The red-bearded man lifted a hand. He held a paper there. And a coin, Kasia saw. She lifted her head. ‘You have not yet asked for my Permit, ‘keeper. An oversight. Do read it. You will no doubt recognize the signature and the Seal of the Chancellor himself, in Sarantium. Of course, a great many of your patrons probably have Permits personally signed by Gesius.’
Morax went from red-faced to bone white in a moment. It was almost amusing, but Kasia was afraid she was about to drop the wine. Permits were signed by Imperial functionaries in various cities or by junior officers at army camps, not by the Imperial Chancellor. She felt herself gaping. Who was this man? She shifted her grip beneath the wine jug. Her arms were trembling with the weight. Morax reached out and took the paper-and the coin. He unfolded the Permit and read, his mouth moving with the words. He looked up, unable to resist staring. His colour was slowly coming back. The coin had helped. ‘You . . . your servants you said are outside, good my lord?’ ‘Just the one, taken at the border to get me to Trakesia. There are reasons why it is useful to Gesius and the Emperor for me to travel without display. You run an Imperial Inn. You will understand.’ The red-bearded man smiled briefly, and then held a finger to his lips.
Gesius. The Chancellor. This man had named him by name, and had a Permit with his privy Seal and signature.
Kasia did begin to pray then, silently. To no god by name, but with all her heart. Her arms were still trembling. Morax had ordered her to the kitchen. She turned to go.
She saw him give the Permit back. The coin was gone. Kasia had never yet learned to follow the motion with which Morax palmed such offerings. He reached out, stopped her with a hand on the shoulder.
‘Deana!’ he barked, as he saw her walking through the common room. Deana quickly set down her armful of firewood and hurried over. ‘Take this jug to the kitchen, and tell Breden to carry the largest bathtub to the room above it. Kitten, you will take hot water from the kettle up with Breden. Immediately. The two of you will fill the bath. You will run as you do so, to keep it hot. Then you will attend upon his lordship, here. If he complains in the least regard you will be locked in the wine cellar for the night. Am I understood?’
‘Do not,’ said the red-bearded man quietly, ‘call me your lordship, if you will. I travel this way for a reason, recall?’
‘Of course,’ said Morax, cringing. ‘Of course! Forgive me! But what shall…?’
‘Martinian will do,’ said the man. ‘Martinian of Varena.’
‘Mice and blood! What are you doing?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Crispin replied honestly. ‘But I need your help. Does her story sound true to you?’
Linon, after that first ferocity, grew instantly subdued. After an unexpected silence, she said, ‘It does, in fact. What is more true is that we must keep entirely out of this. Crispin, the Day of the Dead is not a thing to meddle with.’ She never used his name. Imbecile was her preferred form of address.
‘I know. Bear with me. Help, if you can.’
He looked at the pudgy, slope-shouldered innkeeper and said aloud, ‘Martinian will do. Martinian of Varena.’ He paused and added confidingly, ‘And I will thank you for your discretion.’
‘Of course!’ cried the innkeeper. ‘My name is Morax, and I am entirely at your service, my … Martinian.’ He actually winked. A greedy, petty man.
‘The best room is over the kitchen,’ Linon said silently. ‘He is doing what you asked.’
‘You know this inn?’
‘I know most of them on this road, imbecile. You are taking us into perilous waters.’
‘I’m sailing to Sarantium. Of course I am,’ Crispin replied wryly, in silence. Linon gave an inward snort and was still. Another girl, with a purpling bruise on one cheek, had taken the wine jug from the yellow-haired one. Both of them hurried away.
‘May I suggest our very best Candarian red wine with your dinner?’ the innkeeper said, gripping his own hands in the way all innkeepers seemed to have. ‘There is a modest surcharge, of course, but…’