It was the wild look of him, she decided later. The full red beard, disordered hair when he pushed back the hood of his muddy cloak. He had large, capable-looking hands with red hairs visible on the backs of them, and his soaked brown outer garment was bunched up at his waist, hoisted above his knees and belted for hard striding. Expensive boots. A heavy staff. On this road of merchant parties and civil servants, uniformed army officers and Imperial Couriers, this solitary traveller reminded her of one of the hard men of her own distant, northern world.
There was an extreme irony to this, of course, but she had no way of knowing that.
He was standing alone, no companion or servant in sight, and there was no one nearby, amazingly, for this one moment. He spoke to her in Rhodian. She barely heard him or the replies she managed to mumble. About her name. She stared at the floor. There was an odd sensation of roaring in her ears, like a wind in the room. She was afraid she would fall down, or drop the wine jug, shattering it. It occurred to her, suddenly, that it didn’t matter if she did. What could they do to her?
‘They are going to kill me tomorrow,’ she said.
She looked up at him. Her heart was pounding like a northern drum. ‘Will you take me away?’
He didn’t recoil like Zagnes, or stare in shock or disbelief. He looked at her very closely. His eyes narrowed; they were blue and cold.
‘Why?’ he said, almost harshly.
Kasia felt tears coming. She fought them. The… the Day of the Dead,’ she managed. Her mouth felt full of ashes. ‘The . . . because of the oak god… they…’
She heard footsteps. Of course. Time had run. Never enough time. She might have died of the plague at home, as her father and brother had. Or of starvation in the winter that followed, had her mother not sold her for food. She had been sold, though. She was here. A slave. Time had run. She stopped abruptly, stared straight down at the floor, gripping the heavy wine. Morax walked through the arched door from the common room. ‘About time, ‘keeper,’ said the red-bearded man calmly. ‘Do you normally keep patrons waiting alone in your front room?’
‘Kitten!’ roared Morax. ‘You little bitch, how dare you not tell me we had a distinguished guest?’ Her own eyes down, Kasia imagined his practised gaze assessing the unkempt man in his front room. Morax switched to his formal voice. ‘Good sir, this is an Imperial Inn. You do know that Permits are required.’
‘I rely upon it to ensure fellow guests of some respectability,’ said the man coolly. Kasia watched them, from the corners of her eyes. He was not a northerner, of course. Not with that accent. She was such a fool, sometimes. He had spoken Rhodian, was regarding Morax bleakly. He glanced through the archway at the crowded common room. ‘It appears that a surprising number of Permit holders are abroad on a wet day, so late in the year. I congratulate you, ‘keeper. Your welcome must be exceptionally gracious.’
Morax flushed. ‘You have a Permit then? I am delighted to welcome you, if that is so.’
‘It is. And I wish to see your delight made extremely tangible. I want the warmest room you have for two nights, a clean pallet for my man wherever you put the servants, and hot water, oil, towels, and a bathtub carried to my room immediately. I will bathe before I dine. I will consult with you as to the food and wine while the bath is being prepared. And I want a girl to oil and wash me. This one will do.’
Morax looked stricken. He was good at that. ‘Oh dear, oh dear! We are just now preparing the evening meal, good sir. As you see, the inn is crowded today and we have far too little staff. I am grieved to say that we cannot accommodate bathing until later. This is merely a humble country inn, good sir. Kitten, get that wine into the kitchen. Now!’