The Shadow of Tyr

by Glenda Larke

  ‘Persuade you of anything? Huh! Temellin’s threats have nothing to do with why you haven’t climbed back onto my pallet since the Ravage attacked me.’

  He stopped his sweeping to answer, serious now. ‘No. It had everything to do with the way you two looked at each other when he came to help you. After he saw what the Ravage had done to your face.’

  For a moment they were silent, sharing memories, and pain. It was true. She hadn’t wanted Brand after that. It hadn’t seemed…right. Not to either of them. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘But that’s all the more reason you should leave. Why take any notice of Temellin? You don’t even like him!’

  ‘Not in the least,’ he agreed. ‘He’s an arrogant, highborn Magor bastard. He had no cause to treat you the way he did. He should have believed in you. Even with all his enhanced senses, he couldn’t see what you really are. He couldn’t see the hell you went through, thinking you would be the one to die, not Pinar.’

  But you saw. The man who had no reason to trust the bitch who’d kept him enslaved had continued to have faith in her, believing that one day she would be the woman he thought she could be.

  Aloud she repeated her apology, ‘I’m sorry.’ Sorry for not loving you the way you love me.

  He made a dismissive gesture, as if it didn’t matter, when they both knew it did.

  ‘You haven’t answered my question. Why stay?’ she asked.

  ‘Temellin had the truth of it. A woman about to have a baby needs someone with her who loves her. It’s as simple as that. And Temellin loves you enough to make sure there is someone, even though that person is a man who made him jealous—who, indeed, gave him reason to be jealous.’ His smug self-satisfaction wafted in her direction. ‘Make up your mind to it, Ligea, I’m not going anywhere until after the brat is born.’

  She opened her mouth to protest, and then closed it again, aware of the overwhelming relief she felt at the thought of him being there.

  He grinned again and patted her hand. ‘Nice to have a man to rely on, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ she said and snatched her hand away.

  ‘Say something intelligent, then. About what we do next.’

  ‘Men!’ she grumbled. ‘One of you is bad enough, but put the two of you together and you think you rule me. Well, you don’t.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Next? Next I want some slaves to think about escape. Not just any slaves, but a few special men you can help me identify. After that, I am going to do what I believe Bator Korbus did to me: I am going to make cynical use of the Oracle and its prophecies.’ She swallowed. ‘Vortexhells, Brand, there is so little time before Favonius returns with his tales of what I did to the Stalwarts—after which Rathrox will scour the whole of Tyrans looking for me if he suspects I have returned. I don’t know how I can do all this in a couple of weeks. Three at the most.’

  She felt panic flutter in her chest. How could I have ever thought I can bring down an empire?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Brand sat back in his chair at Ligea’s desk and read through the list of names he had just scratched into a wax tablet. The sigh he gave when he reached the end originated from a deep-felt worry.

  ‘Vortexdamn, Ligea,’ he said softly to himself, ‘for all your power, we are still only human.’ Yet another sigh escaped him as he smoothed out a name, and entered another in its place.

  His writing was poor. Back in his boyhood before his parents had died, he’d been tutored, but that time was followed by the vicious dark hole in his life, the two grim years, when he’d been passed from one perverted slave owner to another, when it was all he could do to keep his body alive and his spirit willing to live. When all he’d learned was how not to die. After that he’d belonged to Ligea and, well, it had never occurred to her he might like to write anything, and it had never occurred to him to ask. The hard years had taught him not to ask and not to expect.

  Still, he was at her side when she went to school and, later, when she’d attended the Academy debates and scholarly discussions. As a result, the education Brand had received was better than most Tyranian citizens, even if his lettering remained poor.

  It was not his writing skills that bothered him; it was the list itself. Ligea had asked him to write down the name and owner of every slave he knew who might want to swap their present slavery for freedom. They had to possess some skill her rebellion would find useful: soldiering, or blacksmithing perhaps, or handling horses.

  Brand’s problem was that few slaves spoke candidly of their feelings. If you wanted to escape, you didn’t talk about it. Frustrated, he rose and went to the balcony that overlooked the villa garden. The late desert-season sun, filtered through evening clouds, burnished the water of the fountains and painted the marble statuary and colonnades with the half-tone russet hues of the leaf-fall.

  At a guess he would never live anywhere as beautiful as this again. He would never feel as safe. And yet one part of him wanted to board the next galley for Altan. One part of him wanted desperately to go home, even though he knew it was no longer home. He was thirty years old, and he’d been taken from Altan when he was just ten; what could there possibly be for him there now?

  He looked down at his withered left arm. He had dreamed once of being a soldier and fighting for Altan’s freedom. He knew there was already a rebellion there, in the Delta. Slaves told each other stories—and tales of a slave uprising spread as fast as light at moonrise on a cloudless night. Wish fulfilment, perhaps. You couldn’t be free, but you could dream of those who fought for freedom. You could pretend that one day it would be you.

  The insurgents of Altan called themselves the Gharials of the Delta. Named after the long-snouted crocodiles of the rivers, they lived on the floating reed islands where the Great Altan River debouched into the Sea of Iss, and they even dared to blockade the ports of Altan on occasion. Minnows, some said, not gharials, but even minnows could bite. However, as Brand contemplated his useless arm, he wondered if they’d be interested in a one-armed soldier with no experience.

  Yet he knew he must leave. If he stayed, his love for Ligea would end up turning him into a bitter old man who had never achieved his true potential. It would drain him, that love.

  Put it behind you, and go on. But it would hurt. Excising part of yourself always hurt.

  As he looked down on that garden he remembered the girl who had owned him, ten years old to his twelve, imperiously ordering him around as though he were a dog without rights. An autocrat even at that age—and yet one who occasionally asked his opinion and then listened to what he had to say. Who was interested in him, in his opinions and thoughts. Who sometimes followed his advice. Who never held a grudge, even when he subtly mocked her. Clever enough to know when she was mocked, though, of course.

  The two years before he came to the Gayed family had made him forget that people could care about him. Ligea had restored his faith in others. She had returned his pride. Ligea, without even knowing what she did, changed him from a frightened, beaten boy without hope, into a youth who knew his own worth and believed in a future. And, gods, how he loved her for that…

  ‘Are those serious thoughts of yours worth a sestus or two?’

  He turned. She had come into the room and was at the desk, perusing the list of names. ‘Sweet Elysium, there must be a hundred people down here!’

  ‘Numbers aren’t everything.’ He took a deep breath. He always told her the truth, and he wasn’t about to change that now. ‘Ligea, I won’t make promises to them that don’t have a sunbeam’s chance in Acheron of being fulfilled.’

  ‘I’ve just heard from Arcadim. He’s found a farm, just what I was looking for, at the foot of the mountains. Remote, and with an owner who can’t believe his luck that he’s found someone gullible enough to buy such a far-flung place so distant from any decent markets. We will hide the slaves there.’

  ‘And how do we get them out of Tyr in the first place?’

  ‘Well, I have a few ideas, especially si
nce we had a good look at the Oracle the night before last. The annual prophecy for Tyr. That’s not quite twenty days away; I can see possibilities there.’

  His heart skidded sickly.

  She smiled, and briefly appeared young and mischievous. He felt a familiar tightness in his chest. What I wouldn’t do to have that look on her face all the time. But there was no going back. Not now. He conceded, ‘At least we found another way into the Oracle cave. One that doesn’t involve meeting up with Pythian ridgebacks.’

  ‘In the meantime, you can start sounding out some of these slaves.’ She ran a finger down the list and read the notes he’d added beside each name. ‘This fellow, for example. Gevenan. I wonder how across all the Seas of Iss he managed to keep his Ingean name? That already makes him interesting. He sounds ideal. Exsoldier, some kind of officer, angry at his enslavement when the Tyranians invaded his island, and now a horse-handler. That means he will often be found exercising the horses under his care down on the beach. Or maybe he deals with the feed merchants at the hay markets. You’ll find a way to talk to him. Same with some of the others. Cracius, leatherworker at Domina Curia’s villa. He will buy at the leather market.’

  ‘But what would I tell him? Or Gevenan? I have to offer them something better than a myth of freedom.’

  ‘I’m not offering them a myth! I’m offering them a way out of Tyr, out of slavery and into a paying job. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘No,’ he said, and wondered at her ignorance. ‘Freedom is no good to you if it only drags muck behind it. What if they get caught? A good master might just whip you. A bad one kills you. The worst ones kill your family and your friends and your fellow slaves as well. Praetor Antonius murdered half-a-dozen stable boys to punish Gev for trying to escape, and then scourged him as well. Ocrastes’ balls, Ligea, you know this happens; I don’t need to tell you.’

  She stared at him, not answering, and the silence lengthened.

  And he asked the question they were both thinking. ‘What—what would you have done?’ Whipped me? Sold me? Let me go?

  Her whispered answer was tortured. ‘I don’t know. I—I never believed you’d go.’ And then an angry, ‘And you shouldn’t have asked that question. Not now. We’ve been through too much to go back to what was.’

  His gaze dropped. ‘Yes. You’re right. It was an unfair question.’

  ‘So, are you saying that all I offer a slave won’t tempt them? Regular pay. Ultimate citizenship of a new Tyrans. Pride in themselves. The end of slavery.’

  ‘Ligea, those are just promises. They will have to believe what you say is true, or at least possible. And even I am not sure I believe in your success. How can I convince them?’

  The horror in the look she gave him took him by surprise. She asked, ‘You saw what I did, single-handedly, to the Stalwarts’ legion—and you still doubt?’

  ‘Yes. They were exhausted men without resources, not the whole might of the Exaltarchy.’

  ‘Temellin believes I can do it.’

  ‘Does he? If so, he’s a fool. Or was he just unable to stop you? Anyway, he’s never been to Tyrans. I have! I know what you face.’

  ‘And you think I will fail?’

  ‘Oh, Goddess,’ he whispered, and released his hold on his raw anguish. ‘Yes. Yes, I do. I believe in you, Ligea—but you are only one person. And they are a mighty empire. There are eighty thousand citizen legionnaires in the Exaltarch’s armies; you told me that once. Twenty thousand of them in Tyrans. One full legion right here in Tyr.’

  ‘And another five hundred thousand scattered from one end of the Exaltarchy to the other who are not citizens. Yes, I know. But no ruler has ever risked bringing a non-citizen army to Tyrans, you know that. And I don’t believe they ever will.’

  ‘Does it matter? There are still enough men in Tyrans to squash any army of yours! And you’re pregnant! Ligea, I don’t believe it can be done.’

  She sank down in a chair opposite him and bent over, hiding her face in her hands. ‘Oh, Goddess, Brand, am I an utter fool to have started this? Is all this just a delusion birthed by my wretched hubris?’

  He went to kneel at her feet. ‘Ligea,’ he said, and he heard the ragged edges of his pleading, ‘do what you told Arcadim you could do. Go to the Magistrium right now, tell Rathrox you have just arrived back from Kardiastan and you need to see Bator Korbus immediately. He will take you there. You could kill them both before either was aware anything was wrong.’

  She raised her head to look at him. ‘Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I’m not tempted?’

  ‘Then why don’t you?’

  ‘How many other ten-year-old Altani boys will end up slaves for the rest of their lives because no one of power would put an end to slavery?’

  He winced. Damn her, she still had the ability to skin him raw. ‘That was unfair,’ he said.

  ‘But true. Killing a single man, or two, won’t change anything! It won’t help Kardiastan. Or Altan. It would just be a pleasant revenge. Gods, Brand, my life was bought with a near genocide of the Magoroth when I was three years old. I have to do something to make it right. Otherwise, where is my worth?’

  The misery in her eyes had the power to hurt him still. He took her hands in his. ‘Ligea. It’s not too late. You can turn around even now and go back to Kardiastan.’

  She didn’t seem to take in what he’d said. ‘Brand, sometimes I want to see them dead so badly, it hurts. But if I assassinated Rathrox tomorrow, I would damage my chances of success. You see, I know him. I know his faults and his weaknesses. He’s not nearly as good at his job as he thinks—for twelve or so years it was my senses that made the Brotherhood as successful as it was, not his bullying or his torture. If he dies, he will be replaced by someone I may not even know. Possibly someone a great deal better at the job. And I lose my edge over the Brotherhood.’

  He was unconvinced and must have shown it, because she said, ‘For example. When he hears from Favonius what I did in Kardiastan, he will not make the assumption that I will return, as another might. He’ll think I will seek to rule there. He’ll be so sure of that, he won’t jump to the conclusion that a Magoroth in Tyr is me, even though he is going to recognise the power for what it is. By the way, once I start using my power, he will have the legionnaires searching for people with a gem in their palm. Eventually, when he doesn’t find Magor, he will start torturing Kardi slaves. It won’t do him any good, but he’ll continue until there’s not a Kardi left alive in Tyr.’

  He grimaced. ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘You can start a rumour around the pothouses of Tyr that all Kardis will be killed unless they leave Tyr on the day of the whirlwinds.’

  ‘And if I am recognised as your slave?’

  ‘Just tell them you didn’t go with me to Kardiastan.’

  He still wanted to beg her to give up, to go back to Temellin, but she reached out and placed her fingers over his lips. ‘I know I will probably fail. I know the idea of me becoming Exaltarch was just a stupid moment of arrogant dreaming. I know I may achieve very little. I also know that I have to try. Because I have power, I have to try. Who else can? If I can’t do it now, how will Kardiastan ever be free? Every time Temellin wins a battle, Tyr will send more legionnaires to replace those who died. If I can’t succeed here, how many generations will have to pass before slavery will be recognised as the iniquity it is?’

  Hells, he thought, she’s right.

  An autumn sunrise on the estuary coast meant a hoary sea, a slate-grey sky and skin-reddening cold. The beach that might be pleasant with warmth at midday was bitter with wind under the dawn sky. And yet it was a busy place. Ligea had been right; the city’s horse-handlers brought horses down to the sands for exercise. Brand grunted. Trust her to know something like that, to have remembered what he’d forgotten. Her Brotherhood training, he supposed.

  He glanced across at her, shielding his nervousness. He was glad she was with him, because he knew that Gevenan, as a trained
army officer, could be crucial to their plans, and he had no faith in his ability to read the man—yet he was worried, too. He worried someone would realise who she was.

  Still, she would be hard to recognise. The savage scar on her cheek, obliterating the symmetry of her looks and as knobbly as rough-cast plaster, had become the focus of attention. Her figure was gaunt, her hair uncoloured, and that made her appear older. She wore the drab clothes of a lowborn woman. She even held herself with less assurance. There was a slump to her shoulders that went with the persona she had donned. Brotherhood training, he knew. This wasn’t the first time she had worn a disguise.

  He glanced away from her to watch for Gevenan, and saw him riding towards the beach, accompanied by four stable lads on their mounts. Gevenan was a stocky man, all muscle and sinew, his skin scarred in so many places it resembled an ill-made mosaic. He went to ride past the spot where Brand and Ligea waited at the gap in the dunes, then reined in when he recognised the Altani.

  ‘Brand?’ He slithered off his mount without even glancing at Ligea. ‘Brand! I thought you were still away. Well met, my friend! It is good to see you again.’

  They clasped wrists in genuine delight. Then he noted Brand’s lack of a collar. ‘Ocrastes’ balls! The General’s sham-whelp sodding freed you?’

  ‘She did indeed.’

  ‘You lucky son of a bitch. So what are you doing now?’

  ‘Planning rebellion, actually.’

  Gevenan stared at him, glanced at Ligea, then back to where his stable boys were waiting. ‘Well, what are you lot of shifty layabouts waiting for?’ he asked, scowling at the lads. ‘Start with five times at trot along the beach, single file, then twice at half-pace canter and another twice at trot. By that time I should be with you. And if any of you little bastards start racing I’ll skin you alive.’ As the boys rode off, Gevenan, still holding the reins of his own mount, turned back to Brand. ‘Are you flipping pickled? And who’s this piece of sweetness and light?’ he added, shooting a penetrating look at Ligea.