Guy Kay - Sailing to Sarantium

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, capable-looking 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 service, my… Martinian." He actually winked. A greedy, petty man.