Free Come Twilight by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page B

gesture.
    Sanct’ Germain reached under his black woolen pluvial into the leather wallet that hung from his belt; he drew out an emerald and two diamonds, the emerald as large as the end of his thumb, the diamonds somewhat smaller. “Here,” he said, placing them in the Gardingio’s palm. “Better are not to be found anywhere. Set your artisans to polishing them and they will add to the treasure of your House.”
    Behind Sanct’ Germain, Ruda the sartrium let out a whispered oath.
    “These are very good,” said Gardingio Witteric, his eyes shinning with greed. “Yes, very good.”
    They are yours for the kindness you show to me and my escort and bondsman, and our animals. I would be an unworthy guest if I did nothing to express my gratitude for your hospitality.” Sanct’ Germain made a gesture of submission and moved back a few steps down the dais.
    Gardingio Witteric held up the emerald and squinted at the play of light through it; in spite of the dimness of the room, he liked what he saw. “Very fine, truly very fine. This is first quality, as good as any I have seen,” he approved as he studied the gem. “Where did you get it?”
    “I have sworn not to reveal that,” Sanct’ Germain said. “I must ask you to let me honor my oath.”
    “So it is stolen,” said Gardingio Witteric, shrugging to show his unconcern. “What is that to me?” He looked next at the diamonds, his attention less focused. “These are very fine, also.” Weighing them in his palm he considered the gift. “All right, foreigner. I will accept these on behalf of the villa, and I will remember your munificence when you depart.”
    “I am doubly grateful to you, Gardingio,” said Sanct’ Germain, lowering his head in a show of deference.
    “In winter, any traveler is at the mercy of the storms and those of us with walls to protect them,” said Gardingio Witteric complacently.
    Ruda the sartrium intervened. “What about the mules and horses? They are going to eat and drink more than the men.”
    Gardingio Witteric laughed. “These jewels will buy a summer of hay, and our wells have not run dry. Let them have what they need and do not press them about it,” he ordered, his joviality gone as swiftly as it had come.
    Aware that there was no point in belaboring the matter, Ruda saluted and turned away, pulling Sanct’ Germain’s elbow to pull him along. “You have men to attend to,” he said to account for his abrupt actions.
    “And you have duties, no doubt,” said Sanct’ Germain, only mildly offended by this brusque treatment; had the sartrium been a Roman servant, it would have been another matter, but these western Goths lacked the grace of Roman society and could not be expected to conduct themselves otherwise.
    “You will have to put your men in with our household guards,” Ruda told Sanct’ Germain as they neared the outer courtyard once again. “We have no quarters to spare for them if we are to provide for you.”
    “I doubt the men will mind,” said Sanct’ Germain with a trace of irony. “They enjoy their own kind.”
    “As do all men,” said Ruda pointedly. “You cannot suppose that tending to a foreigner brings them honor.”
    So that was it, Sanct’ Germain thought; these men-at-arms did not want to compromise themselves by remaining too devoted to a man who could not advance them. “Ah, yes,” he said, “but I pay very well.”
    “Money does not bring honor, and cannot hoise us,” said Ruda bluntly. “If you were not foreign you would know that; foreigners always think the world is set right with gold. No one can say that riches are better than favor and advancement.” He glowered at a juggler who approached them, a long sausage balanced on his nose. “Come. I will show you where you are to stay.”
    “Very good,” said Sanct’ Germain quietly, not willing to continue a debate that could only lead to greater acrimony.
    One of the jugglers was standing atop a stool placed on a barrel