Sailing to Sarantium

by Guy Gavriel Kay

  For some days, she had seen small gatherings break up and whispering stop suddenly as she entered a room, had been aware of eyes following her as she did her work. Even Deana had stopped tormenting her. It had been ten days, at least, since pig swill had been dumped on the straw of her pallet. And Morax himself had been far too kind—ever since a visit late one night from some of the villagers, walking up the road to the inn under carried torches and the cold stars.

  Kasia wiped sweat from her forehead, pushed her yellow hair back from her eyes, and carried the beer out to the merchants. Two of them grabbed at her, front and rear, pushing her tunic up as she poured for them, but she was used to that and made them laugh by pretending to stamp on the nearest one’s boot. These were regulars, who paid Morax a tidy private sum for the privilege of staying here without a Permit, and they wouldn’t be trouble unless they had much more beer than this.

  She finished pouring, slapped away the hand still squeezing her breast—making sure she never stopped smiling—and turned to go. The evening was young, there were dishes and flasks to be served and cleared and cleaned, fires to be kept up. She was being set free of the drudgery, sent up to an easy man in a warm bedroom. Uncertainly, Kasia walked out from the common room into the darker, colder hallway.

  A sudden, nauseating fear gripped her as she began climbing the stairs in the guttering candlelight. She had to stop, leaning sideways against the rail to control it. It was quiet here, the noise from the common room muted. Sweat felt cold on her forehead and neck. A trickle ran down her side. She swallowed. A stale, sour taste in her mouth and throat. Her heart was very fast, her breathing shallow; the blurred shadows of trees beyond the unshuttered, smudged window held terrors without name or shape.

  She felt like crying for her mother—a childlike panic, unthinking and primitive—but her mother was in a village three weeks’ journey north around the vastness of the Aldwood, and it was her mother who had sold her last autumn.

  She couldn’t pray. Certainly not to Jad, though she’d been brusquely converted with the others in a roadside chapel at the orders of the Karchite slaver who’d bought them and taken them south. And prayers to Ludan of the Wood were hopelessly beside the point, given what was to happen soon.

  It was supposed to be a virgin, and it had been once, but the world had changed. Sauradia was nominally Jaddite now, a tax-paying province of the Sarantine Empire supporting two army camps and the troops based in Megarium, and though certain of the ancient tribal rites were still quietly observed, and ignored by the Jaddite clerics if they weren’t forced to notice them, no one thought it necessary to offer their maiden daughters any more.

  Not when a whore from the Posting Inn would do.

  It was certain, Kasia thought, gripping the railing, looking out the small window at the night from halfway up the stairs. She felt helpless, and enraged by that. She had a knife, hidden by the smith’s forge, but what possible good was a knife? She couldn’t even try to run. They were watching her now, and where could a female slave go in any case? Into the woods? Along the road to be hunted with the dogs?

  She couldn’t see the forest through the streaky glass, but she was aware of it, a presence in the blackness, very near. No deceiving herself. The whispers, the watching, those inexplicable kindnesses, a never-before-seen softness in the eyes of that bitch Deana, the moist hunger in the face of Morax’s fat wife, the mistress, looking too quickly away whenever Kasia met her gaze in the kitchen.

  They were going to kill her two mornings from now, on the Day of the Dead.

  Crispin had used his Permit to take a servant at the first Posting Inn in Sauradia just past the marker stones at the border with Batiara. He was in the Sarantine Empire now, for the first time in his life. He considered taking a second mule for himself, but he really didn’t like riding, and his feet were bearing up surprisingly well in the good boots he’d bought. He could lease a small two-wheeled birota and a horse or mule to pull it, but that would mean an outlay, over and above what the Permit allowed him, and they were notoriously uncomfortable, in any case.

  Vargos, the hired servant, was a big, silent man, black-haired—unusual for an Inici—with a vivid cross-hatched scar high on one cheek and a staff even heavier than the one Crispin carried. The scar looked like a pagan symbol of some kind; Crispin had no desire to know more about it.

  Crispin had refused to bring any of the apprentices with him, despite Martinian’s urging. If he was doing this crazed journey under a name not his own to try to remake his life or some such thing, he was not going to do so in the company of a boy from home. He’d quite enough to deal with without bearing the burden of a young life on a dangerous road, to an even more uncertain destination.

  On the other hand, he was not going to be an idiot—or an imbecile, as Linon was altogether too fond of saying—about travelling alone. He didn’t like being outside the city walls, and this road through western Sauradia, skirting the brooding forest with the wind-scoured mountains to the south, was not even remotely the same as it had been in densely settled, heavily trafficked Batiara. He’d ascertained that Vargos knew the road to the Trakesian border, sized up the man’s obvious strength and experience, and claimed him with the Permit. The Chancellor’s office would be debited by the Imperial Post. It was all very efficient. He just didn’t like how black the forest was, north of the road.

  The merchants and their wine had forked south well before the border, following the path of Massina Baladia, half a day ahead of them. The cleric—a decent, good-natured man—had only been going as far as a holy retreat just inside Sauradia. They had prayed together and parted company early of a morning before the cleric turned off the road. Crispin might join up with other travellers heading east—there should be some coming up from Megarium—and would certainly try to do so, but in the meantime, a large, capable person walking with him represented minimal good sense. It was one of the virtues of the Post system: he could claim a man like Vargos and release him at any Posting Inn on the road for travellers going on, or coming back the other way. The Sarantine Empire today might not really be akin to Rhodias as it had been at the apex of its glory, but it wasn’t so very far from it, either.

  And if Gisel, the young queen of the Antae, was correct, Valerius II wanted to restore the western empire, one way or another.

  As far as the Rhodian mosaicist Caius Crispus of Varena was concerned, unhappy and cold in autumn rain, any and all measures that increased the degree of civilized order in places like this were to be vigorously encouraged.

  He really didn’t like the forest, at all.

  It was interesting, the degree of uneasiness he’d felt as the days passed and they walked the road within constant sight of it. He was forced to acknowledge, with some chagrin, that he was even more a man of the city than he’d known himself to be. Cities, for all their dangers, had walls. Wild things—whether animals or men without laws—could generally be assumed to be outside those walls. And so long as one took care not to be abroad alone after dark or enter the wrong alleyway, a purse-snatcher in the market or an overly impassioned holy man strewing spittle and imprecations was the greatest danger one was likely to encounter.

  And in cities were buildings, public and private. Palaces, bathhouses, theatres, merchants’ homes, apartments, chapels and sanctuaries—with walls and floors and sometimes even domes whereon people with sufficient means sometimes desired mosaics to be designed and set.

  A living, for a man of experience and certain skills.

  There was extremely little call for Crispin’s particular gifts in this forest, or the wild lands south of it here. The feuding Sauradian tribes had been a byword for barbaric ferocity since the early days of the Rhodian Empire. Indeed, the worst single defeat a Rhodian army had ever suffered before the slow decline and final overthrow had been not far north of here, when a full legion sent to quell one tribal rising had been trapped between swampland and wood and cut to pieces.

  The legions of reprisal had
waged war for seven years, according to the histories. They had succeeded. Eventually. Sauradia was not an easy place to fight in phalanx and column. And enemies that melted like spirits into the trees and then dismembered and ate their captives in blood-soaked ceremonies in the drumming, shrouded forests could inspire a certain apprehension in even the most disciplined soldiery.

  But the Rhodians had not taken most of the known world under their aegis by being reluctant to employ harsh measures themselves, and they had the resources of an Empire. The trees of the Sauradian woods had ultimately borne the dead bodies of tribal warriors—and their women and small children—with limbs and privates hacked off, hanging from sacred branches by their greased yellow hair.

  It was not a history, thought Crispin one morning, calculated to elicit tranquil reflection, however long ago it had taken place. Even Linon had fallen silent today. The dark woods marched beside the road, very near at this point, seemingly endless ahead to the east and when he looked back west. Oak, ash, rowan, beech, other trees he didn’t know, leaves fallen or falling. Smudged black smoke rose at intervals: charcoal-burners, working the edgings of the forest. To the south the land swept upwards in a series of ascents towards the barrier of mountains that hid the coastline and the sea. He saw sheep and goats, dogs, smoke from a shepherd’s hut. No other sign of human life. It was a grey day, a fine, cold rain falling, the mountain peaks lost under clouds.

  Beneath the hood of his travelling cloak, Crispin tried—with only marginal success—to remember why he was doing this.

  He attempted to conjure forth bright, multihued images of Sarantium—the fabled glories of the Imperial City, centre of Jad’s creation, eye and ornament of the world, as the well-known phrase had it. He couldn’t. It was too far away. Too unknown to him. The black forest and the mist and the cold rain were too oppressively, demandingly present. And the lack of walls, warmth, people, shops, markets, taverns, baths, any man-made images of comfort, let alone beauty.

  He was a town person, it was simply the truth. This journey was forcing him to accept, however ruefully, all the associations that carried . . . of decadence, softness, corruption, overbred luxury. Those last sardonic caricatures of Rhodias before it fell: effete, posturing aristocrats who hired barbarians to fight for them and were helpless when their own mercenaries turned. He and the lady Massina Baladia with her cushioned litter, her exquisite travel garb, her scent, and her painted toenails were more akin than unlike, after all, whatever he might wish to say. Town walls defined the boundaries of Crispin’s world as much as hers. What he most wanted right now—if he was honest with himself—was a bath, oiling, a professional massage, then a glass of hot, spiced wine on a couch in a warm room with civilized talk washing over him. He felt anxious and disoriented, exposed out here in this wilderness. And he had a long way to go.

  Not so far to the next bed, however. A steady pace through the steady rain, with only a brief halt for a midday piece of cheese and bread and a flask of sour wine at a smoky, midden-smelling tavern in a hamlet, brought them by late afternoon near to the next Imperial Inn. The rain had even stopped by then, the clouds breaking up to south and west, though not over the woods. He saw the tops of some of the mountains. The sea would be beyond. He might have sailed, had the courier come in time. A wasted thought.

  He might still have a family, had the plague bypassed their house.

  Behind them, as he and Vargos and the mule went through another cluster of houses, the sun appeared for the first time that day, pale and low, lighting the mountain slopes, underlighting the heavy clouds above the peaks, glinting coldly in pools of rainwater in the ditch by the road. They passed a smithy and bakehouse and two evil-looking hostelries in the village, ignoring the scrutiny of the handful of people gathered and a coarse invitation from a gaunt whore in the laneway by the second inn. Not for the first time Crispin offered thanks for the Permit folded in the leather purse at his belt.

  The Posting Inn was east of the village, exactly as indicated on his map. Crispin liked his map. He took great comfort in the fact that as he walked places appeared each day when and where the map said they should. It was reassuring.

  The inn was large, had the usual stable, smithy, inner courtyard, and no piles of rotting refuse in the doorway. He glimpsed a well-tended vegetable and herb garden beyond a gate towards the back, sheep in the meadow beyond and a sturdy shepherd’s hut. Long live the Sarantine Empire, Crispin thought wryly, and the glorious Imperial Post. Smoke rising from broad chimneys offered the promise of warmth within.

  ‘We’ll stay two nights,’ Linon said.

  The bird was on the thong around his neck again. She hadn’t spoken since morning. The blunt, sudden words startled Crispin.

  ‘Indeed? Why? Your little feet are tired?’

  ‘Mice and blood! You are too stupid to be allowed out of doors without a nursemaid. Remember the calendar and what Zoticus told you. You’re in Sauradia, imbecile. And tomorrow is the Day of the Dead.’

  Crispin had, in fact, forgotten, and cursed himself for it. It irritated him, however unreasonably, when the bird was right.

  ‘So what happens?’ he demanded sourly. ‘They boil me into soup if I’m found abroad? Bury my bones at a crossroad?’

  Linon didn’t bother to reply.

  Feeling obscurely at a disadvantage, Crispin left Vargos to see to the mule and his goods while he strode past two barking dogs and a scatter of chickens in the sodden courtyard. He walked through the doorway into the front room of the inn to show his Permit and see if a hot bath could be had immediately for coinage of the Empire.

  The entranceway was encouragingly clean, large, high-ceilinged. Beyond it, through a door to the left, the common room had two fires going. A cheerful buzz of speech in many accents drifted out to him. After the wet, cold road all day it was undeniably alluring. He wondered if someone in this kitchen knew how to cook. There had to be deer and boar, perhaps even the elusive Sauradian bison in these woods; a well-seasoned platter of game and a halfway adequate flask or two of wine would go some way to easing him.

  It occurred to Crispin, looking around, noting the swept, dry tiling on the floor, that this inn might indeed be a perfectly decent place to rest his feet for two days and nights. Zoticus had been unambiguous in advising him to stay in one place and indoors on the Day of the Dead. For all his sardonic attitude to such things, it wouldn’t do to be foolish merely to win a battle with an artificial bird. If nothing else, he thought suddenly, Linon was proof that the half-world was real.

  Not an entirely comforting reflection.

  He waited for the innkeeper, blessed Permit in hand, letting himself relax already into the sensation of being dry with the near prospect of warmth and wine. He heard a sound from the back of the inn, behind the stairs, and turned, a civil expression ready. He was aware that he was hardly distinguished-looking at the moment, nor did travelling on foot with one temporarily hired servant commend him as affluent, but a Permit with his name elegantly written upon it—or Martinian’s name—and the privy Seal and signature of no less a figure than the Imperial Chancellor could make him instantly formidable, he’d discovered.

  It wasn’t the innkeeper who came from backstairs. Only a thin serving girl in a stained, knee-length brown tunic, barefoot, yellow-haired, carrying a stoppered jug of wine too heavy for her. She stopped dead when she saw him, staring openly, wide-eyed.

  Crispin smiled briefly, ignoring the presumption of her gaze. ‘What do they call you, girl?’

  She swallowed, looked down, mumbled, ‘Kitten.’

  He felt himself grinning crookedly. ‘Why that?’

  She swallowed again, seemed to be having trouble speaking. ‘Don’t know,’ she managed finally. ‘Someone thought I looked like one.’

  Her eyes never left the floor, after that first naked stare. He realized he hadn’t spoken to anyone, other than some instructions to Vargos, all day. It was odd, he didn’t know how he felt about that. He did know he wanted a bath, n
ot to be making talk with a serving girl.

  ‘You don’t. What’s your proper name, then?’

  She looked up at that, and then down again. ‘Kasia.’

  ‘Well, Kasia, run find the ’keeper for me. I’m wet outside and dry within. And never dream of telling me there are no rooms to be had.’

  She didn’t move. Continued to stare at the floor, clutching at the heavy wine jug with both hands beneath it. She was quite young, very thin, wide-set blue eyes. From a northern tribe, obviously. Inicii, or one of the others. He wondered if she’d understood him, his jest; they’d been speaking Rhodian. He was about to repeat his request in Sarantine, without the witticism, when he saw her draw a breath.

  ‘They are going to kill me tomorrow,’ was what she said, quite clearly this time. She looked up at him. Her eyes were enormous, deep as a forest. ‘Will you take me away?’

  Zagnes of Sarnica had not been willing, at all.

  ‘Are you simple?’ the man had cried the night before. In his agitation he had pushed Kasia right out of the bed to land sprawling on the floor. It was cold, even with the kitchen fires directly below. ‘What in Jad’s holy name would I do with a bought girl from Sauradia?’

  ‘I would do anything you like,’ she’d said, kneeling beside the bed, fighting back tears.

  ‘Of course you would. What else would you do? That is not the point.’ Zagnes was quite exercised.

  It wasn’t the request to buy her and take her away. Imperial Couriers were used to such pleas. It must have been her reason. The very immediate, particular reason. But she’d had to tell him . . . otherwise there was no cause at all for him to even consider it, among all the usual requests. He was said to be a kindly man . . .

  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.