The Sarantine Mosaic by Guy Gavriel Kay Page A

clear and farfrom towards the woods. Martinian rose, clapped his hat on his head against the sundown wind. They walked together back into Varena before the night curfew sounded and the gates were locked against whatever lay outside in the wild forests, the night fields and lawless roads, in the moonlit, starlit air where daemons and spirits assuredly were.
    Men lived behind walls, when they could.
    IN THE LAST OF the light, Crispin went to his favourite baths, nearly deserted at this hour. Most men visited the baths in the afternoon, but mosaicists needed light for their work and Crispin preferred the quiet at the end of day now. A few men were taking exercise with the heavy ball, ponderously lobbing it back and forth, naked and sweating with exertion. He nodded to them in passing, without stopping. He took some steam first, and then the hot and cold waters, and had himself oiled and rubbed down—his autumn regimen, against the chill. He spoke to no one beyond civil greetings in the public rooms at the end, where he had a beaker of wine brought to him at his usual couch. After, he reclaimed the Imperial Packet from the attendant with whom he had checked it and, declining an escort, walked home to drop the packet and change for dinner. He intended not to discuss the matter tonight, at all.
    â€˜ YOU ARE GOING TO GO , then. To Sarantium?’
    Certain intentions, in the presence of his mother, remained largely meaningless. That much was unchanged. Avita Crispina signalled, and the servant ladled out more of the fish soup for her son. In the light of the candles, he watched the girl withdraw gracefully to the kitchen. She had the classic Karchite colouring. Theirwomen were prized as house slaves by both the Antae and the native Rhodians.
    â€˜Who told you?’ They were alone at dinner, reclining on facing couches. His mother had always preferred the formal old fashions.
    â€˜Does it matter?’
    Crispin shrugged. ‘I suppose not.’ A sanctuary full of men had heard that courier. ‘Why am I going to go, Mother, do tell me?’
    â€˜Because you don’t want to. You do the opposite of what you think you should. A perversity of behaviour. I have no idea where you derived it.’
    She had the audacity to smile, saying that. Her colour was good tonight, or else the candles were being kind. He had no tesserae so white as her hair, none even close. In Sarantium the Imperial Glassworks had, rumour told, a method of making …
    He halted that line of thought.
    â€˜I don’t do any such thing. I refuse to be so obvious. I may—sometimes—be a little imprudent when provoked. The courier today was a complete and utter fool.’
    â€˜And you told him so, of course.’
    Against his will, Crispin smiled. ‘He told me I was, actually.’
    â€˜That means he isn’t, to be so perceptive.’
    â€˜You mean it isn’t obvious?’
    Her turn to smile. ‘My mistake.’
    He poured himself another cup of the pale wine and mixed it half-and-half with water. In his mother’s house he always did.
    â€˜I’m not going,’ he said. ‘Why would I want to go so far, with winter coming?’
    â€˜Because,’ said Avita Crispina, ‘you aren’t entirely a fool, my child. We’re talking about Sarantium , Caius, dear.’
    â€˜I know what we are talking about. You sound like Martinian.’
    â€˜He sounds like me.’ An old jest. Crispin didn’t smile this time. He ate some more of the fish soup, which was very good.
    â€˜I’m not going,’ he repeated later, at the doorway, bending to salute her on the cheek. ‘Your cook is too skilful for me to bear the thought of leaving.’ She smelled, as always, of lavender. His first memory was of that scent. It ought to have been a colour, he thought. Scents, tastes, sounds often attained hues in his mind, but this one didn’t. The flower might be violet, almost porphyry,