numbers newly painted; it should be easy enough for the Commander to have them identified and punished.'

  'But will he bother? They only killed a Kardi child, after all.'

  'That's what's the matter with this place,' I snapped, even though I knew he was deliberately baiting me. 'The standards that apply back home don't seem to apply here. How can we earn the loyalty of the people we rule if we behave like lawless ravagers ourselves?'

  He gave a cynical snort. 'You won't change anything with this note. Haven't you learned
yet that any society practising slavery is innately unjust? When you have

  the power to make a free man a chattel to be bought and sold, then it is you – not the slave – who loses humanity; you who become a little less than what a man or a woman should be. The system is marginally less arbitrary in Tyrans simply because lesser men like those legionnaires are not at the top of the midden heap there; they are near the bottom.'

  I wanted to deny what he was saying, to brush the words aside because I did not like them, but the scene in the well-square stayed with,me. And I knew at least one part of what he was saying was true: the system here was arbitrary; it was too dependent on the whims of. individuals. Back in Tyrans, power was divided up: the Exaltarch, the Brotherhood, the generals, the highborn, the moneymasters, the court praetors, the temple priestesses, the trademasters – everyone had his or her say. There were checks and balances even the Exaltarch had to obey. But here, in Kardiastan? The Governor, the Prefects – they relied on the legions to enforce the law and the only courts were military ones. It was a system, that could be easily abused; and in my heart I knew military men were notoriously unwilling to discipline their own kind for crimes committed against civilians, especially subjects who were not even citizens of Tyrans.

  'I am sure other outposts of the Exaltarchy don't have a similar, um, anarchy as here,' I said in protest. 'Besides, we only enslave those who have committed a crime. Some would say that slavery is a preferable punishment to other forms. In Assoria they used to cut off the right hands of thieves. In Corsene they used to blind them. Nowadays, in all the Exaltarchy, thieves and other petty criminals have a chance to lead useful lives as slaves, well fed, clothed and housed. Society is therefore more stable. Crime is reduced. The punishment is more tolerable. Which is better?'

  'Legata, enslavement was just as arbitrary in Altan, where I was born, as it appears to be here. Do you know why I was made a slave? No, of course you don't. You never bothered to ask. Well, now perhaps is the time for you to learn – my parents died. I was ten years old.'

  'And -?' I prompted when he did not go on.

  'That's it. I was ten and parentless. There was no one to protect me. No one to protect the property that was my father's. It was stolen and I was sold into slavery, with the open connivance of the legionnaires stationed in Altan. Where was the crime that justified the sale of a grieving ten-year-old boy into a lifetime of slavery? That is the truth of your Tyranian civilisation, Legata. Certainly we have peace – but at what price?'

  I didn't want to think about what he was saying. I looked away from him to pick up the slave collar again and fiddle with it. It felt weighty, cumbersome, awkward in a way I hadn't even noticed when I was wearing it. Brand stood quietly, waiting for some acknowledgement of the truths he uttered. I should have scolded him. Chided him for criticising the Exaltarchy that ruled him, but the Altani and I had a – more complex relationship than that. I said finally, 'You've never spoken like this before, Brand. Why now?'

  'You've only just started to listen.' He held up the scroll. T shall deliver this.' He turned and walked away, leaving me feeling upset and restless. It was all too easy to remember a pool of blood, black blood, seeping into a woman's clothing as she knelt, wringing her hands…

  The next morning, I thought about having Brand follow me again, but I did not want anything to jeopardise my meeting with Mir Ager. The Mirager. I would risk going alone. Brand did not protest my

  decision; I would have been surprised if he had. We both knew being a member of the Brotherhood often involved danger. We both knew I revelled in risk and that nothing Brand said would ever change that.

  Parvana was in the group of women waiting at the well. She nodded to me and drew me apart from the rest. 'Leave your ewer. I'll fill it and leave it over there, with the vegetable seller just behind us. You can pick it up any time. Now, see that neat-arsed hunk at the fruit stall on the other side of the square?';¦ I looked around. There was a man, a Kardi with no slave collar, idly poking at some fruit on display while he chatted to the stall owner. I put his age at about thirty, and took in his slim but muscular build and easy posture. I turned back to Parvana and nodded. 'I see him.'

  'In a minute he will begin to walk away. You must follow him. He will take you to the person you want to see.'

  Across the square, the man bought some of the fruit, placed it in his belt bag and, without glancing around, began to move off even as Parvana smiled encouragement and took my ewer. I crossed the square and entered the labyrinth of lanes on the other side, keeping the fellow in sight. I tried to probe ahead to see what his emotions were, but the alleys were full of Kardis doing their early morning shopping and it was impossible to separate one person's feelings from another's. I was jostled by the crowd and found myself pushing in an attempt to keep up with my guide.

  It was my fault, of course; slaves did not jostle legionnaires. Slaves were submissive and polite, not pugnacious. But for a moment I forgot I was a slave and shoved a legionnaire out of my path. He grabbed at my arm and yanked me to a halt.

  Well, well, he said, in Tyranian. What have we here? A willing slave wench throwing herself into my arms?'

  I pulled away sharply and stepped backwards, only to find myself seized from behind. Another voice said, 'No, into mine I think, Xasus.' Laughter followed as this second man pulled me hard back against his chest, his intrusive hands fondling my breasts. I stood rigid with shock.

  Two more legionnaires came up, grinning. 'Hey, what about us, Evander?' one of them asked the man who was holding me. 'I could do with a poke and she's not bad – for a Kardi.'

  'Why not?' the one called Evander replied. 'Let's find a place.'

  'I noticed some sacks of grain stacked in the alley back there,' Xasus said. 'Just the spot.'

  Hardly able to credit I was hearing this conversation on a crowded city street, I twisted in my captor's arms and said – in Tyranian – 'How dare you! Let me go, this instant or you'll find yourself feeling Brotherhood justice.'

  Evander did not release me, but the others looked stunned. 'Who the Vortex are you?' one of them asked.

  'Ah, er, my mistress is Legata Ligea of the Brotherhood, at present residing with the Governor. She'll have you skinned alive and sold for slave meat if you touch me!'

  Xasus backed off a little. 'Perhaps we ought to let her go,' he said to the others. T don't want any shit with the Brotherhood. And I've heard of that particular bitch. You don't cross her and get away with it. My cousin was a tax inspector in Tyr until he ran foul of her. Now he's a scribe in Gammed and his name is mud in Tyrans.'

  'Since when has a slave told a legionnaire what he can and cannot do?' Evander growled. 'Damn it, Xasus, you reckon any Brother is going to give a shit about a slave?'

  'You'd better believe it,' I snapped. 'She's very fond of me.'

  Xasus held up both hands in a gesture of defeat. 'I'm off,' he said.

  But Evander was not going to give up his prize so easily, and one of the others was prepared to follow his lead. The crowd around had thinned out, giving us space; people were backing off, concerned, wary, not knowing what to do. The oppressive humidity of their hate for the legionnaires hung in the air, but no one actually moved to help me.

  I caught sight of the man I had been following, as he came back to see what had happened. He was broadcasting his concern before him, as strong to my senses as incense is to the nose. With what I hoped was unexpected suddenness, I sagged in Evander's arms and he lost his grin. While he was off-balance, I whirled and jabbed him in the throat with stiffened fingers. It was a deceptively harmless-looking blow, but in the Brotherhood we called it the Vortex-strike for its ability to send the recipient to Acheron. The jab was hard, crushing his larynx and slamming into the blood vessel behind; the shock stopped his heart as effectively as an arrow in the chest would have done. I didn't wait to see what happened; I was already running. Behind me I heard an outraged cry of: 'The frigging helot has killed him. Get her.'


  My guide saw me coming, turned and dodged into an alleyway, also running. I darted after him. The legionnaires, spurred by fury, were not far behind, but my guide knew what he was doing. We hurdled a low

  wall, dashed across a deserted courtyard and skidded through an archway into another crowded square. Back inside the crowd he dropped to a brisk walk to make our passage less obvious.

  I risked a swift look behind. The legionnaires were shouting to someone in front of us: more legionnaires. My guide changed direction. He grabbed my hand and pulled me through another archway into a narrow lane hemmed in by adobe walls. The alley itself was a dead end, but several wooden doors set into the walls, intricately carved, hinted at an illustrious past for the Kardi homes behind them.

  Without hesitation the Kardi opened a door and pulled me into the courtyard beyond. Once it had been a spacious garden for a wealthy man's home, now it was an untidy fowl-run surrounded by crumbling tenements. A number of curl-feathered hens scratched diligently in the dirt. There was washing hanging out to dry from almost every sagging balcony bordering the court, but there was no one around. I was pulled across the open space to the unkempt straggle of bushes against the wall on the other side. My guide forced his way into the heart of them, still drawing me with him. I was about to protest that the bushes weren't thick enough to hide bom of us when he slipped sideways and disappeared.

  I turned to follow and found myself squeezing through a narrow cleft in the wall and into a rectangular recess beyond. Its purpose I couldn't begin to guess at, except to wonder if it had once been some kind of storage space. There was barely room for us both. I was jammed up against my guide, my head squashed down to tuck in tight under his chin, my hips hard against his, my breasts flattened against his chest. The only place he could put his arms was

  around me. He smelled faintly of spice and sweat – and squashed fruit. His belt pouch, oozing peach juice, was flattened between us.

  'Huh,' he said, amused, and continued in Kardi, 'It wasn't nearly so small when I was a kid hiding from my sister here.'