The Tale of Krispos

by Harry Turtledove

  “So we did.” Dara’s eyes shone. She gestured him back to the chair that was his correct place in this room. “I’m glad we did.”

  “Glad we got away with it?” Krispos’ shudder was not altogether exaggerated. “If we hadn’t…” He’d already thought once about the consequences of not getting away with it. Once was plenty.

  Dara shook her head. “I’m glad we did…what we did.” She cocked her head and studied him. “You’re different from Anthimos.” Her voice was low; no one coming down the hall could have made out her words.

  “Am I?” Krispos said, as neutral a response as he could find. Silence stretched between them. Finally, because she seemed to want him to, he asked, “How?”

  “Everything he does, everything he has me do, is for his pleasure first, mine only afterward, if at all,” Dara said.

  That sounded like Anthimos, Krispos thought. What had he said to Dara, that night when he called Krispos while he was making love with her? “Why did you slow down? That was nice, what you were doing.”

  The Empress went on, “You, I think, were out to please…me.” She hesitated, as if she had trouble believing it.

  “Well, of course.” Pity filled Krispos. “The better for you, the better for me, too.”

  “Anthimos doesn’t think that way,” Dara said. “I didn’t know anyone did. How could I? He’s the only man I’ve ever been in bed with till now. Till now,” she repeated, half gloating over doing once to the Emperor what he’d done so often to her, half marveling at her own daring.

  “I ought to go back to my chamber,” Krispos said. Dara nodded. He got up from the chair, went over to the bed, and gave her a quick kiss. She smiled up at him, a lazy, happy smile.

  “I may summon you again,” she said when he was almost at the door.

  “Your Majesty, I hope you do,” Krispos answered. They both laughed.

  The next thing I have to worry about, Krispos thought as he climbed into his own bed, is not giving myself away when I go in there tomorrow morning. He’d had practice in that kind of discretion with Tanilis. He expected he could manage it again. He hoped Dara could, too.

  Anthimos noticed nothing out of the ordinary, so they must have done well enough. Krispos looked forward to the next time the little silver bell rang late at night.

  KRISPOS BOWED LOW. “EXCELLENT SIR, I HOPE YOU’RE WELL.”

  “Well enough, esteemed and eminent sir.” Iakovitzes’ answering bow was as deep as Krispos’. Afterward, the little noble sank gratefully into a chair. “Well enough, though this cursed leg will never be quite the same. But that’s not what I came here to talk with you about.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought it was,” Krispos agreed. He served Iakovitzes wine and prawns in a sauce of mustard and ginger. “What did you come to talk about, then?”

  Before he answered, Iakovitzes made short work of the prawns. He wiped his lips and mustache on a square of linen. “I hear the war with Makuran will begin as soon as the spring rains stop.” He waved a hand at the drops splashing against the windowpane.

  “Excellent sir, that’s hardly a secret,” Krispos said. “The Sevastokrator’s been mustering soldiers and supplies since last fall.”

  “I’m quite aware of it, thank you,” Iakovitzes said, tart as usual. “What I’m also aware of, and what Petronas seems to be blithely ignoring, is that all the signs point to Malomir coming down out of Kubrat this spring, too. I’ve been in the Phos-forsaken place enough times over the years to hear what goes on there.”

  “Petronas does worry about Kubrat,” Krispos said slowly. “Truly he does. But he’s been set on this war against Makuran for years, you know, and now that he’s finally ready to get on with it, he doesn’t want to listen to anything that might set it back again. Have you told him what you just told me?”

  “Every word and more. It’s just as you said—he doesn’t want to listen. He thinks the screen on the frontier will hold the wild men, ‘if they do attack,’ he says.” Iakovitzes raised an eyebrow. “They will.”

  “He raised the tribute we pay Kubrat last year, didn’t he?” Krispos said, trying to find a hopeful sign. “That might keep Malomir quiet.”

  “His illustrious Highness may think so. But Malomir’s no idiot. If you give him money, he’ll take it. And when he decides to fight, he’ll bloody well fight. Kubratoi like to fight, you know. You of all people should, eh?” Iakovitzes said. Troubled, Krispos nodded. Iakovitzes went on, “What we have in the north isn’t enough to stop the wild men if they do come down in force. Everything I know makes me think they’re going to. That could be most unpleasant.”

  “Yes.” Krispos thought of his nieces carried off into captivity as he had been—if they were lucky. He thought of what could happen to them if they were unlucky…and to his sister, and to everyone in his old village, and to countless people he’d never heard of. “How can we get Petronas to hold up again and reinforce the north?”

  “I can’t. The good god knows I’ve tried. But you, esteemed and eminent sir, you have the ear of his Majesty. And if the Avtokrator gives an order, not even the Sevastokrator may disobey.” Iakovitzes grinned craftily. “And since, by an accident of fate and former status about which I would not presume to bore you by reminding you of it, I enjoy the good fortune of your acquaintance…”

  Krispos grinned back. “You thought you’d take advantage of it.”

  “Of course I did. That’s what having friends in high places is for, after all.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Krispos promised.

  “Good,” Iakovitzes said. “I’d kiss you to show how pleased I am, but you’d probably go and use that notorious influence of yours to get me sent to the mines if I tried, so I’ll just take my leave instead.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “By the good god, Krispos, I certainly hope so.”

  Krispos was laughing as he escorted his one-time master from the imperial residence. The laughter faded when Iakovitzes was no longer there to see. Apprehension replaced it. If he tried to stop the war with Makuran, Petronas would not be pleased with him. And no matter how much influence he had with the Emperor, the Sevastokrator was far more powerful than he, and he knew it.

  “YOUR IMPERIAL HIGHNESS,” KRISPOS MURMURED, EYES ON THE ground as he went to one knee before Petronas.

  The Sevastokrator frowned. “What’s all this in aid of, Krispos? You haven’t needed to be so formal with me for a long time, and you know it. That’s all a waste of time, anyhow, and I have no time to waste right now, not if I’m going west once the rains ease up. So say what you have to say and have done.”

  “Yes, illustrious Highness,” Krispos said. Petronas’ frown deepened. Krispos took a deep breath before he went on, “Illustrious Highness, when you were gracious enough to help me become vestiarios, I promised I’d speak to you first over any doubts I had about what you were doing. I’m here today to keep that promise.”

  “Are you indeed?” Had Petronas been a lion, his tail would have lashed back and forth. “Very well, esteemed and eminent sir, you have my attention. Continue, by all means.” Now he, too, was formal; dangerously so.

  “Illustrious Highness, is it truly wise to use all the Empire’s forces in your war against Makuran? Are you sure you’ve left behind enough to keep the northern frontier safe?” He explained Iakovitzes’ concerns about what Malomir was going to do.

  “I’ve heard this myself,” Petronas said, when he was done. “It does not concern me.”

  “I think it should, though, your Imperial Highness,” Krispos said when he was done. “Iakovitzes has had dealings with the Kubratoi for twenty years or so now. If anyone can divine what they plan, he’s the man. And if he says they’re likely to attack—would you risk the north for the sake of the west?”

  “Given the choice, yes,” Petronas said. “The westlands are richer and broader in extent than the country between here and the Kubrati border. But I say to you what I said to Iakovitzes—the choice
does not arise. Malomir is being paid well to leave us at peace, and the border is not altogether denuded, as you seem to believe.”

  Krispos thought of the thousands of soldiers who funneled through Videssos the city on their way west. Those were the men whose presence made the Kubratoi stay in their own domain. Surely Malomir could not fail to notice they were gone.

  When he said as much, Petronas answered, “You let that be my worry. I say to you that the Kubratoi will not attack. And if I am wrong and they do harass us, their bands will not be able to penetrate far past the frontier.”

  “I am reassured to hear you say it, illustrious Highness, but suppose you are mistaken?” Krispos persisted. “Could you stop fighting Makuran and send soldiers back to the north? That might not be easy.”

  “No, it might not,” the Sevastokrator said. “But since it is not likely to become necessary, either, I do not intend to worry overmuch about it. And even if everything you describe should come to pass, ways remain of bringing the Kubratoi to heel, I assure you of that.”

  Krispos raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Would your Imperial Highness please explain them to me?”

  “No, by the lord with the great and good mind, I will not. Listen to me, esteemed and eminent sir”—though never a servant, Petronas had learned the art of using titles to cut rather than praise—“and listen well: I need explain myself to no man in Videssos save only the Avtokrator himself. And I do not expect to have to do that in this case. Do I make myself quite clear, Krispos?”

  “Aye, illustrious Highness.” Petronas did not want him to raise the issue with Anthimos, Krispos thought. “I will have to think on what to do, though.”

  “Think carefully, Krispos.” Now Petronas spoke in unmistakable warning. “Think very carefully indeed, before you seek to measure your influence with his Majesty against mine. Think also on the fate of Skombros, and on whether you care to spend the rest of your days in the bare cell of a celibate monk. You would find that harder to endure than a eunuch does, I assure you, and yet it is the best fate to which you might aspire. Anger me sufficiently and you may know far worse. Remember it always.”

  “Believe me, I will, illustrious Highness.” Krispos rose to go. He did his best not to show how his heart pounded. “But I will also remember what I think best for the Empire.” He bowed his way out. If nothing else, he thought, this marked the first time he’d ever had the last word with Petronas.

  LEAVES GLOWED GREEN UNDER THE SPRING SUN’S CHEERFUL RAYS. The chatty trills of newly returned wagtails and chiffchaffs came through the open windows of the imperial residence along with the sunbeams and the sweet scent of the cherry blossoms now in riotous pink bloom all around the building.

  Krispos fetched a tray of wine and sweet pastries in to Anthimos and Petronas, then contrived to hang about in the hallway outside the chamber where they were talking. He had a dust rag and every so often made a swipe at one of the antiquities there, but no one would have thought he was doing anything but eavesdropping.

  The Avtokrator and Sevastokrator exchanged pleasantries before they got down to business. Krispos’ dusting hand jerked when Petronas asked after Dara. “She’s quite well, thanks,” Anthimos answered. “She seems happy these days.”

  “That’s good,” his uncle said. “May she give you a son soon.”

  As he cleaned the helmet of the long-ago King of Kings of Makuran, Krispos thought with a small smile that the odds of Dara’s conceiving had improved these days. She had called him back to her bed after that first time, again and again. They still had to be cautious, they took all the chances they could.

  After more inconsequential talk, Anthimos said, “Uncle, may the good god grant you victory in your wars on Makuran, but are you certain you have left behind enough forces to hold back the Kubratoi if they attack?” Krispos stopped dusting altogether and craned his neck to make sure he heard Petronas’ reply.

  It took a while to come. At last the Sevastokrator said, “I do not think the Kubratoi will launch any serious assaults this year.”

  “But they’ve already begun, it seems to me.” Anthimos rustled parchments. “See, here I have two reports that have just arrived, one from near Imbros, the other some distance farther east, of raids by the wild men, cattle and sheep stolen. I don’t like such reports. They concern me.” Under most circumstances, the young Emperor did not hear news of things that went wrong. Krispos, though, had made sure these reports came to his attention.

  “Let me see them.” Another pause, presumably while Petronas skimmed through the documents. The Sevastokrator snorted. “These are pinpricks, as you must see, Anthimos. The frontier guards drove off both bands without difficulty.”

  “But what if they grow worse?” Anthimos persisted. “The guards you’ve left behind would not be able to drive them off then.” Krispos nodded to himself. He’d managed to get his own urgency through to the Emperor, sure enough.

  “I consider that most unlikely, Your Majesty,” Petronas said.

  “Uncle, I’m afraid I don’t,” Anthimos said. “If these attacks have begun already, they will only get larger. I really must insist that you strengthen the northern frontier with some of the troops you’ve shifted toward the westlands.”

  This time, Petronas was silent a long while. “Insist?” he said, as if he did not believe his ears. He repeated the word. “Insist, nephew?” Now he sounded as if he had caught Anthimos in an obvious error and was waiting for the Emperor to fix it.

  But Anthimos, though his voice wobbled—Krispos knew his own would have wobbled, too, confronting Petronas’ formidable presence—said, “Yes, I really must.”

  “Even if that means gutting the campaign against Makuran?” Petronas asked softly.

  “Even then,” Anthimos said, more firmly now. “After all, I am the Avtokrator.”

  “Certainly you are,” Petronas said. “It’s only that I’m surprised to find you taking so sudden an interest in the conduct of matters military. I’d thought I enjoyed your trust in such things.” His voice was a finely tuned instrument, projecting now nothing but patience and reason.

  “You do hold my trust. You know you do, Uncle,” Anthimos said. Krispos feared he was weakening. But he went on, “In this particular case, though, I think your own eagerness for the fight makes you less cautious than you have been in the past.”

  “This is your final word, Your Majesty?”

  “It is.” Anthimos could sound most imperial when he cared to, Krispos thought. He wondered if that would be enough for him to impose his will on the Sevastokrator.

  It was, and then again it was not. After yet another long, thoughtful pause, Petronas said, “Your Majesty, you know your word is my command.” Krispos knew what a lie that was; he wondered if Anthimos did. He got no chance to find out, for the Sevastokrator continued, “Perhaps, though, you will be gracious enough to let me propose a solution that permits me to keep the entire army, yet will confound the Kubratoi.”

  “Go ahead,” Anthimos said cautiously, as if, like Krispos, he was wondering how Petronas proposed to accomplish the two goals that seemed incompatible.

  “Thank you, Anthimos; I will. Perhaps you remember hearing of a Haloga mercenary band led by a northerner called Harvas Black-Robe.”

  “Well, yes, now that you mention it. They’ve been making mischief for a while in Khatrish, haven’t they?”

  “Thatagush actually, Your Majesty. I’ve taken the liberty of inquiring of this Harvas what he would require to fall upon Kubrat instead. If his northerners do that, Malomir will be far too occupied with them to give us any trouble for some time to come, all without the use of a single good Videssian soldier. What say you to that?”

  It was the Avtokrator’s turn to hesitate. Out in the hall, Krispos kicked at the polished marble floor. Petronas had indeed had a scheme in reserve, and a good scheme to boot. Krispos learned what being outmaneuvered felt like.

  “Uncle, I’ll have to give that some thought,” Anthimos said at last.
>
  “Go ahead, but I hope you’ll think quickly, for now that the weather is fine once more, every campaigning day lost counts against me,” Petronas said.

  “You’ll know my decision tomorrow,” the Avtokrator promised.

  “Good enough,” Petronas said jovially.

  Krispos heard him set down his cup, then heard the chair shift under him as he got to his feet. He started to duck into another room—he did not want to face the Sevastokrator right now. But he was either too slow or too noisy, for Petronas came in after him. As protocol required, he went to one knee before the man with the second highest rank in the Empire of Videssos. “Your imperial Highness,” he said, eyes on the ground.

  “Look at me, esteemed and eminent sir,” Petronas said. Unwillingly, Krispos obeyed. The Sevastokrator’s face was hard and cold, his voice flat. “I did not intend throwing a fox out of the vestiarios’ chamber only to replace him with a lion. I’ve warned you, not once but many times, that you would pay for disobeying me. All that remains is deciding how to punish you for your disobedience.”

  “I thought you were wrong to bare the border with Kubrat,” Krispos said stubbornly. “I told you as much, and I still think so. I don’t like your new plan much better. How much harm can a mercenary company do to a big country like Kubrat? Probably not enough to keep the wild men from going on with their raids against us.”

  “Thatagush is twice the size of Kubrat, and Harvas’ raiders have kept it in chaos for years.” Petronas nodded to Krispos. “That you don’t grovel before me speaks well of you. Given age and experience, you could grow to be truly dangerous. I doubt you’ll have the chance to gain them, though.”

  Krispos started to say that Anthimos would protect him against the Sevastokrator. He stopped—he knew better. The Sevastokrator’s will was far stronger than his nephew’s. One way or another, even if Anthimos ordered him not to, he would strike at Krispos. Anthimos might be sorry Krispos was gone, at least until he got used to the quiet, safe eunuch who would undoubtedly replace him. Dara would miss him more. But neither of them could keep Petronas from doing as he liked in the city.