The Heart of the Mirage (18 page)

I nodded. ‘I think—I think I’ll go back to the fire. I need to think things over.’

‘Good idea. I, um, wasn’t thinking of coming to you tonight, Derya. There are, er, complications.’

‘You mean Pinar, of course.’ The only unattached Magoria over twenty; I knew it with certainty. I’d seen the way she looked at him.

‘We are not lovers, not yet, and for the time being we go our own ways, but she will be Miragerinconsort one day, and I would not insult her by lying in the arms of a lover so publicly. Perhaps elsewhere, if you accept or want a—a—temporary relationship. If that reeks of hypocrisy, well, I’m not in a position to be honest. I’m the Mirager. I’m sorry if that hurts you, but it is the way things are.’

It should have been amusing. Here was someone apologising for not taking me to bed, apologising because he was afraid he was about to hurt my feelings. How Rathrox Ligatan would have laughed. He trained his compeers to have no feelings, to use their bodies without compunction to further the interest of the task in hand. But I was more intrigued than amused. I thought,
How he hates himself for this!
Temellin was trapped in an impossible situation, and
no matter which way he twisted he would not like what he did.

I shrugged my indifference. ‘Who am I to object? I have no claims on you. You did not speak to me of permanence. I have known you for a little over a day. I found something special in your arms. I would like to find it again. I can wait.’ They were the words of a compeer intending to use this man and wrench out the heart of the Kardi insurgents and their terrorism—but there was truth in them too. I wanted to feel his arms about me again; I wanted to know the secret of the way I had felt when I had lain in his arms. I had found something then that most people never know, and it was hard to turn my back on it deliberately.

He touched my face with gentle fingers. ‘Don’t talk to Brand about the cabochons or such matters. It is better he does not know too much of what we are.’ He bent to kiss me, but the brush of his lips meant a return of the memory of what his lovemaking had wrought the day before. It was far too easy to be seduced by that recollection. I felt like a moth, blinded by the allure of the torch, risking the scorch of its heat. I strove to tear myself free of the attraction.

‘Goodnight, Temellin,’ I said, hoping I sounded coolly collected.

I walked away from him back towards the campfires, pulling my cloak tight about me, feeling I’d just been spat out of a whirlwind. For the first time, my private life and my mission on behalf of the Brotherhood were at war and I didn’t know what I was going to do. I was disgusted with myself, with my lack of control over my emotions. Damn them all to Acheron—how could I feel this way?

I battled to start thinking sensibly again, and when I did, my heart skidded somewhere down to stomach
level. If Temellin was the Mirager, then his behaviour that day, and the day before, was strange. What else had been going on unnoticed by me because I was too busy thinking with my senses instead of my head? If I understood the situation correctly, Temellin was the leader of an insurgency. The man who would be ruler of the country, if they had their way.

But rulers did not normally go looking for lost property in person, not even precious property. They sent other people to do it for them. Nor did they risk their lives seeking out slave girls who could have been the bait in a rat trap. A ruler was too precious to risk.

And yet he was the Mirager; he hadn’t been lying about that. So what was going on? What had I missed? Why had he risked himself to seek me out?

I was so engrossed in my private maelstrom I took no notice of the cloaked figure standing between me and the fires, until an arm shot out and clutched at me as I went to pass by. Startled out of my reverie I looked up. It was Pinar. ‘Where’s Temellin?’ she asked harshly.

I gave a vague wave of my hand, knowing she could have sensed his whereabouts if she had really wanted to know. ‘He went back that way.’ I tried to move on, but Pinar’s hand, resting now in between my breasts, stopped me.

‘I know you for what you are,’ she said. ‘I can see what they are all blind to. You mean to betray us.’

I did not deign to answer. I attempted to brush past, but the hand stayed me. I was suddenly breathless, as if I had been running. ‘Let me be, Pinar. You’ve no cause for jealousy tonight,’ I said. But I could not pass. I felt her cabochon push against my heart, and the answering arrhythmia of the beat. I staggered and tried to push her away, but my arms felt weak. I wanted to scream, but no sound would come.

‘I can’t let you kill us all,’ she said, her voice rough with dislike. ‘You’re just a Tyranian brute in Kardi disguise. You sold your birthright. It’s better you die here, now, at my hand. I don’t care what they all say; I
know
I’m right—’

I could not believe what was happening. I was
dying
. I knew half a dozen ways to kill using my bare hands—and I was helpless. I had just seconds before my heart stopped its beating. Goddess,
I couldn’t end like this
, dead in this desert world, aged not yet thirty. Not
me
. My left hand crept upwards to Pinar’s breast, each inch closer a desperate act of will and pain with no chance of ultimate success. This was power I knew nothing about. Magor magic. I was untrained, of a lesser rank—

I tried to send out my terror to alert the Magor, but I appeared to be cocooned within a barrier of her making. And she let nothing slip by. I tried to fight, but I knew nothing of the weapons—not hers, or mine.

I fell to my knees, incapable of resistance, so weak I couldn’t even whisper a protest to the woman who was murdering me. My left hand was no longer part of me. It moved on without my knowledge; it had a feeble life of its own and I was aware of it with a curious detachment. I saw it travel across the edge of my vision, reaching out to touch her just as she was touching me. The fingers uncurled and the cabochon on the palm rested against Pinar’s breastbone.

And she smiled, not even bothering to brush it away. ‘What can you do?’ she whispered, her triumph foul in my senses. ‘I am a trained Magoria.’

In the seconds before death I remembered my mother, my real mother, bathed in gold and blood, giving the battle cry of the Magor. Words I must have understood then, and remembered now. My lips
formed the shape of that heartfelt cry:
Fah-Ke-Cabochon-rez!
Hail the power of the cabochon!

I fell face down in the sand, blood rushing through me to obey the renewed vigour of my heart. I lay there, gathering strength to me as if it were a tangible thing in the air, to be seized on and imbibed. Then warm strong hands were holding me, lifting me, hugging me to a muscled chest.

‘Temellin?’

‘
Brand,
damn you! Are you all right?’

‘She wanted to kill me. She tried—what happened?’

‘You flung her away from you.’

‘I did? Where is she?’

‘She picked herself up and ran. She saw me coming, I think. She was crying. Are you sure you’re all right?’

I stood back from him. ‘Yes, I think so.’
Crying? Pinar? ‘
Thanks—’ I took a deep breath. ‘You followed me,’ I accused, anything not to think about what had just happened.

He shook his head. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. I came out for a leak. And then I saw her, and wondered what she was up to. I saw you both, but I thought you were just talking. It was too dark—Goddessdamn, I almost let her kill you thinking you were having a conversation!’

‘Never mind. I’m all right. Let’s go back to the fire.’ I leant against him, still weak. As we walked, I said, ‘Brand, Temellin is the Mirager.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘You
knew
?’

‘Yes, of course. That was obvious.’ He turned his face to look at me in surprise. ‘Li—Derya, you didn’t
know
?’

I was silent, shamed by his surprise.

‘You seem to have been uncharacteristically dense. And I’m surprised you let Pinar get within pissing distance of you, too. Couldn’t you see the way she has been looking at you? She loathes everything you stand for and, unlike the rest of these gullible folk, she has a pretty good idea just what it is you represent. What worm has addled your wits?’

I did not answer. He was right to ask the question, though.

That night as I lay on my pallet of reeds, I tried to persuade myself that all I felt for Temellin was lust: easily satisfied, easily forgotten once satisfied—and knew I was fooling myself. When I looked at Temellin, I lusted—but I also saw, for the first time in my life, a man I recognised as being the mirror of myself. Temellin responded to power and responsibility and excitement the same way I did: he was stimulated. We fed on those things, the way most folk thrived on security and routine. Challenged, we came alive…We were two of a kind.

And that was, at best, intriguing, appealing, unsettling; at worst, worrying. A mirror image had the power to shatter a reflection.

Such a man had the means to bring me down.

The next day, I came face to face with Pinar as the morning meal was being doled out from the pots at the fire. She gazed at me, emotions safely corralled behind her eyes. Temellin and Garis and Korden were all within hearing, so she was scrupulously polite. ‘Good morning, Derya,’ she said. ‘How are you feeling this morning? You looked as if you had some indigestion last night.’

‘Indeed I did.’ I held out my plate for my share of porridge. ‘Must have come across something…rotten.’

‘You should be more careful.’

‘Oh, I will. In future.’

‘Tell me, Derya, what sort of slave were you?’

I had been about to turn away, but her words halted me. All instincts alert, I wished I could feel through the barriers she erected. ‘A reluctant one. Why?’

‘Well, there are different kinds of slaves, are there not? Whores for the military brothels, for example. Pallet slaves for officers, that kind of thing. I couldn’t help but notice your hair has been well cut, your hands are not roughened with hard work. So I wondered if you were the Legata Ligea’s love-slave.’

Temellin’s voice cut across her questioning like a sword slash. ‘Pinar, that’s enough. It’s none of our business.’

She turned to him. ‘You are too trusting, Temel. If she was a love-slave, then perhaps it is foolish to trust her at all. Lovers can have loyalties to one another, rather than to the land of their birth.’

‘That’s true,’ Korden agreed. ‘Anyway, I’d like to know why she has said so little about this Ligea woman. I’d have thought Derya would have told us all sorts of things by now, without prompting. A Legata of the Brotherhood is surely a danger to us. We need to know what sort of person she is.’

‘Derya was no pallet slave,’ Brand said. He sounded offhand, but they must have all felt his honesty. He continued, ‘The Legata’s taste is for handsome males. Her present lover is one of the Stalwarts, an officer.’ He smiled at me. ‘And believe me, I wouldn’t be hankering after Derya here if she preferred women on her pallet.’

Several people laughed at that, but I’d also felt the flare of suspicion from others like a slap in the face. I glared at Brand as I sat down by the fire to eat. Pinar and Temellin remained standing and the look they exchanged was full of meaning, although only they knew what. ‘Let it rest, Pinar,’ he said. ‘Please.’

She went to get her breakfast, but I knew nothing had been laid to rest. Pinar hated me and if at any time she thought she might be able to get away with it, she would try to kill me. The irony was that she was right. I was bent on betrayal and she was the only one with the sense to see it. Korden’s naturally suspicious character made him wary and distrustful, but he wasn’t sure in the way Pinar was. She
knew
, although I suspected jealousy was her foundation, not evidence. Poor Pinar. I could almost have felt sorry for her. At
least I would never have my thinking clouded by that kind of love and jealousy. This, I thought, is a battle I can win in spite of my Magor weakness.

Brand, curious, sat beside me and asked in a whisper if I were going to let Pinar get away with the attempt on my life. ‘That would be most unlike you, Li—er, Derya,’ he remarked.

‘If I try to deal with her myself, who’s to say I would win? I almost died last night,’ I said. ‘And if I did do away with her, who would get the blame for her death or disappearance?’

‘Why must you always think in such extreme terms? You could just tell everyone what happened.’

That was true, and they’d have to believe me, too. But I wouldn’t win any friends among the Magor by unmasking the murderous intent of one of their revered and cherished Ten. Better to let her make a fool of herself, all on her own. I was alerted now, and perhaps I could use her weaknesses to further my own ends. I said to Brand, ‘I will deal with her in my own time. The woman tried to kill me.
No one
gets away with that.’

That morning Temellin asked me to ride alongside him. ‘I want to talk to you while we ride,’ he said. ‘Korden is right. You should be able to tell us more about this Legata. How important is she to us? We have had little experience with the Brotherhood here, except when they tortured ordinary people for information about the Magor. But that was years ago. I think they finally realised it never got them anywhere because we never tell the non-Magor anything about our movements or where we hide. The freed slaves we take to the Mirage—they never return, you know. It is our price for their freedom. Anyway, after the Brotherhood tired of their fruitless interrogations of
the non-Magor, we didn’t see too much of them for years. Until a couple of weeks back. That’s when we heard the Tyranians were expecting a high-ranking compeer to arrive in Sandmurram from Tyr. That worried us. We sent someone to investigate, but they weren’t able to find out much.’

I felt the familiar surge of intoxication. That piquant thrill that comes with playing a game of deception, pitting my wits against a worthy opponent. Even more delicious this time because he almost certainly had no idea there
was
a game…‘That would have been Legata Ligea,’ I said. ‘As far as I know there is no one else from the Brotherhood in Kardiastan at the moment. She has been complaining about that—about being on her own. Gossip in the slave quarters back in Tyr said her main value to the Brotherhood is her skill at interrogation.’

He may not have known much about the working of the Exaltarchy in Tyr, but he had sense, this man. Sense enough to see the weaknesses in a story. He continued, ‘They say she is the daughter of a general. General Gayed the Baby Butcher. How did the daughter of a general get to be an agent of the Brotherhood? She is highborn! Her father was an honoured legionnaire commander, friend to the Exaltarch.’

Baby Butcher?
I bristled, but kept a tight hold on my emotions. ‘Well, people don’t explain things like that to a slave, you know. But rumour in the household said Gayed sent her to the Brotherhood because he didn’t have a son to give to the legionnaires. It was an odd thing to do, but the General was a proud man who put his patriotism first, always. He was—well, honourable would be the best word to describe him, I suppose. He believed he had a duty as a citizen of Tyr.’

He stared at me, leaking strong irritation. At a guess, he didn’t like the word ‘honourable’, but I hadn’t been about to let the calumny of ‘Baby Butcher’ pass unremarked. He took a deep breath and returned to the original question. ‘Tell me more about Ligea. What is she like?’

My shleth reached out with one of its feeding arms and began to comb the wool of Temellin’s mount, looking for blood-sucking lice, I supposed. I said, ‘She’s not yet thirty. She’s tough. Hard even, but fair. She doesn’t suffer fools gladly. She would never mistreat a slave, but people are afraid of her. She has a reputation. They say if you cross her, then you’re doomed.’ All true enough.

‘Are you afraid of her?’

‘She’s never given me cause.’ My shleth edged closer to his, and I had to pull it away. The two beasts were making interested noises at one another, and I was irritated. I wanted to focus on our conversation, not be diverted by the necessity of keeping overly amorous mounts separated.

He said, ‘You’ve given her cause enough to be angry now.’

I gave a smile. ‘But I am safe, aren’t I? I’m sure you don’t think she will find her way to the Mirage, do you?’

‘No likelihood at all. Why is she here, in Kardiastan?’

‘As I understand it, she is supposed to find you. They heard the rumours you survived being burnt at the stake. Her mandate is to find the Mirager and—eliminate him as a danger to the Exaltarchy.’

‘Why send her, and not someone else?’

‘Elysium’s bliss! Is it likely a slave would know that?’

He grinned at me. ‘Silly question. Sorry. I suppose I should be surprised you know as much as you do.’

‘Ah, slave quarters are the best place to hear gossip, believe me. It’s amazing how much does travel between households, and how accurate it is.’

He looked round and waved to Brand, beckoning him over. ‘Brand,’ he said as the Altani drew up at his side, ‘how well do you know the Legata?’

Brand shrugged. ‘How well does a slave ever get to know their master? I was bought for her when I was about twelve and she was ten. I was supposed to guard her, as well as be at her beck and call. She was a little brat, full of herself then. Rude, abrasive, spoiled, demanding. Used to get into one scrape after another, most of which I got blamed for. She improved with age.’

‘How so?’

‘Learned to be a shade more considerate. Learned that cooperation gains you more than belligerence. She’s intelligent. Bit of a slow learner with respect to social relationships, but she gets there in the end. Gullible sometimes, though.’

I glared at him when Temellin wasn’t looking. My mount, annoyed by the presence of Brand’s beast, acted as if he was equally peeved.

‘Really?’ Temellin asked, disbelieving.

‘She was used by her father to further his own grasping ends, but she could never see it. She worshipped the ground he walked on. Still does, for all that the bastard is dead.’

I gritted my teeth and slapped at the feeding arm of my mount.

‘So he didn’t push her into the Brotherhood out of the kindness of his heart, to give her a distinguished career?’ Temellin asked.

Brand snorted.

‘What
did
he want, then?’

‘I’m not sure. Some said in the slave quarters that he did it because his wife, Salacia, didn’t want her around,’ Brand replied. ‘That could have been true too, because Salacia didn’t care a pebble for Ligea. But Gayed didn’t care a rat’s arse for her, either.’

‘Brand exaggerates,’ I said. ‘He just didn’t like the General.’

Brand nodded. ‘That last is right. The man was cruel to the point of sadism. A bastard who was indifferent to the suffering of his underlings, even his own soldiers. He was vindictive and unscrupulous.’

It was just as well my mount took that moment to nip at Temellin’s. It gave me an excuse to swear and drop back behind the two of them. I could have wrung Brand’s neck. How
dare
he speak of my father that way?

The next two days were spent travelling through country much like that between Sandmurram and Madrinya: arid plains and plateaux, with lush shallow valleys hunkering low in between. We kept away from settlements; we saw no Tyranians, although I knew even this back country was regularly patrolled by legionnaires.

When I had an opportunity, I told Brand exactly what I thought of him. He retaliated with some remarks about purblind females, self-delusion and being ruled by the emotions. Which was—ironically—almost the same spiel Gayed had regularly dealt out to me when I was growing up. I called Brand a myopic crank, so blinded by the hatred of a system that he couldn’t see the virtues of an upright man. After that, we mostly avoided each other.

Gradually the large group split up, Temellin evidently deeming it safer. Smaller groups were more
manageable and left fewer signs behind in passing. It was with relief that I noticed Pinar disappear on the second day accompanied by a batch of ten or so Kardis.

I spent a lot of time watching Temellin for signs that would tell me this was a man who was more than just a man, that he was a being who could resist torture and his torturers, who could rise above his degradation to laugh in the face of a woman come to his death cell to use him, who could survive a conflagration lit to consume him. I watched, but I saw none of it.

I saw only a man with a great deal of energy, who always seemed to be on the move, cajoling, encouraging, urging those under his care. I envied the easy camaraderie he had both with the ordinary Kardis and with the Magor, especially when I noted he also had their respect. If he gave an order, it was obeyed instantly by the same people who might tease him around the campfire at night, or insult him with cheeky banter in their more relaxed moments.

Wherever the Mirager was, there was laughter, often his own. He laughed a lot; not with the cynicism that marked Brand’s amusement, but with fullhearted humour of the kind that came from a love of life, a love of mankind. And in the back of my mind, I wondered about that laughter: how could he who must have seen so much that hurt him, still regard the world with such childlike joy?

‘Is he always so good-humoured?’ I asked Garis once as we rode side by side.

‘Temellin? Most of the time, yes. That’s the kind of fellow he is.’ He looked across at the Mirager with an expression that was almost tender. ‘But he’s got a temper, too. Cabochon help you if he ever loses it. His
tongue could sizzle a carcass over cold ashes, and he’s not beyond lashing out physically, either, when he’s really riled. Takes a lot to get him that mad, though,’ he added. ‘And his anger always has an understandable cause.’

‘You look a lot like him. Are you related?’

‘Only distantly. My parents were not Magoroth. I’m one of those odd cases where a higher rank emerges from marriage between lower; it happens occasionally. But the others—they are all related. Each rank tends to marry people of their own rank, you see, because no one likes to dilute the Magor blood they have, especially not now. Korden and Temellin and Pinar are all first cousins. Jessah and Jahan are brother and sister, Ungar is Korden’s wife’s cousi—’

‘But Jessah and Jahan are married, surely!’ I protested.

He nodded, unconcerned. ‘Yes. That’s common enough among the Magor. It makes for strong children, both in body and Magor abilities.’

I was shocked. Brothers
married
sisters? ‘That’s disgusting. It makes for idiots, too,’ I said finally, my distaste as strong as bile on the tongue. In Tyranian mythology, our nation had been brought close to ruin by the incestuous love of Cestuous and Caprice, Tyr’s early founders. Although repeatedly warned by the gods, they had been defiant, continuing their relationship until the gods had punished them—and Tyr too, for condoning their behaviour. Their children were born crippled and warped. They’d grown up to rule the fledgling nation, but their lives of corruption, heedless dissipation and final madness had brought the city to financial and military ruin. Plague and famine had followed. It had taken Tyrans generations to prosper after that.