The Sarantine Mosaic (129 page)

She was less fearful than she'd thought she might be. Time passing did that. One could adjust to many things, it seemed, given enough time: crowds, soldiers, the smells and noises, chaos of the city, the utter absence of anything green and quiet, unless one counted the silence in the chapels during the day sometimes, and she didn't like the chapels of Jad.

It still amazed her that people here could see the fireballs that appeared at night, tumbling and flickering along the streets—the signifiers of powers entirely outside the ambit of the Jaddite god—and ignore them entirely. As if something that couldn't be explained wasn't to be acknowledged. It didn't exist. People spoke freely of ghosts, spirits, and she knew that many used pagan magics to invoke spells, whatever the clerics might say—but no one
ever
talked about the flames in the street at night.

At her window Kasia watched them, counted them. There seemed to be more than usual. She listened to the soldiers below. She had seen them entering houses along the street earlier, heard the banging on doors in the night. Change in the air, a change in the shape of the world. Carullus had been excited. He loved Leontes, and Leontes was going to be the new Emperor. It meant good things for them, he'd said, when he'd stopped at home for a moment near sundown. She'd smiled at him.
He'd kissed her and gone out again. They were looking for someone. She knew who it was.

That had been some time ago. Now, at her window in darkness, she waited, watched—and saw something entirely unexpected. Passing along their quiet, littletrafficked street Kasia saw, like Taras of the Blues a few moments before, a golden litter appear out of the dark. A kind of vision, like the fireballs, something entirely out of tune with the rest of the night.

She had no idea, of course, who might be inside, but she knew they weren't supposed to be out there—and that they knew it, too. There were no runners with torches, as there surely ought to have been: whoever this was, they were trying to pass unseen. Kasia watched it until the bearers reached the end of the street and turned and went out of sight.

In the morning, she thought she might have fallen asleep at the window, dreamt what she saw, something golden, passing below her in a dark of booted soldiers and oaths and hammering at doors, for how could she have known it was gold, without light?

The august and illuminated, the blessed and revered Eastern Patriarch of most holy Jad of the Sun, Zakarios, had also been awake, and in some distress of body and spirit, in his chamber in the Patriarchal Palace at that same late-night hour.

The patriarchal residence was outside the Imperial Precinct, just behind the site of the Great Sanctuary— both the old one that had burned and the much larger one now risen in its place. Saranios the Great, who had founded this city, had deemed it a useful thing for the clerics and the palace officers to be seen to be separate.

There had been those who had disagreed in later years, wishing they had the Patriarchs more securely under their thumbs, but Valerius II had not been one of these, and Zakarios, who had just come from observing the Emperor's body where it lay in state in the Porphyry Room of the Attenine Palace, was thinking about that, and about the man. He was grieving, in fact.

The truth was, he hadn't actually observed the body. It seemed that only some Excubitors had, and the Chancellor, and then Gesius had made the decision that Valerius's body be covered—entirely wrapped in a purple mantle—and not seen.

He had been burned. Sarantine Fire.

Zakarios found it painful to contemplate. No amount of faith or political worldliness or combination of the two could help him deal easily with an image of Valerius as blackened, melted flesh. It was very bad. His stomach was giving him trouble, even thinking about it.

He had gone—as was necessary and proper—from speaking the holy Words of Passage in the Porphyry Room to the great silver doors of the Reception Chamber in the same palace. And there he had performed the equally holy Ceremony of Anointing for Leontes, now created Emperor in Sarantium by the express will of the Senate, earlier that day.

Leontes, as deeply pious a man as any Patriarch could ask for on the Golden Throne, had knelt and spoken the responses without prompting and with deep emotion in his voice. The wife, Styliane, had stood a little distance away, expressionless. All of the major officials of the court had been present, though Zakarios did note that Gesius, the aged Chancellor (
even older than I am
, the Patriarch thought) had also stood apart, by the doors. The Patriarch had been in his own office long enough to know that there would be swift changes in power within
the Imperial Precinct in the days to come, even as the Rites of Mourning were observed.

There was to be a public crowning of husband and wife in the Hippodrome tomorrow, the new Emperor advised his Patriarch when the anointing was done. Zakarios was earnestly entreated to be present in the kathisma to participate. In times such as this, Leontes murmured, it was especially important to show the people that the holy sanctuaries and the court were as one. It was phrased as a request, but it wasn't, really. He was on the throne as he spoke, sitting there for the first time, tall and golden and grave. The Patriarch had inclined his head and indicated his acceptance and agreement. Styliane Daleina, soon to be Empress of Sarantium, had favoured him with a brief smile, her first of the night. She looked like her dead father. He had always thought that.

Zakarios understood, from his privy adviser, the cleric Maximius, that it was the brother, exiled Lecanus, who had been behind this profane and evil deed, along with the equally banished Lysippus—a man the clerics of the City had reason to loathe and fear.

Both of these men were dead, Maximius had reported. Leontes had himself slain the gross Calysian, like the mighty warrior he was. Maximius was very happy tonight, Zakarios thought, hadn't even troubled to hide it. His adviser was still with him now, though the hour was late. Maximius stood on the balcony overlooking the City. Across the way, the dome of the new Great Sanctuary rose. Valerius's Sanctuary. His vast, ambitious dream. One of them.

Leontes had said that the Emperor would be buried there: fittingly, the first man to be so laid to rest. His regret had seemed genuine; Zakarios knew that his piety was. The new Emperor had views on certain controversial matters of holy faith. Zakarios knew that was part of the reason for Maximius's pleasure now, and that he, too, ought to be
pleased. He wasn't. A man he had greatly respected was dead, and Zakarios felt too old for the kind of fight that might now begin in the sanctuaries and chapels, even with the Imperial Precinct supporting them.

The Patriarch felt a griping in his belly and winced. He rose and walked out on the balcony, adjusting the ear flaps on his cap. Maximius looked over at him and smiled. ‘The streets are quiet now, Holiness, Jad be praised. Only soldiers and the Urban Prefect's guards, that I have seen. We must be eternally grateful to the god that in this time of danger he has seen fit to look after us.'

‘I wish he'd attend to my stomach,' Zakarios said, ungratefully.

Maximius assumed an expression of sympathy. ‘Would a bowl of the herbal—'

‘Yes,' said Zakarios. ‘It might.'

He was unreasonably angered by his adviser tonight. Maximius was too cheerful. An Emperor was
dead
,
murdered. Maximius had been put in his place more than once by Valerius over the years, something Zakarios ought to have done more often himself.

The cleric betrayed nothing with his expression now, no response to the Patriarch's bluntness—he was good at that. He was good at a number of things. Zakarios often wished he didn't need the man quite so much. Now Maximius bowed, and went back into the room to summon a servant and have the drink prepared.

Zakarios stood alone at the stone rail of the high balcony. He shivered a little, for the night was cool and he was susceptible to chills now, but at the same time the air was reviving, bracing. A reminder (he suddenly thought) that if others were dead, he himself, by the grace of Jad's mercy, was not. He was still here to serve, to feel the wind in his face, see the glory of the dome in
front of him with the stars and—just now—the white moon to the east.

He looked down. And saw something else.

In the dark street where there were no soldiers passing now, a litter appeared from a narrow lane. Moving quickly, unlit by any runners, it was carried up to one of the small rear doors to the Sanctuary. These were always locked, of course. The builders were not yet finished, nor were the decorations complete. Inside was scaffolding, equipment, decorative materials, some of it dangerous, some of it expensive. No one was allowed in without cause, and certainly not at night.

Zakarios, feeling an odd, unexpected sensation, watched as the curtain of the litter was pulled back. Two people emerged. There were no lights, the Patriarch couldn't make out anything about them at all; both were cloaked against the night, dark figures in darkness.

One of them went to the locked door.

A moment later it opened. A key? Zakarios couldn't see. The two of them went inside. The door was closed. The bearers did not linger, carried the exquisite litter away, back the way they had come, and an instant later the street was empty again. As if nothing had ever been there, the whole brief, puzzling episode a fantasy of some kind beneath the starlit, moonlit dome.

‘The infusion is being prepared, Holiness,' Maximius said briskly, reappearing on the balcony. ‘I pray that it will bring you ease.'

Zakarios, looking down thoughtfully from beneath his hat and ear flaps, made no reply.

‘What is it?' Maximius said, coming forward.

‘Nothing,' said the Eastern Patriarch. ‘There's nothing there.' He wasn't sure why he said that, but it was the truth, wasn't it?

He saw one of the small, fleeting fires appear just then, at the same street corner where the litter had gone. It, too, vanished a moment later. They always did.

She entered the sanctuary ahead of him after he'd turned the two keys in the two locks and swung the small oak door open and stood aside for her. He followed, closed the door quickly, locked it. Habit, routine, the things done each and every ordinary day. Turning a key, opening or locking a door, walking into a place where one has been working, looking around, looking up.

His hands were shaking. They had made it this far.

He hadn't believed they would. Not with the City as it was tonight.

Ahead of him, in a small ambulatory under one of the semi-domes behind the enormous one that was Artibasos's offering to the world, Gisel of the Antae cast back the hood of her cloak.

‘No!' Crispin said sharply. ‘Keep it up!'

Golden hair, dressed with jewels. The blue eyes bright as jewels, alight in the always-lit Sanctuary. Lamps everywhere here, in walls, suspended on chains from the ceiling and all the domes, candles burning at the side altars, even though Valerius's rebuilt Sanctuary had not yet been opened, or sanctified.

She looked at him a moment but then, surprisingly, obeyed. He was aware that he had spoken peremptorily. It was fear, not presumption, though. He wondered what had become of his anger; he seemed to have misplaced it today, tonight, dropping it the way Alixana had dropped her cloak on the isle.

The sides of the hood came forward, shadowing Gisel's features again, hiding the almost frightening brilliance of
her tonight, as if the woman here with him was another light in this place.

In the litter, he had been made aware of desire, forbidden and impossible as mortal flight, or fire before Heladikos's gift: a stirring, utterly irrational, equally unmistakable. Riding with her, aware of her body, her presence, he remembered how Gisel had come to him shortly after she'd arrived here, climbing up to the scaffold where he'd stood alone, and had had him kiss her palm in full view of all those watching, agape, from below. Creating a reason, false as alloyed coins, for him to visit her: a woman alone, without advisers or allies or anyone to trust, and tangled in a game of countries where the stakes were as high as they ever became.