The Sarantine Mosaic (20 page)

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, capablelooking 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?'

‘Do not,' said the red-bearded man quietly, ‘call me your lordship, if you will. I travel this way for a reason, recall?'

‘Of course,' said Morax, cringing. ‘Of course! Forgive me! But what shall …?'

‘Martinian will do,' said the man. ‘Martinian of Varena.'

‘
MICE AND BLOOD
! What are you doing
?'

‘I'm not sure,'
Crispin replied honestly.
‘But I need your help. Does her story sound true to you?'

Linon, after that first ferocity, grew instantly subdued. After an unexpected silence, she said,
‘It does, in fact. What is more true is that we must keep entirely out of this. Crispin, the Day of the Dead is not a thing to meddle with.'
She never used his name.
Imbecile
was her preferred form of address.

‘I know. Bear with me. Help, if you can.'

He looked at the pudgy, slope-shouldered innkeeper and said aloud, ‘Martinian will do. Martinian of Varena.' He paused and added confidingly, ‘And I will thank you for your discretion.'

‘Of course!' cried the innkeeper. ‘My name is Morax, and I am
entirely
at your service, my … Martinian.' He actually winked. A greedy, petty man.

‘The best room is over the kitchen,'
Linon said silently.
‘He is doing what you asked.'

‘You know this inn?'

‘I know most of them on this road, imbecile. You are taking us into perilous waters.'

‘I'm sailing to Sarantium. Of course I am,'
Crispin replied wryly, in silence. Linon gave an inward snort and was still. Another girl, with a purpling bruise on one cheek, had taken the wine jug from the yellow-haired one. Both of them hurried away.

‘May I suggest our very best Candarian red wine with your dinner?' the innkeeper said, gripping his own hands in the way all innkeepers seemed to have. ‘There is a modest surcharge, of course, but …'

‘You have Candarian? That will be fine. Bring it unmixed, with a jug of water. What is dinner, friend Morax?'

‘Aren't we the lordly one!'

‘We have some choice country sausages of our own making. Or a stew of chicken, even now being prepared.'

Crispin opted for the stew.

On the way up to the room over the kitchen he tried to understand why he'd done what he'd just done. No clear answer came. In fact, he hadn't
done
anything. Yet. But it occurred to him, with something near to actual
pain, that he'd last seen that huge-eyed look of terror in his older daughter's face, when her mother lay vomiting blood before she died. He'd been unable to do anything. Enraged, nearly insane with grief. Helpless.

‘
THEY PERFORM THIS ABOMINATION
all over Sauradia?'

He was naked in the metal tub in his room, knees drawn up to his chest. The largest tub wasn't particularly large. The yellow-haired girl had oiled him, not very competently, and was now scrubbing his back with a rough cloth, for want of any strigil. Linon lay on the window-sill.

‘No. No, my lord. Only here at the southing of the Old Wood … Aldwood, we say … and at the northern edge. There are two oak groves sacred to Ludan. The … forest god.' Her voice was low, close to a whisper. Sound carried through these walls. She spoke Rhodian acceptably, though not easily. He switched to Sarantine again.

‘You are Jaddite, girl?'

She hesitated. ‘I was brought to the Light last year.' By the slave trader, no doubt. ‘And Sauradia is Jaddite, is it not?'

Another hesitation. ‘Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord.' ‘But these pagans still take young girls and … do whatever they do to them? In a province of the Empire?'

‘Crispin. You are better not knowing this.'

‘Not in the north, my lord,' said the girl. She scrubbed the cloth across his ribs. ‘In the north a thief or a woman taken in adultery … someone who has already forfeited their life is hanged on the god's tree. Only hanged. Nothing … worse.'

‘Ah. A
milder
barbarism. I see. And why is it different here? No thieves or adulterous women to be had?'

‘I don't know.' She did not react to his sarcasm. He was being unfair, he knew. ‘I'm sure it isn't that, my lord.
But … it may be that Morax uses this to keep peace with the village. He … allows travellers without Permits to stay, especially in autumn and winter. He's wealthy because of it. The village inns suffer. Perhaps this is his way of making it up to them? He gives one of his slaves. For Ludan?'

‘Enough. It is blindingly obvious no one has ever taught you how to give a rubdown. Jad's blood! An Imperial Inn without a strigil? Disgraceful. Get me a dry towel, girl.' Crispin was aware of a familiar, hard anger within him and struggled to keep his voice down. ‘A fine reason to kill a slave, of course. Relations with the neighbours.'

She rose and hurriedly fetched a towel from the bed— the excuse for a towel they had sent up. This was
not
his bathhouse in Varena. The room itself was nondescript but of decent size, and some warmth did seem to be rising from the kitchen below. He had already noted that the door had one of the newer iron locks, opened with a copper key. The merchants would like that. Morax knew his business, it seemed, both the licit and the illicit sides of it. He
was
probably wealthy, or on the way to it.

Crispin controlled his anger, thinking hard. ‘I was correct down below? There are people here tonight without Permits?'

He stood up and stepped, dripping, out of the small tub. She was flushed from his rebuke, anxious, visibly afraid. It only made him more angry. He took the towel, rubbed his hair and beard, then wrapped himself against the cold. Then he swore, bitten by some crawling creature in the towel.

She stood by, hands awkwardly at her sides, eyes downcast. ‘Well?' he demanded again. ‘Answer. Was I correct?'

‘Yes, my lord.' Speaking Sarantine, which she clearly understood more readily, she sounded intelligent for her
station, and there was life in the blue eyes when the terror was at bay. ‘Most of them are illegal. Autumn is a quiet time. If the taxing officers or soldiers come he bribes them, and the Imperial Couriers are back and forth too often to complain … so long as they are not put out by the other patrons. Morax takes good care of the couriers.'