The Tale of Krispos

by Harry Turtledove

  At the door, Krispos almost bumped into a knot of eunuchs and maidservants who had gathered to listen, wide-eyed, to his shouting match with Anthimos. They scattered before him as if he had something catching. So he did, he thought: the Avtokrator’s disfavor was a disease that could kill.

  He stamped back to his chamber and slammed the door behind him. He hit the wall a good solid whack, hard enough to send pain shooting up his arm. Then he used his restored voice to shout several very rude words. He was not sure whether he cursed the Emperor or his own foolish rashness. Either or both, he decided; he did no good either way.

  That cold-blooded realization finally ended his fit of temper. He sat down at the edge of his bed and put his head in his hands. If he did not mean to strike at the Avtokrator, he should have kept his mouth shut. And he did not see how he could strike, not if he hoped to live afterward. “Stupid,” he said. He meant it for a viler curse than any he’d used before.

  Having been stupid, he had nothing left but to make the best of his stupidity. He came out of his room a few minutes later and went about his business—his business that did not directly concern Anthimos—as normally as he could. The rest of the servitors spoke to him in hushed voices, but they spoke to him. If he heard the whispers that followed him through the imperial residence, he could pretend he did not.

  For all his outward show of calm, he jumped when, early that afternoon, Longinos said, “His Majesty wants to see you. He’s in the bedchamber.”

  After a moment to gather himself, he nodded to the eunuch and walked slowly down the corridor. He could feel Longinos’ eyes on his back. He wondered who waited in the imperial bedchamber. In his mind’s eye he saw a masked, grinning torturer, dressed in crimson leather so as not to show the stains of his trade.

  He had to will his finger first to touch and then to work the latch he’d gladly opened so many times late at night. Eyes on the floor, he went in. Going against the Kubratoi, spear in hand, had been easier—he’d thought that would be grand and glorious, till the fighting started.

  Anthimos was alone; Krispos saw only the one pair of red boots. He took his courage in both hands and looked at the Avtokrator’s face. Indignation ousted fright. Anthimos was smiling at him, as cheerfully as if nothing had happened in the morning.

  “Your Majesty?” he said, much more than the simple question in his voice.

  “Hello, Krispos,” the Emperor said. “I was just wondering, have the silk weavers delivered the new robe they’ve been promising for so long? If it’s here at last, I’d like to show it off at the revel tonight.”

  “As a matter of fact, Your Majesty, it got here a couple of hours ago,” Krispos said, almost giddy with relief. He went to the closet, got out the robe, and held it in front of himself so the Emperor could see it.

  “Oh, yes, that’s very fine.” Anthimos came up to run his fingers over the smooth, glistening fabric. He sighed. “All the poets claim women have skin soft as silk. If only they truly felt like this!” After a moment, he went on, “I will wear this tonight, Krispos. Make sure it’s ready for me.”

  “Certainly, Your Majesty.” Krispos hung up the robe. Nodding, Anthimos started to leave. “Your Majesty?” Krispos called after him.

  The Avtokrator stopped. “What is it?”

  “Is that all?” Krispos blurted.

  Anthimos eyes widened, either from guilelessness or an all but perfect simulation of it. “Of course that’s all, dear fellow. What else could there possible be?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all,” Krispos said quickly. He’d known the Emperor’s temper was mercurial, but he’d never expected it to cool so quickly. If it had, he was not about to risk rekindling it. Nodding again, Anthimos bustled out. Krispos followed, shaking his head. So much luck seemed too good to be true.

  Chapter XIII

  “YOU’RE NOT MISSING A HEAD OR ANY OTHER VITAL APPENDAGE, I see,” Mavros said, waving to Krispos as he climbed the steps to the imperial residence. “From all the gossip I’ve heard the last couple of days, that’s Phos’ own special miracle. And miracles, my friend, deserve to be celebrated.” He held up a large jar of wine.

  The Haloga guards at the top of the stairs laughed. So did Krispos. “You couldn’t have timed it better, Mavros. His Majesty just took off for a carouse, which means we should have the rest of the night to ourselves.”

  “If you find a few cups, Krispos, we can share some of this with the guardsmen here,” Mavros said. “If his Majesty’s not here to guard, surely their bold captain can’t object to their having a taste.”

  Krispos looked questioningly, the other Halogai longingly, toward the officer, a middle-aged warrior named Thvari. He stroked his straw-yellow beard as he considered. “Vun cup vill do no harm,” he said at last, his northern accent thick and slow. The guards cheered. Krispos hurried to get cups while Mavros drew a dagger, sliced through the pitch that glued the wine jar’s cork in place, then stabbed the cork and drew it out.

  Once in Krispos’ chamber, Mavros poured hefty dollops for himself and Krispos. He lifted his silver goblet in salute. “To Krispos, for being intact!” he declared.

  “That’s a toast I’ll gladly drink.” Krispos sipped at the wine. Its vintage was as fine as any Anthimos owned; when Mavros bought, he did not stint. His robe was dark-green wool soft as duckdown, his neckcloth transparent silk dyed just the right shade of orange to complement the robe.

  Now he raised a quizzical eyebrow. “And here’s the really interesting question: why are you still intact, after calling Anthimos everything from a murderous cannibal to someone who commits unnatural acts with pigs?”

  “I never called him that,” Krispos said, blinking. He knew what rumor could do with words, but listening to it have its way with his words was doubly unnerving. He drank more wine.

  “Never called him which?” Mavros asked with a wicked grin.

  “Oh, keep still.” Krispos emptied his cup and put it down on the arm of his chair. He stared at it for a few seconds, then said, “Truth is, may the ice take me if I know why Anthimos hasn’t come down on me. I just thank Phos he hasn’t. Maybe down deep he really is just a good-natured soul.”

  “Maybe.” Mavros did not sound as though he believed it. “More likely, he was still so drunk in the morning that he’d forgotten by afternoon.”

  “I’d like to think so, but he wasn’t,” Krispos said. “He wasn’t drunk at all. I can tell.”

  “Aye, you’ve seen him drunk often enough, haven’t you?” Mavros said.

  “Who, me?” Krispos laughed. “Yes, a time or twelve, now that you mention it. I remember the time he—” He stopped in surprise. The little silver bell by his bed was ringing. The scarlet cord on which it hung jerked up and down. Whoever was pulling it was pulling hard.

  Mavros eyed the bell curiously. “I thought you said his Majesty was gone.”

  “He is.” Krispos frowned. Had Anthimos come back for some reason? No. He would have heard the Emperor go by. He did not think Dara was summoning him; he’d let her know he had a friend coming by tonight. Surely she’d not be so indiscreet. But that left—no one. Krispos got up. “Excuse me. I think I’d better find out what’s going on.”

  Mavros’ smile was sly. “More of this good wine for me, then.”

  Snorting, Krispos hurried into the imperial bedchamber. It was Dara who waited for him there. Fright filled her face. “By the good god, what’s wrong?” Krispos demanded. “Have we been discovered?”

  “Worse,” Dara said. He stared at her—he could not imagine anything worse. She started to explain, “When Anthimos left tonight, he didn’t go carousing.”

  “How is that worse?” he broke in. “I’d think you’d be glad.”

  “Will you listen to me?” she said fiercely. “He didn’t go carousing because he went to that little sanctum of his that used to be a shrine. He’s going to work magic there, magic to kill you.”

  “That’s crazy. If he wants me dead, all he has to do is tell one of
the Halogai to swing his axe,” Krispos said. But he realized it wasn’t crazy, not to Anthimos. Where was the fun in a simple execution? The Emperor would enjoy putting Krispos to death by sorcery ever so much more. Something else struck him. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “What do you mean, why? So you can stop him, of course.” Dara needed a moment to see that the question went deeper. She took a deep breath, looked away from Krispos, let it out, and looked back. “Why? Because…” She stopped again, visibly willed herself to continue. “Because if I am to be Empress of Videssos, I would sooner be your Empress than his.”

  His eyes met hers. Those words, he knew, were irrevocable. She nodded, her resolve firming as she saw he understood.

  “Strange,” he said. “I always thought you preferred him.”

  “If you’re that big a fool, maybe I’ve picked the wrong man after all.” Dara slipped into his arms for a brief embrace. Drawing back, she said, “No time for more, not now. When you return…”

  She let the words hang. It was his turn to nod. When he came back, they would need each other, she him to keep what she already had, he her to add legitimacy to what he’d gained. When he came back…“What will you do if Anthimos walks into this chamber instead of me?”

  “Go on, as best I can,” she said at once. He grimaced, nodding again. Tanilis would have said the same thing, for the same reason: ambition bound the two of them as much as affection. She went on, “But I will pray to Phos that it be you. Go now, and may the lord with the great and good mind go with you.”

  “I’ll get my sword,” Krispos said. Dara bit her lip—that brought home what she was setting in motion. But she did not say no. Too late for that, he thought. She made a little pushing gesture, urging him out of the room. He hurried away.

  As he trotted the few steps back to his own chamber, he felt his lucky goldpiece bounce on its chain. Soon enough, he thought, he’d find out whether the coin held true prophecy or only delusion. He remembered the last time he’d really looked at the goldpiece, and remembered thinking he would never try to get rid of Anthimos. But if the Avtokrator was trying to get rid of him…Waiting quietly to be killed was for sheep, not men.

  All that ran through his head before he got to his own doorway. Mavros raised his cup in salute when he came in, then stared when, instead of sitting down, he started buckling on his sword belt. “What in the world—” Mavros began.

  “Treason,” Krispos answered, which shut his foster brother’s mouth with a snap. “Or it’ll be treason if I fail. Anthimos is planning to kill me by sorcery tonight. I don’t intend to let him. Are you with me, or will you denounce me to the Halogai?”

  Mavros gaped at him. “I’m with you, of course. But by the good god, how did you find out? You told me he was going carousing tonight, not magicking.”

  “The Empress warned me just now,” Krispos said in a flat voice.

  “Did she?” Mavros looked at Krispos as if he’d never seen him before, then started to laugh. “You haven’t told me everything you’ve been up to, have you?”

  Krispos felt his cheeks grow hot. “No. I never told anyone. It’s not the sort of secret to spread around, you know, not if—”

  “Not if you want to live to go on keeping it,” Mavros finished for him. “No, you’re right.”

  “Come on then,” Krispos said. “We’ve no time to lose.”

  The Halogai guarding the doorway to the imperial residence chuckled when Krispos came out wearing his sword. “You drink a little wine, you go into the city looking for somet’ing to fight, eh?” one of them said. “You should have been born a northern man.”

  Krispos chuckled, too, but his heart sank within him. As soon as he and Mavros were far enough away from the entrance for the guards not to hear, he said, “We have gone looking for something to fight. How many Halogai will the Emperor have with him?”

  The night was dark. He could not see Mavros’ expression change, but he heard his breath catch. “If it’s more than one, we’re in trouble. Armored, swinging those axes of theirs—”

  “I know.” Krispos shook his head, but continued, “I’m going on anyway. Maybe I can talk my way past ’em, however many there are. I’m his Majesty’s vestiarios, after all. And if I can’t, I’d sooner die fighting than whichever nasty way Anthimos has worked out for me. If you don’t want to come along, the good god knows I can’t blame you.”

  “I am your brother,” Mavros said, stiffening with offended dignity.

  Krispos clasped his shoulder. “You are indeed.”

  They hurried on, making and discarding plans. Before long, the gloomy grove of cypresses surrounding the Emperor’s sanctum loomed before them. The path wound through it. The dark trees’ spicy odor filled Krispos’ nostrils.

  As they were about to emerge from the cypresses, a red-orange flash of light, bright as lightning, burst from the windows and open doorways of the building ahead. Krispos staggered, sure his moment was here. His eyes, long used to blackness, filled with tears. How bitter, he thought, to have come just too late.

  But nothing further happened, not right then. He heard Anthimos’ voice begin a new chant. Whatever magic the Avtokrator was devising, he’d not yet finished it.

  Beside Krispos, Mavros also rubbed his eyes. In that moment of fire, though, he’d seen something Krispos had missed. “Only the one guard,” he murmured.

  Squinting, wary against a new levinbolt, Krispos peered toward Anthimos’ house of magics. Sure enough, lit by the glow of a couple of ordinary torches, a single Haloga stood in front of the door.

  The northerner was rubbing at his eyes, too, but came to alertness when he heard footfalls on the path. “Who calls?” he said, swinging up his axe.

  “Hello, Geirrod.” Krispos did his best to sound casual in spite of the nervous sweat trickling down the small of his back. If Anthimos had told the guard why he was incanting here tonight…

  But he had not. Geirrod lowered his bright-bladed weapon. “A good evening to you, Krispos, and to your friend.” Then the Haloga frowned and half raised the axe again. “Why do you come here with brand belted to your body?” Even when he used Videssian, his speech carried the slow, strong rhythms of his cold and distant homeland.

  “I’ve come to deliver a message to his Majesty,” Krispos answered. “As for why I’m wearing my sword, well, only a fool goes out at night without one.” He unbuckled the belt and held it out to Geirrod. “Here, keep it if you feel the need, and give it back when I come out.”

  The big blond guard smiled. “That is well done, friend Krispos. You know what duty means. I shall set your sword aside against your return.” As he turned to lean the blade against the wall, Mavros sprang forward, sheathed dagger reversed in his hand. The round lead pommel thudded against the side of Geirrod’s head, just in front of his ear. The Haloga groaned and toppled, his mail shirt clinking musically as he fell.

  Krispos’ fingers dug into the side of Geirrod’s thick neck. “He has a pulse. Good,” he said, grabbing the sword belt and drawing his blade. If he survived the night, the Halogai would be his guards. Slaying one of them would mean he could never trust his own protectors, not with the northern penchant for blood vengeance.

  “Come on,” Mavros said. He snatched up the Haloga’s axe.

  “No, wait. Tie and gag him first,” Krispos said. Mavros dropped the axe, took off his scarf, and tore it in half. He quickly tied the guardsman’s hands behind him, knotting the other piece of silk over his mouth and around his head. Krispos nodded. Together, he and Mavros stepped over Geirrod into the Avtokrator’s sorcerous secretum.

  The scuffle with the guard had been neither loud nor long. With luck, Anthimos would have been caught up in the intricacies of some elaborate spell and would never have noticed the small disturbance outside. With luck. As it was, he poked his head out into the hallway and called, “What was that, Geirrod?” When he saw Krispos, his eyes widened and his lips skinned back from his teeth. “You!”

  �
��Aye, Your Majesty,” Krispos said. “Me.” He dashed toward the Emperor.

  Fast as he was, he was not fast enough. Anthimos ducked back into his chamber and slammed the door. The bar crashed into place just as Krispos’ shoulder smote the door. The bar was stout; he bounced away.

  Laughing a wild, high-pitched laugh, Anthimos shouted, “Don’t you know it’s rude to come to the feast before you’re invited?” Then he began to chant again, a chant that, even through thick wood, raised prickles of dread along Krispos’ arms.

  He kicked the door, hard as he could. It held. Mavros shoved him aside. “I have the tool for the job,” he said. Geirrod’s axe bit into the timbers. Mavros struck again and again. As he hewed at the door, the Avtokrator chanted on in a mad race to see who would finish first—and live.

  Mavros weakened the door enough so he and Krispos could kick it open. At the same instant, Anthimos cried out in triumph. As his foes burst in on him, he extended his hands toward them. Fire flowed from his fingertips.

  Had Anthimos controlled a true thunderbolt, he would have incinerated Krispos and Mavros. But while his fire flowed, it did not dart. They scrambled backward out of the chamber before the flames reached them. The fire splashed against the far wall and dripped to the floor. The wall was stone. It did not catch, but Krispos gagged on acrid smoke.

  “Not so eager to come in and play anymore, my dears?” Anthimos said, laughing again. “I’ll come out and play with you, then.”

  He stood in the doorway and shot fire at Krispos. Krispos threw himself flat on the floor. The flames passed over him, close enough that he smelled his hair scorch. He waited for Anthimos to lower his hands and burn him to a cinder.

  Anthimos never got the chance. While his attention and his fire were aimed at Krispos, Mavros rushed him with the Haloga war axe. Anthimos whirled, casting flames close enough to Mavros to spoil his stroke. But the Emperor had to duck back into his chamber.