Lord of Emperors. Guy Gavriel Kay

IV

      He hadn’t known Nishik long at all—only for the duration of their journey here—and he couldn’t have said he liked the man. The stocky soldier made a poor manservant and an insufficiently respectful companion. He hadn’t troubled himself to disguise the fact that he regarded Rustem as no more than a burdensome civilian: the traditional soldier’s attitude. Rustem had made a point in the first days of mentioning his travels a few times, but when that elicited no useful response he stopped, finding the exercise of attempting to impress a common soldier to be undignified.

      Having acknowledged this, it remained to note that the casual killing of a companion—whether one was partial to him or not—was hardly something one ought to countenance, and Rustem had no intention of doing so. He was still outraged about the morning’s deadly encounter and his own humiliating flight through the Jaddite city.

      This information he conveyed to the big, red-haired artisan at the wedding celebration to which he’d been brought. He was holding a cup of excellent wine, but could take no pleasure in the fact or the reality of his arrival—finally—in the Sarantine capital after a hard winter trek. The presence of the murderer at the same gathering undermined any such feelings and gave an edge to his anger. The young man, dressed now like some Sarantine lordling, bore no resemblance at all to the profane, drunken bully who’d accosted them with his cronies in the laneway. He didn’t even seem to have recognized Rustem.

      Rustem pointed out the fellow at the request of the mosaicist, who seemed a brisk, no-nonsense person, belying a first impression of unhealthy choler and passion. The artisan swore under his breath and promptly fetched the bridegroom to their little group.

      ‘Cleander’s fucked up again,’ the mosaicist—his name was Crispin—said grimly. He seemed prone to vulgar language.

      ‘Tried to grab Shirin in the hallway?’ The soldier bridegroom continued to present an inordinately cheerful visage.

      ‘I wish it were that. No, he killed this man’s servant this morning, in the street, with witnesses around. Including my friend Pardos, who just arrived in the City. Then he and a swarm of Greens chased both of them all the way to the Sanctuary, with swords drawn.’

      ‘Oh, fuck,’ said the soldier, with feeling. His expression had changed. ‘Those stupid little boys.’

      ‘They aren’t boys,’ said Rustem coldly. ‘Boys are ten years old or such. That fellow was drunk at sunrise and killed with a blade.’

      The big soldier looked at Rustem carefully for the first time. ‘I understand that. He’s still very young. Lost his mother at a bad time and left some intelligent friends for a wild group of younger ones in the faction. He’s also hopelessly smitten with our hostess here and will have been drinking this morning because he was terrified of coming to her house.’

      ‘Ah,’ said Rustem, using a gesture his students knew well. ‘That explains why Nishik had to die! Of course. Forgive me for mentioning the matter.’

      ‘Don’t be a shit, Bassanid,’ said the soldier, his eyes briefly hard. ‘No one’s condoning a killing. We’ll try to do something. I’m explaining, not excusing. I should also mention that the boy is the son of Plautus Bonosus. There’s a need for some discretion.’

      ‘Who is—?’

      ‘Master of the Senate,’ said the mosaicist. ‘He’s over there, with his wife. Leave this with us, physician. Cleander can use a good scare put into him and I can promise you we’ll make it happen.’

      ‘A scare?’ said Rustem. He felt his temper rising again.

      The red-haired fellow had a direct gaze. ‘Tell me, doctor, would a member of the court of the King of Kings be more severely punished for killing a servant in a street fight? A Sarantine servant?’

      ‘I have no idea,’ said Rustem, although he did, of course.

      Pivoting on a heel, he strode past the yellow-haired bride in her white garment and red belt and went right across the room towards the murderer and the older man the artisan had indicated. He was aware that his swift progress through a relaxed gathering would attract attention. A female servant, perhaps sensing a problem, appeared right in front of him, smiling, carrying a tray of small plates. Rustem was forced to stop; there was no room to pass. He drew a breath and, for want of evident alternatives, accepted one of the little plates she offered. The woman—young, full-figured, and dark-haired— lingered in his path. She balanced her round tray and took his wine cup, freeing his two hands. Her fingers touched his. ‘Taste it,’ she murmured, still smiling. Her tunic was cut distractingly low—not a fashion that had reached Kerakek.

      Rustem did as she suggested. It was rolled fish of some sort, in pastry, a sauce on the plate. As he bit down, a mildly stunning explosion of flavours took place in his mouth and Rustem could not suppress a grunt of astonished pleasure. He looked at the plate in his hand, and then at the girl in front of him. He dipped a finger in the sauce and tasted it again, wonderingly.

      The dancer hosting this affair clearly had a cook, he thought. And comely servants. The dark-haired girl was gazing at him with dimpled pleasure. She handed him a small cloth to wipe at his mouth and took the tiny plate from him, still smiling. She gave him back his wine.

      Rustem discovered that his surge of anger appeared to have dissipated. But as the servant murmured something and turned to another guest, Rustem looked at the Senator and his son again and was struck by a thought. He stood still a moment longer, stroking his beard, and then moved forward, more slowly now.

      He stopped before the slightly florid figure of the Master of the Sarantine Senate, noting the austere, quite handsome woman beside him and—more to the point— the son at his other side. He felt very calm now. He bowed to the man and the woman and introduced himself formally.

      As he straightened, Rustem saw the boy finally recognize him and go white. The Senator’s son glanced quickly towards the front of the room where their hostess, the dancer, was still greeting late arrivals. No escape for you, thought Rustem coldly, and he spoke his accusation to the father in a deliberately low-voiced, cool tone.

      The mosaicist had been right, of course: discretion and dignity were critical when people of stature were involved. Rustem had no desire to become embroiled with the law here; he intended to deal with this Senator himself. It had just occurred to him that although a physician might learn much of Sarantine medicine and perhaps hear a little chatter about affairs of state, a man owed a debt by the Master of the Senate might find himself in a different situation—to the greater benefit of the King of Kings in Kabadh, who had things he wished to know about Sarantium just now.

      Rustem saw no reason to have poor Nishik, his long-serving, much-loved servant, die in vain.

      The Senator cast his son a satisfyingly poisonous glance and murmured, ‘Killed? Holy Jad. I am appalled, of course. You must allow—’

      ‘He was drawing his own sword!’ the boy exclaimed in a low, fierce tone. ‘He was—’

      ‘Be silent!’ said Plautus Bonosus, a little more loudly than he’d perhaps intended. Two men not far away glanced over. The wife, all reserve and composure, appeared to be gazing idly about the room, ignoring her family. She was listening, however; Rustem could see it.

      ‘As I was saying,’ Bonosus continued more softly, turning back to Rustem, his colour even more heightened, ‘you must allow me to offer you a cup of wine at our home after this charming celebration. I am grateful that you chose to speak with me directly, of course.’

      ‘Of course,’ said Rustem gravely.

      ‘Where would we find your unfortunate servant?’ the Senator asked. A practical man.

      ‘The body is being attended to,’ Rustem murmured.

      ‘Ah. So there are . . . others who have already learned of this?’

      ‘We were pursued through the streets by sword-wielding youths led by your son,’ Rustem