The Heart of the Mirage

  For Mark and Mads two people I wish I had known sooner, with love and thanks

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Prologues

  Part One Ligea

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part Two Derya

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Part Three Shirin

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Part Four Sarana

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Other books by Glenda Larke

  The Isles of Glory Trilogy

  Voyager online

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Map

  Prologues

  From my early childhood, my life was paved with the mosaics of illusion, each piece another tale of deceit—or delusion. A history of betrayal…

  Betrayal of a child, and of children.

  Betrayal of family, by those who thought they knew what was right.

  Betrayal of their nation, by those who loved their country.

  Betrayal by fathers, of those they fathered.

  Betrayal by friends, of those they loved.

  Betrayal by rulers, of those they ruled.

  This is a story of treachery: my treachery, and the treachery of those who betrayed me.

  It is the story of mirages, and of those who made them.

  It is my story.

  PART ONE

  LIGEA

  CHAPTER ONE

  When an emperor laughs about you behind your back, you know you are in trouble.

  When the person speaking to the emperor at the time of his self-satisfied and smug amusement is the Magister Officii, your immediate superior and a man with a cruel sense of humour, well, then you know you ought to find a way to melt into the floor and disappear. If you can’t do that, you stride up and down the anteroom to the royal audience hall instead. The carpet, fifteen paces long, showed signs of wear down the centre, so I knew I wasn’t the first person to pace while waiting to be called into the august presence of Bator Korbus, Lord of Tyr, High General of Tyrans and Exaltarch of the Tyranian Empire.

  If I concentrated, I could feel the Exaltarch’s presence in the next room. If I focused my concentration, I could determine his emotions, although once I became aware of them, I wondered if I hadn’t been happier ignorant. He exuded a ruthless confidence, like a wily feral dog delighting in its position as leader of the pack. And I knew the topic of his conversation with Magister Rathrox Ligatan was me: why else would I have been called here to wait while the two men chatted? Rathrox headed the civil service, everyone knew that. Not so widely known was his interest in personally directing the Exaltarch’s Brotherhood Compeers, of which I was a female agent.

  Although I knew Rathrox well, his emotions were harder to divine through the walls of the audience hall. I thought I detected a certain watchfulness, and perhaps an amused tolerance towards his emperor, stopping just short of lese-majesty. Even a civil servant as powerful as the Magister Officii knew better than to ridicule a ruler whose power was absolute.

  It was easy to imagine Rathrox, a thin grey man with yellow teeth, using his caustic wit to amuse his emperor. Easy to imagine the sixty-year-old Exaltarch, his handsome face marred by the cynicism of his eyes, being amused by Rathrox’s brand of cruel humour. What I couldn’t imagine was what they found so entertaining about me.

  Even as I speculated, the Exaltarch gave a belly laugh loud enough to carry through to the anteroom. The two imperial guards outside the door affected not to hear; I frowned. I was still pacing up and down, irritably because of the unfamiliar feel of carpet beneath my bare feet, but the laugh halted me. It was the kind of guffaw a person might make if they saw a slave spill soup in a rival’s lap. Under the circumstances it was hardly encouraging, although I couldn’t imagine what I’d ever done to warrant the mockery of the Exaltarch.

  One of the guards gave me a sympathetic look. He had been more appreciative when I’d first arrived, eyeing my bare right shoulder, long legs and the swell of my breasts with a connoisseur’s eye, but his appreciation had died once he noticed the graceless way I walked and sat. Not even wearing a fine silk wrap threaded through with gold could make me feminine enough to please a man like that guard; the stylish wrap of the highborn lacked allure when it was worn as if it were a large, hastily donned bath towel. I had no pretensions to elegance, or even moderately good looks. I’m taller than most women, long-limbed and muscular. My skin is an unfashionable brown, and my hair the burnt-sienna colour of desert earth, although I did keep it curled and highlighted gold, more in keeping with Tyranian notions of beauty and fashion.

  I felt someone approach the door and prepared myself for its opening. A slave appeared in the doorway and motioned me inside; I obeyed wordlessly and, eyes discreetly downcast, went to kneel at the feet of my monarch, just managing to suppress my distaste for the feel of carpet beneath my knees. The slave slipped away through a side door and I was left alone with the Exaltarch and Magister Rathrox. ‘My service is yours,’ I said formally, and touched my hand to the hem of the Exaltarch’s robe in symbolic submission. The gold trimming was knobbed with seed pearls and felt stiff and harsh beneath my fingers. I kept my eyes lowered.

  There was a long silence and then an ‘Ah’ that was little more than an expelled breath. ‘So you are Ligea, the late General Gayed’s daughter. Look up, girl, and let me see you properly.’

  I raised my head and ventured to return the gaze of the Exaltarch’s assessing eyes. I had seen him at close quarters once before, years ago. At the time he’d been returning to the city of Tyr at the head of his victorious troops and in those days he was lean and hard and arrogant, a politician-soldier about to wrest the last vestiges of political power from the hands of his senile predecessor and a divided Advisory Council. The arrogance was still present, but the hardness had gone from the body into his face. His physique was showing signs of easy living—sagging chest, raddled cheeks, a belly large enough to move independently of the rest of him—but his face said this was a man used to being obeyed, a man who knew how to be ruthless. No overindulgence would ever eradicate the brutal shrewdness of those cold eyes, or the harsh lines around his mouth.

  He was lounging on a red velvet divan, at ease, the fingers of one hand playing idly with the gold rings on the other. His nails were manicured and polished, and he smelled of moonflowers and musk. Suspended over his head, a long reed fan swayed to and fro to stir the warm air. There was no sign of the slaves who operated it; doubtless some mechanism enabled them to perform the task from an adjacent room.

  When he looked away for a moment to glance at Rathrox, I risked a quick look myself. The Magister leant against the cushions of another divan but his thin, stiff body made no indent on the upholst
ery, his hands were rigidly still. I was unused to seeing him in the role of a subordinate, unused to seeing him tense. He seemed out of place, like an ugly, foul-smelling insect that had flown into the perfumed boudoir of some highborn lady and didn’t know how to escape. Behind him, a marble fireplace dominated the other end of the room, flanked by a clutter of gilded furniture, painted amphorae and too many exotic ornaments. Lion skins, the glass eyes of their heads powerless to express outrage at the ignominy of their fate, were scattered here and there on the carpet. A full-sized statue had its own wall recess, two figures entwined in grotesque embrace: a reminder of the sibling founders of Tyr whose relationship had so repulsed the gods they’d punished the city with the plague.

  I wanted to let my gaze wander around the room, to mock the luxury of it, but the one brief glance was all etiquette allowed me. I had to give my full attention to the Exaltarch.

  His shrewd eyes lingered on me, speculating. I continued to kneel, awaiting permission to rise, or to speak, but the only sound was the murmur of running water all around us. Tiled fountains set into the walls, or so I guessed. I had them in my own villa. They helped to regulate temperature, cooling the hot air of the desert-season or, once heated, warming the cold air of the snow-season—but I’d heard that in the palace they were thought to perform another function as well. They made it hard for slaves to eavesdrop.

  A minute crawled by in silence while we stared at one another.

  What the Vortex was so damned interesting about me?

  I didn’t dare let my eyes drop.

  ‘You are not what I expected,’ he said finally, in the smooth-accented speech of the highborn. ‘You may stand if you wish.’

  I scrambled to my feet. ‘I was only the General’s adopted daughter,’ I said. ‘If you look for signs of General Gayed in me, you won’t find them, Exalted.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘And Gayed was ever a man of action. I’m told you have more of a talent for deviousness, and are well suited to the machinations of the Brotherhood. Rathrox tells me you have an uncanny instinct for the truth—or a lie—on the tongue of a prisoner. He says torture is almost obsolete in the Cages since you took on the important interrogations.’

  ‘Lies come easily to the tongues of the tortured, Exalted. They will say anything to ease their pain. My way is better.’

  ‘What is your way?’

  ‘To assess each reply and use, what? A woman’s intuition? I do not know, Exalted. It is just a knack I have. And if a man does not tell the truth—well, a lie can sometimes be equally revealing.’

  He looked at me curiously, his attention finely focused. ‘How long have you had this ability?’

  ‘Since I was a child.’ It had always been there, but I’d learned young to hide it. Adults didn’t take kindly to having their untruths pointed out to them by a girl not even old enough to wear a wrap.

  ‘A useful ability, I imagine. And we have a mission for you where your skills may be invaluable, Compeer Ligea. You are Kardiastan-born, I believe. Do you remember anything of that land?’

  ‘Nothing, Exalted. I was barely three when my parents were killed in the Kardiastan Uprising and General Gayed took a liking to me and brought me here, to Tyr.’

  ‘Yet I’m told you speak the language.’

  ‘There was a Kardi slave-nurse in the General’s household when I arrived. It pleased her to have me speak her tongue.’ I thought, without knowing why I was so certain, And you already knew that.

  He gave the faintest of cynical smiles and glanced briefly at Rathrox. The exchange was worrying, and contained a meaning from which I was deliberately excluded. Once again I sensed their shared amusement. Suspicion stiffened me. The Exaltarch sat up, reaching over to a side table to pour himself a drink from a carafe of green onyx. The heady scent of moonflowers and musk was overpowering, catching in the back of my throat, and I had to subdue a desire to cough. The room was cool enough, yet sweat trickled down my neck and soaked the top edge of my wrap.

  As the Exaltarch sipped his wine, I thought, Now. Now comes the whole point of this charade.

  ‘We wish you to go to this land of your birth, Compeer Ligea,’ he said. ‘There is trouble there neither our Governor nor his Prefects nor our Military Commanders seem able to stem. It has its origins in rumour; we wish you to show this rumour to be a lie, trace it to its source and eradicate it.’

  ‘And if it is true?’ I asked mildly.

  He snorted and reverted to the rougher speech of the soldier he had once been. ‘It can hardly be true. Not unless the burned can rise from the ashes of the fire that consumed them. A man died at the stake in the port of Sandmurram, for treason. There is now a rebellious movement led by yet another traitorous bastard, who the superstitious say is the same man. He is known as Mir Ager. Some say that is his name, others believe it to be a title meaning lord, or leader. Still others think it has something to do with the area of Kardiastan called the Mirage. Perhaps he was born there.’

  I inclined my head to indicate I was absorbing all this.

  ‘As is so often the case where Kardiastan is concerned, there is confusion,’ he added, his tone biting. ‘I want you to find this—this sodding son of a bitch, bring him to justice, and discredit any claim that he is the same bastard as was executed in Sandmurram.’

  I risked a puzzled glance in Rathrox’s direction. All this was hardly a matter for my attention; still less something the Exaltarch would involve himself in personally. I said, ‘But surely, our intelligence in Kardiastan—?’

  There was venom in the Exaltarch’s eyes, whether for me or his incompetent underlings or the whole conquered land of Kardiastan I couldn’t tell, but it was unmistakable. ‘If it was possible for them to find this man, or to squash these rumours, they would have done so. This is a job needing a special person with special abilities. Magister Ligatan tells me you are that person. I bow to his judgement, although—’ He allowed his glance to sweep over me, disparaging what he saw. ‘Are you up to such a task, Compeer?’

  His scepticism did not worry me; the thought of leaving Tyrans did, but I knew better than to allow any sign of my consternation to show on my face. ‘I shall do my best to serve the Exaltarchy, as ever, Exalted.’

  ‘Rathrox will tell you the details. You are both dismissed.’

  A minute later, still blinking from the abrupt end to the audience, I was tying on my sandals at the entrance to the anteroom and wondering just what it was the Exaltarch had not told me. There was much that had been withheld, I felt sure.

  I looked across at Rathrox who was just straightening from fastening his own sandal straps. In the muted light of the hall he appeared all grey; a grey, long-limbed, mantis-thin man, waiting for me. A man of prey. I said, ‘Suppose you tell me what all this is about, Magister?’

  ‘What is there to say? The Exaltarch asked me to choose someone to send to Kardiastan. When I mentioned you, he was a little surprised at my choice, and wished to meet you before giving his approval. He found it difficult to believe a woman could possess the—the necessary toughness for the job, even though I did tell him you have killed on Brotherhood business, just as all Brotherhood Compeers must at one time or another.’ His face was immobile, as ever. As a mantis is without expression while it awaits its victim. Dedicated, pitiless, patient…so very patient, waiting for the right moment to strike. I did not like him, but he was my mentor and I admired and respected him for his commitment and cunning.

  Honesty was not, however, one of his virtues. He was skirting the truth, reluctant to utter an outright lie, knowing I would identify it as such, but equally reluctant to be completely honest. There was something lacking in his explanation. I asked quietly, ‘Why me? Why anyone? Why cannot those already in Kardiastan deal with this?’

  He looked around. We had moved away from the imperial guards in the anteroom, but apparently not far enough for Rathrox. He took me by the elbow and guided me through an archway into the deserted hallway beyond. Even so, he dropped hi
s voice. ‘Ligea, the Exaltarchy is only as solid as the soil it is built on. The situation in Kardiastan is far worse than the public here is given to believe. There we have built on a cracked foundation and, unless something is done soon, those cracks will become canyons large enough to swallow both the legions and the civil administration. Worse still, cracks can spread.’

  It was unlike Rathrox to be so frank, and even stranger for him to be so grim about the state of the Exaltarchy. I said, carefully picking my way through the conversational pitfalls of a chat with the Magister, who could be vicious when tetchy, ‘I would hardly have thought Kardiastan mattered enough to arouse the personal concern of the Exaltarch. The place produces nothing of essential commercial value to us. The only reason we ever felt the need to invade in the first place was because we feared Assoria might beat us to it, in order to gain ports along the Sea of Iss within striking distance of Tyrans. But we’ve tamed Assoria since then; it has been our vassal for, what? Twenty years?’

  He interrupted. ‘If a desert land inhabited by shabby, ill-trained peasants can make a mockery of our legions, how long will it be before other subject nations—such as Assoria—sharpen their spears? We must make an example of these Kardi insurgents.’

  ‘Make a mockery of our legions? A few peasant rebels?’ It all seemed rather unlikely. I recalled the Exaltarch’s bitterness when he had spoken of Kardiastan. Rathrox’s reason for involving me might be valid as far as it went, but it wasn’t all; there was something I was not being told. ‘And what about the Brotherhood?’

  ‘There is no Brotherhood in Kardiastan.’

  I stared at him in amazement. ‘No Brotherhood?’ I’d never had much to do directly with either the vassal states or the provinces, but every Brother knew we were responsible for security throughout the Exaltarchy, not just in Tyrans. It had never occurred to me there was any place where Tyr ruled that was free from the mandibles of the Brotherhood. ‘Why ever not?’