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.

They watched him for a moment, then Martinian began walking south towards a copse of beech trees outside the yard at the opposite end from the burial mound. The sun was low now and the wind had picked up. Crispin squinted a little, emerging from the muted light of the sanctuary. A cow looked up from grazing and regarded them as they went. Crispin carried the Imperial Packet. The name "Martinian of Varena" was writ large upon it in cursive script, quite elegantly. The seal was crimson and elaborate.

Martinian stopped short of the trees just past the gate that led out from the yard to the road. He sat down on a stump there. They were quite alone. A blackbird swooped from their left, curved into the woods and was lost in leaves. It was cold now at the end of day with the sun going down. The blue moon was already up, above the forest. Crispin, glancing over as he leaned back against the wooden gate, realized that it was full.

Ilandra had died at sunset on a day when the blue moon was full, and the girls-sores ruptured, bodies fouled, their features hideously distorted-had followed her to the god that night. Crispin had walked outside and seen that moon, a wound in the sky.

He handed the heavy packet to Martinian, who accepted it without speaking. The older rnosaicist looked down at his name for a moment, then tore open the Chancellor of Sarantium's seal. In silence he began taking out what was within. The weight turned out to be silver and copper coins in a filigreed purse, as promised. A letter explained, as the courier had said, that the Great Sanctuary was being rebuilt and mosaic work was much a part of that. Some compliments upon the reputation of Martinian of Varena. There was a formal-looking document on superb paper which turned out to be the Permit for the Posting Inns. Martinian whistled softly and showed the parchment to Crispin: it was signed by the Chancellor himself, no lesser figure. They were both sufficiently familiar with high circles-if only here in Batiara among the Antae-to know that this was an honour.

Another document proved, when unfolded three times, to be a map showing the location of the Posting Inns and lesser stopping places on the Imperial road through Sauradia and Trakesia to the City. Yet another folded sheet named certain ships calling at Mylasia on the coast as reliable for sea transport if they happened to be in harbour.

"Too late in the year by now for commercial ships," Martinian said thoughtfully, looking at this last. He took out the letter again, opened it. Pointed to a date at the top. "This was issued at the very beginning of autumn. Our red-cheeked friend took his time getting here. I think you were meant to sail."

"I was meant to sail?"

"Well, you, pretending to be me."

"Martinian. What in Jad's-?"

"I don't want to go. I'm old. My hands hurt. I want to drink mulled wine this winter with friends and hope there are no wars for a while. I have no desire to sail to Sarantium. This is your summons, Crispin."

"Not my name."

"It ought to be. You've done most of the work for years now." Martinian grinned. "About time, too."

Crispin did not return the smile. "Think about this. This Emperor is said to be a patron. A builder. What more could you ask for in life than a chance to see the City and work there in honour? Make something that will last, and be known?"

"Warm wine and a seat by the fire in Galdera's tavern." And my wife beside me in the night until I die, he thought, but did not say.

The other man made a disbelieving sound.

Martinian shook his head. "Crispin, this is your summons. Don't let their mistake confuse things. They want a master mosaicist. We are known for our work in the tradition of Rhodian mosaic. It makes sense for them to have someone from Batiara be a part of this, east-west tensions notwithstanding, and you know which of the two of us ought to make the journey."

"I know that I have not been asked. You have. By name. Even if I wanted to go, which I don't."

Martinian, uncharacteristically, said something obscene involving Crispin's anatomy, the thunder god of the Bassanids, and a lightning bolt.

Crispin blinked. "You will now practise speaking like me?" he asked, not smiling. "That will have things even further reversed, won't it?"

The older man was flushed. "Do not even pretend that you don't want to go. Why did you pretend not to know about their sanctuary? Everyone knows about the Victory Pviot and the burning in Sarantium."

"Why did you pretend not to be yourself?" There was a little silence. The other man looked away, towards the distant woods. Crispin said, "Martinian, I don't want to go. It isn't pretending. I don't want to do anything. You know that."

His friend turned back to him. "Then that's why you must go. Caius, you are too young to stop living."