The Sarantine Mosaic (61 page)

‘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.

‘We, ah, must dine together, Rhodian,' Pertennius said, after a moment.

‘We
must
,' Crispin agreed enthusiastically. ‘Leontes spoke so
highly
of you!'

Leontes's secretary hesitated another moment, his high forehead furrowing. He looked as if there were a great many questions he had a mind to ask, but then he bowed to Shirin and stepped out onto the portico. She closed the door carefully behind him and stood there, resting her head against it, her back to Crispin. Neither of them spoke. They heard a jingle of harness
from the street and the muted sound of Pertennius riding off.

‘Oh,
Jad
!' said Zoticus's daughter, voice muffled against the heavy door. ‘What must you think of me?'

‘I really don't know,' said Crispin carefully. ‘What should I think of you? That you give friendly greetings? They say the dancers of Sarantium are dangerous and immoral.'

She turned at that, leaning back against the door. ‘I'm not. People would like me to be, but I'm not.' She had not adorned herself, or painted her face. Her dark hair was quite short. She looked very young.

He could remember her kiss. A deception, but a practised one. ‘Really?'

She flushed again, but nodded. ‘Truly. You ought to be able to guess why I did what I did. He's been calling almost every day since the end of summer. Half the men in the Imperial Precinct expect a dancer to go on her back and spread her legs if they wave a jewel or a square of silk at her.'

Crispin didn't smile. ‘They said that of the Empress, in her day, didn't they?'

She looked wry; he saw her father, abruptly, in the expression. ‘In her day it might have been true. When she met Petrus she changed. That's what I understand.' She pushed herself off from the door. ‘I'm being ungracious. Your cleverness just now saved me some real awkwardness. Thank you. Pertennius is harmless, but he tells tales.'

Crispin looked at her. He was remembering the secretary's hungry expression last night, eyes passing from the Empress to himself and back to Alixana, with her long hair unbound. ‘He may not be so harmless. Tale-tellers aren't, you know, especially if they are bitter.'

She shrugged. ‘I'm a dancer. There are always rumours. Will you take wine? Do you really come from my bastard of a so-called father?'

The words were lightly spoken, tossed away.

Crispin blinked. ‘Yes I will and yes I do. I wouldn't have been able to invent a tale like that,' he said, also mildly.

She went past him and he followed her down the corridor. There was a doorway at the end of the hallway, opening to a courtyard with a small fountain and stone benches, but it was too cold to sit outside. Shirin turned in to a handsome room where a fire had been laid. She clapped her hands once, and murmured quiet instructions to the servant who immediately appeared. She seemed to have regained her self-possession.

Crispin found that he was struggling to keep his own.

Lying on a wooden and bronze trunk set against the wall by the fire, on its back as if it were a discarded toy, was a small leather and metal bird.

Shirin turned from the servant and followed his gaze. ‘That actually
was
a gift from my endlessly doting father.' She smiled thinly. ‘The only thing I've ever received from him in my life. Years ago. I wrote to him that I'd come to Sarantium and been accepted as a dancer by the Greens. I'm not sure why I bothered to tell him, but he did reply. That one time. He told me not to become a prostitute and sent me a child's toy. It sings if you wind it up. He makes them, I gather. A pastime of sorts? Did you ever see any of his birds?'

Crispin swallowed, and nodded his head. He was hearing—could not help but hear—a voice crying in Sauradia.

‘I did,' he said finally. ‘When I visited him before leaving Varena.' He hesitated, then took the chair she
gestured towards, nearest the fire. Courtesy for guests on a cold day. She took the seat opposite, legs demurely together, her dancer's posture impeccable. He went on, ‘Zoticus, your father … is actually a friend of my colleague. Martinian. I'd never met him before, to be honest. I can't actually tell you very much, only report that he seemed well when I saw him. A very learned man. We … spent part of an afternoon together. He was kind enough to offer me some guidance for the road.'

‘He used to travel a great deal, I understand,' Shirin said. Her expression grew wry again. ‘Else I'd not be alive, I suppose.'

Crispin hesitated. This woman's history was not something to which he was entitled. But there was the bird, silenced, lying on the trunk.
A pastime of sorts.
‘Your mother … told you this?'

Shirin nodded. Her short black hair bobbed at her shoulders with the movement. Crispin could see her appeal: a dancer's grace, quick energy, effervescence. The dark eyes were compelling. He could imagine her in the theatre, neat-footed and alluring.

She said, ‘To be just, my mother never said anything bad about him that I can recall. He liked women, she said. He must have been a handsome man, and persuasive. My mother had been intending to withdraw from the world among the Daughters of Jad when he passed through our village.'

‘And after?' Crispin said, thinking about a grey-bearded pagan alchemist on an isolated farm amid his parchments and artifacts.

‘Oh, she did retreat to them. She's there now. I was born and raised among holy women. They taught me my prayers and my letters. I was … everyone's daughter, I suppose.'

‘Then how … ?'

‘I ran away.'

Shirin of the Greens smiled briefly. She might be young, but it was not an innocent smile. The houseservant appeared with a tray. Wine, water, a bowl of late-season fruit. Zoticus's daughter dismissed her and mixed the wine herself, bringing his cup across. He caught her scent again, the Empress's.

Shirin sat down once more, looking across the room at him, appraisingly. ‘Who are you?' she asked, not unreasonably. She tilted her head a little sideways. Her glance went briefly past him, then returned.

‘Is this the new regimen? You silence me except when you need my opinion? How gracious. And, yes, really, who is this vulgar-looking person?'

Crispin swallowed. The bird's aristocratic voice was vividly clear now in his mind. They were in the same room. He hesitated, then sent, inwardly,
‘Can you hear what I am saying?'

No response. Shirin watched him, waiting.

He cleared his throat. ‘My name is Caius Crispus. Of Varena. I'm an artisan. A mosaicist. Invited here to help with the Great Sanctuary.'

A hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh! You're the one someone tried to kill last night!'

‘He is? Wonderful! A splendid fellow to be alone with, I must say.'

Crispin tried to ignore that. ‘Word travels so quickly?'

‘In Sarantium it does, especially when it involves the factions.' Crispin was abruptly reminded that this woman, as Principal Dancer, was as important to the Greens in her way as Scortius was to the Blues. Seen in that light, there was no surprise in her being well informed. She leaned back a little, her expression openly curious now, watching Crispin's face.

‘You can't be serious? With that hair? Those hands? And look at the left one, he's been in a fight. Attractive? Hah. It must be your time of month!'

Crispin felt himself flushing. He looked down, involuntarily, at his large, scarred hands. The left one was visibly swollen. He felt excruciatingly awkward. He could hear the bird, but not Shirin's replies, and neither of them had any idea he was listening to half their exchanges.

She seemed amused at his sudden colour. She said, ‘You dislike being talked about? It can be useful, you know. Especially if you are new to the City.'

Crispin took a needed drink of wine. ‘It depends what … people are saying, I suppose.'

She smiled. She had a very good smile. ‘I suppose. I do hope you weren't injured?'

‘Is it the Rhodian accent? Is that it? Keep your legs closed, girl. We know nothing about this man.'

Crispin began to wish Shirin would silence the bird, or that he had a way to do so. He shook his head, trying to concentrate. ‘Not injured, no, thank you. Though two of my companions died, and a young man at the gates to the Blues' compound. I have no idea who hired those soldiers.' They would know, soon enough, he thought. He had battered a man senseless just now.

‘You must be a terribly dangerous mosaicist?' Shirin's dark eyes flashed. There was a teasing irony in the tone. The report of deaths seemed not to disturb her. This was Sarantium, he reminded himself.

‘Oh, gods! Why not just undress right here and lie down? You could save the long walk all the way to the bed —'

Crispin breathed a sigh of relief as the bird was silenced again. He looked down at his wine cup, drained it. Shirin rose smoothly, took the cup. She used less water this time filling it, he saw.

‘I didn't think I was dangerous at all,' he said as she brought it to him and sat down again.

Her smile was teasing again. ‘Your wife doesn't think so?'

He was glad the bird was silent. ‘My wife died two summers ago, and my daughters.'

Her expression changed. ‘Plague?'

He nodded.

‘I'm sorry.' She looked at him a moment. ‘Is that why you came?'

Jad's bones. Another too-clever Sarantine woman. Crispin said, honestly, ‘It is almost why I didn't come. People urged me to do so. The invitation was really for Martinian, my partner. I passed myself off as him, on the road.'

Her eyebrows arched. ‘You presented yourself at the Imperial Court under a false name? And lived? Oh, you
are
a dangerous man, Rhodian.'

He drank again. ‘Not exactly. I did give my own name.' Something occurred to him. ‘In fact, the herald who an-nounced me may also have lost his position because of that.'

‘Also?'

This was becoming complex, suddenly. After the wine at the baths, and now here, his head wasn't as clear as it needed to be. ‘The … previous mosaicist for the Sanctuary was dismissed by the Emperor last night.'

Shirin of the Greens eyed him closely. There was a brief silence. A log crackled on the fire. She said, thoughtfully, ‘No shortage of people who might have hired soldiers, then. It isn't difficult, you know.'

He sighed. ‘So I am learning.'

There was more, of course, but he decided not to mention Styliane Daleina or a hidden blade in the steam. He looked around the room, saw the bird again. Linon's
voice—the same patrician accent all the alchemist's birds had—but a character entirely other. Not a surprise. He knew, now, what these birds were, or once had been. He was quite certain this woman didn't. He had no idea what to do.

Shirin said, ‘And so, before someone appears to attack you in my house for some good reason or other, what message did a loving father have for his daughter?'

Crispin shook his head. ‘None, I fear. He gave me your name in case I should need assistance.'

She tried to hide it, but he saw the disappointment. Children, absent parents. Inward burdens carried in the world. ‘Did he say anything
about
me, at least?'

She's a prostitute
, Crispin remembered the alchemist murmuring with a straight face, before amending that description slightly. He cleared his throat again. ‘He said you were a dancer. He didn't have any details, actually.'