Sailing to Sarantium (57 page)

Crispin emerged from the baths some time later. The attendants in the
cold room had winced and clucked over his swollen hand and insisted
he immerse it while a doctor was summoned. The physician murmured
reassuringly, sucked at his teeth as he manipulated the hand,
ascertained that nothing was broken inside. He prescribed some
bloodletting from the right thigh to prevent the accumulation of bad
blood around the injury, which Crispin declined. The doctor, shaking
his head at the ignorance of some patients, left an herbal concoction
to be mixed with wine for the pain. Crispin paid him for that.

He decided not to take the concoction, either, but found a seat in
the bathhouse's wine room, working his way through a flask of pale
wine. He'd more or less decided he had not even a faint hope of
sorting through what had just happened. The pain was dull and steady,
but manageable. The man he'd pounded so ferociously had been removed,
as promised, by the Strategos's personal guard. Carullus's two
soldiers had gone ashen-faced when they learned what had occurred,
but there was little they could have done unless they'd followed him
from pool to pool and into the steam.

In fact, Crispin had to concede, he didn't feel badly, on the whole.
There was undeniable relief in having survived another attack, and in
the likelihood that the perpetrator would reveal the source of the
murderous assaults. It was even true-though this he didn't like
admitting-that having dealt with this himself brought a measure of
satisfaction.

He rubbed at his chin absently and then did so again, coming to a
morose realization. He asked an attendant for directions and,
carrying his cup of wine, stoically betook himself to a nearby room.
He waited on a bench while two other men were dealt with, then
subsided glumly onto the barber's stool for a shave.

The scented sheet tied around his throat felt much like an assassin's
cord. He was going to have to do this every day. It was highly
probable, Crispin decided, that some barber somewhere in the City was
going to slit his throat by accident while regaling the waiting
patrons with a choice anecdote. Whoever was paying assassins was
simply wasting his money; the deed would be done for him. He did wish
this man wouldn't accentuate his flow of wit with a waving blade.
Crispin closed his eyes.

He emerged only mildly scathed, however, and having been just quick
enough to decline the offered perfume. He felt surprisingly
energized, alert, ready to begin addressing the matter of his dome in
the Sanctuary. It was already his dome in his own thoughts, he
realized with some wryness. Styliane Daleina had voiced a warning
about that, he remembered, but what artisan worth anything at all
could heed such a caution?

He needed to see the Sanctuary again. He decided to head that way
before returning to the inn. He wondered if Artibasos would be there,
suspected he would. The man practically lived in his building, the
Emperor had said. Crispin suspected he might end up doing the same.
He wanted to speak with the architect about the setting beds for his
mosaics. He'd need to find the Sarantine glassworks, as well, and
then see about assessing-and probably reshaping-whatever team of
craftsmen and apprentices Siroes had assembled. There would be guild
protocols to learn-and work around. And he'd have to start sketching.
There was no point having ideas in his head if no one else could see
them. Approvals would be needed. Some things he had already decided
to leave out of the drawings. No one needed to know every idea he
had.

There was a great deal to be done. He was here for a reason, after
all. He flexed his hand. It was puffy, but that would be all right.
He thanked Jad for the instinct that had led him to use his left
fist. A mosaicist's good hand was his life.

On the way out he paused by the marble counter in the foyer. On
sheerest impulse he asked the attendant there about an address he'd
been given a long time ago. It turned out to be close by. For some
reason he'd thought it might be. This was a good neighbourhood.

Crispin elected to make a call. A duty visit. Get it done with, he
told himself, before work began to consume him, the way it always
did. Rubbing his smooth chin, he walked out of the baths into the
late-afternoon sunshine.

Two grim soldiers striding purposefully behind him, Caius Crispus of
Varena followed the given directions towards the house and street
name he'd had handed to him on a torn-off piece of parchment in a
farmhouse near Varena. Eventually, turning off a handsome square and
then into a wide street with well-made stone houses on either side,
he ascended the steps of a covered portico and knocked firmly at the
door with his good hand.

He hadn't decided what he would-or could-say here. There might be
some awkwardness. Waiting for a servant to answer, Crispin looked
about. On a marble plinth by the door stood a bust of the Blessed
Victim Eladia, guardian of maidens. Given what he had heard before,
he suspected it was meant ironically here. The street was quiet; he
and the two soldiers were the only figures to be seen, save for a
young boy grooming a mare tethered placidly nearby. The row houses
here looked cared for and comfortably prosperous. There were torches
set in the front walls and on the porticos, promising the security of
light after darkfall.

It was possible, standing amid these smooth facades, to envisage an
infinitely calmer life in Sarantium than the violent intricacies he
had discovered so far. Crispin found himself picturing delicately
hued frescoes within proportioned rooms, ivory, alabaster,
well-turned wooden stools and chests and benches, good wine, candles
in silver holders, perhaps a treasured manuscript of the Ancients to
read by a fire in winter or in the peace of a courtyard among summer
flowers and droning bees. The accoutrements of a civilized life in
the city that was the centre of the world behind its triple walls and
guarded by the sea. The black forests of Sauradia seemed infinitely
far away.

The door opened.

He turned, preparing to give his name and have himself announced. He
saw the slender figure of a woman dressed in crimson on the
threshold, dark-haired, dark-eyed, small-boned. He had just enough
time to note this much and realize this was not a servant before the
woman cried out and hurled herself into his arms, kissing him with a
hungry passion. Her hands clenched in his hair, pulling him down to
her. Before he could react in any cogent way at all, while the two
soldiers were gaping slack-jawed at them, her mouth moved to his ear.
Crispin felt her tongue, then heard her whisper fiercely: 'In Jad's
name, pretend we are lovers, I beg of you! You will not regret it, I
promise!'

' What are you doing?' Crispin heard a stunningly familiar voice say
from nowhere he could have placed. His heart lurched. He gasped in
shock, then the woman's mouth covered his own again. His good hand
came up-obedient or involuntary, he couldn't have said-and held her
as she kissed him like a lost love regained.

'Oh,
no!'
he heard within: a terribly known
voice, but a new, lugubrious tone.
'No,
no, no! This will never work! You'll get him beaten or killed,
whoever he is.'

At which point someone, standing in the front hallway of the house
behind the woman in Crispin's arms, cleared his throat.

The woman in the red, knee-length tunic detached herself as if with
anguished reluctance, and as she did Crispin received another shock:
he realized belatedly that he knew her scent. It was the perfume only
one woman in the City was said to be allowed to use. And this woman
was not, manifestly, the Empress Alixana.

This woman was-unless he had been led very greatly astray-Shirin of
the Greens, their Principal Dancer, celebrated object of the
anguished desire of at least one young aristocrat Crispin had met in
a tavern yesterday, and very likely a great many other men, young or
otherwise. She was also the daughter of Zoticus of Varena.

And the bewailing, anxious inner voice he'd just heard-twice-had been
Linon's.

Crispin's head hurt again, suddenly. He found himself wishing he'd
never left the baths, or the inn. Or home.

The woman stepped back, her hand trailing lingeringly along the front
of his tunic, as if reluctant to let him go, as she turned to the
person who had coughed.

And following her gaze, overwhelmed by too many things at once,
Crispin found himself struggling suddenly not to laugh aloud like a
child or a simple-witted fool.

'Oh!' said the woman, a hand coming up to cover her mouth in
astonishment. 'I didn't hear you follow me! Dear friend, forgive me,
but I could not restrain myself. You see, this is-'

'You do seem to insinuate yourself, don't you, Rhodian,' said
Pertennius of Eubulus, secretary to the Supreme Strategos, whom
Crispin had just seen disappearing through steam. And this man he had
last encountered delivering a pearl to the Empress the night before.

Pertennius was dressed extremely well today, in fine linen, blue and
silver, embroidered, with a dark blue cloak and a matching soft hat.
The secretary's thin, long-nosed face was pale, and-not surprisingly
in the current circumstances-the narrow, observant eyes were not
noticeably cordial as they evaluated the tableau in the doorway.

'You ... know each other?' the woman said, uncertainly. Crispin
noted, still struggling to control his amusement, that she had also
gone pale now.

'The Rhodian artisan was presented at court last night,' Pertennius
said. 'He has just arrived in the City,' he added heavily.

The woman bit her lip.

'I
warned you! I warned you! You deserve everything that happens now'
the patrician voice that had been Linon's said. It
sounded distant, but Crispin was hearing it within, as he had before.

It wasn't addressing him.

He forced the implications of this away and, looking at the
alchemist's dark-haired daughter, took pity. There was, of course, no
way they could pretend to be lovers or even intimate friends, but. .
.

'I admit I did not anticipate so generous a welcome,' he said easily.
'You must love your dear father very much, Shirin.' He continued,
smiling, giving her time to absorb this. 'Good day to you, secretary.
We do seem to frequent the same doorways. Curious. I should have
looked for you in the baths just now, to share a cup of wine. I did
speak with the Strategos, who was good enough to honour me with his
company. Are you well, after your late errand last night?'

The secretary's mouth fell open. He looked very like a fish, so. He
was courting this woman, of course. It would have been obvious, even
if the young Green partisans in The Spina had not said as much
yesterday.

'The Strategos?' Pertennius said. 'Her father!' he said.

'My father!' Shirin repeated in a usefully indeterminate tone.

'Her father,' Crispin confirmed agreeably. 'Zoticus of Varena, from
whom I bring tidings and counsel, as promised by my message earlier.'
He smiled at the secretary with affable blandness and turned to the
woman, who was gazing at him now with unfeigned astonishment. 'I do
hope I am not intruding upon an appointment?'

'No, no!' she said hastily, colouring a little. 'Oh, no. Pertennius
simply happened to be in this quarter, he said. He ... elected to
honour me with a visit. He said.' She was quick-witted, Crispin
realized. 'I was about to explain to him ... when we heard your
knock, and in my excitement Crispin's smile was all benign
understanding.'

'. . . you offered me an unforgettable greeting. For another such,
I'll return all the way back to Varena and come again with further
word from Zoticus.'

She coloured even more. She deserved a little embarrassment, he
thought, still amused.

'You
do not deserve so much good fortune,'
he
heard inwardly, and then, after a pause,
'No,
I will not cook myself in a pot for dinner. I told you not to try
such an obviously ridiculous-'

There was an abrupt silence, as the inward voice was cut off.

Crispin had a good idea what had caused that, having done it himself
many times on the road. He had no idea what was happening here,
however. He should not be able to hear this voice.

'You are a Rhodian?' Pertennius's expression, eyeing the slender
girl, revealed an avid curiosity. 'I didn't know that.'

'Partly Rhodian,' Shirin agreed, regaining her composure. Crispin
recalled that it was always easier with the bird silenced. 'My father
is from Batiara.'

'And your mother?' the secretary asked.

Shirin smiled and tossed her head. 'Come, scribe, would you plumb all
of a woman's mysteries?' Her sidelong look was bewitching. Pertennius
swallowed and cleared his throat again. The answer, of course, was
'yes,' but he could hardly say as much, Crispin thought. He himself
kept silent, glancing quickly around the entranceway. There was no
bird to be seen.

Zoticus's daughter took him by the elbow-a much more formal grip this
time, he noted-and walked him into the house a few steps.
'Pertennius, dear friend, will you allow me the comfort of a visit
with this man? It has been so long since I've spoken with anyone
who's seen my beloved father.'

She released Crispin and, turning, took the secretary's arm in the
same firm, friendly grip, steering him smoothly the other way towards
the still-open doorway. 'It was so kind of you to come by just to see
if the strains of the Dykania had not wearied me too greatly. You are
such a solicitous friend. I am very fortunate to have powerful men
like you taking a protective interest in my health.'

'Not so powerful,' the secretary said with an awkward little
deprecating movement of his free hand, 'but yes, yes, very much, very
much indeed interested in your well-being. Dear girl.' She released
his arm. He looked as if he would linger, gazing at her and then
past, at Crispin, who stood with hands clasped loosely together,
smiling earnestly back.