Unexpectedly, Leontes smiled again. ‘True enough. Forgive me. You made a … dramatic entry among us last night, and I have to confess I felt easier about the decorations being planned, knowing Siroes was doing them and my wife was privy to his concepts. He was intending a design that did not . . . incorporate the rendered image of Jad.’
‘I see,’ said Crispin quietly.
This was unexpected, and solved another part of the puzzle. ‘I had been told his dismissal might distress your lady wife. I see it is also a matter of concern to you, for different reasons.’
Leontes hesitated. ‘I approach matters of faith with seriousness.’
Crispin’s anger was gone. He said, ‘A prudent thing to do, my lord. We are all children of the god and must do him honour … in our own way.’
He felt a certain weariness now. All he’d come east to do was put pain a little way behind him, seek solace in important work. The tangled complexities of the world here in Sarantium seemed extremely … enveloping.
On the facing bench, Leontes leaned back, not replying. After a moment he reached over and tapped on the door. At that signal it was pulled open by someone, letting in another rush of air, and then it closed. Only one man seemed to have been waiting to enter. He shuffled, favouring one foot, past the Strategos to take a seat opposite Crispin.
‘No attendant?’ he growled.
‘He’s allowed a few moments to cool down, ‘Leontes said politely. ‘Ought to be back shortly, or a different one will come. Shall I pour for you?’
‘Go ahead,’ the other man said, indifferently.
He was, Crispin realized, evidently unaware who had just volunteered to serve as a bathhouse servant for him. Leontes picked up the ewer, dipped it in the trough, and poured water over the hot stones, once and then again. The steam sizzled and crackled. A wave of moist heat washed over Crispin like something tangible, thick in the chest, blurring sight.
He looked wryly at the Strategos. ‘A second employment?’
Leontes laughed. ‘Less dangerous. Less rewarding, mind you. I ought to leave you to your peace. You will come to dine one night, I hope? My wife would enjoy speaking with you. She . . . collects clever people.’
‘I’ve never been part of a collection before,’ Crispin murmured.
The third man sat mute, ignoring them, close-wrapped in his sheet. Leontes glanced over at him briefly then stood. In this small chamber he seemed even taller than he had in the palace the night before. Other scars showed along his back, and corded ridges of muscle. At the doorway, he turned.
‘Weapons are forbidden here,’ he said gravely. ‘If you surrender the blade under your foot you will have committed only a minor offence to this point. If you do not, you will lose a hand to the courts, or worse, when tried on my evidence.’
Crispin blinked. Then he moved extremely fast.
He had to. The man on the bench opposite had reached down with a snarl and ripped a paper-thin blade free from under the sole of his left foot. He held it deftly, the back of his hand up, and slashed straight at Crispin, without challenge or warning.
Leontes stood motionless by the door, watching with what seemed to be a detached interest.
Crispin lurched to one side, sweeping his sheet from his shoulders, to catch the thrusting blade. The man across from him swore viciously. He ripped the knife upwards through the fabric, trying to wrench it free, but Crispin sprang from his bench, wrapping the great sheet in a sweeping movement like a death shroud about the other man’s arms and torso. Without thought-or space for thought-but with an enormous, choking fury in his chest, he hammered an elbow viciously into the side of the man’s head. He heard a dull grunt. The trammelled blade fell to the floor with a thin sound. Crispin pivoted for leverage, then swung his left arm in a backhanded arc that smashed the side of his fist full into the man’s face. He felt teeth shatter like small stones, heard the breaking of bone, and gasped at a surge of pain in his hand.