The Tyranian architecture out of a Tyranian context might have irked me, but my reaction to it appalled me. I couldn't understand how I, who had always loved all that was Tyranian, could feel that way. This strange land with its mystic beauty was shredding the solidness of the foundations on which I had built my life, and I didn't want to look inside myself to find out why.
Still, ugly buildings or not, I was glad enough to accept the comforts of a wayhouse after a day in the saddle. To sink into a perfumed marble bath, to have clean clothes and a choice of seven or eight dishes at the evening meal, to lounge against the cushions of a divan and listen to a slave play the songs of Tyr – that was paradise, even if it meant putting up with the sullen service of Kardi slaves, slaves who became even less helpful than normal after they had spoken to Aemid.
The worst part of the journey was the crossing of the valley that furrowed through Kardiastan like a gorclak trail through snow. Kardis called it the Rift and it had a grandeur that was magnificent when seen from its southern lip: red walls sliced downwards in columns and pleats to a flat valley floor strung with lakes, far below. In the distance, two days' ride away, was the north wall, just as steep and formidable. It took us a day to descend to the valley on a zigzag path, and once we were there, we were buffeted by fierce gales barrelling up the Rift. It may not have rained in Kardiastan, but it emulated it in that place. The wind swept up water from the lakes, mixed it with red dust and whipped it at us in stinging slashes; by the time we reached the north wall, everything we had was damply pink, including the shleths.
At least the shleths were stoic; the gorclaks were not nearly so composed. Even when the wind was at its
worst, the shleths shielded their eyes with their feeding arms and plodded on; the gorclaks tended to go berserk, baulking at every movement, bellowing their displeasure and distress, swinging their great heads to and fro as if they could shred the wind with their nose horns. Every legionnaire had trouble; several were thrown and others had their mounts bolt.
There were two wayhouses in the Rift, one clinging to the foot of the south wall, the other huddled up to the north face, neither with any permanent staff. The continuous whine of the wind would have crazed anyone forced to live there. None of our party slept much during the nights we stayed in them. I suppose we all spent time thinking about the legionnaire caravan that had vanished somewhere along the paveway to Madrinya…
The arduous day's climb out of the valley seemed a pleasurable stroll after the hell of the floor of the Rift, and by comparison the rest of the journey was almost a carefree holiday.
Aemid cried when she saw Madrinya. She had been born there, raised there, but this was no longer the city of her childhood. That old adobe town with its brown buildings and quiet well-squares had largely disintegrated in war and conquest. White Tyranian marble and pink stone edifices now glowered like ungainly monsters along what had been a wooded lakeshore, while the once-fashionable Kardi buildings had begun to crumble into a semblance of the Snarls, complete with scum-covered drains, vermin and the stink of poverty. Even I, viewing the city first from the back of my shleth, felt a moment's pang. It seemed alien, an excrescence on the face of the land.
'The Pavilions have gone,' Aemid whispered as we rode in through the outskirts.
'What were they?' I asked.
'The palace… and other buildings. They used to stand over there…' She pointed to where the city's stadium, built of local stone, now stood. There were tears on her cheeks. 'That's where the Magoroth died,' she added in a whisper. 'In the Pavilions.'
I looked across at her and felt a twinge of anxiety. She had not stood up to the journey well and now the shock of seeing the Madrinya of the Exaltarchy rather than the Kardi city of her youth appeared to have shrunk both her body and her spirit, as if by growing smaller, by being less aggressive, she could avoid further pain. She was diminished. I felt her depression like a black cloud hovering about her, darkening her spirit.
'We'll be at the Governor's residence soon,' I said, trying not to show my alarm. 'Then you can rest. I shall make sure someone attends to you.' I glanced at Brand, reassuring myself that he, at least, had not changed. He'd enjoyed most of the journey just as I had and now rode his shleth with the same easy grace he possessed on horseback.
Still, since that night in his room, there had been a subtle shift in our relationship. He might have been the same, but I was finding it harder to see him as a slave first, and a man second. A man with a man's desires and needs; a man who saw me as a desirable woman before he saw me as his owner. I pushed that unsettling idea away in a hurry. It was a complication I didn't want to deal with right then, not when I had a job to do in difficult circumstances.
Instead, I reached behind to touch the weapon I had stowed across the back of my saddle. It vibrated
slightly at my touch as though it were a living thing. On the journey I had been very much aware of its presence, but oddly enough, the shleth did not seem to notice its weight any more than I had. I felt an intense desire to meet this Mir Ager face to face, to find out what sort of man carried such a weapon. If he were' still alive. It occurred to me that if he were, then he might present the greatest challenge of my career as a Brother.
I felt the familiar thrill of anticipation. The excitement of a hunt, the challenge of a cunning opponent, the false trails and wrong turnings, the sudden inspiration that solved a problem, the unravelling of a plot: those things I understood and loved. Especially that final moment when everything came together, when the enemy fell into a trap of my devising – it was as satisfying as the climax of lovemaking. It made life worm living.
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