He couldn't be too obvious in his favouritism-the Emperor's people were present and observing, everywhere-but Pappio did make sure that, all other things being remotely balanced, a Green mosaicist did not go away empty-handed if competing for hard-to-find colours or semiprecious stones with a known follower of the accursed Blues or even someone without declared allegiance.
This was only as it should be. Pappio owed his appointment to his Green partisanship. His predecessor as head of the guild and Glassworks Director-an equally fervent Green-had selected him in large part for that reason. Pappio knew that when he chose to retire he was expected to pass on the position to another Green. It happened all the time, in every guild except the silk, which was a special case and closely scrutinized by the Imperial Precinct. One faction or the other controlled most of the guilds, and it was rare for that control to be wrested away.
One had to be blatantly corrupt for the Emperor's people to interfere.
Pappio had no intention of being blatant about anything, or even corrupt, if it came to that. He was a careful man.
And it was that instinctive caution, in part, that had made him a little uneasy about the surprising request he'd received, and the extremely substantial payment that had accompanied it-before he'd even done a preliminary sketch of the glass bowl requested!
He understood that it was his stature that was being bought. That the gift would acquire greatly enhanced value because it had been fashioned by the head of the guild himself, who never did such things any more. He also knew that the man buying this from him-as a wedding gift, he understood-could afford to do so. One didn't need to make inquiries to know that the principal secretary to the Supreme Strategos, an historian who also happened to be chronicling the Emperor's building projects, had sufficient resources to buy an elaborate bowl. This was a man who, more and more, seemed to require a certain deference. Pappio didn't like the sallow, unsmiling, lean-faced secretary, but what did liking have to do with anything?
What was harder to sort out was why Pertennius of Eubulus was buying this gift. Some discreet questions had to be asked elsewhere before Pappio thought he had the answer. It turned out to be simple enough, in the end-one of the oldest stories of all-and it had nothing to do with the bride and groom.
It was someone else that Pertennius was trying to impress. And since that person happened to be dear to Pappio's own heart, he had to overcome a certain indignation-visualizing a woman sleek and splendid as a falcon in the thin arms of the dour secretary-to concentrate on his unaccustomed craft again. He forced himself to do so, however, as best he could.
After all, he wouldn't want the Principal Dancer for his beloved Greens to think him less than an exemplary artisan. Perhaps, he daydreamed, she might even ask for further work on her own behalf after seeing his bowl. Pappio imagined meetings, consultations, two heads bent close over a series of drawings, her notorious perfume-worn by only two women in all of Sarantium-enveloping him, a trusting hand laid on his arm…
Pappio was not a young man, was stout and bald and married with three grown children, but it was a truth of the world that certain women carried a magic about them, on the stage and off, and dreams followed where they went. You didn't stop dreaming just because you weren't young any more. If Pertennius could attempt to win admiration with a showy gift given to people he couldn't possibly care about, might not Pappio try to let the exquisite Shirin see what the Director of the Imperial Glassworks could do when he put his hands and mind-and a part of his heart-to his earliest craft?
She would see the bowl when it was delivered to her house. It seemed the bride was living with her.
After some thought, and a morning's sketching, Pappio decided to make the bowl green, with inset pieces of bright yellow glass like meadow flowers in the spring that was coming at last.
His heart quickened as he began to work, but it wasn't the labour or the craft that was exciting him, or even the image of a woman now. It was something else entirely. If spring was nearly upon them, Pappio was thinking, humming a processional march to himself, then so were the chariots, so were the chariots, so were the chariots again.
Every morning, during the sunrise invocations in the elegant chapel she had elected to frequent, the young queen of the Antae went through an exercise of tabulating, as on a secretary's slate in her mind, the things for which she ought to be grateful. Seen in a certain light, there were many of them.
She had escaped an attempt on her life, survived a late-season sailing to Sarantium, and then the first stages of settling in this city-a process more overwhelming than she wanted to admit. It had taken much from her to preserve an appropriately haughty manner when they had first come within sight of the harbour and walls. Even though she had known Sarantium could overawe, and had been preparing for it, Gisel learned, when the sun rose that morning behind the Imperial City, that sometimes there was no real way to prepare oneself.
She was grateful for her father's training and the self-discipline her life had demanded: she didn't think anyone had seen how daunted she was.
And there was more for which thanks ought to be given, to holy Jad or whatever pagan deities one chose to remember from the Antae forests. She had entirely respectable housing in a small palace near the triple walls, courtesy of the Emperor and Empress. She'd acted quickly enough on arrival to secure adequate funds of her own, by demanding loans to the crown from Batiaran merchants trading here in the east. Despite the irregularity of her sudden arrival, unannounced, on an Imperial ship, with only a small cadre of her guards and women, none of the Batiarans had dared gainsay their queen's regal, matter-of-fact request. If she'd waited, Gisel knew, it might have been different. Once those back in Varena- those doubtless claiming or battling for her throne by now-learned where she was, they would send their own instructions east. Money might be harder to come by. More importantly, she expected they'd try to kill her then.
She was too experienced in these affairs-of royalty and survival- to have been foolish enough to wait. Once she'd acquired her funds, she'd hired a dozen Karchite mercenaries as personal guards and dressed them in crimson and white, the colours of her grandfather's war banner.
Her father had always liked Karchites for guards. If you kept them sober when on duty and allowed them to disappear into cauponae when not, they tended to be fiercely loyal. She'd also accepted the Empress Alixana's offer of three more ladies-in-waiting and a chef and steward from the Imperial Precinct. She was setting up a household; amenities and a reasonable staff were necessary. Gisel knew perfectly well that there would be spies among these, but that, too, was something with which she was familiar. There were ways of avoiding them, or misleading them.
She'd been received at court not long after arriving and welcomed with entirely proper courtesy and respect. She had seen and exchanged formal greetings with the grey-eyed, round-faced Emperor and the small, exquisite, childless dancer who had become his Empress. They had all been precisely and appropriately polite, though no private encounters or exchanges with either Valerius or Alixana had followed. She hadn't been sure whether to expect these or not. It depended on the Emperor's larger plans. Once, affairs had waited on her plans. Not any more.