Crispin was to wonder, afterwards, how the ensuing events would have unfolded had he tried to be diplomatic in that moment. He didn’t try. Events unfolded as they did.
‘On a dome?’ He echoed, his voice rising. ‘Thrice-exalted lord, only a fool would even suggest using that method on a dome! No mosaicist worth the name would consider it.’
Behind him someone made what could only be called a spluttering sound.
Styliane Daleina said icily, ‘You are in the presence of the Emperor of Sarantium. We whip or blind strangers who presume so much.’
‘And we honour those,’ said the Empress Alixana, in her exquisite voice, ‘who honour us with their honesty when directly asked for it. Will you say why you offer this… very strong view, Rhodian?’
Crispin hesitated. ‘The court of the glorious Emperor, on a Dykania night… do you really wish such a discussion?’
‘The Emperor does,’ said the Emperor.
Crispin swallowed again. Martinian, he thought, would have done this much more tactfully.
He wasn’t Martinian. Directly to Valerius of Sarantium he spoke one of the tenets of his soul. ‘Mosaic,’ he said, more softly now, ‘is a dream of light. Of colour. It is the play of light on colour. It is a craft … I have sometimes dared call it an art, my lord . . . built around letting the illumination of candle, lantern, sun, both moons dance across the colours of the glass and gemstones and stones we use … to make something that partakes, however slightly, of the qualities of movement that Jad gave his mortal children and the world. In a sanctuary, my lord, it is a craft that aspires to evoke the holiness of the god and his creation.’
He took a breath. It was incredible to him that he was saying these things aloud, and here. He looked at the Emperor.
‘Go on,’ said Valerius. The grey eyes were on his face, intent, coolly intelligent.
‘And on a dome,’ said Crispin, ‘on the arch of a dome-whether of sanctuary or palace-the mosaicist has a chance to work with this, to breathe a shadow of life into his vision. A wall is flat, a floor is flat-‘
‘Well, they ought to be,’ said the Empress lightly. ‘I’ve lived in some rooms
Valerius laughed aloud. Crispin, in mid-flight, paused, and had to smile. ‘Indeed, thrice-gracious lady. I speak in principle, of course. These are ideals we seldom attain.’
‘A wall or a floor is flat, in its conception,’ said the Emperor. ‘A dome .. .?’
‘The curve and the height of a dome allow us the illusion of movement through changing light, my lord. Opportunities beyond price. It is the mosaicist’s natural place. His… haven. A painted fresco on a flat wall can do all a mosaic can, and-though many in my guild would call this heresy-it can do more at times. Nothing on Jad’s earth can do what a mosaicist can do on a dome if he sets the tesserae directly on the surface.’
A voice from behind him, refined and querulous: ‘I will be allowed to speak to this crass western stupidity, I dare trust, thrice-exalted lord?’
‘When it is done, Siroes. If it is stupid. Listen. You will be asked questions. Be prepared to answer them.’
Siroes. He didn’t know the name. He ought to, probably. He hadn’t prepared himself as well as he should have … but he had not expected to be here at court a day after arriving in the City.
He was also angry now. Crass? Too many insults at once. He tried to hold down his temper, but this was the place where his soul resided. He said, ‘East or west has nothing to do with any of this, my lord. You described the reverse transfer as new. Someone has misled you, I am afraid. Five hundred years ago mosaicists were laying reversed sheets of tesserae on walls and floors in Rhodias, Mylasia, Baiana. Examples still exist, they are there to be seen. There are no such examples on any dome in Batiara. Shall I tell the thrice-exalted Emperor why?’ ‘Tell me why,’ said Valerius.
‘Because five hundred years ago mosaicists had already learned that laying stone and gems and glass flat on sticky sheets and then transferring that relinquished all the power the curves of the dome gave them. When you set a tessera by hand into a surface you position it. You angle it, turn it. You adjust it in relation to the piece beside it, and the one beside that and beyond it, towards or away from the light entering through windows or rising from below. You can build up the setting bed into a relief, or recede it for effect. You can-if you are a mosaicist, and not merely someone sticking glass in a pasty surface-allow what you know of the proposed location and number of candles in the room below and the placement of the windows around the base of the dome and higher up, the orientation of the room on holy Jad’s earth, and the risings of his moons and the god’s sun … you allow light to be your tool, your servant, your . . . gift in rendering what is holy.’