And they had infected with their uncouth manners and heresies even those native-born descendants of the Rhodian Empire who had a claim to honour.
The man Martinian’s hair was actually an offensively bright red, Tilliticus saw. Only the dust and lime in it and in his untidy beard softened the hue. His eyes, unsoftened, were a hard, extremely unpleasant blue. He wore a nondescript, stained tunic over wrinkled brown leggings. He was a big man, and he carried himself in a coiled, angry way that was quite unappealing. His hands were large, and there was a bloodstained bandage wrapped around one of them.
He’s in a temper, the fool by the doorway had said. The fool was still on his stool, watching the two of them from beneath something misshapen that might once have been a hat. The deaf and mute apprentice had wandered in by now, along with all the others from outside. It ought to have been a splendid, resonant moment for Tilliticus to make his proclamation, to graciously accept the artisan’s stammering gratitude on behalf of the Chancellor and the Imperial Post, and then head for the best inn Varena could offer with some coins to spend on mulled wine and a woman.
‘And so? I’m here. What is it you want?’
The mosaicist’s voice was as hard as his eyes. His glance, when it left Tilliticus’s face and sought that of the older man in the doorway, did not grow any less inimical. An unpleasant character, entirely.
Tilliticus was genuinely shocked by the rudeness. ‘In truth? I want nothing whatever with you.’ He reached into his bag, found the fat Imperial Packet and threw it scornfully at the artisan. The man, moving quickly, caught it in one hand.
Tilliticus said, almost spitting the words, ‘You are Martinian of Varena, obviously. Unworthy as you are, I am charged with declaring that the Thrice Exalted Beloved of Jad, the Emperor Valerius II, requests you to attend upon him in Sarantium with all possible speed. The packet you hold contains a sum of money to aid you in your travels, a sealed Permit signed by the Chancellor himself that allows you to use Imperial Posting Inns for lodging and services, and a letter that I am sure you will be able to find someone to read to you. It indicates that your services are requested to aid in the decoration of the new Sanctuary of Jad’s Holy Wisdom that the Emperor, in his own great wisdom, is even now constructing.’
There was a mollifying buzz of sound in the sanctuary as the apprentices and lesser artisans, at least, appeared to grasp the significance of what Tilliticus had just said. It occurred to him that he might consider, at future times, relaying the formal words in this blunt tone. It had an effectiveness of its own.
‘What happened to the old one?’ The red-haired artisan seemed unmoved. Was he mentally deficient? Tilliticus wondered.
‘What old one, you primitive barbarian?’
‘Sheathe the insults or you’ll crawl from here. The old sanctuary.’
Tilliticus blinked. The man was deranged. ‘You threaten an Imperial Courier? Your nose will be slit for you if you so much as lift a hand to me. The old sanctuary burned two years ago, in the riot. Are you ignorant of events in the world?’
‘We had plague here,’ the man said, his voice flat. ‘Twice. And then a civil war. Fires halfway across the world are unimportant at such times. Thank you for delivering this. I will read it and decide what to do.’
‘Decide?’ Tilliticus squeaked. He hated the way his voice rose when he was caught by surprise. The same thing had happened when that accursed girl in Trakesia had asked him to take her away. It had made it difficult to impart the proper tone to the needed dissertation upon his mother’s family.
‘Why, yes,’ the mosaicist said. ‘Dare I assume this is an offer and an invitation, not a command, as to a slave?’
Tilliticus was too stupefied to speak for a moment.
He drew himself up. Pleased to note that his voice was under control, he snapped, ‘Only a slave would fail to grasp what this means. It seems you are craven and without aspiration in the world. In which case, like a slave, you may burrow back down into your little hovel here and do what you will in the dirt and Sarantium suffers no loss at all. I have no time for further talk. You have your letter. In the Emperor’s thrice-glorious name, I bid you good day.’
‘Good day,’ said the man, dismissively. He turned away. ‘Pardos,’ he said, ‘the setting lime was well done today. And properly laid on, Radulf, Couvry. I’m pleased.’
Tilliticus stomped out.
The Empire, civilization, the glories of the Holy City . . . all wasted on some people, he thought. In the doorway he stopped in front of the older man, who sat regarding him with a mild gaze.
‘Your hat,’ Tilliticus said, glaring at him, ‘is the most ridiculous head-covering I have ever seen.’
‘I know,’ said the man, cheerfully. ‘They all tell me that.’
Pronobius Tilliticus, aggrieved, unassuaged, reclaimed his horse and galloped off, dust rising behind him on the road to Varena’s walls.
‘WE HAD BETTER TALK,’ Crispin said, looking down at the man who had taught him most of what he knew.
Martinian’s expression was rueful. He stood up, adjusted the eccentric hat on his head—only Crispin among those there knew that it had saved his life, once— and led the way outside. The Imperial Courier, dudgeon lending him speed, was racing towards town. The sanctuary lay in its own enclosure just east of the city walls.
They watched him for a moment, then Martinian began walking south towards a copse of beech trees outside the yard at the opposite end from the burial mound. The sun was low now and the wind had picked up. Crispin squinted a little, emerging from the muted light of the sanctuary. A cow looked up from grazing and regarded them as they went. Crispin carried the Imperial Packet. The name ‘Martinian of Varena’ was writ large upon it in cursive script, quite elegantly. The seal was crimson and elaborate.
Martinian stopped short of the trees, just past the gate that led out from the yard to the road. He sat down on a stump there. They were quite alone. A blackbird swooped from their left, curved into the woods and was lost in leaves. It was cold now at the end of day with the sun going down. The blue moon was already up, above the forest. Crispin, glancing over as he leaned back against the wooden gate, realized that it was full.
Ilandra had died at sunset on a day when the blue moon was full, and the girls—sores ruptured, bodies fouled, their features hideously distorted—had followed her to the god that night. Crispin had walked outside and seen that moon, a wound in the sky.
He handed the heavy packet to Martinian, who accepted it without speaking. The older mosaicist looked down at his name for a moment, then tore open the Chancellor of Sarantium’s seal. In silence he began taking out what was within. The weight turned out to be silver and copper coins in a filigreed purse, as promised. A letter explained, as the courier had said, that the Great Sanctuary was being rebuilt and mosaic work was much a part of that. Some compliments upon the reputation of Martinian of Varena. There was a formal-looking document on superb paper which turned out to be the Permit for the Posting Inns. Martinian whistled softly and showed the parchment to Crispin: it was signed by the Chancellor himself, no lesser figure. They were both sufficiently familiar with high circles—if only here in Batiara among the Antae—to know that this was an honour.
Another document proved, when unfolded three times, to be a map showing the location of the Posting Inns and lesser stopping places on the Imperial road through Sauradia and Trakesia to the City. Yet another folded sheet named certain ships calling at Mylasia on the coast as reliable for sea transport if they happened to be in harbour.
‘Too late in the year by now for commercial ships,’ Martinian said thoughtfully, looking at this last. He took out the letter again, opened it. Pointed to a date at the top. ‘This was issued at the very beginning of autumn. Our red-cheeked friend took his time