Tilliticus was genuinely shocked by the rudeness. ‘In truth? I want nothing whatever with you.’ He reached into his bag, found the fat Imperial Packet and threw it scornfully at the artisan. The man, moving quickly, caught it in one hand.
Tilliticus said, almost spitting the words, ‘You are Martinian of Varena, obviously. Unworthy as you are, I am charged with declaring that the Thrice Exalted Beloved of Jad, the Emperor Valerius II, requests you to attend upon him in Sarantium with all possible speed. The packet you hold contains a sum of money to aid you in your travels, a sealed Permit signed by the Chancellor himself that allows you to use Imperial Posting Inns for lodging and services, and a letter that I am sure you will be able to find someone to read to you. It indicates that your services If are requested to aid in the decoration of the new Sanctuary of Jad’s Holy Wisdom that the Emperor, in his own great wisdom, is even now constructing.’
There was a mollifying buzz of sound in the sanctuary as the apprentices and lesser artisans, at least, appeared to grasp the significance of what Tilliticus had just said. It occurred to him that he might consider, at future times, relaying the formal words in this blunt tone. It had an effectiveness of its own.
‘What happened to the old one?’ The red-haired artisan seemed unmoved. Was he mentally deficient? Tilliticus wondered.
‘What old one, you primitive barbarian?’
‘Sheathe the insults or you’ll crawl from here. The old sanctuary.’
Tilliticus blinked. The man was deranged. ‘You threaten an Imperial Courier? Your nose will be slit for you if you so much as lift a hand to me. The old sanctuary burned two years ago, in the riot. Are you ignorant of events in the world?’
‘We had plague here,’ the man said, his voice flat. ‘Twice. And then a civil war. Fires halfway across the world are unimportant at such times. Thank you for delivering this. I will read it and decide what to do.’
‘Decide?’ Tilliticus squeaked. He hated the way his voice rose when he was caught by surprise. The same thing had happened when that accursed girl in Trakesia had asked him to take her away. It had made it difficult to impart the proper tone to the needed dissertation upon his mother’s family.
‘Why, yes,’ the rnosaicist said. ‘Dare I assume this is an offer and an invitation, not a command, as to a slave?’
Tilliticus was too stupefied to speak for a moment.
He drew himself up. Pleased to note that his voice was under control, he snapped, ‘Only a slave would fail to grasp what this means. It seems you are craven and without aspiration in the world. In which case, like a slave, you may burrow back down into your little hovel here and do what you will in the dirt and Sarantium suffers no loss at all. I have no time for further talk. You have your letter. In the Emperor’s thrice-glorious name, I bid you good day.’
‘Good day,’ said the man, dismissively. He turned away. ‘Pardos,’ he said ‘the setting lime was well done today. And properly laid on, Radulf, Couvry. I’m pleased.’ Tilliticus stomped out.
The Empire, civilization, the glories of the Holy City … all wasted on some people, he thought. In the doorway he stopped in front of the older man, who sat regarding him with a mild gaze.
‘Your hat,’ Tilliticus said, glaring at him, ‘is the most ridiculous head-covering I have ever seen.’
‘I know,’ said the man, cheerfully. ‘They all tell me that.’ Pronobius Tilliticus, aggrieved, unassuaged, reclaimed his horse and galloped off, dust rising behind him on the road to Varena’s walls.
‘We had better talk,’ Crispin said, looking down at the man who had taught him most of what he knew.
Martiman’s expression was rueful. He stood up, adjusted the eccentric hat on his head-only Crispin among those there knew that it had saved his life, once-and led the way outside. The Imperial Courier, dudgeon lending him speed, was racing towards town. The sanctuary lay in its own enclosure just east of the city walls.