The Shadow of Tyr Read online

  ‘I thought we’d slaughtered them all. All the gold ones, anyway. We put arrows through them from the gallery of the hall at the Shimmer Festival.’ Bator grinned at the memory. ‘Goddess, it was like shooting pheasants, except the Magor squealed.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that. What if more were born after that? There’s been time for them to grow up.’

  ‘Ligea Gayed?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She was a gold. And she’s grown up. Was it her?’

  ‘It can’t have been,’ Rathrox scoffed. ‘She’s still in Kardiastan.’

  ‘Have you heard anything from her yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘And I haven’t heard from the Stalwarts.’ Bator frowned but said no more on the subject. ‘So, who in all Acheron’s mists is this bitch who wandered into the cavern of the Eternal Flame and made a mockery of my Magister Officii—no, more than that. Who injured my Magister both in body and in reputation, with—I hear—impunity?’

  Rathrox had to make a conscious effort to relax the muscles of his jaw before he could reply. ‘I don’t know. But I aim to find out. Someone must know something about a woman with a jewel in the middle of her hand.’

  ‘Ligea had skin over hers.’

  ‘Ligea never used hers. Wouldn’t know how to. I assume that anyone who has power pouring out of their palm doesn’t have skin growing over the device.’

  Bator Korbus leaned forward, his whole body poised like a spear about to be launched. Rathrox felt his mouth go dry, and knew he had made a mistake trying to be too familiar. Their past relationship was long gone and to presume on it might be fatal.

  ‘Rathrox, listen to me carefully. You do not seem to realise the seriousness of what happened, which is odd, as you usually see the significance of events immediately. Perhaps this time you are just too close to the event to realise its portent.’

  Rathrox paled as the Exaltarch continued, his words as cold and hard as hailstones. ‘Let me spell it out to you. Firstly, this whole story was all over Tyr while you were still stuck in your magic cage, pissing down your legs. You are the laughing stock of the city. That is not an advantageous place for the head of my Brotherhood to be. You lose credibility. I should not have to tell you that.

  ‘Secondly, the whole city is looking to the temple, the Goddess and the High Priestess Antonia for leadership, when they should be looking to me. And Antonia is revelling in it. I do not like it.

  ‘Thirdly, there is someone out there with the power to kill me with a beam of light. We know it has a limited range, but she does not have to stick a sword in me or poison a glass of wine to kill. And she has the power to make a whole city kneel at her feet in worship. She has power, Rathrox, and we do not know what she is going to do with it.’

  Bator took a deep breath and, disconcertingly, that simple act seemed to make him grow in stature. He continued, ‘But we do have some clues. She urged slaves to rebellion, and she sowed the seeds of treachery in the minds of my military leaders, my trademaster, my moneymaster, my city prefect, my chief arbiter and a member of the Academy. Now I have to work out whether to have them killed or not. I want every person who was there to be followed and the first sign of disloyalty reported to me. I would kill them all right now, if I thought I could get away with it. But the mood in the streets is volatile. I dare not overplay my hand.’

  ‘I’ve already ordered them watched.’

  ‘Tell me what else you have found out so far.’

  ‘About the woman?’ His pulse beat too fast. He could feel the throb of it. ‘She came in and left the temple through the cliff at the back of the necropolis. There’s a narrow opening in the cliff face that leads into the Oracle cave system. We found signs that someone had climbed the cliff. We have blocked it off, of course, and the cliff is now guarded day and night. She won’t have access to the temple again. Unfortunately, even though Antonia knows Kardi numina exist, she has not been convinced by this evidence. She still believes in an appearance of the Goddess.’

  ‘Tell her to come and see me.’

  He inclined his head and continued. ‘The man who looks after the necropolis: he saw the Goddess very early that morning, while it was still dark. His description was not much use. He seemed to think she was seven foot tall, and looked exactly like the statue in the temple. Except for the gold glow. I asked about her hair—he said it was golden.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be if she was Kardi.’

  ‘No. But everyone who’s seen the supposed Goddess is adamant on that point. I had men go to every wigmaker in the city to see who bought a blonde wig recently. Unfortunately, it seems to be all too common an occurrence: matrons with thinning hair, women going grey, actors who play women in the theatre, men who like to dress as women. I’m tracing every single one of them, but it will take time and it may lead to nothing. Already I have at least one bought by a nameless slave for an equally nameless mistress.’

  ‘What else have you done?’

  ‘I have everyone—compeers, informants, legionnaires—hunting down every Kardi, male or female, in the city.’

  ‘And basically you have no idea who you are looking for.’

  The Exaltarch’s sarcasm scared Rathrox and he wasn’t used to being scared. He attempted to sound optimistic as he said, ‘No. I do have a description of a pregnant woman, supposedly a Corseni, with a badly scarred face. Her left hand was bandaged. Perhaps in order to hide a gem. We are searching for her.’

  ‘I have the feeling that you have very little time, Rathrox. This day of the whirlwind she spoke of: it gives me a bad feeling.’ The Exaltarch poured himself some more wine and gulped it down.

  Rathrox felt his stomach lurch. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I remember too. Only too well.’ The first invasion of Kardiastan. The whirling gold wind that snatched the swords and lances and shields from the grasp of the soldiers, that flattened men to the ground to be killed by a few hundred Kardi warriors.

  ‘Forgive me, Exalted, but I think your best defence may be the truth. For some reason, this woman wants to terrorise the populace on a day probably not too far distant. She wants to drive them out of the city in a panic. If that’s what she wants, then we should aim to thwart her. But people will flee if they think it is the advice of the Goddess Melete. If we can convince them the Oracle voice was all a trick by a Kardi numen, then we can persuade them to stay in their houses and ruin whatever plans she has.’

  The Exaltarch slammed his empty goblet back onto the table. ‘And have them all wonder how long before Kardiastan brings us to our knees with its numina and their magic? The moment the Exaltarchy appears weak, I appear weak and ripe for overthrow. Have you any idea how many of the highborn are just waiting for me to make a mistake so they can step into my sandals? That bastard Devros of the Lucii would love to occupy the Exaltarch’s seat, for a start. Yes, I want to tell them the truth, but only when I can also tell them we have Kardiastan under our control. I need to be able to show them the dead body of this Kardi bitch, with her jewel in her hand. Then, I can tell them the truth. And that, my Brotherhood friend, is your business. Fail, and we could both fall.’

  ‘Then may I suggest you at least speak to those present at the Oracle foretelling? Tell them they were duped. They won’t be disloyal then; they’ll be angry. And not at you.’

  The unnatural length of the silence that followed generated still more unease in Rathrox. Finally the Exaltarch said, ‘I’ll have them all called to my presence tomorrow morning. But the necessity for it makes me seriously unhappy, Rathrox. Remember that.’

  ‘Yes, Exalted.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps it would be best if we rid Tyr of all Kardis, no matter who. If you could issue a promulgation that it is illegal to keep a slave of Kardi origin, and that all such should be delivered up to the Brotherhood? I’ve already spoken to Legate Valorian about checks at the city gates and within the city itself for anyone with gems in their hand, but it might be better to cast the net even wider to include
all Kardis. Perhaps if I question them, I might find out something.’

  ‘Good idea. Afterwards, you can kill them all. Make sure it happens, Rathrox. Nothing special, no fancy deaths. Just rid the world of them as fast and as unobtrusively as you know how.’

  ‘All Kardis?’

  ‘That’s what I said. However, I don’t imagine there are many, if any, non-slaves. Your problem will be the one—and please the gods, there’ll only be the one!— who has a gem in her hand. I am not so stupid as to suggest you try to capture her. Kill her from a distance, however you can. Lance, arrow, rip-disc, catapult: how is your problem. Just see that it does not become mine.’

  ‘Legate Valorian is working on it. I believe he is concentrating on whirlslings.’

  ‘Good. You may go.’

  Rathrox nodded and stood. It had not escaped his notice that he had not been invited to eat or drink anything. He politely backed away, but when he reached the door, Bator looked him in the eye and added, ‘I am not a sentimental man. Remember that too.’

  It was a warning, and it dissipated the last dregs of the reckless courage Rathrox had possessed at the start of the interview. Ocrastes’ balls, how he hated having to fawn at the feet of another.

  As he exited the main entrance of the palace a minute later, he paused at the top of the stairs. It was late afternoon, and the setting sun painted the marble of the buildings with pink. Some thought the vista over the Forum Publicum, past the main public buildings of the city to the Temple of Melete on the hill at the other end, was a spectacle so grand it was fit for the gods themselves.

  Just then Rathrox hardly noticed. His thoughts were leaping from one problem to the next, sifting through possible solutions, trying to deal with the ramifications of things that had not yet happened. He signalled to one of his own attendants. ‘Tardin, I want you to go to the Prefect Urbis, speak to his scribe. Say the message comes from me, but at the request of the Ex—’

  He didn’t get any further. A gold light borne on a whirlwind blossomed over the temple to blast away the growing darkness.

  Breath-robbing fear stopped the words in his throat, froze him in place. The wild pounding of his heart, like a battering ram at his defences, signalled the end of the life he had known.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sweet Elysium, Ligea thought, I’m responsible for all this. This huge crowd, shuffling along the Pilgrim’s Way between the temple gates and the main temple building. This mass of people, sharing a common purpose, yet bewildered rather than united.

  She didn’t like being in such a crowd. She felt hemmed in and assailed by emotions. There were too many people, and too much fervour. Everyone was much too volatile, and she felt it all, raw and rough-edged, closing in on her.

  ‘Vortexdamn,’ the man next to her swore in complaint to the woman with him, ‘this is too slow. We’ll be walking home in the dark if we don’t get into the temple soon. Can’t we do this another day?’ Ligea glanced at him. A freeman, he smelled of yeast and bread, and the plump woman beside him had a dusting of flour in her hair. A baker and his wife.

  ‘No,’ the woman replied. ‘This evening the High Priestess and her augur are making a sacrifice. They want a sign from the Goddess. So there will be sacrificial blood for everyone.’

  ‘If you want it,’ was the baker’s dry reply.

  Wise man, Ligea thought. Such blood was only considered lucky if the augury was a good one. Then people dipped a fingertip into the sacrificial bowl and daubed the blood in the middle of the forehead.

  Ahead, somewhere in the crowd, she sensed other emotions: annoyance, amusement. She realised why when she came closer to the spot. Legionnaires of the city guard were stopping everyone, looking at their hands. If the women had their hair covered, they were asked to remove the covering.

  ‘Oo-er, he’s holding my hand,’ one cheeky matron laughed, simpering, as the guard glanced at her palms. ‘You going to tell my fortune then, sweetie?’

  The guard winked, and waved her on.

  Ligea grimaced and clutched the hood of her cloak tighter around her. Rathrox was to blame, of course. These men were looking for one of the Magor. But Rathrox wouldn’t expect a couple of legionnaires to be capable of dealing with a Magoria alone, though, would he? He wasn’t a fool.

  Without being too obvious, she looked around. On the flat roof of a treasury building, half hidden behind the ornamental pediment, two legionnaires crouched, gazing generally in her direction. One was armed with a bow, an arrow already nocked loosely in the string. The other held what could have been a whirlsling. Both were too far away for her power to reach. She could knock them off the roof with a whirlwind, though, but a wind took time to create.

  The flirtatious matron walked past the guards and up several steps to the temple ramp. Her back would have been a perfect target for the men on the roof.

  Clever. All the legionnaires had to do was signal to the archers when they saw a cabochon, then allow the person to pass by. He or she would be dead before they reached the top of the ramp. Yet stupidly overoptimistic, too. No Magoroth bent on deception was going to let a legionnaire look at her hands…

  There were still ten or eleven people shuffling forward between Ligea and the legionnaires. She was on the edge of the pavement of the Pilgrim’s Way, and she unobtrusively pointed the palm of her left hand at the dusty earth a few paces away. Without allowing the power to ignite any light, she started a tiny dust devil. It swirled up a handful of dry dirt and spun giddily. She increased the power and sucked in more dust, a few leaves. The man behind her noticed the disturbance and pointed it out to the baker.

  She added more power and moved the living wind to whip at a sage bush. The spiral grew, imbibing sand and leaves and grass seeds, until it was as high as she was tall. The murmur of voices grew with it, a mutter passing along the line of waiting people like a stream over stones. Heads followed the path of the gyrating wind, a dust devil no longer.

  ‘Goddess,’ the baker’s wife said in a frightened whisper. ‘Glaucus, what was it you said you heard about a whirlwind?’

  ‘There was a rumour—just a silly rumour. And that little bitty thing is not a whirlwind. It’s just a dust devil.’

  ‘Dust devils aren’t that large,’ she said uneasily. ‘The rumour said everyone should leave the city on the day of the whirlwinds…’

  ‘Melete’s tits, Julia—one dust devil is not a day of whirlwinds!’

  Ligea scaled up the wind and drew it closer. People began to scatter as unease became real fear. Many ran for the entrance gate, then panicked when they found their way blocked by the crowd coming in. Most left the Pilgrim’s Way to seek protection among the treasuries, scrambling through the intervening herb gardens. The panic spread, just as frightening as the whirlwind, and just as fast. Mothers grabbed their children; men pulled their wives to safety, diving away from the paths. The baker and his wife dropped flat to the ground, hoping the wind would pass over them. Most ran for shelter, flinging themselves into the portico of the nearest treasury, or crowding onto the temple ramp, or heaving themselves up onto the temple terrace and hefting others up after them. The ramp spilled people from its open side as if they were oranges toppling from an overladen basket.

  Ligea temporarily blocked off the emotions around her. They were too overwhelming, too stark, too ripe with terror. They made her feel too guilty. She couldn’t handle that, not now. She needed a few minutes’ respite from the assault.

  She paused briefly, long enough to slip her sword from under her cloak and touch it to the edge of the wind. The tower of whirling air turned gold. The grasses and leaves and bushes within burst into incandescent flames. Before hiding her sword again, she detached part of the burning whirlwind and sent it spinning onto the rooftop where the legionnaires stood. For a moment they hesitated, then leaped from the roof. She could not tell if they survived the fall.

  Cautiously she looked around to see if anyone had noticed her glowing sword, but as far as she could see
, no one was interested in her. Terror blinded them to everything except their own safety. Over at the base of the ramp, the first two legionnaires were cowering against the edge of the temple terrace, heads ducked down to avoid the flying grit and dust.

  She put her sword back into the sheath hung on a baldric under her cloak, and headed towards the ramp. The wind followed her, a gyration of light and crackling sound. She feigned a terrified look over her shoulder and began to run, screaming. The two legionnaires looked up—and bolted. Those on the ramp either scrambled to safety in the temple, or jumped down to the ground and fled. Ligea paused the whirlwind and climbed the now-deserted ramp to the stoa.

  People crowded between the long peristyles that supported the roof, pressing towards the altar and statue of the Goddess at the far end. Women sobbed, children wailed. Ligea squeezed her way through the crowd to the base of the statue.

  Antonia was there, protected by temple guards. The crowd around her was calm; perhaps they believed their safety was ensured by the proximity of the statue, or the presence of the High Priestess. The sacrificial table to one side was red with blood from the slaughtered lamb, and blood still dripped into the bronze bowl beneath. Antonia was lying prostrate in prayer before the statue, one hand reaching up to clutch the marble toes at the edge of the plinth. Worshippers stirred uneasily as people glanced over their shoulders at the whirlwind.

  Ligea dodged behind the last of the closest of the columns. Under the cover of her cloak, she slipped her sword out of its sheath again, poked the tip out through the folds of the garment, and sent a shaft of light towards the statue. It blossomed out to envelop the sculpture in gold, until Melete shed light like the reflections of a lamp in a looking glass.