by Glenda Larke
She dashed into her quarters and made straight for the chest where she kept her old clothing. Narjemah, busy with some mending, looked up, startled.
‘Trouble,’ Ligea said, flinging off her wrap. ‘Favonius is here with Brand. They are heading this way. When they arrive, show them into the atrium.’ In desperate haste, she pulled on her trousers and tunic. ‘Then you go to the handmaiden’s room, but leave the door slightly ajar. Go out into the passageway from there, and when you see Gev arrive, get him unseen into that room. I want him to hear my conversation with Favonius.’
‘Conversation? With that bastard Jackal? Mirageless soul, Ligea—I thought you would be more likely to burn a hole in his guts and out the other side after what happened to Prianus.’
Ligea strapped on her Mirager’s sword, then reached out briefly to touch Narjemah, not in reassurance, but in warning. ‘I’ve got such a bad feeling about this. Brand is sick with fear. He is spilling everything out—Brand, who usually keeps himself as well armoured as a tortoise.’ Her voice wavered and emerged in a broken whisper. ‘His horror is so strong it slams against my soul. He doesn’t know how to tell me what he must. Goddess, Narjemah—there is so much fear in his mind!’
Narjemah’s eyes widened. ‘And—and the Jackal?’
‘He’s not the man I once knew. Oh, Vortexdamn, Narjemah—where is Arrant?’
‘I don’t know.’
They had a bare second to exchange a look of sick fear before the knock came at the door.
When Brand and Favonius entered, Ligea was standing on the other side of the atrium, with her back to them, looking out into the garden. She didn’t turn around, and Narjemah slipped away without speaking after opening the door.
She said, as calmly as she could, ‘You have the gall to come here, Favonius, and assume that you will walk out again, alive?’
‘Oh, I know I shall. Your time here is over, Ligea. It ends today. You were a fool to ever assume that the Magister and I would let you stay in the Exaltarch’s seat.’
She turned then, but didn’t look at him. It was Brand’s eyes she sought. For him, she gave a look of love, and tender regard. But the desolation she found in return shook the foundations of her courage. It took all she had, to say calmly, ‘Brand, you had better tell me what all this is about.’
Gevenan placed the palace guard on high alert before he raced up to Ligea’s quarters. Narjemah beckoned him into the handmaiden’s room, a pokey hole of a place meant to be a slave attendant’s sleeping quarters, and indicated the slightly open door. He nodded and went to put his eye to the crack of the opening. Brand was speaking, a recital that made Gevenan’s blood run cold.
And standing beside him, with a half-smile on his handsome face, was a man he’d never seen before. It didn’t matter, Gevenan would have known him anywhere. He’d chased Favonius Kyranon and his Jackals from one side of the country to the other, and spoken to hundreds of people who knew him. A handsome man, even though his face looks as if he’s had a head-on collision with a gorclak. They had been Ligea’s words. Women find him attractive. His self-assurance appeals to them. His nose is crooked at the tip…
And he killed children.
By the time Brand finished speaking, Gevenan knew he was in trouble. Ligea would never forgive him if he did anything that resulted in Arrant’s death. Already she was using their battle sign language, fluttering her fingers to indicate he was to take no action.
What in all Acheron’s hells was he to do?
Jumping Ocrastes, Ligea—how can I let you die? Without you, we are lost!
Panic was not something he normally felt. He was the cool, cynical soldier, a bloody general for gods’ sake. The product of years of tough training, the cruelty of the rowing bench and the harshness of slavery. A commander, with a mind given to careful planning and calm assessment. Yet he was frantic as he left the handmaiden’s room. His head told him he would fail. No matter what he did, he would fail. If he—or any of his men—followed Ligea and Brand and Favonius, then Arrant would die, and Ligea would never forgive him.
And yet that was the better solution. In the broad scheme of things, Arrant didn’t matter. He would never rule in Tyr, and there were many others who could take his place in Kardiastan’s hierarchy. It was Ligea who mattered. If she died now, all she had put in place would disintegrate, especially if Rathrox Ligatan was there to ensure it happened.
Ergo, Ligea had to live. And if that meant Arrant had to die, then die he would, if Gevenan had any say in the matter.
In theory, it was all clear cut. The sort of difficult decision a general was supposed to be able to make without giving too much thought to the tragedy it would cause. But Gevenan had lost children of his own to the separation caused by the realities of war and invasion and slavery. Besides, he knew Arrant. Deep down in a place generals weren’t supposed to consult when making decisions, Gevenan loved the boy—and, if he were truthful, his affection for Ligea ran just as deep.
He had to make a terrible decision in a hurry, and he suspected that whatever the outcome, he was going to have trouble living with it.
For the first time in years, Gevenan of Inge felt sick at heart.
They removed Arrant from the pothouse through the back door. They stuffed the dirty cloth back in his mouth, rolled him inside a carpet and carried him through the streets. If anyone saw them, well, it was only a couple of men hefting a floor rug, a common enough sight.
Inside the roll, Arrant fought to breathe. The more he tried to drag in air, the worse the cloth in his mouth felt. And in his panic, he did what shame had prevented him from doing earlier: he screamed for his brother.
Tarran. Tarran—!
Tarran heard his panic and came.
Mirageless hells, Arrant, why in the name of the Magor are you so uncomfortable? Where are you? What’s that smell? What have you got in your mouth? What the ravaged hells is happening? Why is it so dark and stuffy?
Tarran. Arrant choked on his name. He couldn’t speak, not even inside his head. He opened up his memory to Tarran instead, and let him know everything that had happened, right from the first day he’d met Thracius. Favonius. He felt Tarran reel under the knowledge.
Mirageless soul, Arrant, what are we going to do? Not a word of blame. Just a wash of love and concern and the idea that they were in this together.
Arrant had never loved his brother more. He had never liked himself less. I don’t know, he said. He had to have air. The smell and taste of pothouse slops and carpet dust blocked his throat. His head was pounding, and there were strange flashes in front of his eyes. Help me…
Shivering sands, Arrant, you are suffocating. Keep calm. Slow down. You’re a Magoroth. You can slow your breathing down to almost nothing, remember?
Only if I have power…
Call on it.
Tarran, you know what happened last time I deliberately used my power. I killed everyone who happened to be standing within twenty paces of me. No, more than that. I disintegrated them. His stomach churned at the memory although in reality the very last time he’d reached for his power, back in the pothouse, he had achieved exactly nothing. Nothing at all.
That was four years ago, Tarran replied. You’re older now. And you don’t have any choice. Try.
I already have, he admitted, struggling for breath. His head continued to pound. Just before you came. There was nothing there. Just…emptiness.
Try again.
Tentatively, he reached out to touch the power. This time he felt it stir. Then, suddenly, a spate of sensation and emotions from those around him. Anger, fatigue, frustration, glee…
Calm it down! Tarran said. You’re getting too much. Too wide an area. Concentrate on yourself. On your breathing. Slow it down!
He was choking. Drowning in dust and foul air.
Carefully he reduced the power and extent of his reach. He sensed the men who carried him. He could feel Rathrox close by; the man’s emotions seeped into the air the way a foul-smelli
ng midden stank out its surroundings. His gloating triumph drifted outwards in swirls of darkness. And Arrant knew just from the feel of him that he didn’t intend Ligea’s death to be an easy or a swift one. His intended revenge was a hideous monster, groping through his mind like the Ravage in the Mirage. Torture, degradation, abasement, despair, suffering: he intended it all. Had planned it to the smallest detail. He also wanted her to know what was done to him, Arrant; wanted her to see it.
Culpability washed through Arrant, paralysing thought. He choked.
Stop that, Tarran said. He sounded like one of Arrant’s tutors in a moment of exasperation. Miragedamn, you humans waste so much time on your emotions! Come on, Arrant. You’ve got to get your breathing right.
He concentrated. Slowed everything down: his mind, his body, his breathing. Slow, shallow breaths. His surroundings slipped away into a fog, together with his discomfort. Nothing mattered except each breath. Breathe. Slowly. Wait. Exhale. Slowly. The world seemed to stop. Only his breathing continued, so very, very slowly.
And then he was dumped on the ground. Hard. The jolt restarted everything. Tarran?
I’m here. I’m not leaving. Not this time.
Tarran, if I call up destructive power, will I burn a hole through my other hand?
Tarran was silent while he shuffled through his Mirage Maker memories to find the answer in things that had happened before either of them was born. A cabochon can’t hurt its owner, he said at last, any more than their sword can. But…He hesitated. But the power has to find a way not to enter your body. It will slip out any way it can, and that means it could burn your clothing. And that could set fire to your body. Just normal burns.
Normal burns. Arrant snorted at the thought of burns being ‘normal’. I’ll have to do it anyway, I guess, he said bleakly. If I can. He felt himself fading as he tried to drag in breath. The gag was choking him, rasping the back of his throat. He tried to concentrate, but his head ached badly. His mouth was dry. Every breath was laboured. He closed his eyes but still his vision danced with sharp-edged shards of colour.
He felt the men pick him up once more, and then they were moving again.
Oh, Tarran, what a Vortexdamned mess I’ve made of things.
Tarran said, Favonius was once an honourable man and he loved your mother. Perhaps there’s some hope in that.
You saw what they did in Prianus. He tortured the children, Tarran. We saw the bodies.
We’ll think of something. Is that your sword that’s digging into your hip?
No, just my dagger. They never even bothered to take it from me. He wanted to weep. That’s how frightened they are of me…!
Let them misjudge you. Calm down, Tarran said. But you have to make a decision. Do we try now or later?
It was hard to think rationally. To keep his mind clear. He could feel himself drifting away into the fog. I think I’ll wait until we’ve reached wherever we’re going. Otherwise—otherwise we might never find out where they are bringing Ligea. She’ll already be on her way. If I’m free but she doesn’t know it, she’ll still be in their power. That was logical, wasn’t it? He was no longer sure. It took such effort to think.
Yeah. I think that’s best too. Arrant—
He struggled for breath. Can’t breathe…Panic closed in with the darkness.
Arrant!
But he was gone.
He was vaguely aware of the moment he was unrolled from the carpet. The cloth was at last pulled out of his mouth. He tried to drag in air, but wasn’t sure he had. Someone lifted him. Carried him. Dumped him. Somewhere, a long way off, he heard an alarmed voice expressing concern that he was dead. He wanted to contradict that, but couldn’t wake up enough to speak. His head rolled drunkenly. He felt weird, as though someone else was doing his breathing for him.
Yeah, me, Tarran told him. Are you all right?
Don’t know. Feel weak. Can’t feel the power any more. He started to panic again. I’ve lost it!
You won’t find it while you’re still weak. Rest. Concentrate on your breathing.
He tried to obey. A voice said, ‘I think he’ll be all right. He was choking on the gag. He just blacked out, that’s all.’ Water trickled into his throat and he swallowed.
He lay, blessedly undisturbed. Breathe. Just breathe.
When he finally opened his eyes, he found himself in a squalid room, dim with daylight filtering in through mean slits high on the wall. The floor was rough stone, the furniture basic and battered. There was weaponry everywhere: spears, javelins, shields, bows. And two guards, men who had been in the pothouse.
He was lying on a divan. He tried to sit up, but didn’t seem able to move.
‘Stay where you are, boy,’ Rathrox Ligatan drawled. He sat close by, playing with his dagger. Arrant knew why: it was to use on him if there was the slightest hint that Ligea hadn’t obeyed the instructions given to her by Favonius. But not to kill. It was to carve a piece out of him. Where, he wondered with sick horror, would Rathrox start?
So he stayed where he was, curled up on his side. His hands were still bound, palms together behind him. Everything ached. He looked up at Rathrox and hated.
Try your power, Tarran said.
Did. Too weak. Nothing there.
Arrant, we should be ready to do something before Ligea gets here!
Think I don’t know that?
But he was so tired. Pain lanced through his head accompanied by pulsing jags of light. He couldn’t think. He groped once more for power, but his weakness mocked his attempt.
He dragged in more air. Concentrated. Two men besides Rathrox, armed, standing against the wall. Fighting men; they had as many scars on their muscular bodies as chisel marks on a wood carving. Swords and knives tucked into their belts. Alert, professional. The cuirass embossed with a dog’s face might be missing, but he would have bet anything that these men had once been Jackals.
Then Rathrox Ligatan. No sword, just the knife. He played with it. A Tyranian-made weapon, designed as a throwing blade, but it could be used just as effectively to slit a throat or stab a man. Rathrox handled it as though he was familiar with all its uses. Gevenan had taught Arrant to see things like that: ‘Watch how a man holds his weapons, Arrant. If he fondles it like a man fondles his lover, then he loves using it. And knows how to make it respond to him. Such men lack conscience.’
He thought about his cabochon. If it failed him in a splutter of colour and sparks, it would alert his captors that he could possibly be dangerous. That he was worthy of being more closely watched. And if he called up too much power and it escaped his control, he could bring the whole building down on top of them all. Which was fine as long as Ligea and Brand weren’t there…
Safer to use it before Ligea came, then he wouldn’t have to worry about hurting her. Tentatively, he tried to sense Rathrox’s emotions.
The ex-Magister Officii was enjoying himself, savouring the taste of sweet victory and revenge. That, Arrant could tell without feeling a thing; it was obvious from the smile playing on that lean grey face of his. Now he even leaned forward from his seat to lay the coldness of his blade against Arrant’s cheek. ‘You and I are going to be seeing a lot of each other in the future, boy. You will dance to my music for the rest of my life. Even the women you take to your bed will be of my choosing…’ He pressed the blade down with his thumb, opening up a thin bloodied line across the skin.
Arrant flinched. It was hard to hide his fear. Rathrox saw it, of course, and laughed.
Beetle-faced bastard, Tarran muttered with uncharacteristic savagery. Make sure you turn his smile inside out afterwards, Arrant. He reminds me of the Ravage.
There was a knock at the door and one of the men went to open it. A new voice said, ‘All’s well, Magister. Legate Favonius gave me the nod. She’s done everything exactly as yer wanted. We watched and nobody left the palace after they did. Nobody at all, not even a servant. They’ll be at the other house in a minute or two.’
‘Excel
lent. Now go back outside, Telios. Check that the chariot and her mounted guard really do go away, then come and tell me.’
‘Yes, Magister.’
Rathrox turned to Arrant with his feral grin that stretched the skin over the bones of his face. ‘Favonius is bringing them to an empty house. They enter, walk up to the roof, traverse the length of the street and then enter here from above. So if anyone has followed her, they won’t be able to find us. Your mother is doomed, lad. How does it feel to know you will soon be the new Exaltarch?’
‘I won’t do what you say,’ he whispered. It was all he could manage.
‘Boy, that’s irrelevant. You will just be on display, nothing more. A pretty, pampered youth with as many toys as you like.’
Relax. You’re too tense, Tarran told him.
Of course I’m tense! Tarran, what the sweet hells can I do?
Rathrox ran a finger along his blade. The gesture reminded Arrant of a mantis rubbing its forelegs as it waited for its prey. There was something very insect-like about him: the greyish tinge to his thin body, his watchfulness, his lack of anything that resembled human compassion as he watched Arrant with slitted eyes. He knew how much he repelled and his smile broadened.
Never mind, Arrant. Bugs can be squashed, Tarran remarked sourly. You’ve got to relax. You need strength to use the cabochon.
Arrant swore at his brother. Panic wove through the fabric of every thought. The more he reached for his power and failed, the tighter the weave became, crushing his ability to think. He was running out of time.
Narjemah followed Gevenan out of the handmaiden’s room and ran after him down the passage. ‘Gev—what are you going to do?’ she asked.
He turned, annoyed, knowing he had little time, but something in her face, begging him for answers, had the power to start him thinking instead of panicking. He had to leave the palace before Ligea did, and his departure had to look innocuous. ‘You can help, Narj. Find me a whore. A servant girl who’ll hop into bed with anyone and pretend she likes it for just a few coppers.’