The Sarantine Mosaic

by Guy Gavriel Kay

Not enough so, it seemed. Or not foolish enough. The courier was white-faced; she had given him a genuine fright. A balding, paunchy man, no longer young. Not cruel at all, merely refusing prudently to involve himself in the under-the-surface life of a Sauradian village, even if it involved the forbidden sacrifice of a girl to a pagan god. Perhaps especially so. What would happen if he reported this story to the clerics, or at the army camp east of them? An investigation, questions asked, probably painful questions—even fatal ones—for these were matters of holy faith. Stringent measures to follow against resurgent paganism? Fulminating clerics, soldiers quartered in the village, punitive taxes imposed? Morax and others might be punished; the innkeeper could be relieved of his position, his nose slit, hands cut off.

  And no more of the best treatment, the warmest rooms at this inn or any of the others in Sauradia for Zagnes of Sarnica. Word travelled swiftly along the main roads, and no one, anywhere, liked an informer. He was an Imperial Officer, but he spent most of his days—and nights—far from Sarantium.

  And all this for a serving girl? How could she possibly have expected him to help?

  She hadn’t. But she didn’t want to die, and her options were narrowing by the moment.

  ‘Get back in bed,’ Zagnes had said brusquely. ‘You’ll freeze on the floor and then you’re no good to me at all. I’m always cold, these days,’ he’d added, with a contrived laugh. ‘Too many years on the road. Rain and wind get right inside my bones. Time to retire. I would, if my wife wasn’t at home.’ Another false, unconvincing laugh. ‘Girl, I’m sure you are frightened by nothing. I’ve known Morax for years. You girls are always afraid of shadows when this silly … when this day comes round.’

  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 in 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 she snatched a moment from emptying the chamber-pots to stand on the porch 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 fr
om 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 se
rvice, 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.