Sailing to Sarantium (18 page)

Kasia climbed silently back into the bed and slipped under the sheet,
naked, next to him. He withdrew from her a little. No surprise, she
thought bitterly. Would any wise man bed a girl marked for Ludan of
the Wood? Her sacred death might pass straight into him.

That wasn't it, though. It seemed Zagnes was a more prosaic sort.
'Your feet are cold, girl. Rub them together or something. And your
hands,' he said. 'I'm always cold.'

Kasia heard herself make an odd sound; half a laugh, half a renewed
struggle with panic. She rubbed her feet obediently against each
other, trying to warm them so she could warm the man beside her. She
heard the wind outside, a branch tapping against the wall. The clouds
had come with rain. No moons.

She'd spent the night with him. He hadn't put a hand on her. Stayed
close, curled up like a child. She'd lain awake listening to the wind
and the branch and the fall of rain. Morning would come, and then
night, and the next day she would die. It was amazing to her that she
could shape this sequence, this thought. She wondered if it would be
possible to kill Deana before they bound her or bludgeoned her
unconscious. She wished she could pray, but she hadn't been raised
believing m Jad of the Sun, and none of his invocations came easily
to her. On the other hand, how did the sacrifice pray to the god to
whom she was being offered? What could she ask of Ludan? That she be
dead before they cut her in pieces? Or whatever they did here in the
south. She didn't even know.

She was up well before the sleeping courier in the black, damp chill
before dawn. She pulled on her underclothes and tunic, shivering, and
went down to the kitchen. It was still raining. Kasia heard sounds
from the yard: the stableboys readying the changes of mounts for the
Imperial Couriers and the horses and mules of those who had brought
their own or claimed them. She gathered an armful of firewood from
the back room, returned for two more, and then knelt to build up the
kitchen fire. Deana came down, yawning, and went to do the same for
the front-room fires. She had a new bruise on one cheek, Kasia saw.

'Sleep well, bitch?' Deana said as she walked by. 'You'll never get
that one again, trust me.'

'He told me you were as sloppy below as you are above,' Kasia
murmured, not bothering to turn. She wondered if Deana would hit her.
She had firewood to hand.

But they didn't want her bruised, or marred in any way. It might
almost have been amusing ... she could say whatever she wanted today,
without fear of a blow.

Deana stood still for a moment, then went past without touching her.

They were watching her closely. Kasia had been made aware of it when
he snatched a moment from emptying the chamber-pots to stand on the
norch in back of the inn to breathe the cold, wet air. The mountains
were wrapped in mist. It was still raining. Very little wind now. The
chimney smoke went straight up and disappeared in the greyness. She
could barely see the orchard and the sheep on the slopes. Sounds were
muffled.

But Pharus the stablemaster was casually leaning against a pillar at
the far end of the porch, whittling at a wet stick with his knife,
and Rugash, the old shepherd, had left his flock to the boys and was
standing in the open doorway of the hut beyond the orchard. When he
saw her glance at him he turned away and spat through the gap in his
teeth into the mud.

They actually thought she might run. Where could a slave girl run?
Barefoot up the mountain slopes? Into the Aldwood? Would a death by
exposure or animals be better? Or would daemons or the dead find her
first and claim her soul forever? Kasia shivered. A wasted fear: she
would never even make it to the forest or the hills, and they'd track
her if she did. They had the dogs.

Khafa appeared in the open doorway behind her. Without turning, Kasia
knew her step.

'I tell mistress, you get whipping of idleness,' she said. She'd been
ordered to speak nothing but Rhodian, to learn it adequately.

'Fuck yourself,' Kasia said without force. But she turned and went
in, walking straight past Khafa, who was probably the most decent of
them all.

She put all the chamber-pots in their rooms, going up and down and up
and down the stairs, and then went back into the kitchen to finish
with the dishes of the morning. The fire was too low; you were beaten
or locked in the wine cellar among the rats if your fire was too
low-or too high, wasting wood. She built it up. The smoke stung tears
into her eyes. She wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands.

She had that blade hidden in the smith's shed by the stables. She
decided she would go out for it later in the day. She could use it on
herself tonight, if nothing else. Deny them what they wanted. A kind
of triumph, that.

She never got the chance. Another group of merchants came in,
stopping early because of the rain. They had no Permits, of course,
but paid Morax, after the usual quiet exchange, for the right to stay
illegally. They sat by one of the fires in the common room and drank
a considerable amount of wine very quickly. Then three of them wanted
girls to pass a wet afternoon. Kasia went up with one of them, a
Karchite; Deana and Syrene took the others. The Karchite smelled of
wine, wet fur, fish. He put her face down on the bed as soon as they
entered the room and pushed up her tunic, not bothering to take it
off or his own clothing. When he finished he fell immediately asleep,
sprawled across her. Kasia squirmed out from beneath him. She looked
out the window. The rain was easing; it would stop soon.

She went downstairs. The Karchite was snoring loudly enough to be
heard in the hallway; she'd no excuse for lingering. Morax, crossing
through the front room, looked closely at her as she came
down-checking for bruises, no doubt-and gestured to the kitchen
wordlessly. It was time to begin readying dinner. Another cluster of
men were already in the common room, drinking. The inn would be
crowded tonight. Tomorrow had people nervous, excited, wanting a
drink and company. Through the archway Kasia saw three of the
villagers with a fourth glass at their table. Morax had been with
them.

Deana came down a little later, walking carefully, as if something
hurt her inside. They stood opposite each other, slicing potatoes and
onions, laying out olives in small bowls. The mistress was watching
them; neither spoke. Morax's wife beat the girls for talking while
they worked. She said something to the cook. Kasia didn't hear what
it was. She was aware that the mistress kept looking at her. Keeping
her head down, she carried out the bowls of olives and baskets of
small bread from the bakehouse and set them on the tables beside the
jars of oil. This was a Posting Inn; amenities were offered-for a
price paid. The three villagers became engaged in animated talk as
soon as she walked in. None of them looked up as she gave them their
olives and bread. The two fires were low, but that was Deana's job.

In the kitchen the cook was cutting up chickens now and dropping
pieces in the pot with the potatoes and onions for a stew. Already
there wasn't enough wine to hand. A wet, cold day. Men drank. At a
nod from the mistress, Kasia went towards the back again to the wine
storage, taking the key. She unlocked and pulled up the heavy, hinged
door set in the floor and hoisted a jug from the cold, shallow
cellar. She remembered that when Morax had bought her from the trader
a year ago she hadn't been able to lift them out. They had beaten her
for that. The large, stoppered jug was still heavy for her and she
was awkward with it. She locked the cellar and came back through the
hallway and saw a man standing alone in the front room by the door.

It was the wild look of him, she decided later. The full red beard,
disordered hair when he pushed back the hood of his muddy cloak. He
had large, capable-looking hands with red hairs visible on the backs
of them, and his soaked brown outer garment was bunched up at his
waist, hoisted above his knees and belted for hard striding.
Expensive boots. A heavy staff. On this road of merchant parties and
civil servants, uniformed army officers and Imperial Couriers, this
solitary traveller reminded her of one of the hard men of her own
distant, northern world.

There was an extreme irony to this, of course, but she had no way of
knowing that.

He was standing alone, no companion or servant in sight, and there
was no one nearby, amazingly, for this one moment. He spoke to her in
Rhodian. She barely heard him or the replies she managed to mumble.
About her name. She stared at the floor. There was an odd sensation
of roaring in her ears, like a wind in the room. She was afraid she
would fall down, or drop the wine jug, shattering it. It occurred to
her, suddenly, that it didn't matter if she did. What could they do
to her?

'They are going to kill me tomorrow,' she said.

She looked up at him. Her heart was pounding like a northern drum.
'Will you take me away?'

He didn't recoil like Zagnes, or stare in shock or disbelief. He
looked at her very closely. His eyes narrowed; they were blue and
cold.

'Why?' he said, almost harshly.

Kasia felt tears coming. She fought them. The... the Day of the
Dead,' she managed. Her mouth felt full of ashes. 'The . . . because
of the oak god... they...'

She heard footsteps. Of course. Time had run. Never enough time. She
might have died of the plague at home, as her father and brother had.
Or of starvation in the winter that followed, had her mother not sold
her for food. She had been sold, though. She was here. A slave. Time
had run. She stopped abruptly, stared straight down at the floor,
gripping the heavy wine. Morax walked through the arched door from
the common room.

'About time, 'keeper,' said the red-bearded man calmly. 'Do you
normally keep patrons waiting alone in your front room?'

'Kitten!' roared Morax. 'You little bitch, how dare you not tell me
we had a distinguished guest?' Her own eyes down, Kasia imagined his
practised gaze assessing the unkempt man in his front room. Morax
switched to his formal voice. 'Good sir, this is an Imperial Inn. You
do know that Permits are required. I rely upon it to ensure fellow
guests of some respectability,' said the man coolly. Kasia watched
them, from the corners of her eyes. He was not a northerner, of
course. Not with that accent. She was such a fool, sometimes. He had
spoken Rhodian, was regarding Morax bleakly.

He glanced through the archway at the crowded common room. 'It
appears that a surprising number of Permit holders are abroad on a
wet day, so late in the year. I congratulate you, 'keeper. Your
welcome must be exceptionally gracious.'

Morax flushed. 'You have a Permit then? I am delighted to welcome
you, if that is so.'

'It is. And I wish to see your delight made extremely tangible. I
want the warmest room you have for two nights, a clean pallet for my
man wherever you put the servants, and hot water, oil, towels, and a
bathtub carried to my room immediately. I will bathe before I dine. I
will consult with you as to the food and wine while the bath is being
prepared. And I want a girl to oil and wash me. This one will do.'

Morax looked stricken. He was good at that. 'Oh dear, oh dear! We are
just now preparing the evening meal, good sir. As you see, the inn is
crowded today and we have far too little staff. I am grieved to say
that we cannot accommodate bathing until later. This is merely a
humble country inn, good sir. Kitten, get that wine into the kitchen.
Now!'

The red-bearded man lifted a hand. He held a paper there. And a coin,
Kasia saw. She lifted her head. 'You have not yet asked for my
Permit, 'keeper. An oversight. Do read it. You will no doubt
recognize the signature and the Seal of the Chancellor himself, in
Sarantium. Of course, a great many of your patrons probably have
Permits personally signed by Gesius.'

Morax went from red-faced to bone white in a moment. It was almost
amusing, but Kasia was afraid she was about to drop the wine. Permits
were signed by Imperial functionaries in various cities or by junior
officers at army camps, not by the Imperial Chancellor. She felt
herself gaping. Who was this man? She shifted her grip beneath the
wine jug. Her arms were trembling with the weight. Morax reached out
and took the paper-and the coin. He unfolded the Permit and read, his
mouth moving with the words. He looked up, unable to resist staring.
His colour was slowly coming back. The coin had helped. 'You . . .
your servants you said are outside, good my lord?'

'Just the one, taken at the border to get me to Trakesia. There are
reasons why it is useful to Gesius and the Emperor for me to travel
without display. You run an Imperial Inn. You will understand.'

The red-bearded man smiled briefly, and then held a finger to his
lips.

Gesius. The Chancellor. This man had named him by name, and had a
Permit with his privy Seal and signature.

Kasia did begin to pray then, silently. To no god by name, but with
all her heart. Her arms were still trembling. Morax had ordered her
to the kitchen. She turned to go.

She saw him give the Permit back. The coin was gone. Kasia had never
yet learned to follow the motion with which Morax palmed such
offerings. He reached out, stopped her with a hand on the shoulder.

'Deana!' he barked, as he saw her walking through the common room.
Deana quickly set down her armful of firewood and hurried over. 'Take
this jug to the kitchen, and tell Breden to carry the largest bathtub
to the room above it. Kitten, you will take hot water from the kettle
up with Breden. Immediately. The two of you will fill the bath. You
will run as you do so, to keep it hot. Then you will attend upon his
lordship, here. If he complains in the least regard you will be
locked in the wine cellar for the night. Am I understood?'