Crispin coughed. He felt himself flushing. The Senator's allegedly too-prim wife eyed him with a mild interest. Crispin cleared his throat.

The Senator, endlessly experienced in meaningless chat, was saying, "It is quite close, actually, to the Eustabius Palace-the one Saranios built by the walls. You know he loved to hunt, begrudged the long ride across the city from the Imperial Precinct on a good morning."

'She wants you to think of her touching you right now, just where you are standing with them, her fingers stroking your most private places, down and further down, even as the woman in front of you watches this, unable to turn away, her own lips parting, her eyes growing wide.

"Indeed!" Crispin managed, in a strangled voice. "Loved to hunt! Yes!" Pardos glanced at him.

'She… she says that you can feel her nipples against your back now. Firm, proof of her own excitement. And that down below… that she is becoming… Shirin, I will absolutely not say that!

"And so Saranios would spend the night there," Plautus Bonosus was saying. "Bring favourite companions, a few girls when he was younger, and be outside the walls with bows and spears by sunrise."

'She says her fingers are now touching your… your, ah, sex from… beneath… ah, stroking you, and… er, sliding? She says the Senator's young wife is staring af you, her mouth open, as your firm, hard … no!"

The bird's voice became a silent shriek, then blessedly stopped.

Crispin, struggling for the scattered shreds of composure, hoped desperately that no one would look down towards his groin. Shirin! Jad-cursed Shirin!

"Are you well?" the Bassanid asked. His manner had changed; he was all solicitous, attentive concern. A physician. He would probably look down soon, Crispin thought despairingly. The Senator's wife was still gazing at him. Her lips, fortunately, had not parted.

"I'm a little… warm, yes, er, not serious… am sure, greatly hope, we'll meet again," Crispin said with urgency. He bowed quickly. "If you'll all excuse me now, ah, there's a… wedding matter. Must… speak about."

"What matter?" accursed Carullus said, glancing across from beside Scortius.

Crispin didn't even bother to answer. He was already crossing the room towards where a slender woman was still standing against the far wall, almost hidden behind three men.

'She says to say she is now forever in your debt," the bird said as he approached. 'That you are a hero like those of yesteryear and that your lower tunic shows signs of disarray.

This time he heard amusement even in the tone of Danis: in the singular voice Zoticus the alchemist had given to all his captured souls, including this shy young girl killed-as they all had been-on an autumn morning long ago in a glade in Sauradia.

She was laughing at him.

He might have been amused, himself, even coping with embarrassment, but something else had just happened, and he didn't know how to deal with it. More brusquely than he'd intended, he shouldered his way in between the figure of Pertennius and the paunchy merchant-almost certainly a Green patron-on his left. They glared at him.

"Forgive me, friends. Forgive me. Shirin, we have a small problem, will you come?" He took the dancer by the elbow, not gently, and guided her away from the wall, out of the half-circle of men that had surrounded her.

"A problem?" Shirin said prettily. "Oh dear. What sort of…?"

As they crossed the room together, Crispin saw people watching and hoped, sincerely, that his tunic was decent by now. Shirin smiled artlessly at her guests.

Poor want of any better idea, aware that he wasn't thinking clearly, Crispin steered her through the open doors back into the dining room where half a dozen or so people were lingering, and then into the kitchen beyond.

They stopped just inside the doorway: two white-clad figures amid the after-meal disarray and chaos of the kitchen and the stained and weary chefs and servers there. The talk subsided as people became aware of them. "Greetings!" said Shirin brightly, as Crispin found himself wordless. "And to you both," said the small, plump, round-faced man Crispin had first met in a pre-dawn kitchen somewhat larger than this. Men had died that night. An attempt on Crispin's own life. He remembered Strumosus holding a thick-handled chopping knife, preparing to use it on any intruders into his domain.

The chef was smiling now as he stood up from a stool and approached them. "Have we given satisfaction, my lady?"

"You know you have," Shirin said. "What could I offer you to come live with me?" She, too, smiled.

Strumosus looked wry. "Indeed, I was about to make you a similar offer."

Shirin raised her eyebrows.

"It is very crowded here," the cook said, gesturing at the piled implements and platters and the assortment of people standing around the kitchen. Hostess and guest followed him through to a smaller room where dishes and food were stored. There was another doorway here, giving onto the inner courtyard. It was too cold to go outside. The sun was west, it was growing dark.

Strumosus swung the door to the kitchen shut. It became quiet suddenly. Crispin leaned back against the wall. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them; wished he'd thought to collect a cup of wine. Two names were reverberating in his head.

Shirin smiled demurely at the little chef. "Whatever will people say of us. Are you proposing to me even as I try to win you, dear man?"

"For a cause," the cook said, his expression serious. "What would the Blues have to offer you to become their Principal Dancer?"

"Ah," said Shirin. Her smile faded. She looked at Crispin then back to the cook. Then she shook her head.

"It cannot be done," she murmured.

"At no price? Astorgus is generous."

"So I understand. I hope he is paying you what you deserve."

The chef hesitated, then bluntly named a sum. "I trust the Greens are not offering you less."

Shirin looked down at the floor, and Crispin saw that she was embarrassed. Not meeting the chef's eyes, she said only, "They aren't."

The implication was clear, if unspoken. Strumosus coloured. There was a silence. "Well," he said, rallying, "it only makes sense. A Principal Dancer is more… prominent than any cook. More visible. A different level of fame."

"But not more talented," Shirin said, looking up. She touched the little man on the arm. "It isn't a matter of payment for me. It is… something else." She paused, bit her lip, then said, "The Empress, when she sent me her perfume, made clear I was only to wear it for so long as I was a Green. This was just after Scortius left us."

There was a silence.

"I see," said Strumosus softly. "Balancing the factions? She is… they are very clever, aren't they?"

Crispin thought of saying something then, but did not. Very clever was not the phrase, though. It didn't go nearly far enough. He was certain this touch would have been Alixana's own. The Emperor had no patience for faction issues; everyone knew it. It had almost cost him his throne during the riots, Scortius had told him. But the Empress, who had been a dancer for the Blues in her youth, would be attuned to such matters like no one else in the Imperial Precinct. And if the Blues were allowed to raid the preeminent charioteer of the day, then the Greens would keep the most celebrated dancer. The perfume-no one else in the Empire was allowed to wear it-and the condition attached would have been her way of making sure that Shirin knew this.

"A pity, "the little chef said thoughtfully, "but I suppose it makes sense. If one looks at all of us from above."

And that was about right, Crispin thought.

Strumosus changed the subject. "Was there a reason you came into the

kitchen?"