The Sarantine Mosaic (92 page)

They all knew there was a way to simplify this reconquest of the Empire's homeland. She wasn't the only one who had seen it, sending an artisan on the long journey here with a private message. The logic, the sense, of a marriage was overwhelming. And the husband had been overriding the Emperor. Amazingly.

Which meant, if she was right in this sudden line of thought, that she had been admitted here now, tonight,
only
because … because a different decision had now been made.

Spring was coming. Was here, in fact. She took a breath.

‘You are invading us, aren't you?' she said flatly.

Valerius of Sarantium turned from his wife to look at Gisel. His expression grave as a cleric's again, thoughtful as an academician, he said simply, ‘Yes, in fact, we are. In your name and the god's. I trust you will approve?'

He wasn't really asking, of course. He was telling her. And not just her. Gisel heard, almost
felt
a ripple pass through the small, luxurious room as men shifted where they stood or sat. The Strategos's nostrils actually flared, like a racehorse's hearing the trumpet. He had surmised, anticipated, but had not known. Until now. She understood. This was the moment of telling that Valerius had just chosen, moving with the moment, the mood, her own arrival here. Or perhaps this entire evening of music among intimates on the trembling brink of springtime had been arranged to achieve this instant, with
none
of the others knowing, not even his wife. A man who pulled hidden strings, made others dance for his needs, or die.

She looked at Alixana and found the other woman's steady gaze waiting for hers. Gisel, gazing into those depths, imagining what those dark eyes could do to a man or a certain kind of woman, understood something else, entirely unexpected: improbable as it was, she had an ally here, someone else who also wanted to find a way to guide them all around this invasion and what it portended. Not that it seemed to matter.

‘The Emperor is to be congratulated,' a third woman's voice interjected, Styliane's tone cool as the night wind outside. ‘It seems his taxation officers have been more diligent than rumour suggests. It is a miracle of the god and his regent upon earth that adequate funds for an invasion are in the treasury after all.'

The ensuing pause was brittle. Styliane, Gisel thought, had to have extraordinary confidence in her situation to speak in this way, in this company. But she would, wouldn't she? By birth and marriage—and disposition.

Valerius turned to look at her and his expression, remarkably, was amused again. ‘An Emperor receives the aid he deserves, Saranios once said. I don't know what that suggests about me and my servants, but there are ways of funding a war. We've decided to rescind pay for the eastern army this year. No point bribing Bassania for a peace
and
paying soldiers to keep it.'

Leontes looked startled. He cleared his throat. ‘This has been decided, my lord?' He had obviously not been consulted.

‘A fiscal matter, Strategos. I do wish to meet with you tomorrow to discuss the possibility of offering the soldiers land in the east to settle. We have discussed this in the past, and the Chancellor has now proposed we do it.'

Leontes was too experienced to further betray his surprise. ‘Of course, my lord. I will be here at sunrise. Though I regret that I have been made a liar over something I said this afternoon at the wedding. I promoted the bridegroom and posted him east. Now he loses not only his promised increase in salary but
all
his income.'

Valerius shrugged. ‘Re-post him. Take the fellow west with you. A small matter, surely.'

Leontes shook his head. ‘I suppose it is. But I never take newly married men to a campaign.'

‘Commendable, Leontes,' said the Empress. ‘But I'm sure you can make exceptions.'

‘Bad for an army, exalted lady.'

‘So is obduracy, surely,' said his own wife, from her seat near the Empress. She set down her wine cup. ‘My dear, really. You obviously think the fellow is competent.
Appoint him to your private staff, pay him yourself as you pay the others, post him east to Eubulus as your observer for a year—or until you think it is all right for him to be called west and killed in war.'

The crisp precision of this in a woman, Gisel thought, looking from face to face to face, must surely be galling to the men assembled. Then she reconsidered, looking at the Empress. They might be accustomed to such things here—unlike her own court, where a woman speaking with authority could be marked for murder.

On the other hand, Gisel had
reigned
in Varena, in her own name. Neither of these women did. It mattered. It
did
represent a difference. And as if to underscore that, Styliane Daleina spoke again. ‘Forgive me, my lords, this presumption. I was ever too inclined to speak my mind.' There was no real contrition in her tone, however.

‘A trait of your father's,' the Emperor said quietly. ‘It … need not be a failing.'

Need not be
,
Gisel thought. The room seemed laden and layered with intricacies of past and present and what was to come. Nuances coiling and spreading like incense, subtle and insistent.

Styliane rose and made a graceful obeisance. ‘Thank you, my lord. I will ask your permission and the Empress's to withdraw. If matters of war and policy are to be discussed, it is proper that I take my leave.'

It was, of course. No one spoke to gainsay her. Gisel wondered if she'd expected someone to do so. Her husband? If so, she would be disappointed. Leontes did escort his wife towards the door but turned back to the room as she went out. He looked at the Emperor, and smiled.

The two men had known each other, Gisel remembered hearing, from before the day when the first Valerius
had been placed upon the throne. Leontes would have been very young then.

‘My dear lord,' the Strategos said, unable to keep his voice entirely steady, ‘may I ask that all those here be cautioned that this information is to go no further yet? I can make use of the advantage of time.'

‘Oh, my dear,' said the wife at the Emperor's side, ‘they will have been preparing for you since
long
before this child fled her throne. Ask her, if you really need to.'

Gisel ignored that, both the
child
and the
fled
, and saw that Valerius was looking at her, and she realized belatedly that he was actually waiting for an answer to the question he'd asked of her.
I trust you will approve?

Formality, a courtesy, she thought. Such things mattered to him, it seemed. Worth knowing. He would always be courteous, this man on the Golden Throne. Even as he did exactly what he chose to do and accepted— or courted—any consequences that might fall to others.

‘Do I approve?' she repeated. ‘My lord, of course I do,' she lied. ‘Why else did I sail to Sarantium?'

She sank low in obeisance again, mainly to hide her face now and what was in her eyes. She was seeing the burial mound again, not this elegant, lamplit palace room, was remembering civil war and famine, the festering aftermath of plague, was savagely lamenting the absence of a single living soul she could trust. Wishing, almost, that she had died in Varena, after all, and not lived to hear this question asked of her as she stood utterly alone in a foreign land where her answer—truth or lie—carried no weight or meaning in the world.

‘I really do
not
feel well,' said Pertennius of Eubulus, spacing his words with care.

They were in a modest room on the upper floor of the secretary's home. Pertennius lay prostrate on a dark green couch, one hand over his eyes, the other on his stomach. Crispin, at a small window, stood looking down on the empty street. The stars were out, a wind was blowing. There was a fire lit on the hearth. On a desk against the wall between couch and window was an assortment of documents, books, writing implements, papers of different colours and textures.

Scattered among these—Crispin had seen them as soon as he'd entered the room—were his own early sketches for the dome and wall of the Great Sanctuary.

He had wondered how they came to be here, and then remembered that Leontes's secretary was also the official historian of Valerius's building projects. In an unsettling way, Crispin's work was part of his mandate.

Why a bison?
Pertennius had said, standing unsteadily in the street outside his door.
Why so much of you on the dome?

Both, as it happened, shrewd questions. Crispin, no admirer of the dry-as-dust secretary, had come inside and up the stairs. Challenged, intrigued, both? Probably a waste of time, he realized, glancing over at the recumbent secretary. Pertennius looked genuinely ill. If he'd liked the man more, he might have been sympathetic.

‘Too much wine of an afternoon can do that to you,' he said mildly. ‘Especially if one doesn't normally drink.'

‘I don't,' said Pertennius. There was a silence. ‘She likes you,' the secretary added. ‘More than me.'

Crispin turned away from the window. Pertennius had opened his eyes and was looking at Crispin. His gaze and tone were both quite neutral: a historian noting a fact, not a rival making complaint.

Crispin wasn't deceived. Not about this. He shook his head, leaning back against the wall by the window.
‘Shirin? She likes me, yes, as a link to her father. Not as anything more.' He wasn't actually certain that was true, but he thought it was, most of the time.
Think of her fingers slipping your tunic up from behind and then sliding back down along your skin.
Abruptly, Crispin shook his head again, for a different reason this time. He hesitated, then said, ‘Shall I tell you what I think?'

Pertennius waited. A listening sort of man, privy to much: in his profession, by his nature. He really didn't look well.

Crispin suddenly wished he hadn't come up here. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to be having. With an inward shrug and a flicker of irritation that he was being placed in this situation—or had placed himself in it—he said, ‘I think Shirin is tired of being beset by men every time she steps out-of-doors. It makes for a difficult life, though some women might think they want it.'

Pertennius nodded slowly, his head heavy on his shoulders. He closed his eyes, struggled to open them again.

‘Mortals seek fame,' he said sententiously, ‘unaware of all it means. She needs a … protector. Someone to keep them away.'

There was truth to all of this, of course. Crispin decided not to say that a secretary and historian was unlikely to prove sufficient deterrent as an acknowledged lover to achieve that protection. Instead, he murmured, temporizing, ‘You know there are those who have commissioned love spells from the cheiromancers.'

Pertennius made a sour face. ‘Foh!' he said. ‘Magic. It is unholy.'

‘And it doesn't work,' Crispin added.

‘You
know
this?' the other man asked. His eyes were briefly clear.

Aware, suddenly, of a need for caution, Crispin said, ‘We are taught by the clerics that it doesn't, friend.'
Irritated again, he added, ‘In any case, have you ever seen Shirin wandering the streets before dawn against her will and desire, her hair unbound, compelled to where some man waits in his open doorway?'

‘Oh, Jad!' said Pertennius, with feeling. He groaned. Illness and desire, an unholy mix.

Crispin suppressed a smile. Looked out the partly open window again. The air was cool. The street below was empty and silent. He decided to leave, considered asking for an escort. It was not particularly safe to cross the City at night alone and his own house was a distance away.

He said, ‘You'd do well to get some sleep. We can talk another—'

‘Do you know that they
worship
bison in Sauradia?' said Pertennius abruptly. ‘It is in Metractes's
History of the Rhodian Wars.'

Again, Crispin felt a flicker of alarm. His regret at being here grew more intense. ‘I remember Metractes,' he said casually. ‘I was made to memorize him as a child. Dismally dull.'

Pertennius looked offended. ‘Hardly so, Rhodian! A fine historian. A model for my own histories.'

‘I beg your pardon,' Crispin said quickly. ‘He is, ah, voluminous, certainly.'

‘Comprehensive,' said Pertennius. He closed his eyes again. The hand came back up to rest over them. ‘Will this feeling pass?' he asked plaintively.

‘In the morning,' Crispin said. ‘With sleep. There is little else to be done for it.'

‘Am I going to be sick?'

‘It is certainly possible,' Crispin said. ‘Do you want to stand by the window?'

‘Too far. Tell me about the bison.'