Glenda Larke: The Heart of the mirage

'Why do you think?' I asked.

Being Brand, he considered thoughtfully before answering. 'Someone wants you to go to Kardiastan, but is afraid you will refuse. This is a way to entice you by appealing to your sense of justice and your love of

a challenge. By predicting a rosy future if you go haring off to do the Exaltarch's bidding.' He chuckled. 'Whoever it is, they don't know you very well if they think you would be influenced by the muttering of a stone wall.'

I thought about that. The Exaltarch might believe I needed an incentive… and he had direct access to the Meletian Priestesses. I shivered. Was my presence in Kardiastan so important the Exaltarch would ask the priestesses to fake a prediction from the Oracle? Terror flickered, more tangible this time. And, keeping pace, that pleasurable frisson of excitement.

But there was a weakness in Brand's argument. 'I'm hardly likely to refuse a direct order from the Exaltarch,' I pointed out. 'Rathrox and Bator Korbus knew from the very beginning that I would go.'

'Maybe they just want you to go willingly, believing you have a spectacular future ahead. Rathrox knows exactly how ambitious you are. He must guess you would like to fill his shoes if he ever retires.'

I thought back to the meeting with the Exaltarch. To the feeling I'd had that I was missing something, that they weren't telling me the whole truth. Bator Korbus had implied Rathrox was keen to send me, but that he, Korbus, was dubious. Perhaps that wasn't quite the case. Oh, Korbus had been dubious of my abilities, true, but perhaps the Exaltarch was the one who wanted me in Kardiastan so badly he would stoop to anything to have me enthusiastic about it.

I frowned again. It all seemed so unlikely.

I felt a moment's intense nostalgia for my father, the man I had called Pater; I still missed his advice. He'd possessed such a talent for seeing ramifications, for visualising consequences. And always, always, his firm reassurance had given me faith in my own judgement.

'There were a number of messages for you today,' Brand said, changing the subject. 'Domina Curia has sent an invitation to a poetry evening in ten days' time – Segilus has apparently completed a new epic he wants to read to you all. Scholar Menet Senna wants to know if you'd like a seat at the debate on the validity of barbarian folk myths. A cloth merchant sent some samples of tie-dyed silk newly imported from Corsene. That rather unsavoury fellow who calls himself Bodran of Iss says he has some more information to sell about gold-smuggling, but he wouldn't deal with me so I told him to come back early tomorrow morning. Mazentius the Trademaster wants to know if you want to order anything from the Western Reaches. He has a caravan leaving for Pilgath in a day or two and said you might be interested in the papyrus they produce there. It's supposed to be much better quality than what we usually get from Altan. Um, I think that was all.'

Every word he said reminded me of the life I would leave.

I suppressed the sick feeling in my gut. 'I want you to take a message to Rathrox. A note from me, together with this list of names. The so-called Orsini conspirators.' I handed him Dorus's clay tablet.

He glanced at it and said, 'The fat jeweller came good, then, to save his son?'

'Yes. Damn it, Brand, it took me weeks to uncover that plot and now I have the names, someone else is going to round up the plotters and reap the praise for a job well done, because I won't te here.'

'Ah well, you've done similar things to others often enough, and planned it that way, too,' he said unsympathetically. 'Crabs shouldn't expect their fellow crabs to walk straight.'

I opened my mouth to give an irate retort, then closed it again. There was much truth in what he said. I'd a reputation for taking advantage of my fellow Compeer Brothers to further my own career – and yes, sometimes I'd prompted them into the mistakes in the first place, as Hargen Bivius could testify. 'Huh,' I said, a noncommittal grunt that could have meant anything.

I gave a wave of dismissal, but before he left he asked, politely enough, 'Are you going to issue a release request for the son?'

My friends were right: Brand could overstep the line. It wasn't his place to query things like that. Still, with Brand I preferred honesty to a dialogue based on intimidation, so I let it ride, and answered him. 'After Rathrox has someone check the authenticity of the list of names.'

He bowed his way out, passing Aemid on the way in.

'The Tribune Favonius Kyranon to see you,' she said. Her tone was neutral, but her face was pinched, accentuating the lines of middle age. Aemid did not approve of the legionnaire.

I pretended not to notice.

I hurried through into the entry hall where one of the lesser slaves was beginning to unbuckle the leather and metal battle cuirass of the soldier who stood there. 'Never mind, Dini,' I said. 'I'll do that.' I smiled up at the legionnaire and took his hands in mine. 'Favonius – well met. I didn't know you were back in Tyr. Welcome.'

He tapped his dusty cuirass. 'As you can see, I came straight here from the barracks. We got in late this morning.' He was a large man, of a size to match Brand, but his colouring was pure Tyranian: blond hair, blue eyes and a skin that tanned easily to smooth

honey-gold. His nose had been broken once and was now twisted to one side; it gave his looks a toughness to match the furrows and crinkles carved on his face by the sun and wind. He was thirty-five years old, and he looked it. He added, 'I have missed you, Ligea.'

I smiled with genuine pleasure and started to work on the buckles of his cuirass. 'I'm flattered, Tribune. How was the patrol?'

'Routine. Boring. Just the way we like it.'

'Liar. You much prefer being attacked by barbarians or bandits or rebels so you can prove, yet again, that the Exaltarch's Stalwarts are the best legionnaires in the empire.'

He laughed. 'Perhaps.'

'Where were you?' I asked, curious.

'In the mountains beyond Getria.'

That didn't make much sense as the area was devoid of people, but I didn't bother to think about it just then. I laid aside his body armour and sword belt and said, 'Now if you'll be seated, I'll wash your feet.'

He grinned at me. It was an honour to have the lady of the house perform the welcoming ablutions herself. I knelt, undid his leather greaves and sandals, and began to wash away the dust with long caressing strokes of the sponge, each movement deliberately sensual, my lips slightly parted, my eyes on his face all the while. He stood it for a minute or two, then made a sound that was almost a groan. 'You witchl' he whispered, and pulled me up onto his lap. I knocked the water bowl over, but neither of us cared. I just had time to laugh before his mouth clamped over mine with a need born of long abstinence. i

An hour later, as he half-drowsed in my arms on my divan, I said, 'Ah, Favonius, I could almost imagine

you haven't had another woman in the two months you've been gone.'

'I haven't,' he said, nibbling my ear.

'Come now, a legionnaire of the Exaltarch's Stalwarts, one Favonius Kyranon, without a woman? You'd be the laughing stock of your fellow officers!'

He grinned lazily. 'It takes a brave man to laugh at a Kyranon. You have spoiled me for other women. It's you I want and only you. Other women suddenly seem – insipid.'

'Then doubtless you availed yourself of the camp youths,' I said lightly. Many of the legion's slaves were chosen for their comeliness, and it was common enough for legionnaires to help themselves to what was available, even if their preference was otherwise.

'No,' he said. 'Not once. They hold no attraction for me.' He raised himself on an elbow. 'Ah, Ligea, you think I'm joking, but it's true. There's only one person I want on my pallet. I wish you'd think about making this union of ours legal.'