Glenda Larke - The Heart of the mirage

The legionnaire took us to meet Deltos Forgra, the centurion in charge, and Deltos took us, with obvious

reluctance, to see the weapon Mir Ager had used. Deltos was a tall, sad-eyed man with a slow, measured way of speaking, and he did not like the whole subject of Mir Ager, or his weapon, a fact he made clear. 'The sword is dangerous,' he said. 'We would destroy it if we knew how to.'

'Dangerous? Then why not learn to use it?' I asked.

He gave a hollow laugh. 'We don't even know how to pick it up.' He lit a torch and led us down into the cellars under the barracks, then still deeper down another flight of steps.

'Sweet Melete, wherever do you keep it?' I asked. 'In the sewers?'

'In the furthest dungeon cell. There are eight locked doors between it and daylight. Here we are.' He unlocked the last door and swung it open. In the windowless cell, a bundle lay on a table. Deltos remained standing by the door. 'That's it. It had to be pushed with staves onto the skin that wraps it now. Don't put your hand to it, Legata.' He nodded at Brand. 'You unwrap it, slave, but be careful not to touch it.'

I held Brand back as he moved to obey. 'No. I will.'

'Legata, if anything were to happen to you -' Deltos began to protest, but I was already unrolling the skin, spilling what it contained onto the table. At first I thought it was just a sword. It was far from gigantic; the Prefect's memory was faulty on that point. It was, if anything, abnormally short. The hilt and the hand-guard were ordinary enough, patterned but not jewelled. Then I realised the blade was not forged metal as I had at first thought, but translucent like frosted glass – and it was hollow. The tip was open, the edges razor-sharp. I reached out my left hand to touch the hilt.

'Vortex, Legata, don't? Deltos cried. 'It's a spirit thing. Protected by – Goddess knows what! Numina spells. I know it sounds ridiculous.'

'Quite ridiculous.' A numen was an amoral spirit of ancient beliefs, not part of our pantheon of deities. We weren't even supposed to believe in them any more. I turned to smile at him. 'It will not hurt me, Centurion.' Somewhere in my distant memories, something told me I had nothing to fear. My hand closed around the hilt and I lifted it from the table. It was as light as cork wood and slipped into my hold as though it belonged there. I uncurled my fingers and looked at the hilt again; there was a rounded hollow there into which the swelling on my palm fitted when I closed my hand. And the sword recognised me. Shock squeezed my heart painfully, but I tightened my grip on it once again.

Deltos gaped as I held it up. 'Goddess! It took six men to carry it here. Six men to lift it. And not one could touch it for the pain.'

I blinked at that extraordinary statement, but decided not to ridicule him. He believed every word he said, so I decided to make use of his credulity. 'Never underestimate the Brotherhood, Centurion.' I wanted him to think it was my Brotherhood associations that made me special, but I knew differently. It wasn't easy to quieten the fear – the fear of my past, of my blood, of what I was – that jerked my heart to such unevenness.

I turned my attention back to the weapon that was not quite a sword. I slashed it through the air, bringing it down on the table. Had it been glass, the blade would have broken; had it been an ordinary sword, it would barely have marked the wood, because the force I used was insufficient to do much damage. This

weapon sliced through the planks like a gorclak horn through horseflesh.

'Goddess preserve us!' Deltos exclaimed.

'A formidable weapon,' I said, impressed in spite of myself. 'Tell me, Centurion, has anyone tried to steal this from you?'

He shook his head. 'We spread the rumour we'd thrown it into the sea. The Kardis don't know we have it. If I'd had my way, we would have thrown it into the sea from a ship on its way to the Wild Waters.'

I smiled. 'You don't have it any more. I'm taking it.' I wrapped it up once again and tucked it under my arm.

'But, Legata, I can't let you do that! I don't have the authority -'

'Perhaps not, but I do. The Brotherhood claims this weapon, Centurion Deltos. Would you question the Brotherhood?'

He was aghast. 'Of – of course not, Legata. But have a care.'

'That I will. Believe me, I haven't the slightest doubt of its potency. Now, I wish to speak with some of the legionnaires who actually saw this man, this Mir Ager.'

'I'll see to it.' He ushered me back upstairs. 'I have one of the men who was present during the torture sessions, as well as the officer who was in charge of the execution. I'm afraid they are the only two who are here in Sandmurram at the moment. Which one do you want to see first?'

'The torturer, I think.'

'A man by the name of Achates. A rankman legionnaire coming up to the end of his time in Kardiastan. Not a torturer really, just an old reprobate who can't keep out of trouble and is always given the jobs no one else wants. He was assisting only. The man

in charge, Regius, died of blood-poisoning soon after.' He took us up onto the second floor of the main wing of the building and indicated a door carved with military motifs. 'You can use this office. I shall send Achates in to you immediately. Is there anything else you require, Legata?'

I shook my head and he left. I looked across at Brand as we entered the room. 'I don't want any word of this to come to Aemid's ears, Brand. Especially nothing about the weapon.'

'As you wish. Do you want me to stay now?'

'If you will.' I would want to talk about this afterwards with someone I trusted.

I went to the window to wait. The room overlooked the Commander's walled garden. Several unfamiliar fruit trees and a number of flowerbeds were a tangled mass of blossoms – scarlets and purples and oranges predominating. 'How bright the flowers are here!' I exclaimed. 'Have you noticed? Every garden I've seen seems to be overwhelmed with colour. It's as if the flowers want to compensate for the dullness of the trees and the lack of grass and all those brown buildings.'

'All that brown getting to you already, Legata?' Brand asked. He sounded as if he were secretly laughing at me.

'No, of course not. Why should it?' I looked at him sharply, but he was opening the door in answer to a knock and had his back to me.

The man who came in did not look like a soldier. He was a little too unkempt, a little too knowing. I knew his type, though; I had met it often enough during the course of my work for the Brotherhood. He was the sort of fellow who would always be on the lookout for a way to make an extra sestus, but who didn't like to take too many risks. He'd probably only

joined the legions to escape trouble elsewhere. And he would have no compunction about uttering a lie or two if he thought it would benefit him.

'Legionnaire Achates?' I inquired. I sat down at the desk in front of the window and indicated he was to approach the other side of it.

He nodded, his glance roaming over me in unconcealed – but respectful – appreciation. I said, 'I am Legata Ligea of the Brotherhood.' His look abruptly changed. Now he was deferential, but it was the deference of fear, not respect. 'I wish to ask you questions about the Kardi known as Mir Ager.' The look changed again; there was an animal wariness in his eyes now, and the fear I sensed deepened.

'What do you want to know, Legata?' Reluctance and trepidation warred within.

'First, describe him to me.'

"Bout your height. Typical Kardi mud-colour skin and hair. Not overly muscular, not like the slave you've got there.' He nodded at Brand. 'But no weakling neither. More like an athlete than a soldier. Handsome sod, he was. Got a smile I'd walk a league or two to have: the sort of smile that charms the wraps off the ladies – begging your pardon, Legata.'