Sailing to Sarantium

by Guy Gavriel Kay

  ‘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 selfpossession.

  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 rig
ht 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.’

  She reddened angrily. ‘Of course he has details. He knows I’m First of the Greens. I wrote him that when they named me. He never replied.’ She tossed her head. ‘Of course he has so many children scattered all over. From his travels. I suppose we all write letters and he just answers the favoured ones.’

  Crispin shook his head. ‘He did say his children didn’t write to him. I couldn’t tell if he was serious.’

  ‘He never replies,’ Shirin snapped. ‘Two letters and one bird, that is all I have ever had from my father.’ She picked up her own wine cup. ‘I suppose he sent birds to all of us.’

  Crispin suddenly remembered something. ‘I don’t . . . believe so.’

  ‘Oh? And how would you know?’ Anger in her voice.

  ‘He told me he’d only ever given away one of his birds.’

  She grew still. ‘He said that?’

  Crispin nodded.

  ‘But why? I mean . . . ?’

  He had a guess, actually. He said, ‘Are any of your . . . siblings here in the City?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not any I know of.’

  ‘That might be why. He did say he’d always planned to journey to Sarantium and never had. That it was a disappointment. Perhaps your being here . . . ?’

  Shirin looked over at her bird, then back to Crispin. Something seemed to occur to her. She said, with an indifferent shrug, ‘Well, why sending a mechanical toy would be so important to him, I have no idea.’

  Crispin looked away. She was dissembling, but she had to do that. So was he, for that matter. He was going to need time, he thought, to sort this through as well. Every encounter he had in this city seemed to be raising challenges of one sort or another. He sternly reminded himself that he was here to work. On a dome. A transcendent dome high above all the world, a gift to him from the Emperor and the god. He was not going to let himself become trammelled in the intrigues of this city.

  He rose on that thought, resolutely. He’d intended to go to the Sanctuary this afternoon. This visit was to have been a minor interlude, a dutiful call. ‘I ought not to outstay your welcome to an uninvited stranger.’

  She stood up quickly, her first awkward motion. It made her seem younger.

  He approached, became aware of her perfume again. And had to ask, against his own better judgement. ‘I . . . was given to understand earlier that only the Empress Alixana was allowed that particular . . . scent. Is it indiscreet to ask . . . ?’

  Shirin smiled suddenly, visibly pleased. ‘You noticed? She saw me dance in the spring. Sent a private message with a note and a flask. It was made public that, in appreciation of my dancing, the Empress had permitted me to use the scent that was otherwise hers alone. Even though she’s known to favour the Blues.’

  Crispin looked down at her. A small, quick, dark-eyed woman, quite young. ‘A great honour.’ He hesitated. ‘It suits you as much as it does her.’

  She looked ironic. She would be used to compliments, he realized. ‘The association with power is attractive, isn’t it?’ she murmured drily.

  Crispin laughed aloud. ‘Jad’s blood! If all the women in Sarantium are as clever as the ones I’ve already met . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ she said, looking up at him slantwise. ‘What follows, Caius Crispus?’ Her tone was deliberately arch, teasing again. It was effective, he had to concede.

  He couldn’t think of a reply. She laughed. ‘You’ll have to tell me about the others, of course. One must know one’s rivals in this city.’

  Crispin looked at her. He could imagine what her bird would have said to that. He was grateful it was silent. Otherwise—

  ‘Oh, gods! You are a disgrace! You bring shame upon . . .everything!’

  Crispin winced, covering it with a quick hand to his mouth. Not silenced, obviously. It was evident that Zoticus’s daughter had her own methods of controlling her bird. She’d been toying with both of them, he thought. Shirin turned, smiling privately to herself, and led the way back down the corridor to the front door.

  ‘I’ll call again,’ Crispin murmured, turning there. ‘If I may?’

  ‘Of course. You must. I’ll assemble a small dinner party for you. Where are you staying?’

  He named the inn. ‘I’ll be looking for a house, though. I believe the Chancellor’s officials are to find me one.’

  ‘Gesius? Really? And Leontes met with you at the baths? You have powerful friends, Rhodian. My father was wrong. You couldn’t possibly need someone like me for . . . anything.’ She smiled again, the clever expression belying the words. ‘Come and see me dance. The chariots are finished, it is theatre season now.’

  He nodded. She opened the door and stood back to let him pass.

  ‘Thank you again for the greeting,’ he said. He wasn’t sure why he’d said that. Teasing. Mostly. She’d done enough of it, herself.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Shirin of the Greens murmured. ‘I’m not to be allowed to forget that, am I? My beloved father would be so ashamed. It isn’t how he raised me, of course. Good day, Caius Crispus,’ she added, keeping a small but discernible distance this time. After her own gibes at him, he was pleased to see that she had reacted a little, however.

  ‘Don’t kiss him! Don’t! Is the door open?�
�

  A brief pause, then, ‘No I do not know that, Shirin! With you I am never certain.’ Another silence, as Shirin said whatever she said, and then in a very different tone Crispin heard the bird say, ‘Very well. Yes, dear. Yes, I know. I do know that.’

  There was a tenderness there that took him straight back to the Aldwood. Linon. Remember me.

  Crispin bowed, feeling a sudden wave of grief pass over him. Zoticus’s daughter smiled and the door closed. He stood on the portico thinking, though not very coherently. Carullus’s soldiers waited, watching him, eyeing the street . . . which was empty now. A wind blew. It was cold, the late-afternoon sun hidden by the roofs of houses west.

  Crispin took a deep breath then he knocked on the door again.

  A moment later it swung open. Shirin’s eyes were wide. She opened her mouth but, seeing his expression, said nothing at all. Crispin stepped inside. He himself closed the door on the street.

  She looked up at him.

  ‘Shirin, I’m sorry, but I can hear your bird,’ he said. ‘We have a few things to talk about.’

  The Urban Prefecture in the reign of the Emperor Valerius II fell under the auspices of Faustinus the Master of Offices, as did all of the civil service and, accordingly, it was run with his well-known efficiency and attention to detail.

  These traits were much in evidence when the former courier and suspected assassin, Pronobius Tilliticus, was brought to questioning in the notorious, windowless building near the Mezaros Forum. The new legal protocols established by Valerius’s Quaestor of the Judiciary, Marcellinus, were painstakingly followed: a scribe and a notary were both present as the Questioner set out his array of implements.

  In the event, none of the hanging weights or metal probes or the more elaborate contrivances proved necessary. The man Tilliticus offered a complete and detailed confession as soon as the Questioner, gauging his subject with an experienced eye, elected to suddenly clutch and shear off a hank of the man’s hair with a curved, serrated blade. As his locks fell to the stone floor, Tilliticus screamed as if he’d been pierced by the jagged blade. Then he began to babble forth far more than they needed to hear. The secretary recorded; the notary witnessed and affixed his seal when it was done. The Questioner, showing no signs of disappointment, withdrew. There were other subjects waiting in other chambers.