The Shadow of Tyr Read online

  He was the lizard in the sun, suddenly feeling the chill of winter.

  Pain. So much pain. What the hells?

  He was lying uncomfortably on a stone floor. The chill had seeped to his bones. His face was on fire. One of his hands hurt too. He stared at it: the little finger stuck out at right angles. There was blood on his clothes. He was breathing through the mouth because there seemed to be something wrong with his nose. He touched his face and winced as red-hot pain sliced inwards to his brain. His nose was twice the size it should have been.

  He put his hands flat and tried to push himself up into a sitting position, but banged his head on something instead. Agony exploded along his nasal passages. Lights flashed inside his skull. He collapsed, moaning.

  When he once more regained some semblance of comprehension beyond his own pain, it was to hear someone praying.

  ‘Goddess, forgive. Melete, patroness of Tyr, forgive this humble servant for her transgressions. Melete, arbiter of wisdom, forgive this priestess for her foolishness…’

  By all that was holy, that was Antonia?

  With exaggerated caution he turned his head. He was still in the cavern of the Eternal Flame. He couldn’t understand that. Why had he been left here on the floor like a—a—discarded carcass? Ocrastes damn them, someone’s head would roll for this!

  He stared, uncomprehending, at Antonia. She was kneeling in front of the Oracle, her forehead pressed to the ground, her arms outstretched in supplication. Her shoulders heaved, her voice was weepy. The hard-boiled bitch was crying? He tried to yell at her, but the blood in his throat choked him. Still, his coughing had the desired effect. She rose and hurried over.

  ‘Don’t try to get up,’ she said, brushing her tears away with the back of her hand and leaving a streak of dirt across her cheek. ‘You can hear me, can’t you? You are in some kind of, um, cage. We can’t see it, but it exists.’

  He remembered then, everything. The Oracle. The Goddess. The power. The bitch who’d sent that pain through him as casually as a torturer with a knife. The woman who’d had him helpless at her feet, grovelling in front of her and the most powerful people of Tyr. Rage overflowed from his mind, burgeoned through his veins, ready to sear or torture or annihilate. He wanted someone to blame. Someone to hurt.

  Who the hell had it been?

  Antonia said again, ‘Don’t move. You will hit yourself on the—the—walls of whatever it is encases you.’ She stood staring at him wordlessly, a pace or two away, her eyes alight with fear.

  He recognised the look; he had seen it many times in those in his power. His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you afraid of me, Antonia? You should be. This is your fault.’

  But she drew herself up, with more courage than he would have thought possible. ‘I am not afraid of you, Magister, but of my Goddess. And so should you be.’

  He wanted to strangle her. Instead, he put out a cautious hand. It ran into something cold and invisible, like clear glass, just inches away from his face. He pushed at it, but it didn’t move. He followed it around with his hand, and everywhere he could reach he met the same resistance. He kicked out with his feet, but the imprisoning wall trapped him on all sides. He could neither rise, nor sit.

  Fear flowed in the wake of his anger. How long would he be trapped? Did that bitch of a so-called goddess intend him to thirst to death?

  He tried to rein in the panic. Tried to maintain his cool logic. ‘You fool, Antonia. That was no goddess. One of your priestesses must have let that woman in, whoever it was.’

  She continued to stare, this time in genuine astonishment. ‘You think that was a person?’ she asked at last. ‘Are you mad? No person could do what she did there. Sweet Elysium, Magister, look!’ She pointed at the Eternal Flame. He twisted slightly to see. ‘She split the bronze bowl in two, as easily as jelly eels are sliced with a knife! Then mended it as neatly as a bronzemaster. She’s encased you in magic so that none of us can touch you, let alone release you! What mortal woman could do that?’

  ‘The one who entered the cavern before we did,’ he snarled, bending his knees up as far as he could before lashing out at the barrier near his feet. Pain radiated out from his face at the jarring of the blow. The invisible wall remained solid.

  ‘There was no one,’ she said patiently, as if speaking to a child. ‘The space behind the Oracle was empty when a priestess lit the orlyx brazier. No one entered the cavern after she left. Anyone entering would have had to pass me, in the room at the top of the steps back in the temple. Yet when Esme sat on the stool, about half an hour later, the Goddess spoke to her from behind the Oracle.’

  ‘Did Esme see her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Nothing of import. She told Esme she would speak for herself. And she did, as you heard. Magister—she was the Goddess. Melete herself! Merciful heaven, she could have killed us all, right then. But she is merciful, praise be her name! We must do as she says. She won’t be so merciful next time. I will not be a party to lies any more, Magister. If the Oracle does not speak in a language we understand, I will not have Esme or anyone else put words in its mouth.’

  He controlled his rage with an effort. ‘Antonia, since when have you believed all this idiocy? You were one of us—which is why you are what you are today!’

  She said simply, ‘I heard the voice of Melete today.’

  ‘You stupid woman,’ he spat at her. He took his knife out and tried to gouge a hole in his invisible prison. ‘Have you no sense? You hold your place here as High Priestess because the Exaltarch allows it. Displease him, and there will be someone more amenable to polish Melete’s toes or whatever it is you do with your time. Have you no sense of self-preservation?’ The blade slipped, nearly cutting his other arm. It had made no impression on the barrier. ‘Ocrastes damn this! Woman, go get some of my Brotherhood guards with axes to break this thing apart. Tell them to bring an alchemist with acid. Anything!’ He knew he was losing control. He who prided himself on his calm, on his carefully calculated plans, his logic.

  ‘This is part of the Sacred Way,’ she said primly. ‘We don’t allow street riffraff—’

  ‘Vortexdamn you to Acheron! You’ve asked every rich man wanting to buy his way into the Goddess’s good graces to come here and listen to the effluent pouring out of Esme’s throat—does that make them somehow more honourable than my men? Goddess preserve me from moondaft females!’

  ‘Don’t you dare call on the Goddess, Ligatan! Not in this sacred place, not with your disbelief as clear as the blackness in your heart.’ She took a step closer to him. ‘You are in no position to insult me. None.’ She turned on her heel and began to walk away.

  He threw himself at the wall that encased him, bruising his shoulder, but she didn’t look back.

  He thought, Oh, shit. The nameless bitch is going to leave me here to die, and Antonia’s going to watch it happen. This can’t be happening to me.

  The next day Arcadim went to see the Reviarch of the Assorian moneymasters, Javenid Baradas, at Ligea’s request. As he was taken through the scribes’ room of the Baradas Counting House, where slaves sat at their desks transcribing financial transactions from wax tablets onto scrolls that would eventually be bound into vellum-covered ledger books, he noted their discipline was such they didn’t even raise their heads to look at him as he passed. The only sound was the scratching of their pens. Arcadim couldn’t imagine his slaves behaving that way. He couldn’t imagine wanting his slaves to behave that way.

  When he was shown into Javenid’s private workroom, the moneymaster looked up from his work in surprise. ‘This must be an important matter, Arcadim, to bring you all the way here at this hour of the morning. Come in and sit down.’ He indicated one of the solid wooden chairs in the room. They matched the rest of the furniture—all made from Assorian ironwood, family heirlooms passed down from generation to generation, as valuable as gold. The ironwood forests of Assoria were no more, vanished to supply just s
uch chairs and desks and cupboards.

  In the centre of the room was the ironwood box, the bronze-bound coffer every Assorian moneymaster possessed. The symbol of his trade, it contained his moveable wealth—the coinage, the jewels, the gold and silver and pearls. The chest itself, too large and heavy to be stolen, was locked by several huge iron keys and then, finally, by the arcane word of the family, passed down from moneymaster to heir through the years since the coffer was birthed from its forest tree. It was said that the man who did not breathe that secret word into the lock before he turned the last key would die there and then, and all that would remain of his body would be ashes.

  Javenid nodded to the slave, respectfully waiting at Arcadim’s elbow. ‘A drink for both of us, Esacard, and once you have brought it, see that we are not disturbed.’ When the slave had gone, he added, ‘So, what brings you here, Arcadim?’

  ‘It concerns, in part, what happened at the temple yesterday.’

  ‘Ah. An unfortunate business. Unhappily for me, everyone seems to know I was present. I’ve even been accosted on the street to tell what I saw.’

  Arcadim cleared his throat nervously. ‘I suspect I may be able to explain it.’

  Javenid steepled his hands. ‘An explanation, eh? At last, someone with a little commonsense.’

  Something in the way the Reviarch smiled told Arcadim that Javenid was not about to be surprised. He felt as if a load had been lifted from his shoulders and said flatly, ‘You already know who is responsible.’

  ‘Well, no, not the particular individual. And if you are privy to that information, I will be delighted to hear. But we are, after all, Assorian moneymasters collectively possessing at our fingertips as much information as the Tyranian Brotherhood has at theirs. So let me guess. There has to be a highborn Kardi involved. I saw golden light and I saw Rathrox Ligatan walk into a wall that wasn’t there.’

  Arcadim let out his breath slowly and nodded. Kardi. That was the key, as he had hoped. Not immortals. Not Tyr’s squalid, quarrelsome gods. Thank the One True God. He should never have doubted. Tonight he would prostrate himself before the house altar in the God’s Room, and spend the night in prayer. ‘Forgive my ignorance, Reviarch. I have little knowledge of Kardiastan. I had heard that their highborn ruled with magic, but my understanding is patchy. Do the Kardi all have such power?’

  ‘Only their highborn men and women—they call themselves the Magor. Arcadim, you had better tell me all you know. This could be important.’

  They were both silent as the slave returned with refreshments, and not until he had departed did Arcadim settle down to relate everything that had happened since he’d read Ligea’s note in his counting house some twenty days earlier. He was careful never to mention details. Ligea had been adamant about that, but he wouldn’t have done so anyway. The ethics of confidentiality included keeping secrets from other moneymasters too, even the Reviarch. He finished by saying, ‘And so I arranged for her house and its contents to be sold, and all her other property as well. Mostly changed to moveable assets.’

  The Reviarch looked at him with open surprise. ‘I never heard a whisper! God Almighty, Arcadim, you are as secretive as a beetle in its burrow. How did you do all that—in what, twenty days?—without alerting anyone?’

  ‘Ah. That’s a result of something my father taught me: to always assume you will have to sell every one of your properties in a hurry tomorrow and flee for your life. I’ve always extended that maxim a little further, and made the assumption that any one of my patrons might have a similar need. When the Domina Ligea left Tyr, I investigated potential buyers.’

  ‘Now that is wisdom we would all do well to emulate. What else have you done?’

  ‘She asked me to buy her another property further away, and to buy horses and weaponry.’

  ‘I assume she asked you to tell me all this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She wants the support of moneymasters throughout the Exaltarchy. By the way, she said to tell all the moneymasters not to leave Tyr on account of any whirlwinds. There will be no harm done to our houses or ourselves if we just close the shutters and stay indoors.’

  ‘Whirlwinds?’

  ‘That’s what she said.’

  There was a long silence. Then, ‘You’ve given me a lot to think about.’

  ‘I have written instructions for all the property sales, supposedly sent to me from Kardiastan. She doesn’t want anyone to know she is here in Tyr. Especially not the Magister.’

  ‘Good. That will protect you as well. You must never admit you saw her, Arcadim. If the Magister questions you, show him those instructions. No one can blame you for following written orders pertaining to the disposal of assets.’

  ‘Did I do the right thing?’ he asked, desperate for reassurance, but trying to hide his need. ‘I could have refused to continue as her moneymaster.’

  ‘Of course you did the right thing! We need to know what she is up to.’ Javenid leaned forward, his face as grave as his voice was serious. ‘Our wealth is the only thing that gives us power in a world governed by a despot and his legions; you know that as well as I do. Domina Ligea Gayed might just achieve what she has set out to do, and bring a whole empire crashing down, in which case we need to be on her side. If she fails, well, we must be ready to take advantage of the trouble she is going to cause. She is like a galley with its rudder oar broken, yawing out of control and crashing into others of the fleet. There will be damage, but there will be wreckage to pick over, flotsam to salvage. Help her in every way possible, Arcadim, without drawing the attention of Rathrox and the Brotherhood. If you lose money over this, we will all spread the loss among us.’

  Arcadim heaved a sigh of relief.

  ‘Don’t be too happy,’ Javenid warned him with a grim smile. ‘There are others in Tyr who have a very good idea of what the Kardi nobility are capable of. One of them is the Exaltarch. And then there’s every old soldier who served there about twenty or thirty years ago. And of course, there’s Rathrox Ligatan. He tried to warn everyone yesterday, and was whipped down to the ground for his trouble.’ His smile broadened. ‘It didn’t seem to worry anyone overmuch. That man has to be one of the most hated people in the whole of Tyr.’

  ‘I hear he remains trapped in a sort of invisible cage.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t think it is going to be a permanent state of affairs, more’s the pity. Last I heard, the walls of his prison were softening. He may be able to push through them some time today.’

  ‘He’ll be furious,’ Arcadim said.

  ‘That, my friend, is a very mild way of describing how Rathrox feels right now. Your Kardi patron made a big mistake when she left him alive. She should have used that sword of hers to decapitate him there and then. If she could knock the head from a marble statue as you describe, then she could have done the same to him. He will have his revenge. Beware, my friend. He may guess she is the one responsible. And if that is the case, you will be questioned.’

  Arcadim nodded miserably. ‘I know. She told me to tell the truth, up to a point. To say that I sold all her properties, and gave the assets in cash and jewels to her messenger.’

  She had promised that the mythical messenger would even leave a trail behind him, sufficient to deceive her fellow compeers. All he had to do was lie. He thought he could do that much. As long as no one mentioned torture…

  After seeing Arcadim to the door a few minutes later, Javenid took a moment to think about all he’d learned. He hadn’t wanted to alarm Arcadim, but he was deeply afraid. He had no illusions. If ever Rathrox suspected Assorian bankers had failed to pass on information about a rebellion of this intended magnitude, the walls of Tyr would be decorated with Assorian heads in a mass murder of a proportion seldom seen in history. As Reviarch, he had to do something to ensure the survival of his people, and to ensure Arcadim’s safety in particular.

  He needed to think.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Exaltar
ch was keeping him waiting yet again. Another humiliation, on top of all he had suffered two days earlier at the Oracle. He tried not to let his anger show. Tried to maintain a little dignity.

  At last a slave came to usher him in. The Exaltarch lounged on a divan, surrounded by slaves, a low table in front of him laden with enough food and drink for half-a-dozen men. He glanced up. ‘Ah, Rathrox. I wondered when you would come with your explanation for the farce in the temple. You broke your nose, I see. Good.’

  ‘In private, Exaltarch.’ Rathrox’s tone was such that one of the slaves made a moue of surprise that any man would dare to speak to the Exaltarch so.

  Bator Korbus frowned, and a lesser man would have cringed at the frown, but Rathrox was out of patience. And it was the Exaltarch who capitulated. He waved the slaves out of the room. When they had gone he said, ‘You had better have a good explanation for what has been going on, Rathrox. I expected the Oracle to speak about the matters we agreed on—I heard nothing of that. Nothing! Instead, I heard that the Goddess herself spoke, in riddles, it seems, and then imprisoned you in some kind of cage.’

  Rathrox opened his mouth to give his account of the events, but Bator interrupted him. ‘And don’t bother to give me your rendition of the Goddess’s wisdom. I have already read the historian’s account. He assures me it is word for word.’

  And included a detailed description, no doubt, of the Magister Officii’s humiliation.

  The Exaltarch’s glare impaled him. ‘So, did the Goddess appear, or did she not?’

  ‘No, of course not. When has either of us believed in the Goddess?’

  ‘Then what was it?’

  ‘Not what. Who. A Kardi woman, obviously. One of the Magor. No one else could do all that: the invisible wall, slicing the bronze bowl in two with a beam of gold light, the pain she gave me. Doesn’t it all sound familiar to you, Bator?’ He hadn’t used the Exaltarch’s given name for years, and he delighted at the feel of it on his tongue. Wake the bastard up a little to his mortality. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered at his sudden recklessness. He knew his behaviour was uncharacteristic, but the humiliation and the fury within him needed an outlet, and right then he didn’t care. He added, grinding his teeth in his rage, ‘One of those Magor bitches is loose on the world.’