Flight? If anyone in the Empire could track him down, Petronas could. Besides, he thought, what good was it to run away from the friends and allies he had? Getting rid of him might be harder here than on some lonely country road. Better to stay and do what he could. Now, still on that one knee, he met Petronas’ eyes. “May I rise, your Highness?”
“Go ahead,” Petronas said. “You’ll fall again, soon enough.”
KRISPOS DID HIS BEST TO TALK ANTHIMOS OUT OF LETTING Petronas use Harvas Black-Robe’s Halogai instead of Videssian troops against the Kubratoi. Anthimos listened and shook his head. “But why, Your Majesty?” Krispos protested. “Even if the mercenaries do turn Kubrat topsy-turvy, Kubrati raiders will still wound your northern provinces.”
Even being reminded by that “you” that the Empire was his personally did not change Anthimos’ mind. “Maybe they will, but not that badly. Why should a little trouble on the frontier concern me? It can be set to rights later.”
What was to Anthimos “a little trouble on the frontier” seemed a disaster in the making to Krispos. He wondered how the Avtokrator would have felt if he had a sister, nieces, a brother-in-law only too close to the wild men. But nothing that did not directly affect Anthimos was real to him.
With as much control as he could muster, Krispos said, “Your Majesty, truly the invasion you admit will happen could be stopped if we put our soldiers back where they belong. You know it’s so.”
“Maybe it is,” Anthimos said. “But if I let Petronas go ahead, he’ll be out of my hair for months. Think of the revels I could enjoy while he’s not around.” The Avtokrator leered in anticipation. Krispos tried to hide his disgust—was this the way an Emperor chose war or peace? Then Anthimos’ face changed. All at once, he was as serious as Krispos had ever seen him. He went on quietly, “Besides, when it comes right down to it, I don’t dare tell my uncle not to use the soldiers he’s spent all this time mustering.”
“Why not?” Krispos said. “Are you the Avtokrator or aren’t you?”
“I am now,” Anthimos answered, “and I’d like to keep being the Avtokrator a while longer, too, if you know what I mean. Suppose I order my uncle not to take his army to Makuran. Don’t you think the first thing he’d use it for after that would be to throw me down? Then he’d march on Makuran anyway, and I’d miss all those lovely revels I saw you sneering about a moment ago.”
Abashed, Krispos hung his head. After a little thought, he realized Anthimos was right. He was surprised the Emperor could see so clearly. When Anthimos wanted to be, he was able enough. Trouble was, most of the time he didn’t bother. Krispos mumbled, “Thank you for backing me as far as you did then, Your Majesty.”
“When I thought taking so many men west would pose a bad risk in the north, I was willing to argue with Petronas. But since he’s managed to find a way to enjoy himself and have a good chance of checking the Kubratoi at the same time, why not let him have his fun? He doesn’t begrudge me mine.”
Krispos bowed. He knew he’d lost this duel with Petronas. “As Your Majesty wishes, of course,” he said, yielding as graciously as he could.
“That’s a good fellow. I don’t want to see you glooming about.” Anthimos grinned at Krispos. “Especially since there’s no need for gloom. A good carouse tonight to wash the taste of all this boring business we’ve had to do out of our mouths, and we’ll both feel like new men.” The grin got wider. “Or, if you feel like a woman instead, I expect that can be arranged.”
Krispos did feel like a woman that evening, but not one of the complacent girls who enlivened the Avtokrator’s feasts. He wished he could talk with Tanilis, to find out how badly she thought being bested by Petronas would hurt him. Since Tanilis was far away, Dara would do. Though he still thought her chief loyalty lay with Anthimos rather than with him—Anthimos was Avtokrator, and he was not—he was sure she preferred him to Anthimos’ uncle.
But when, as he had a good many times before, he tried to leave the revel early, the Emperor would not let him. “I told you I didn’t want you glooming about. I expect you to have a good time tonight.” He pointed to a statuesque brunette. “She looks like she’d be a good time.”
The woman Krispos wanted was back at the imperial residence. Telling the Emperor so seemed impractical. Krispos had taken a couple of girls at the revels, just so Anthimos would not notice anything out of the ordinary. But now he said, “I’m not in the mood for it this evening. I think I’ll go over to the wine and drink for a while.” Without a doubt, drinking fell within the Emperor’s definition of a good time.
“I know what you need!” Anthimos exclaimed. He snatched the clear crystal bowl out of Krispos’ hands. “Here, take a chance. You’ve been dealing them out for so long, you haven’t been able to be on the grabbing end.”
Obediently Krispos reached into the bowl and drew out a golden ball. He undid it, then unfolded the parchment inside. “Twenty-four pounds of horse manure,” he read. Anthimos laughed so hard, he almost dropped the bowl. Grinning servants presented Krispos with his prize. He looked at the stinking brown mound and shook his head. “Well, it’s been that kind of day.”
THE NEXT DAY WAS NO BETTER. HE HAD TO GREET PETRONAS when the Sevastokrator came to hear what Anthimos had decided. Then he had to endure Petronas’ smirk of triumph after the Emperor’s uncle emerged from being closeted with his nephew. “His Majesty is delighted that I set out for the westlands within the week,” Petronas said.
Of course he is—this way you won’t kill him and stick his head on the Milestone in the plaza of Palamas for the crowds to gape at, Krispos thought. Aloud he said, “May you triumph, your illustrious Highness.”
“Oh, I shall,” Petronas said. “First into Vaspurakan; the ‘princes,’ good soldiers all, will surely flock to me, for they follow Phos even if they are heretics, and will be glad to escape from the rule of those who worship the Four—false—Prophets. And then—on toward Mashiz!”
Krispos remembered what Iakovitzes had said about the centuries of inconclusive warfare between Videssos and Makuran. Petronas’ planned trip to Mashiz would be quick and easy if his foes cooperated. If not, it was liable to take longer than the Sevastokrator expected. “May you triumph,” he said again.
“What a smooth liar you’ve turned into, when you’d sooner see me ravens’ meat. That’s not likely, though, I’m afraid. No indeed. And in any event, as I told you before, your punishment awaits you. I don’t think it will wait long enough for you to see me at all anymore, let alone in my victorious return. A very good afternoon to you, esteemed and eminent sir.” Petronas swaggered away.
Krispos stared at his retreating back. He sounded very sure of himself. What was he going to do, hire a band of bravoes to storm the imperial residence? Bravoes who tangled with the Emperor’s Halogai would end up catmeat. And whatever Krispos ate, Anthimos ate, too. Unless Petronas wanted to be rid of his nephew along with Krispos, poison was unlikely, and he showed no sign of wanting to be rid of his nephew, not so long as he got his way.
What did that leave? Not much, Krispos thought, if I lie low until Petronas heads west. The Sevastokrator could hire assassins from afar, but Krispos did not greatly fear a lone assassin; he was a good enough man of his hands to hope to survive such an attack. Maybe Petronas was only trying to make him afraid and subservient once more—or maybe his anger would cool, away in the westlands. No, Krispos feared that was wishful thinking. Petronas was not the sort to forget an affront.
A few days later, troops under the Sevastokrator’s command marched and rode down to the docks. Anthimos came to the docks, too, and made a fiercely martial speech. The soldiers cheered. Gnatios the patriarch prayed for the army’s success. The soldiers cheered again. Then they lined up to be loaded onto ferries for the short journey over the Cattle-Crossing, the narrow strait that separated Videssos the city from the Empire’s western provinces.
Krispos watched the tubby ferryboats waddle across the water to the westlands; watched them
go aground; watched as, tiny in the distance, the warriors began to clamber down onto the beaches across from the city; saw the bright spring sunlight sparkling off someone’s armor. That would be a general, he thought, maybe even Petronas himself. No matter how the Sevastokrator threatened, he was far less frightening on the other side of the Cattle-Crossing.
Anthimos must have been thinking the same thing. “Well,” he said, turning at last to go back to the palaces, “the city is mine for a while, by Phos, with no one to tell me what I must or must not do.”
“There’s still me, Your Majesty,” Krispos said.
“Ah, but you do it in a pleasant tone of voice, and so I can ignore you if I care to,” the Emperor said. “My uncle, now, I never could ignore, no matter how hard I tried.” Krispos nodded, but wondered if Petronas would agree—the Sevastokrator seemed convinced his nephew ignored him all the time.
But having the wolf away from his door prompted Krispos to carouse with the best of them at the revel Anthimos put on that night “to celebrate the army’s victory in advance,” as the Avtokrator said. He was drinking wine from a large golden fruit bowl decorated with erotic reliefs when a Haloga guardsman came in and tapped him on the shoulder. “Somebody out there wants to see you,” the northerner said.
Krispos stared at him. “Somebody out where?” he asked owlishly.
The Haloga stared back. “Out there,” he said after a long pause. Krispos realized the guardsman was even drunker than he was.
“I’ll come,” Krispos said. He had almost got to the door when his sodden brain realized he was in no condition to fight off a toddler, let alone an assassin. He was about to turn around when the Haloga grabbed him by the arm and propelled him down the stairs—not, apparently, with malicious intent, but because the northerner needed help standing up himself.
“Krispos!” someone called from the darkness.
“Mavros!” He got free of the Haloga and stumbled toward his foster brother. “What are you doing here? I thought you were on the other side of the Cattle-Crossing with Petronas and the ret of his restinue—rest of his retinue,” he corrected himself carefully.
“I was, and I will be again soon—I can’t afford to be missed. I’ve got a little rowboat tied up at a quay not far from here. I had to come back across to warn you: Petronas has hired a mage. I came into his tent to ask him which horse he’d want tomorrow, and he and the wizard were talking about quietly getting rid of someone. They named no names while I was there, but I think it’s you!”
Chapter XI
CERTAINTY WASHED THROUGH KRISPOS LIKE THE TIDE. “YOU’RE right. You have to be.” Even drunk—perhaps more clearly because he was drunk—he could see that this was just how Petronas would deal with someone who had become inconvenient to him. It was neat and clean, with the Sevastokrator far away from any embarrassing questions, assuming they were ever asked.
“What are you going to do?” Mavros said.
The question snapped Krispos out of his rapt admiration for Petronas’ cleverness. He tried to flog his slow wits forward. “Find a wizard of my own, I suppose,” he said at last.
“That sounds well enough,” Mavros agreed. “Whatever you do, do it quickly—I don’t think Petronas will wait long, and the mage he was talking with seemed a proper ready-for-aught. Now I have to get back before I’m missed. The Lord with the great and good mind be with you.” He stepped up, embraced Krispos, then hurried away.
Krispos watched him disappear into darkness and listened to his footfalls fade till they were gone. He thought how fortunate he was to have such a reliable friend in the Sevastokrator’s household. Then he remembered what he had to do. “Wizard,” he said aloud, as if to remind himself. Staggering slightly, he started out of the palace quarter.
He was almost to the plaza of Palamas before he consciously wondered where he was going. He only knew one sorcerer at all well, though. He was glad he hadn’t been the one who’d antagonized Trokoundos. Otherwise, he thought, Anthimos’ former tutor in magecraft would have been more likely to join Petronas’ wizard than to help fend him off.
Trokoundos lived on a fashionable street not far from the palace quarter. Krispos pounded on his door, not caring that it was well past midnight. He kept pounding until Trokoundos opened it a crack. The mage held a lamp in one hand and a most unmystical short sword in the other. He lowered it when he recognized Krispos. “By Phos, esteemed and eminent sir, have you gone mad?”
“No,” Krispos said. Trokoundos drew back from the wine fumes he exuded. He went on, “I’m in peril of my life. I need a wizard. I thought of you.”
Trokoundos laughed. “Are you in such peril that it won’t wait till morning?”
“Yes,” Krispos said.
Trokoundos held the lamp high and peered at him. “You’d better come in,” he said. As Krispos walked inside, the wizard turned his head and called, “I’m sorry, Phostina, but I’m afraid I have business.” A woman’s voice said something querulous. “Yes, I’ll be as quiet as I can,” Trokoundus promised. To Krispos, he explained, “My wife. Sit here, if you care to, and tell me of this peril of yours.”
Krispos did. By the time he finished, Trokoundos was nodding and rubbing his chin in calculation. “You’ve made a powerful enemy, esteemed and eminent sir. Presumably he will have in his employment a powerful and dangerous mage. You know no more than you are to be assailed?”
“No,” Krispos said, “and I’m lucky to know that.”
“So you are, so you are, but it will make my task more difficult, for I will be unable to ward against any specific spells, but will have to try to protect you from all magics. Such a stretching will naturally weaken my own efforts, but I will do what I may. Honor will not let me do less, not after your gracious warning of his Majesty’s wrath. Come along to my study, if you please.”
The chamber where Trokoundos worked his magics was one part library, one part jeweler’s stall, one part herbarium, and one part zoo. It smelled close and moist and rather fetid; Krispos’ stomach flipflopped. Holding down his gorge with grim determination, he sat across from Trokoundos while the wizard consulted his books.
Trokoundos slammed a codex shut, rolled up a scroll, tied it with a ribbon, and put it back in its pigeonhole. “Since I do not know what form the attack upon you will take, I will use all three kingdoms—animal, vegetable, and mineral—in your defense.” He went over to a large covered bowl and lifted the lid. “Here is a snail fed on oregano, a sovereign against poisonings and other noxiousnesses of all sorts. Eat it, if you would.”
Krispos gulped. “I’d sooner have it broiled, with butter and garlic.”
“No doubt, but prepared thus its virtue aims only at the tongue. Do as I say now: crack the shell and peel it, as if it were a hard-cooked egg, then swallow the creature down.”
Trying not to think about what he was doing, Krispos obeyed. The snail was cold and wet on his tongue. He gulped convulsively before he could notice what it tasted like. Gagging, he wondered whether it would still protect him if he threw it up again.
“Very good,” Trokoundos said, ignoring his distress. “Now then, the juice of the narcissus or asphodel will also aid you. Here is some, mixed with honey to make it palatable.” Krispos got it down. After the snail, it was palatable. Trokoundos went on, “I will also wrap a dried asphodel in clean linen and give it to you. Carry it next to your skin; it will repel demons and other evil spirits.”
“May the good god grant it be so,” Krispos said. When Trokoundos gave him the plant, he tucked it under his tunic.
“Mineral, mineral, mineral,” Trokoundos muttered. He snapped his fingers. “The very thing!” He rummaged among the stones on a table by his desk, held up a dark-brown one. “Here I have chalcedony, which, if pierced by an emery stone and hung round the neck, is proof against all fantastical illusions and protects the body against one’s adversaries and their evil machinations. This is known as the counsel of chalcedony. Now where did that emery go?” He rummaged some m
ore, until he finally found the hard stone he sought.
He clamped the chalcedony to the table and began to bore through it with the pointed end of the emery stone. As he worked, he chanted a wordless little song. “The power we seek lies within the chalcedony itself,” the mage explained. “My chant is but to hasten the process that would otherwise be boring in two senses of the word. Ahh, here we are!” He worked a bit longer to enlarge the hole he had made, then held out the chalcedony to Krispos. “Have you a chain on which to wear it?”
“Yes.” Krispos drew the chain on which he kept the goldpiece Omurtag had given him up over his head.
Trokoundos stared at the coin as it gleamed in the lamplight. “My, my,” he said slowly. “What company my little stone will keep.” He seemed about to ask Krispos about the goldpiece, then shook his head. “No time for my curiosity now. May the stone, the plant, and the snail keep you safe, that’s all.”
“Thank you.” Krispos put the stone onto the chain, closed the catch, and slid the chain back onto his neck. “Now then, what do I owe you for your services?”
“Not a copper, seeing as I’d likely not be here to render those services had you not warned me the city would be unhealthy for a few weeks. No, I insist—this won’t bankrupt me, I assure you.”
“Thank you,” Krispos repeated, bowing. “I had better get back to the imperial residence.” He turned to go, then had another thought. “Not that I fail to trust your charms, but can I do anything to make them work even better?” He hoped the question would not offend Trokoundos.
Evidently it didn’t, for the mage answered promptly. “Pray. The Lord with the great and good mind opposes all wicked efforts, and may well hear your sincere words and grant you his protection. Having a priest pray for you may also do some good; as Phos’ holy men are sworn against evil, the good god naturally holds them in high regard.”
The Tale of Krispos Page 33
