The Heart of the mirage mm-1 Page 9

  Again Achates licked dry lips. 'We was real scared, Legata,' he said. 'Me and the other assistant was begging Rego to forget the whole thing, but Rego was as riled as a fly-blown gorclak. So we doubled the chains and hauled the bastard up again. We'd barely finished, when the whole room was filled with light, golden light. The pain of it was terrible, real bad. And Mir Ager told us – in a voice as calm as a woman nursing her

  babe – that he was taking his pain and giving it to us, for as long as he hung there. I sprung to the pulley chains to let him down, right quick, I can tell you, and not even Rego objected.'

  They'd talked it over among themselves then, and decided they didn't want to try again. They chained the Kardi in a cell with every chain they could find, put a guard permanently outside and told the Commander that Mir Ager had been tortured and wasn't talking. A day or two later he was executed by burning. Rego died two weeks later, his hand all swelled up green and nasty.

  And that's the truth, Legata,' Achates said, 'so help me. It's not my fault if it sounds like one of them folk myths 'bout numina, You asked for the truth, and you got it.'

  T believe you, Achates. I can't explain what happened, but I haven't the slightest doubt you have told me what you think you saw.' I looked across at Brand to see his reaction, but his face was impassive. 'Is there anything else I should know? What conclusions did you come to about his character?'

  'His character? Ah, he was used to being the cock on the midden heap, that one. Looked at us as though we were dirt specks on the floor.'

  'Highborn?'

  T would say. Proud bastard. Brave, I'll give him that. He was heaped about with chains, lying in his own muck, given no food, but he could still laugh at us as though we were the bastards in trouble.' He gave a wary glance in Brand's direction. 'Legata, if T could have a word with you in private, like -'

  I nodded at Brand, who rose and left the room. 'Yes, what is it, Achates?'

  'If you want to know more, ask the Prefect's wife.'

  I blinked. 'The Prefecta? Why would the Domina Fabia know more?'

  Achates gave a sly smile. 'She's a whore, Legata, begging your pardon. One of them women who can't get what they need from their man. She pretends she's as pure as a virgin, but she likes to lay with the dirt. She pays me to bring her down into the cells when the need is on her – wraps herself in one of them Kardi travelling cloaks – and she wants the condemned men, no less. The worse they are, the better she likes it.'

  I gave no sign of surprise. I'd heard stranger stories about even more unlikely people; it was the kind of thing those of the Brotherhood often learned about others. 'She came and asked for Mir Ager?'

  Achates nodded. 'She'd already seen him. She was at the slave auction and he took her fancy then. Couldn't have suited her better when he ended up in the cells, condemned to death. She came down the day before the burning. I didn't want her to go to him, not after all that had happened, but she can be a nasty bitch.' He shrugged. 'So I let her have her way. After all, he had enough chains on him for a whole coffle of slaves and I checked to make sure they was tight. I let her into the cell and waited outside, like I always do. Usually she comes out looking like a legionnaire that's just had the free run of a brothel, but not this time. She was as white as fruit-pith. Reckon he'd just about scared the piss out of her. She hasn't been back since. Ask her about him, and see what you get. But don't say I was the one as told.'

  'The Brotherhood never reveals its informants,' I said. 'All right, Achates. That will be all. See that the other man I want to talk to is sent in, will you?'

  Brand ushered the second legionnaire in a moment later. His name was Ciceron, a centurion nearing

  retirement who obviously resented having his competence called into question by a member of the Brotherhood – or, for that matter, by anyone. 'That Mir Ager died,' he said flatly. 'He was burned to death. This man who's wandering around creating problems for us elsewhere is someone else. I reckon Mir Ager is just a title. When the first one died, another took it over. There's no mystery, no fantastical escape, still less the resurrection of a dead man.'

  'Why was there so much smoke at his execution?' I asked neutrally.

  'I checked the wood beforehand,' came the defensive reply. 'It was dry. The only thing I can think of is someone sprinkled something on it for its nuisance value. The smoke was awful: horrible choking black stuff. I tell you, Mir Ager was burnt to a cinder, but he probably suffocated to death in that smoke first.'

  'Were any of the crowd near the fire?'

  'No. The pyre was ringed with legionnaires, at least until the smoke started – then they just ran. They couldn't do anything else. But it was Kardi slaves who collected the wood and brought it to the square in the first place. They could have tampered with it.'

  'How was Mir Ager tied?'

  'His hands were manacled to one another behind the stake. What else was necessary?'

  'He seemed to have a knack of freeing himself from locked manacles,' I said mildly. 'Did you search the ashes afterwards for bones?'

  He exploded. 'No, we did not! Why should we? The man was dead. It is customary just to shovel up whatever is left, ashes and all, and throw it into the sea so no one can gather the remains for burial. We don't want these people to make martyrs out of their

  criminals. Come to think of it, though, I did see a legionnaire retrieve the manacles, what was left of them. They had cracked and bent, the fire was so hot once it got going.'

  'Who did the shovelling? Legionnaires?'

  'Hardly. Slaves, naturally.'

  Slaves, who might not have mentioned an absence of bones for reasons of their own. I almost sighed in exasperation; it was going to be hard to prove what had really happened, one way or the other. Had he died… or not? I said, 'Describe Mir Ager for me.'

  'Tall, brown hair and eyes, your colouring, Legata – and fit – he had an athlete's body. He looked surprisingly alert for someone who had been tortured. Smelled as high as a rotting midden, of course. Everyone does after being in the torture cells. But he wasn't as weak as they usually are.'

  'Did he speak?'

  'I asked him if he wanted the prayers of a priestess, and he laughed.'

  'Anything else?'

  He hesitated. 'Well, when I ordered a legionnaire to light the fire at his feet, he said, "You'll be hearing of me, Centurion. Don't think to rid the Exaltarchy of me so easily."'

  'What did you take that to mean?'

  Ciceron grimaced. 'That the Kardis would use his name to rally support for their damned insurgency. There was an unusually big crowd at his execution, and the crowd was resentful. The place bubbled like water on the boil – it was almost frightening. To be quite frank, I was glad of all that smoke. It cleared people out of there.'

  'Did you actually see the man burning? Be careful how you answer.'

  'Well, no,' he said reluctantly. 'I can't say I did. When the smoke started I had to step back along with everyone else. My eyes were streaming, I was doubled up with coughing. By the time the smoke was gone, the flames were fierce and you couldn't see anything in there.'

  'You don't think he could have been an immortal?'

  He gave me a look as if I had taken leave of my senses.

  I nodded. 'Thank you. That will be all.'

  The man left, his resentment drifting after him, and Brand looked across at me. 'Was he telling the truth, Legata?'

  I picked up the weapon, still wrapped in the pelt.

  'Oh yes, as far as he knew it. But if by some miracle

  this Mir Ager freed himself, neither Ciceron nor

  , anyone else would have noticed. Or so it seems to me.'

  'Do you think he did escape?'

  'I doubt it. I suspect Ciceron is right. Mir Ager is merely a hereditary title, and we have to look for whoever has inherited it. Let's go back to the Prefect's house. I want to have a word with the Prefect's wife next.'

  'What are you going to do with the sword?'

  'Not
hing for the time being, except keep it hidden. But it's apparently a formidable weapon. Imagine if we could discover how to use it and make others like it. If we can't, well, it might serve a purpose as bait. If Mir Ager did escape, if he's still alive, then I rather think he would give a lot to have it back. If he died, well, perhaps the new leader will want it just as badly.'

  'If he's still alive, then he's to be feared,' Brand warned. He eyed the wrapped sword uneasily.

  'So am I,' I said grimly. 'So am I.'

  ***

  «x«wtfS**,*jp». "vsjSwv."*».» -jV- ›»•«.

  'You wanted to see me?' Domina Fabia was reclining on the divan in her private quarters and, although polite, she did not bother to rise when I was ushered in. She was highborn, after all, and I was merely adopted. It was a subtle distinction some people loved to make.

  I said, 'If I may.'

  'Of course.' She waved a languid hand at another divan. 'This heat is so debilitating, I think. Would you like me to call a slave to fan you?'

  'No. I would prefer this conversation to be private.'

  She raised a surprised eyebrow, her highborn arrogance quick to flare. 'What can you have to say?'

  'You know I hold rank in the Brotherhood?'

  'Yes.' She began to cool herself gently with a scented fan.

  'The Brotherhood keeps its secrets. Our job is to hear of trouble before it happens, to trap traitors before they have a chance to damage the Exaltarchy. We do not judge. We merely pursue the truth. We keep many secrets.'

  'So?' she drawled.

  'So, I want to know what happened when you went to see Mir Ager in his cell before his execution.'

  There was the faintest of pauses in the fanning motion of Fabia's hand, but no other reaction. 'I did no such thing.'

  'I know you did, Domina. You asked this man to service your need, and I believe he turned you down. I wish merely to know what he said. It may be of use to me.'

  'How dare you insinuate something so, so disgusting!' Her indignation was false; she was all anxiety.

  She reached for the silver bell on a side table, but I was there first, closing my hand over hers. 'No,

  Domina. You don't want anyone else to know of this. This is between you and me. Do you know what it is to defy the Brotherhood? Have you any idea what it would do to your husband's career? I can see to it that you never leave Kardiastan. Or I could tell your husband – all of Tyrans, in fact – that you visited the lowest scum of the prison cells.'

  'You're hurting me!'

  I released her hand. 'You have only one chance, Domina. I will not wait. What happened between you and Mir Ager?'

  She rubbed her hand. 'You bitch,' she said. 'I know you people. You'll have this inscribed on a tablet for the rest of my life. And every time you need something from me you will get it. There's no escape once the Brotherhood has you! All right, all right, I'll tell you. The bastard looked me up and down as though I were the one who was lying in the dirt of my own waste and said he wouldn't fuck me if it was his last day on earth. Which it was, of course. Sarcastic bastard.'

  'So then you tried to seduce him.'

  A slow flush started on Fabia's throat and moved up to her face. 'How do you know that?'

  J know you. A guess merely. It would be what I would do.' If I had your kind of perverted needs.

  'Well, yes, I did. I slipped out of my wrap and put my hands on him – where it counts, you know. And he was as flaccid as a wilted flower. He laughed. He dared to laugh at me and said I was as sexless as a neutered gorclak.'

  I gave the faintest of smiles. 'I don't suppose you let him get away with that?'

  'I went to claw him. There was nothing he could have done; he was chained up like a bale of shleth

  pelts. I would have made him as sexless as a neutered gorclak -'

  'But?'

  'I couldn't. He stopped me somehow. There was a sort of barrier – I couldn't see anything, but it was there nonetheless. I couldn't get out of there fast enough. He was a Kardi numen. There are numina here, you know. Strange things happen all the time, you'll see.' She shivered. 'Well, I guess I always knew if you play with fire you get burnt. Goddess, how I hate this country.'

  I rose to my feet. 'Thank you, Domina. I don't think I will need to put any of this on file.' I smiled blandly and left the room.

  ›~-w

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After dinner that night, I waited until the whole house was quiet and the last of the slaves had gone to bed before reaching under my divan to take out the weapon I had hidden there. I examined it again, running my hand over the hilt, touching the smoothness of the glass-like material in the short blade. It had a – a perfection about it, a flawless essence to it, and I began to wonder if it had not been crafted by mortal man. I considered the myriad stories about gifts from the gods: arrows from the Goddess of the Hunt, books from the God of Wisdom, dream powder from the Goddess of Sleep.

  Swords from… Melete? Ocrastes? Ridiculous!

  I prayed to Melete, on occasion, I gave money to her temples, but that was more habit or expediency than conviction. In my heart of hearts, I was dubious about the existence of any of the pantheon of gods and goddesses who supposedly governed the different aspects of Exaltarchy life. Yet, as I sat there with that sword in my hand, I felt it was somehow god-given. The idea was so outlandish it confused me, a confusion overlaid with the memory of that golden

  woman tearing away her anoudain and snatching up a similar weapon…

  Vortex, I couldn't have been born of a goddess, surely?

  My whole body rebelled at the thought. I was no immortal. I was just me, Ligea of Tyr…

  And then the inner doubt spoke again: You are a woman who knows when others lie. Who senses emotions on the air as easily as pungent scents or evocative sounds, who has a touch that apparently sometimes takes away pain. Is that normal?

  I had faced death in Brotherhood service, but I'd never felt the fear I felt right then. Immortal. Doomed never to age arid die, to be condemned to watch all I knew vanish into old age and death and dust, waiting for an end that never came… I could think of nothing worse. Better to be insane. Perhaps I was. I sank down on my knees beside the divan and rested my forehead on the sword hilt. I took calming breaths and tried to clear the tendrils of doubt before they could permeate deeper. I was Ligea. Brotherhood Compeer. I was better than this.

  Unbidden, my mind ranged outwards until it touched the familiar. Brand, sleeping somewhere below in the slave quarters. I calmed, and began to think again.

  Silently, I took up the sword and left my apartments. If the Prefect posted guards, they must have all been outside in the gardens or beyond the walls, because I met no one. My bare feet made no sound on the marble floors as I made my way, after several wrong turns, to Brand. I paused outside his door, checking with my senses that I did indeed have the right place. Then I took a night lamp out of its niche in the passage and let myself in, glad I had insisted on a single room for him, a privilege of a favoured slave. I shut the door behind me.

  The room was not much bigger than a cupboard. A low table and a raised platform for the sleeping pallet were the only two items of furniture. I put the lamp and the still-wrapped sword on the table, next to an empty jug, and looked around. Brand, clad only in a loin cloth and half covered in a blanket, was sound asleep and gently snoring. His clothes hung on a hook behind the door, his personal pack was on the floor – all he owned, if a slave could ever be said to own anything. It seemed pitifully little after thirty years of life.

  'Brand?' I asked quietly. He didn't stir. I sat on the edge of his pallet and shook his arm. Even then it took several rough shakes before I elicited a response. At a guess, that jug had contained wine, and the Prefect's Tyranian slaves had been more than hospitable to an Altani freshly arrived with news of Tyr. Brand had been feted that evening.

  He struggled awake, befuddled with wine and sleep and still not opening his eyes. 'Who's tha'?'

  'It'
s only me, Brand. Legata Ligea.'

  He opened one eye. And spoke, a tentative 'Ligea?' The eye stared at me, puzzled, and then I felt the other emotion in him. When he reached out a hand to touch my bare shoulder, I was – in my astonishment – unable to move. He murmured, 'Sweet Goddess… I have dreamed of this, but never thought -'

  'No,' I said in a rush, aghast, and leapt to my feet. I wanted to unhear the words, to have them unsaid. 'No. You misunderstand. I brought the weapon down. I wanted you to hide it. I thought if I kept it in my room, Aemid would find it, and it's important she doesn't know about it.'

  He scrambled up, fully awake now, and coldly sober, hope dead in his eyes at my rush of words. He cut off

  his emotions from me as he said, 'My apologies, Legata. I was half asleep, and I fear I had too much to drink this evening.' But even as he said the words, we botii knew it was too late to take back what had just happened. ¦¦ 'Oh, Brand,' I said, trying to hide how appalled I was. 'I'm sorry. I never guessed. You – you hid it so well.' But then, he always had kept his emotions hidden. Ever since we were children together. Damn, damn, damn.

  'What was the point? I'm just a slave and you had Tribune Favonius.' He glanced across at me with a calculating look. 'He's not here now. You must be missing him.'

  'Yes, but – Oh, Brand. Oh damn it, you are – you are like a brother to me. I don't think of you that way.' My thoughts were more shocked: Acheron's mists! You're my slave! I couldn't be having this conversation. I didn't want to have this conversation!