Lord of Emperors by Guy Gavriel Kay Page B

surprising marriage for themselves. On the other hand, it wasn’t as if she was wedding a really significant fellow, was it?
    Then another rumour started that Pappio, the increasingly well-known Director of the Imperial Glassworks, had personally made a bowl commissioned as a gift for the happy couple. It seemed he hadn’t done any actual craftsmanship himself for years and years. No one could understand that, either. Sarantium was talking. With the chariot races not beginning again for some few days, the event was well timed: the City liked having things to talk about.
    ‘I’M NOT HAPPY,’ said a small, nondescript artificial bird in an inward, patrician voice heard only by the hostess of the day’s affair. The woman was staring critically at her own image in a round, silver-edged mirror held up by a servant.
    ‘Oh, Danis, neither am I!’ Shirin murmured in silent reply. ‘Every woman from the Precinct and the theatre will be dressed and adorned to dazzle and I look like I haven’t slept in days.’
    ‘That isn’t what I meant.’
    ‘Of course it isn’t. You never think of the important things. Tell me, do you think he’ll notice me?
    The bird’s tone became waspish. ‘Which one? The chariot-racer or the mosaicist?’
    Shirin laughed aloud, startling her attendant. ‘Either of them,’ she said inwardly. Then her smile became wicked. ‘Or perhaps both, tonight? Wouldn’t that be something to remember?’
    ‘Shirin!’ The bird sounded genuinely shocked.
    ‘I’m teasing, silly. You know me better than that. Now tell me, why aren’t you happy? This is a wedding day, and it’s a love match. No one made this union, they chose each other.’ Her tone was surprisingly kind now, tolerant.
    ‘I just think something’s going to happen.’
    The dark-haired woman in front of the small mirror, who did not, in fact, look at all as if she needed sleep or anything else beyond extremes of admiration, nodded her head, and the servant, smiling, set down the mirror and reached for a bottle that contained a perfume of very particular distinctiveness. The bird lay on the tabletop nearby.
    ‘Danis, really, what sort of party would this be if something didn’t happen?’
    The bird said nothing.
    There was a sound at the doorway. Shirin turned to look over her shoulder.
    A small, rotund, fierce-looking man stood there, clad in a blue tunic and a very large bib-like covering tied at his neck and around his considerable girth. There were a variety of foodstains on the bib and a streak of what was probably saffron on his forehead. He possessed a wooden spoon, a heavy knife stuck into the tied belt of the bib, and an aggrieved expression.
    ‘Strumosus!’ said the dancer happily.
    ‘There is no sea salt,’ said the chef in a voice that suggested the absence amounted to a heresy equivalent to banned Heladikian beliefs or arrant paganism.
    ‘No salt? Really?’ said the dancer, rising gracefully from her seat.
    ‘No sea salt!’ the chef repeated. ‘How can a civilized household lack sea salt?’
    ‘A dreadful omission,’ Shirin agreed with a placating gesture. ‘I feel simply terrible.’
    ‘I request permission to make use of your servants and send one back to the Blues compound immediately.
    I need my undercooks to remain here. Are you aware of how little time we have?’
    ‘You may use my servants in any way you see fit today,’ Shirin said, ‘short of broiling them.’
    The chef’s expression conveyed the suggestion that matters might come to that pass.
    ‘This is a completely odious man,’ the bird said silently. ‘At least I might assume you don’t desire this one.’
    Shirin gave a silent laugh. ‘He is a genius, Danis. Everyone says so. Genius needs to be indulged. Now, be happy and tell me I look beautiful.’
    There was another sound in the hallway beyond Strumosus. The chef turned, and then lowered his wooden spoon. His expression changed, grew very nearly benign. One might even have exaggerated