The Shadow of Tyr

by Glenda Larke

  Arrant froze in place. Spies watching the gates? Did they watch the kitchen entrance? Commonsense told him that of course they would, if they were looking for Ligea. They’d expect her to try a servant’s disguise or similar. But would they be on the lookout for him? He tried to convince himself that they wouldn’t. And anyway, very few people knew what he looked like.

  I wish I hadn’t attended that banquet.

  Fear ruffled the surface of his mind like a breeze across water. He closed off the channel of his thoughts, and paid attention to what Brand was saying instead.

  ‘It may make the present situation harder for Rathrox if I went back to Altan. He’s obviously using my presence here to stir up trouble.’

  ‘Ah, no, Brand. I couldn’t bear it if you left.’ She reached out and wrapped her fingers around his.

  Arrant’s hands clenched so tight under cover of the table he thought he’d drawn blood with his nails. How dare she say such a thing in front of him?

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, coldly polite. ‘I wish to go to my room.’ He didn’t wait for permission but rose and walked away, his back sword-straight, his eyes full of furious tears.

  He wasn’t due to meet Thracius again for ten days, and during that time, Arrant heard no more about trouble on the streets of Tyr. His tutors kept him busy and Ligea had insisted that he resume his military training as well—every day. He did not enjoy the lessons, although he knew and liked the teacher she sent; he had taught Arrant before in the Stronghold.

  The next time he met Thracius, the man seemed tense. ‘I need to talk to you,’ he said. ‘Urgently.’ He walked Arrant away from their usual meeting place at the fountain in the Forum Publicum, hurrying him into the Snarls, back to the same small pothouse they had visited before. He chose a table in the corner, separated from the only other occupants, a couple of rough-looking road-menders sitting near the door.

  ‘Arrant,’ he said, ‘I’m worried. I’ve heard something—someone tried to involve me—’

  He was edgy; Arrant caught an underlay of excitement, or was it fear? He couldn’t tell. His cabochon was silent on the matter. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘A plot. Against the Exaltarch. I’ve heard rumours but no details, and I’m not likely to, either. I refused to join, and they’re not going to trust me now. Goddess, lad, this is serious this time! They are gaining support; if half what they told me is true, the Exaltarch herself is in danger. They are using this matter of the Altani, Ambassador Brand, to whip up a furore of hate; they are making the Exaltarch seem disloyal to Tyrans. “She’s a foreigner,” they say. “She destroyed our empire and now she listens to foreign advisers.”’

  He fell silent as the pothouse-keeper came up and asked what they wanted to drink. He ordered a soft ale for Arrant and wine for himself, and waited for the man to disappear into the back room before he spoke again. ‘Lad, the only way to pinch off the shoot of this thing before it takes root too deep to die is to get rid of the Altani. People blame him for half the current troubles. If he disappears, then they’ll think she did it, and she’ll regain some of the credibility she’s lost. Do you understand what I’m saying? We’ve run out of time.’

  Arrant stared at him, aghast. ‘It’s not that bad, surely. I would have heard something!’

  ‘Your mother probably doesn’t want to worry you. I hear, though, that she’s insisting you be trained in the use of a sword. If that’s true, then it should tell you something.’

  ‘I thought it was because I’ll be going to my father soon—’ He was about to ask how Thracius knew anyway, when the Corbussian interrupted.

  ‘Your father? Who’s that? He must be a Kardi, surely!’

  Arrant nodded.

  ‘Sweet Elysium!’ Arrant couldn’t interpret the odd look on Thracius’ face, or the strange tone he used when he added, ‘We have to do this all the quicker then.’

  Thoughts whirled through Arrant’s mind, loose ends tangling. ‘Do what? I’m not going to let you kill Brand, so you can forget that for a start. Don’t even suggest it.’

  ‘Well, that would probably produce the best result. But I wasn’t going to say that. You made it clear you won’t let me organise it. Fair enough. And I don’t suppose you’re going to let me scare Hades into him, either.’

  Arrant shifted unhappily in his chair. ‘Somehow I don’t think Brand scares easily.’

  ‘All right, I won’t try. But I do want to talk to the man. If he is loyal to Ligea—in love with her, even—he won’t want to cause her any harm, right?’

  Arrant nodded. ‘In fact, he suggested to Ligea not so long ago that it might be better if he returned to Altan. She was the one who wouldn’t have it.’ He couldn’t keep the bitter rage from his voice.

  ‘Women can be extraordinarily silly when affairs of the heart are concerned, you know.’ There was just a hint of scorn in Thracius’ words. ‘A hard fact for a son to accept about his mother, but it’s true nonetheless. I can speak to the Altani, though, man to man, and I suspect he will listen, especially when I tell him the details of the plot I heard. When he hears the truth, he’ll do the sensible thing.’

  ‘All right. Let me go back to the palace. I can speak to Brand and have him inform the Guard to let you in.’

  ‘No, that wouldn’t work. People are watching the palace. If I go near the entrance, they’ll know I am going to betray them. It’s doubtful I’ll get in the door. Brand will have to come out to see me.’

  ‘How am I going to get him to do that?’ He felt that he was on the back of a runaway horse. Everything was rushing past him too fast; there was no time to think. ‘He’ll be as suspicious as a street cur.’

  A group of schoolboys paused in the shade of the doorway, their hands full of wax tablets and half-eaten hot meat-cakes; they smelled of the schoolroom and spiced gravy. They couldn’t have been any older than he was, and all they had to worry about was whether they could read their letters well enough to please their tutors. Arrant envied them.

  Thracius didn’t even notice them. He was taut with emotion. ‘It shouldn’t be too hard. You write him a note asking him to come here, and we’ll ask the pothouse-keeper’s boy to send it to the palace.’

  Arrant frowned. ‘A note saying what? Once he realises I’m out in the city, worse still, in the Snarls, he’ll tell Ligea and she’ll have a contingent of Imperial Guards here—plus herself—before you and I have time to finish our ale. I’ll be hauled off to the worst lecture of my life, and you’ll be in trouble and still wouldn’t get to talk to Brand.’

  ‘It depends how you word the note,’ Thracius said. ‘Look, you’ve told me that Brand has tried to be friendly. Now’s his chance to get on your good side. Believe me, he’ll think hard before he passes up the opportunity. What you do is this: you write that you sneaked out of the palace dressed as a servant. Make it sound as if this is the first time you’ve done anything so silly. Tell him you are now in this pothouse in the Snarls, but don’t have enough money to pay for the meal you’ve eaten. Say they won’t believe who you are and won’t let you go. Then ask Brand if he would mind coming to get you. And you ask him—no, you beg him—not to tell your mother or anyone else. Say you’ll tell her yourself.’

  Arrant thought about that. Thracius could be right. Brand would like Arrant to be under an obligation to him. He was silent again as the pothouse-keeper delivered the ale and wine.

  ‘He may still tell my mother,’ Arrant said, once the man had moved away.

  ‘Not if he wants you to look kindly on him. Anyway, the Exaltarch shouldn’t be a problem for us this morning. She’s busy at her usual monthly audience with the trademasters and merchants.’

  Before Arrant could ask how he knew that, he added, ‘Lad, if we don’t act now, then this movement will spread like fire in dry brush and your mother is doomed. If I can convince Brand to leave the country, it will be a step forward. But I think I can do more than that. I think I can convince him to talk sense to your mother. Lovers can say thing
s others can’t. And I know how to speak to a man like this Altani.’

  ‘She’s not so easily defeated. Nor is she without support. There are those who worship her—’

  ‘Gullible lowlife,’ he said, dismissive. ‘Believe me, those who condemn her grow in number every day!’ He dropped his voice and glanced around to make doubly sure no one could hear him. ‘Urban—Arrant, the old Brotherhood is involved. Under the man who used to be the Magister Officii, Rathrox Ligatan. He’s as clever as the guardian at Acheron’s gate. No amount of numen magic will save her if he can turn enough people against her. There’s even grumbling within her own troops, all stoked by Rathrox Ligatan. He’s been four years in the planning of this.’ He reached inside his belt pouch. ‘Look, I have brought a scrap of cheap papyrus and pen and ink to write with. We don’t want anything too fancy, not if it is supposed to be supplied by a pothouse.’ He grinned and showed Arrant the back of the paper. It was an order list of wines and prices, written in an ill-educated hand. ‘If we fail, and Brand sends guards to fetch you, no damage is done.’

  ‘Except to my freedom,’ Arrant replied, sighing.

  Thracius laid a hand on his shoulder, his voice intense with passion. ‘Arrant, whatever happens, remember that I am a loyal servant of Tyrans. And when I look at you—I see a son I might have had. Remember that…’

  Propelled by Thracius’ urgency, Arrant took the papyrus and began to write.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  ‘More wine?’ Brand asked. ‘Or would you prefer juice? I can send a servant for orange juice.’

  His visitor laughed, lounging back in his chair so he could swing his legs up onto the low table in front of them. He crossed his ankles, scattering dishes. ‘One of the perks of living in the palace, eh? Whole bevy of people tripping over themselves, just to serve you.’

  Brand surveyed the mess the General had just made on the table. ‘Or clean up after you, Gev,’ he said.

  ‘One could get used to this highborn life, you Altani barbarian. You’re getting soft, I’ll bet.’

  ‘And why not? I’m not a slob of a soldier like some I know. Don’t I deserve a bit of luxury at my time in life?’

  ‘A bit more than luxury, from what I’ve seen. Cosying up to the Exaltarch may not be my idea of a fun roll on the pallet, but I have no doubt it has compensations. Good lay, is she?’

  Brand sighed. ‘Same old Gev. Tongue as subtle as a blacksmith’s hammer, and the manners of a vulture at a carcass. The wonder of it is that no one has ever run a sword through your innards in some pothouse brawl. I’ll certainly be tempted if you continue to talk about Ligea like that.’

  ‘I have every intention of dying in bed at eighty, stabbed from behind by the cuckolded husband.’

  Brand snorted. ‘And that’s not an unlikely scenario, I suppose. Gev, you’re not wearing your uniform. You really have relinquished your position as High General of Tyrans?’

  ‘In everything except my signature on the papers. I am going home, Brand. To Inge.’

  ‘I don’t know what she’ll do without you.’

  ‘She can promote Valorian to general, for a start. He’s a good man.’

  ‘I heard you didn’t like him!’

  Gevenan chuckled. ‘I don’t like anybody much. And that fellow smells of perfume, wears his hair in curls and manicures his nails. Huh! But he’s got a mind like a sinkhole. Absorbs everything. Never forgets a thing. And the result is a tactician second to none. He’s wasted here in Tyr. She should promote him.’

  ‘Val likes life in Tyr. He has a fondness for beautiful young women hanging on his every word at banquets, and more than a fondness for handsome young athletes in his bed at night—’ A knock at the door interrupted him. It was one of the palace guard, handing over a grubby scroll addressed to him, delivered, the guard said, to the main gate.

  ‘Love letter?’ Gevenan asked as Brand closed the door.

  Brand grinned, but the grin vanished as he read. He wrenched open the door and called the guard back. ‘Find Dominus Arrant,’ he ordered, ‘and get him here on the double. If you haven’t found him in five minutes, come back and tell me. Snap to it, man!’

  The man nodded and was gone.

  ‘What is it?’ Gevenan asked, sitting upright and swinging his feet to the floor.

  Wordlessly, Brand handed him the note.

  Gevenan read it and laughed. ‘The brat!’

  ‘I hope this is no more than what it seems.’

  ‘You think he might be pulling some sort of trick on you because you’re humping his mother?’

  ‘It’s possible. But unlikely. He’s not that sort of lad.’

  ‘No, that’s true. More the serious type. Takes things to heart. Still, this’—he shook the note—‘is understandable. Ocrastes’ balls, Brand, you were the one who was telling me that the boy didn’t have much of a life here in Tyr, confined like an Assorian wife because of the danger he would be seized by Ligea’s enemies. Is it any wonder he’s broken out? He doesn’t have much idea of the value of money, though, by the sound of it, does he?’

  Brand frowned. ‘You know, if there’s one thing I would have said about Arrant, it was that he had enough brains to know you don’t buy a meal without having enough money to pay for it.’

  Gevenan looked at him sharply. ‘Ah. You could be right. Hmm…so, if the guard doesn’t turn him up in his bedroom, do you want me to go with you?’

  Brand thought about that, and shook his head. ‘No, I think not. Ever since that riot at the jail, Ligea has asked guards to dog my footsteps every time I leave the palace, so I won’t exactly be alone. But…if I’m not back with him in an hour, check out the pothouse mentioned in his note, will you? And tell Ligea.’

  It wasn’t much fun sitting in the pothouse waiting for trouble. And Arrant was sure trouble was on its way. Even if Thracius and Brand had an amicable conversation, no one was going to be happy with Arrant, least of all Brand. And so he sat, his thoughts turned inwards, miserably wishing the day was already over.

  Several more people came into the pothouse, taking the tables near the door. They comported themselves like soldiers, although they weren’t wearing uniform.

  Arrant tried to look inconspicuous. He didn’t want to be recognised by an off-duty palace guard. ‘Thracius,’ he said, ‘I—I really don’t want to be here when Brand arrives. I think I want to go back to the palace.’ He went to stand up, but Thracius yanked at his wrist so hard he flopped back down into the chair.

  ‘No. I want you to hear what I have to say to Brand. Just sit down, Arrant, and wait.’

  Another man walked in, and took a chair at the table next to them, so Arrant dropped his voice. ‘Thracius, I’m going to be in a lot of trouble, and I’d rather go and see my mother and explain, than talk to Brand about it first.’

  ‘Don’t be childish. This is important, Arrant. Stay where you are.’

  The newcomer looked across at them curiously. He was old, with limbs as thin as a gazelle’s, and a wiry body that seemed little more than skin over sinew. Thracius frowned at Arrant, warning him to be quiet, so he subsided. He was beginning to wish he’d never had anything to do with the Corbussian. Tears threatened, but he wouldn’t give in to them. He was thirteen, for gods’ sake, not some thumb-sucking crybaby. He knew he was feeling sorry for himself, and was shamed.

  Cabochon damn it, I wish Tarran were here…

  The thin man at the next table was staring at him. His eyes had an unsettling intensity, as though they could see Arrant’s most hidden secrets. Arrant turned away and kept his left hand curled up tight over his palm. He regarded the pothouse with sudden aversion. The tables were dirty, slopped with ale and wine. Flies blackened the edges of each spill. The bodies of several squashed cockroaches adorned the broken tiles of the floor. The walls, pocked by patches of peeling paint, were scratched with vulgar graffiti and even more salacious drawings.

  Other men now filled the adjacent tables, all well armed. The road-menders had
left.

  ‘Men like me,’ Thracius explained, when he noted the way Arrant was eyeing the weaponry of the newcomers. ‘Ex-legionnaires who left the army because they weren’t going to serve with the same men they once fought against. They take the same sort of work as I have—as guards. Guarding the rich, guarding the moneymasters, guarding trade caravans, guarding merchant ships. A step down for prideful men. You are looking at a tavern full of resentment, Arrant.’

  Arrant was about to remark that Brand would not be happy entering a place like this, when the words froze on his lips. Goddess, he thought. This is deliberate. And then: Arrant, you fool. You utter, utter fool. Thracius is going to threaten the Altani. These men are his friends…

  He had never felt so sick. His face felt drained of colour. He turned to Thracius. ‘I need the privy,’ he said and started to rise. Once again, Thracius pulled him back down. ‘I said, don’t move.’

  ‘Thracius,’ he protested in injured tones, trying to sound like the naive boy he had been five minutes earlier. ‘I really need to go—’

  ‘It can wait,’ Thracius snapped and his hand was still tight around Arrant’s wrist.

  Two more men walked into the pothouse and, without asking, took the only two empty seats—at their table. One of them winked at Thracius. Arrant wrenched his hand free, sent his chair flying and made a wild dash for the door. His concentration was all on reaching the street before Thracius.

  He never came close. The thin man at the next table stuck out his foot. Arrant flew through the air to land hard on the floor between the tables. The breath whooshed out of him. Someone immediately trod on his left hand, grinding his cabochon into the floor. Arrant gasped and tried to pull away. Swords left their scabbards all around him. There were two more sandalled feet in front of his nose. He raised his head still further and looked up.