Glenda Larke - The Heart of the mirage

I was suddenly glad Rathrox had sent me to Kardiastan.

Two hours later, the Governor was droning a bitter tirade about the country and its heathen people into my ears. Like most officials I had met in Kardiastan, he seemed to have succumbed to a feeling of hopelessness, the only bright point he could see in his future being the day he would return home. Kardiastan had defeated him.

'We'll never change these people,' he said. 'Never. My wife died here, you know. They said it was a fever, but I know better. She died of a broken heart. She couldn't take being surrounded by hate every minute of every day. I try to explain to those back in Tyrans what it's like, but how can you put such things in writing so that others can feel it as we do? I felt myself

to be still young when I came here. I was ambitious then.' He ran a hand over his balding head. 'Now I'm as old as the desert itself and fit only to sit in the sun by the sea in Tyrans and remember.'

I did not comment, saying instead, 'Tell me what you know of this Mir Ager.'

'Nothing. Except the Kardis still seem to think he's alive, and a legionnaire officer – a good man – says he saw him a few weeks back. Rumour has it he wasn't burnt to death and that he now runs a secret escape route for slaves, spiriting them away into the desert and so to this place called the Mirage. Some say he was the one who murdered the officers; omers say he was responsible for the disappearance of the military caravan. That can't be true. At least, he certainly couldn't have done all those things by himself. We are not facing a single enemy, but a whole host of them – the whole Kardi nation, if you ask me. And they are slaughtering our men without mercy. The legions call mem terror riders. They are no better than savage beasts.'

'How bad is this business of runaway slaves?'

'Terrible. Almost every household has lost someone; sometimes as many as half their slaves.' He kneaded the worry lines of his forehead with restless fingers. 'We hardly ever seem to catch those who escape. They just disappear like morning mist in the heat of the sun. We tried to replace them with paid servants, but the Kardis refused to work for us freely. They have to be forced. So now we seize people off the street for minor infringements and give them terms of limited enslavement. I thought perhaps if they could see an end to their slavery ahead in a year of two, they wouldn't want to escape. It does seem to help.' He heaved a noisy sigh. 'What else can I do? Legata, presumably this Mir Ager, Mirager, or whoever he is, is

some kind of a leader. If you can catch this man, we will be eternally obliged to you. Without him, perhaps the Kardis will lose heart.' He spoke as though he thought such a happening was unlikely.

'I'll do my best.'

'Are your apartments, er, suitable?'

'Ideal. I notice they have separate access to the street.'

'I thought – you being a Brother – it might be best -' He trailed off, embarrassed.

'You were right. I do like to come and go unobtrusively. Should I disappear for a few days at any time, please do not concern yourself.'

He nodded tiredly. 'Is there any way I can help you? The orders you brought are explicit. You are to have every facility extended to you.'

'You have already very kindly arranged for a woman to attend my slave and for a physician to see her, but there is something else. I would like the services of a bronzesmith. Someone who is discreet and absolutely trustworthy.'

He nodded again, with a total lack of interest. 'I'll get a military man.'

His despair irritated me and I was relieved when I finally left his office and headed back across the gardens to the apartments where Aemid and Brand and I had been quartered.

Brand greeted me at the door. 'Guess what,' he said cheerfully. 'There are no brown snakes in Madrinya.'

'Don't tell me – they're yellow instead.'

He laughed. 'You spoiled my line. No, there really are no snakes. But wait till you see the beetles. They're the size of a man's fist, and they're everywhere! Be careful not to tread on them; they spit back.' He pointed to a blistered patch of skin on his ankle.

I grimaced. 'How's Aemid?'

'Worse. The Governor's physician has been. He says she's just worn out, emotionally as much as physically. She has to be kept quiet for a few days. He agreed she would be best sedated, just as you suggested.'

'Good. This whole trip has been more of a strain on her than I anticipated.' Still, I thought, this couldn't have happened at a better time from my point of view…

The next morning, after the smith had left, I surveyed myself in the mirror with smug satisfaction and then showed myself to Brand. 'What do you think?' I asked and spun on my heel so he could see me from all sides.

His lips gave the faintest of quirks. 'Not particularly appropriate to your personality.'

'Hmph. Why do I have the feeling you mean that as an insult?'

'Slaves do not insult their owners. It is not wise.'

I turned to face the mirror again. The woman who stared back was not the one normally there. This woman was a slave, wearing a bronze slave collar around her neck, and she was wholly Kardi. I smiled, and felt no guilt at breaking my promise to Aemid. How could she have ever thought I would let her dictate the way in which I served Tyrans? She knew me not at all.

I turned my head to see myself better. My hair, instead of being caught up high on my head, was free about my shoulders. It was crimped because I had slept with it plaited, and it lacked its usual artificial gold highlighting. As a consequence, it appeared

darker and thicker. The change made my face seem younger, but also more peasant-like. The anoudain I wore was typically Kardi: the bodice and the panels of the overskirt were pale green and embroidered, the trousers darker.

My satisfaction suddenly vanished. This wasn't me. This was a Kardi woman. Disgust crawled my skin. Or was it foreboding?

'You are unrecognisable, Legata,' Brand was saying, 'but it takes more than clothes and hair to fool people.'

'Are you worried about my command of the Kardi language? I am fluent, I assure you. Aemid taught me well. If I use outdated idioms I can explain it away by saying I have lived in Tyrans for years, as a slave to the Legata Ligea. Don't worry about me, Brand. I've gone in disguise often enough in Tyrans.'

'But never as a slave.' He reached out and touched my collar. 'This does more than encircle your neck. It turns you into a chattel. A thing. You can no longer behave as though you have any rights to anything. A slave has no rights. And don't forget, in Tyrans you had the Brotherhood behind you no matter what hellish hole you stepped into. The Brotherhood is a long way from here.' For a brief moment he deliberately unveiled his feelings so that I was swept with his concern, his fear for me.

I turned from the mirror, sobered, to stare at him in silence. 'Ah,' I said at last – a sigh of understanding and acceptance. 'Stupid of me. How long have you known I could read feelings as well as lies?'

'Since I was a lad. It took me a little longer to find ways to hide my emotions from you; What do you do, smell them?'

I shook my head. 'No. It's more like having another sense altogether. One that interprets die way people

feel. I don't need to see the person, or hear them speak, and I certainly don't need to smell them.'

He wanted to ask me more, I could tell. I did not give him time to frame another question; I didn't want to have to explain the inexplicable. I said, 'You are much cleverer than I ever gave you credit for, Brand. I had no idea you hid yourself deliberately. I always thought my inability to read you was a flaw in my talent – that what you did was more, um, instinctive, rather than intentional.' I forced a smile. 'I will be careful. Moreover, you will be following me. Get me a water ewer from the kitchens, and then we'll go.'