Krispos the Emperor

XI

Krispos slammed his forehead with the heel of his hand, hard enough to hurt. "By the good god, I'm an idiot," he exclaimed.

"No doubt, your Majesty," Sarkis agreed cheerfully; along with Iakovitzes, Zaidas. and Barsymes, he could say something like that without going up on charges of lese majesty. "In which particular matter are you being an idiot today?"

"With all the hoorah over Garsavra, I clean forgot to write to Evripos and warn him to be alert for Phostis," Krispos answered. He thumped himself again, in disgust. Characteristically, he wasted no more time on reproaches. Instead, he pulled a scrap of parchment and pen and ink from pouches on his belt, scrawled a few nearly illegible lines—the motion of the horse didn't help—and then called, "Katakolon!" After a moment, he called again, louder.

"Aye, Father? How can I help you?" His youngest son brought his own horse trotting up alongside Krispos' mount.

Krispos handed him the note. "Seal this, stick it in a message tube, and get it off to Videssos the city as fast as you can."

"Just as you say." The piece of parchment was too small to roll or fold conveniently. Katakolon read it before he took it to do as Krispos had commanded. His eyes were troubled when he raised them to look at his father again. "Surely it can't be as bad as—this?"

"I don't know whether it is or not," Krispos said. "But as to whether it can be—by Phos, boy, it could be ten times worse. He might be landing in the city with a shipload of fanatics all hot to die for the gleaming path."

"Phostis?" Katakolon's voice rose. He shook his head. "I can't believe it."

"I can, which is what matters," Krispos answered. "Now get moving. I didn't give you that note to argue over it, just to have it start on its way to the city."

"Aye, Father," Katakolon said dolefully.

"You don't suppose he'll 'accidentally' lose that, do you?" Sarkis said.

"He'd better not," Krispos answered; the same thought had crossed his mind. He remembered his talk with Evripos back in the city. If his sons thought strongly enough that they were right, they would follow their own wills, not his. They were turning into men—at the most inconvenient time possible.

Had Phostis done that? When he chose to walk the gleaming path, was he making his own judgments as best he knew how, no matter how wrongheaded they seemed to Krispos? Or had he merely found someone whose lead he preferred to his father's? Krispos shook his head. He wondered if Phostis knew.

As he had so often over the years, he forced personal worries—and worries about which he could do nothing—to the back of his mind. Enough other business remained to occupy him. The army was up on the plateau now, with everyone a bit on the hungry side because supply arrangements hadn't kept up with the changed route.

Of Livanios' force there was no sign. That worried Krispos. If the Thanasioi scattered before he could smite them, what point to the campaign? How was he supposed to beat them if they turned back into harmless-looking herders and farmers and tanners and candlemakers and what-have-you? If he went back to Videssos the city, they'd be raiders again the moment his dust vanished over the horizon. He was bitterly certain of that.

The army camped for the night by a stream that wouldn't have water in it too much longer. Now, though, it would serve. The men saw to their horses before they cared for themselves. Krispos strolled through the encampment, checking to make sure his orders on that score were obeyed. He'd served as groom first for Iakovitzes and then for Petronas after he came to the imperial city; he knew what went into tending horses.

He was sound asleep on his folding cot in the imperial tent when a Haloga called "Your Majesty" over and over until it woke him. He groaned as he made himself sit; his eyes felt as if someone had poured sand into their sockets. The guardsman said, "Your pardon, Majesty, but out here waits a courier who must see you."

"Aye, send him in," Krispos said in a voice that sounded nothing like his own.

He waved for the courier not to bother prostrating himself; the sooner the fellow was gone, he thought, the sooner he could get back to sleep. "May it please your Majesty," the courier said, and Krispos braced himself for bad news. The man delivered it: "I have to report that the Thanasioi have fallen on and taken the city of Kyzikos."

"Kyzikos?" Still foggy, Krispos needed a moment to place the town on the map. It lay down in the coastal plain, east of Garsavra. "What's Livanios doing there?" As soon as he raised the question, the answer became obvious: "The imperial mint!"

"Aye, your Majesty, it's taken and burned," the courier said. "The temple is burned, as well, and so is much of the central part of the city—like many towns in the western lowlands, Kyzikos has, or rather had, no wall to hold invaders at bay. And the farmland round the city is ravaged as if locusts had been at it."

"Aye," Krispos said. "A heavy blow." If Livanios' warriors could ravage Kyzikos, no place in the westlands was safe from them. And if Livanios had the gold from the mint in Kyzikos. he could work untold mischief with it, too. Gold and the Thanasioi did not normally mix, but Krispos did not think Livanios was a typical Thanasiot. If he read the heresiarch aright, Livanios cared more about Livanios than about the gleaming path.

But no matter how much damage they had done—Krispos' wits began working a little faster—they'd also made what might prove a bad mistake: they'd given the imperial army the chance to interpose itself between them and their stronghold near the border with Vaspurakan.

"If you stick your neck out too far, it gets chopped," Krispos said.

"Your Majesty?" the courier asked

"Never mind." Clad only in his linen drawers, the Avtokrator strode out into the night. Ignoring the grunts of surprise that rose from the Haloga guards, he started bawling for his generals. If he couldn't sleep, he wouldn't let them sleep, either, not with work to be done.

Two days later, Sarkis said, for about the dozenth time, "The trick, your Majesty, will be to make sure they don't get by us."

"Yes," Krispos said, also for the dozenth time. The west-lands' central plateau was not flat like the lowlands; it was rough, broken country, gullies running into ravines running into valleys. If the imperial army didn't position itself correctly, slipping between the Thanasioi and Etchmiadzin wouldn't matter because the raiders would get past without being noticed till too late. That was probably the gamble Livanios had made when he decided to strike Kyzikos.

Sarkis found a new question to ask: "How will you choose the right spot?"

"The best way I can figure is this," Krispos said: "I'll station us near one of the central valleys and fan scouts out widely ahead of us and to either side. It's no guarantee of anything, of course, but it's what we'll do unless you have a better idea. I hope you will."

"I was thinking something along the same lines," Sarkis said. "The trouble is, it's what Livanios will think is in our minds, too."

"That's so," Krispos admitted. "But if we play the game of if-he-then-we and if-we-then-he, we're liable to get lost in the maze. I'll cut through it and just do what I think best under the circumstances."

"Against any other foe I would say you were wise, your Majesty, but Livanios ... Livanios never seems to do what you'd expect." Sarkis turned his head at the sound of galloping hoofbeats. So did Krispos. Sarkis said, "Looks like another courier coming up—no, two of 'em together."

"Oh, Phos, what now?" It was more a groan than a prayer. Every courier who'd ridden up to Krispos lately had brought bad news with him. How much longer could that go on?

Sure enough, the riders made straight for the imperial standard that marked Krispos' place in the line of march. They're sending out babies, he thought. One of the couriers had no beard. The other didn't seem much older.

Krispos braced for the call of "May it please your Majesty" and the displeasing message that would follow it. The bearded rider spotted him under the sunburst standard, then raised a hand to his mouth to make a shout carry farther. But he didn't yell "May it please your Majesty." Instead, he called, "Father!"

Krispos' first thought was that Katakolon was playing some kind of trick on him, and not a funny one. Then he recognized the voice. He hadn't been sure he'd ever hear that voice again, or want to. "Phostis," he whispered.

His son approached, and the other rider with him. Several Halogai quickly moved to put themselves between Phostis and Krispos—they knew where Phostis had been, and did not know what he'd become. Krispos wanted to thank them and punch them at the same time.

"It's all right, Father—I've escaped the gleaming path," Phostis said.

Before Krispos answered, one of the Halogai said, "What proof of this have you, young Majesty?" The big fair men from the north did not stand aside.

What proof could Phostis possibly have? Krispos wondered. But he produced some: "Allow me to present Olyvria, the daughter of Livanios."

By then, Krispos had figured out that Phostis' companion was a woman. To remove any doubt, she doffed her traveler's hat with a flourish and let her piled-up hair tumble out in a curly black waterfall. "Your Majesty," she said, bowing in the saddle to Krispos.

She's not just accompanying Phostis, Krispos realized. She's with him. Phostis' eyes did not want to leave her, even to look at his father. Katakolon got that mooncalf gaze, but never over the same girl for more than a couple of months. Krispos hadn't seen it on Phostis before. Olyvria looked at Phostis the same way.

Acting? Krispos didn't think so. He asked Olyvria, "Are you here of your own will, girl, or did he kidnap you?"

"As a matter of fact, your Majesty, I kidnapped him," Olyvria answered boldly. Krispos stared; that was not the reply he'd expected. Olyvria added, "We've made other arrangements since."

"So I gather." Krispos glanced over to Phostis, who was still grinning like a besotted schoolboy. The Avtokrator made his decision. He told the Haloga guards, "Stand aside." After a moment's hesitation, they obeyed. He urged his horse up alongside Phostis', held out his arms. The two men, one young, the other vividly remembering when he had been, embraced.

Phostis pulled away. "Sorry, Father, but hugging chain mail hurts. I have so much to tell you—did you know, for instance, that Makuran is aiding the Thanasioi?"

"As things turn out, I did," Krispos said. "I'm glad to hear you tell me as much all the same—it lets me know you are to be trusted indeed."

He wondered if he should have been so frank. He watched Phostis' face freeze into the mask he'd seen so often before, the one that concealed whatever went on behind it. Minutes into their reunion, would the two of them go back to misunderstanding each other?

But Olyvria said, "I don't blame you for being wary of us, your Majesty. Truly, though, the gleaming path lures us no more."

To Krispos' relief, Phostis' face cleared. "That's so," he said. "I've seen more along those lines than I can stomach. And Father!—is Zaidas with you?"

"Aye, he is," Krispos answered. "Why?"

"I have much to tell him—and little of it good—of Artapan, the Makuraner mage who aids Livanios' schemes."

"All that can wait till tonight when we camp," Krispos said. "For now, it's enough to see you again." And to see you here as something besides a Thanasiot fanatic, he thought. He kept that to himself, though Phostis would have to be a fool if he couldn't figure it out. Let the lad have his time in Phos' sun now, though. "How did you escape the zealots' clutches, then?"

Phostis and Olyvria took turns telling the tale, which, as it unfolded, seemed only fair to Krispos. Phostis didn't try to minimize what he'd done as an unwilling Thanasiot raider: if anything, he dwelt on it with pained guilt. "How are your arm and shoulder now?" Krispos asked.

"They still pain me now and again," Phostis said, working the arm. "I can use them, though. Anyhow, Father, getting wounded helped convince Syagrios I could be trusted, and prompted him to let me go to Pityos—"

Olyvria took over then with the story of how she'd smashed the chamber pot on Syagrios' head. "Fitting enough," Krispos agreed. Then Phostis told of buying the fishing boat and sailing to Videssos the city. That made Krispos laugh out loud. "There—you see? All that time you passed on the water with me wasn't wasted after all."

"I suppose not," Phostis said; he was, if nothing else, more patient around Krispos than he had been before he was kidnapped. Krispos watched his mirth fade as he continued, "I found riots in the city when I got there."

"Yes, I knew of them," Krispos said, nodding. "I knew you were on the way to the city, too; Zaidas' magic told me as much. I feared you were traveling as provocateur, not escapee. I meant to write Evripos and tell him as much, but it slipped my mind until yesterday in the midst of everything else that's been going on."

"It didn't matter," Phostis answered. "He thought of it for himself."

"Good," Krispos said, to see how Phostis would react. Phostis didn't react much at all, certainly not with the anger he would have shown a few months before. He just nodded and went on with his story. When he was finished, Krispos said, "So our troops have the upper hand?"

"They did when Olyvria and I left to join you," Phostis said. "Uh, Father ..."

"Yes?"

"What do you think of the suggestion I made to Evripos, that Olyvria and I should marry at once to show the Thanasioi we've renounced their sect?"

"Imperial marriages have a way of being made for reasons of state, but till now I'd never heard of one made for reasons of doctrine," Krispos answered. "Were the emergency worse, I might send the two of you back there to be wedded forthwith. As it is, I think you can wait till the campaign is over before you marry—assuming you still want to by then."

Their expressions said they could imagine no other possibility. Krispos had a deeper imagination. If they still wanted to go through with it come fall, he didn't think he'd object—or that Phostis would listen if he tried. The lad had needed to take care of himself lately, and had discovered he could do it. Few discoveries were more important.

Krispos said, "If you two like, you can spend the night in my pavilion." Then he saw their faces and laughed at himself. "No, you'll want a tent for yourselves, won't you? I would have, at your age."

"Well, yes," Phostis said. "Thank you. Father."

"It's all right," Krispos answered. At that moment, having Phostis back not only in one piece but opposed to the gleaming path, he could have refused him very little. He did add, "Before you repair to that tent, I trust you'll do me the honor of dining on army food and bad wine in the pavilion. I'll have Zaidas there, too; you said you wanted to talk with him, didn't you, Phostis? I'll see you around sunset."

Even with Olyvria's hand warm in his, Phostis approached Krispos' tent with considerable trepidation. When he set sail for Videssos the city, she'd feared he would remember he was junior Avtokrator and forget he was her lover. Now, as the bright silks of the imperial pavilion drew near, he was afraid his father would turn him into a boy again, simply by refusing to imagine he could be anything else.

The Halogai outside the entrance to the tent saluted him in imperial style, clenched right fists over their hearts. He watched them discreetly look Olyvria up and down, as men of any nation will when they see a pretty girl. One of them said something in his own language. Phostis understood it was about Olyvria but not what it meant; he had only a smattering of the Haloga tongue. He almost asked the guardsmen what it meant, but at the last minute decided not to make an issue of it—Haloga candor could be brutal.

Inside the tent waited Krispos, Katakolon, Zaidas. Sarkis, and half a dozen helpings of bread and onions and sausage and salted olives. Olyvria's smile puzzled Phostis till he remembered she was an officer's daughter. No doubt the fare looked familiar.

As they ate, Phostis and Olyvria retold their story for Zaidas; Sarkis and Katakolon had heard most of it in the afternoon. The mage, as usual, made a good audience. He clapped his hands when Olyvria again recounted knocking Syagrios out with the chamber pot, and when Phostis told how they'd decamped immediately thereafter.

"That's the way to do it," he said approvingly. "When you need to get out in a hurry, spend what you have to and leave. What's the point to saving your gold but failing of your purpose? Which reminds me ..." He abruptly went serious and intent. "His Majesty the Avtokrator—"

"Oh, just say, 'your father' and have done," Krispos broke in. "Otherwise you'll waste half the night in useless blathering."

"As your Majesty the Avtokrator commands," Zaidas said. Krispos made as if to throw a crust of bread at him. Grinning, Zaidas turned back to Phostis. "Your father, I should say, tells me you learned something of importance about the techniques of Livanios' Makuraner wizard."

"That's true, sorcerous sir." Phostis had to work to stay formal; he'd almost called the mage Uncle Zaidas. "One day— this was after I learned Artapan was from Makuran—I followed him and—" He described how he'd learned Artapan fortified his power with the death energies of Thanasioi who starved themselves to complete their renunciation of the world. "And if they weren't quite dead when he needed them so, he wasn't averse to holding a pillow over their heads, either."

"That's disgusting," Katakolon said, sick horror in his voice.

Zaidas, by contrast, sounded eager, like a hunting dog just catching a scent. "Tell me more," he urged.

Olyvria gave Phostis a curious look. "You never spoke to me of this before," she said.

"I know I didn't. I didn't even like to think about it. And besides, I didn't think saying anything would be safe in Etchmiadzin. Too many ears around." And even after they became lovers, he hadn't trusted her, not completely, not until she set upon Syagrios. That, though, he kept to himself.

"Go on," Zaidas said. "All the ears here are friendly."

In as much detail as he could, prompted by sharp questions from the mage, Phostis recounted following Artapan down the street, standing in the stinking alley listening to him talk with Tzepeas, and the Thanasiot's premature and assisted death. "That isn't the only time I saw him hovering over people who were on the point of starving, either," he said. "Remember,

Olyvria? He kept hanging around Strabon's house while he was dying."

"He did," she said, nodding. "With Strabon and others. I never thought much about it—wizards have their ways, that's all."

Zaidas stirred in his seat, but didn't say anything. For a man of his age he was, Phostis thought, reasonably normal save for his sorcerous talent. But then, he was the only wizard Phostis knew well. Who could say what others were like?

"Did he pray as he—ended—this heretic's life?" Zaidas asked. "Either to Phos or to the Four Prophets, I mean?"

"He spoke some in Makuraner, but since I don't understand it, I don't know what he said. I'm sorry," Phostis answered.

"Can't be helped," the mage said. "It probably doesn't matter in any case. As you've noted for yourself, the transition from life to death is a powerful source of magical energy. We who follow Phos are forbidden to exploit it, lest we grow to esteem the power so much that we fall into injustice, slaying for the sake of magic alone. I was given to understand that prohibition also applied to followers of the Prophets Four, but I may be wrong. On the other hand, Artapan—that was the name, not so?—may be as much a heretic by Mashiz's standards as the Thanasioi are by ours."

Krispos said, "This would all be very interesting if we were hashing it out as an exercise at the Sorcerers' Collegium, sorcerous sir, but how does it affect us here in the wider world? Suppose Artapan is using magic fueled by death? Does that make him more dangerous? How do we counteract his magic if it does?"

Behind her hand, Olyvria whispered, "Your father drives straight for the heart of a question."

"That he does." Phostis scratched at the side of his jaw. "He gets frustrated when others don't follow as quickly, as they often don't." He wondered if that accounted for some of his father's impatience with him. But how could someone just coming into manhood be expected to stay with the schemes of a grown man with the full power of experience who was also one of the master schemers that Videssos, a nation of schemers, had ever known?

Zaidas missed the byplay and spoke straight to Krispos: "Your Majesty, a mage who uses death energy in his thauma-turgy gains strength, aye, but he also becomes more vulnerable to others' magic. That sort of compensation is nothing surprising. Wizardry, no matter what the ignorant may think, offers no free miracles. What you gain in one area, you lose in another."

"That's not just wizardry—that's life," Krispos said. "If you've chosen to take on a big flock of sheep, you won't be able to plant as much barley."

Sarkis chuckled. "How many years on the throne, your Majesty, to have you still talking like a peasant? A proper Emperor now, one from the romances, would say you can't war in east and west at the same time, or some such."

"To the ice with the romances," Phostis broke in. "The next one that tells a copper's worth of truth will be the first."

He caught Krispos watching him with eyebrow upraised in speculation. Unabashed, the Avtokrator gave him a sober nod. "You're learning, lad."

"I will speak for the romances," Olyvria said. "Where but in them does the prisoner escape with the heresiarch's daughter who's fallen in love with him?"

Now Sarkis laughed out loud. "By the good god, she's caught father and son in the same net." He swigged wine, refilled his mug, and swigged again.

When Krispos turned his gaze on Olyvria, amusement sparked in his eyes. He dipped his head, as if she'd made a clever move at the board game. "There is something to what you say, lady."

"No, there's not," Phostis insisted. "In what romance isn't the woman a quivering wreck who requires some bold hero to rescue her? And in which of them does she rescue the hero by clouting the villain with a thundermug?"

"It seemed the handiest thing in the room," Olyvria said amid general laughter. "Besides, you can't expect a romance to have all the details straight."

"You have to watch this one, brother," Katakolon said. "She's quick."

The only things Katakolon looked for in his companions were looks and willingness. No wonder he went through them like a drunkard through a wine cellar, Phostis thought. But he didn't feel like quarreling with Katakolon, not tonight. "I'll take my chances," he said, and let it go at that.

Sarkis looked at the jar of wine in front of him, yawned, and shook his head. He climbed to his feet. "I'm for bed, your Majesty," he announced. He turned to Phostis. "Good to have you back, and your quick lady." He walked out into the night.

Zaidas also rose. "I'm for bed, too. Would I had the power to store up sleep as a dormouse stores fat for its winter rest. Spurred not least by what you've said tonight, young Majesty, I think I shall be engaged in serious sorcery soon, at which time I will call on all my bodily reserves. The good god grant that they suffice."

"How cozy—it's a family gathering now," Krispos said when the mage left. He was not being sardonic; he beamed from Katakolon to Phostis and on to Olyvria. That took a weight of worry from Phostis; a young man will seldom turn aside from his beloved at his father's urging, but that is not an urging he ever cares to hear.

Then Katakolon also stood up. He clapped Phostis on the back, careful to stay away from the wounded shoulder. "Wonderful you're here and mostly intact," he said. He nodded to Olyvria and Krispos, then followed Sarkis and Zaidas out of the pavilion.

"He didn't say anything about bed," Krispos said, half laughing, half sighing. "He's probably out prowling for a friendly wench among the camp followers. He'll probably find one, too."

"Now I know you believe our tale, your Majesty," Olyvria said.

"How's that?" Krispos asked. Phostis recognized his tone; it was the one he always used when he was finding out what his sons had learned of their lessons.

"If you didn't, you'd not be sitting here with the two of us closer to you than your guards are," she answered. "We're desperate characters, after all, and if we can turn a chamber pot into a weapon, who knows what we might do with a spoon or an inkwell?"

"Who indeed?" Krispos said with a small chuckle. He turned to Phostis. "She is quick—you'd better take good care of her." He was quick himself; he didn't miss the yawn Olyvria tried to hide. "Now you'd better take her back to your tent. Riding the courier circuit is wearing—I remember."

"I'll do that, Father," Phostis said. "But may I come back here for a few minutes afterward?" Both Olyvria and Krispos looked at him in surprise. "Something I want to ask you," he said, knowing it was not an explanation.

Krispos had to know that, too, but he nodded. "Whatever you like, of course."

Olyvria asked questions all the way to the tent that had been set up for them. Phostis didn't answer any of them. He knew how much that irked her, but held his course regardless. The most he would say was, "It's nothing to do with you."

He walked back to the imperial pavilion almost as warily as he'd entered the tunnel that ran under Videssos the city. What he found here might be as dangerous as anything that had lurked there.

Salutes from the Halogai didn't make him any less nervous as he ducked his way into the pavilion. Krispos waited at the map table, a wine cup in his hand and curiosity on his face. Despite that curiosity, he waited quietly until Phostis had also filled a cup and taken a long draft. Then wine ran sweet down his throat, but gave him no extra courage. Too bad, he thought.

"Well." Krispos said when Phostis lowered the wine cup from his lips, "what's such a deep, dark secret that you can't speak of it in front of your lady love?"

Had Krispos sounded sarcastic, Phostis would have turned on his heel and strode out of the pavilion without answering. But he just seemed inquisitive—and friendly, too, which Phostis wasn't used to. He'd tried a dozen different ways of framing his question. When it escaped his lips, though, it did so without any fancy frame whatever: "Are you my father?"

He watched Krispos suddenly seem to freeze in place, all except his eyes, which grew very wide. Then, as if to give himself time to think, the Avtokrator lifted his cup and drained it dry. "I'd wondered what you wanted," he said at last. "I didn't expect you to ask me that."

"Are you?" Phostis pressed.

As young men will of their fathers—or those they believe their fathers—he'd always thought of Krispos as old, but old in the sense of conservative and powerful rather than actually elderly. Now, as the lines on Krispos' face deepened harshly, Phostis saw with eerie certainty what he would look like as an old man.

"Are you?" Phostis said again.

Krispos sighed. His shoulders sagged. He laughed for a moment, quietly and to himself. Phostis almost hit him then. Krispos walked over to the wine jar, poured himself another cup from it, then peered into the dark ruby depths. When he looked up toward Phostis, he spoke in what was almost a whisper: "Not a week's gone by, I think, since I took the crown that I haven't asked myself the same question ... and I just don't know."

Phostis had expected a yes or no, something he could get his teeth into either way. Being left with more uncertainty was— maddening. "How can you not know?" he cried.

"If you thought to ask the question, son, the answer should be plain enough," Krispos said. He drank some of the wine— maybe he was looking for courage there, too. "Your mother was Anthimos' Empress; if it hadn't been for her, Anthimos would have slain me by magic the night I took the throne. She'd been his Empress for some years before she was mine, and never conceived. None of the other women he had—and believe me, he had a great flock of them—ever quickened, either. But what does that prove? Nothing for certain. I think you're likely to be mine, but that's the most I can say with any hope for truth."

Phostis did some more quiet calculating. If Krispos had sired him, he'd likely done it before he took the throne from Anthimos ... and before he'd married Dara. He'd done it adulterously, in other words—and so had Phostis' mother.

He shied away from that thought; it was too uncomfortable to examine straight on. Instead, he said, "You always say I look like Mother."

"Oh, you do, lad—the eyes especially. That tiny fold of skin on the inner corner comes straight from her. So does the shape of your face, and so does your nose. She's the reason you don't have a great beak like mine." Krispos put thumb and forefinger on the tip of his nose.

"Unless you had nothing to do with the way my nose looks at all," Phostis said.

"There is that chance," Krispos agreed. "But if you don't take after me, you don't look like Anthimos, either. You might be handsomer if you did; nothing wrong with the way he looked. You favor Dara, though. You always have, ever since you were a baby."

In his mind's eye, Phostis had a sudden, vivid picture of

Krispos studying the infant he'd been, trying to trace resemblances. "No wonder you sometimes treated me as if I were the cuckoo's egg," he said.

"Did I?" Krispos peered down into his wine cup again. He sighed deeply. "I'm sorry, son; I truly am. I've always tried to be just with you, to put aside whatever doubts I had."

"Just? I'd say you were that," Phostis answered. "But you didn't often—" He broke off. How was he supposed to explain to Krispos that justice sufficed in the courts, but families needed more? The closest he could come was to say, "You always did seem easier with Evripos and Katakolon."

"Maybe I was ... maybe I am. Not your fault, though—the trouble's been mine." If without great warmth, Krispos had the strength to meet troubles head on. "Where do we go from here?" he asked. "What would you have of me?"

"Can you take me for what I am instead of for whose son I might be?" Phostis said. "In every way that matters, I'm yours." He told Krispos how he'd found himself imitating him while a prisoner, and how so much of what Krispos said made more sense afterward.

"I know why that is," Krispos said. Phostis made a questioning noise. Krispos went on, "It's because the only experience anyone can really learn from is his own. I was probably just wasting breath beforehand when I preached at you: you couldn't have had any idea what I was talking about. And when my words did prove of some use to you—nothing could make me prouder."

He folded Phostis into a bear hug. For a moment, resentment flared in the younger man: where had embraces like this been when he was a boy and needed them most? But he'd already worked out the answer to that for himself. He wasn't pleased with Krispos for acting as he had over the years, but now that, too, made more sense.

Phostis said, "Can we go on as we did before? Even with doubts, I can't think of anyone I'd rather have for my father than you—and that includes Anthimos."

"That cuts both ways—son," Krispos said. "With me or in spite of me, you've made yourself a man. Let's hope it's not as it was. Let's hope it's better. So it may prove, for much of the poison between us is out in the open now."

"Phos grant that it be so—Father," Phostis said. They embraced again. When they separated, Phostis found himself yawning. He said, "Now I'm going back to my tent for the night."

Krispos gave him a sly look. "Will you tell your lady what passed here?"

"One of these days, maybe," Phostis said after a little thought. "Not just yet."

"That's what I'd say in your sandals," Krispos agreed. "You think like one of mine, all right. Good night, son."

"Good night," Phostis said. He yawned again, then headed back to the tent where Olyvria was waiting. When he walked in, he found that, almost certainly against her best intentions, she'd fallen asleep. He was careful not to wake her when he lay down himself.

"All right, sorcerous sir," Krispos said to Zaidas, "having learned what you did from my son, how do you propose to exploit it to our best advantage?"

He felt a stab when he spoke thus of Phostis, but it was not the usual stab of suspicious fear, merely one of curiosity. He was beginning to see he had a man there to reckon with, and if perchance Phostis was not his by blood, he certainly was by turn of mind. What more could any ruler—any father—want?

Zaidas said, "I will show you what I can do, your Majesty. Not least by using the power he has gained from the transition of fanatical Thanasioi out of life and into death, this Makuraner wizard, this Artapan, has built his magic to a point where it is difficult to assail. This much, to my discomfiture, you have seen."

"Yes," Krispos said. Many times he'd resolved to treat Phostis as if he were certain of his parentage; as many times, till now, he'd failed. This time, he thought he might succeed.

"An arch has a keystone," Zaidas went on. "Take it out and the whole thing crashes to the ground. So with Artapan's magic. Take away this power he has wrongfully arrogated to himself and he will be. weaker than if he never meddled where he should not have. This is what I aim to do."

Krispos recognized the didactic tone in the sorcerer's voice. It suited him: though he had no sorcerous talent himself, he was always interested in hearing how wizards did what they did. Today, moreover, it would influence how he conducted his campaign. And so he asked, "How will you manage it, sorcerous sir?"

"By opposing the power of death with the power of life," Zaidas answered. "The sorcery is prepared, your Majesty. I shall essay it tomorrow at dawn, when the rising of Phos' sun, most powerful symbol of light and life and rebirth, shall add its influence to that of my magic. And your son, too, shall play a role, as shall Livanios' daughter Olyvria."

"Shall they?" Krispos said. "Will it endanger them? I'd not care to have Phostis restored to me only to lose him two days later in a war of sorcerers."

"No, no." Zaidas shook his head. "The good god willing— and so I believe the case to be—the procedure I have in mind will take Artapan altogether by surprise. And even if he knows Phostis has escaped and joined you here, your son gives the strong impression the Makuraner does not know his technique has been discovered."

"Until the dawn, then," Krispos said. He wanted immediate action, but Zaidas' reason for delay struck him as good. It also let the imperial army advance farther onto the westlands' central plateau—with luck, positioning the force to exploit whatever success against Artapan that Zaidas achieved.

Krispos wondered how much faith to place in his chief mage. Zaidas hadn't had much luck against the Thanasioi. Before, though, he hadn't known what he was opposing. Now he did. If he couldn't do something useful with that advantage ... "Then he won't be any help at all," Krispos said aloud. He breathed a silent prayer for Zaidas up to the watching sky.

Red as blood, the sun crawled up over the eastern horizon. Zaidas greeted it by raising his hands to the heavens and intoning Phos' creed: "We bless thee. Phos, lord with the great and good mind, by thy grace our protector, watchful beforehand that the great test of life may be decided in our favor."

Phostis imitated the gesture and echoed the creed. He fought to stifle a yawn; yawning during the creed struck him as faintly blasphemous. But getting up well before sunrise as spring grew toward summer was anything but easy.

Beside him. Olyvria shifted from foot to foot. She looked awake enough, but nervous nonetheless. She kept stealing glances at Krispos. Being around the Avtokrator had to add to her unease. To Phostis, his father—for so he still supposed Krispos to be—was family first and ruler second; familiarity overcame awe. It was just the other way round for Olyvria.

"Get on with it," Krispos said harshly.

Used to any other man, it would have been a heads-will-roll tone. Zaidas merely nodded and said, "All in good time, your Majesty ... Ah, now we see the entire disk of the sun. We may proceed."

A few hundred yards away, sunrise made the imperial army begin to stir in camp. Almost all the Haloga bodyguards stood between the camp and this little hillock, to make sure no one blundered up while Zaidas was at his magic. The rest were between the sorcerer and Krispos. Phostis didn't know what their axes could do against magic gone wrong. He didn't think they knew, either, but they were ready to try.

Zaidas lighted a sliver of wood from one of the torches that had illuminated the hillock before the day began. He used the flame to light a stout candle of sky-blue wax, one fat and tall enough to have provided imperial sealing wax for the next fifty years. As the flame slid down the wick and caught in the wax, he spoke the creed again, this time softly to himself.

Candles in daylight were normally overwhelmed by the sun. Somehow this one was not. Though when seen directly its flame was no brighter than that of an ordinary candle, yet its glow caught and held on Zaidas' face, and Krispos', and Olyvria's. Though he could not see himself, Phostis supposed the light lingered on him, as well.

Zaidas said, "This light symbolizes the long and great life of the Empire of Videssos, and of the faith that it has sustained and that has sustained it across the centuries. Long may Empire and faith flourish."

From under a silk cloth he took out another candle, this one hardly better than a tiny taper, a thin layer of bright red wax around a wick.

"That's the same color as the sealing wax on that vaunting letter Livanios sent me," Krispos said.

Zaidas smiled. "Your Majesty lacks only the gift to be a first-rate wizard. Your instincts are perfectly sound." He raised his voice to the half-chanting tone he used when incanting. "This small, brief candle stands for the Thanasioi, whose foolish heresy will soon fail and be forgotten."

Almost as soon as he spoke the last words, the little red candle guttered out. A thin spiral of smoke rose from it. When the breeze blew that away, nothing showed that the candle representing the Thanasioi had ever existed. The larger light, the one symbolizing Videssos as a whole, burned on.

"Now what?" Krispos demanded. "This should be the time to settle accounts with that Makuraner mage."

"Yes, your Majesty." Zaidas was a patient man. Sometimes even the most patient of men finds it necessary to let his patience show. He said, "I could proceed even more expeditiously if I did not have to pause and respond to inquiries and comments. Now—"

Krispos chuckled, quite unabashed. This time Zaidas ignored him. He took a large silk cloth, big enough for a wall hanging, and draped it over both Phostis and Olyvria. The cloth was of the same sky blue as the candle that stood for the Empire and the orthodox faith. The silk's fine weave let Phostis see through it mistily, as if through fog.

He watched Zaidas take up yet another cloth, this one striped in bright colors. It reminded him of the caftans Artapan had worn. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Zaidas declared, "Now we shall sorcerously show the wicked wizard of Makuran that he shall profit nothing from his courtship of death!" He dropped out of that impressive tone and into ordinary speech for a moment: "Now, young Majesty, comes your time to contribute to this magic. Take your intended in your arms, kiss her, and think on all you might be doing were the rest of us not standing around here making nuisances of ourselves."

Phostis stared at him through the thin silk cloth. "Are you sure that's what you want of us, Uncle Z—uh, sorcerous sir?"

"Do that alone and do it properly, young Majesty, and no one could do more this day. Think of it, if you must, as duty rather than pleasure."

Kissing Olyvria was not a duty, and Phostis refused to consider it one. Her sweet lips and tongue, the soft firmness of her body pressed against his, argued that she, too, enjoyed the task Zaidas had set them. So tightly did Phostis hold her against him that she could not have doubted what he wanted to do with her. He heard her laugh softly, back in her throat.

After a while, he opened his eyes. He'd kissed Olyvria a lot lately, and while he thoroughly enjoyed it, he'd never been part of a major conjuration before. He wanted to see what Zaidas was up to. The first thing he saw was that Olyvria's eyes were already open. That made him laugh.

Zaidas was holding the piece of striped fabric above the flame of the blue candle. He intoned, "As they celebrate life under their cloth, so may that overturn the Makuraner mage who would strengthen himself through death. Let his sorcery be consumed as Videssos' light consumes the cloth of his country." He thrust the fabric into the fire.

Phostis always regretted the silk cloth that hazed his vision; it made him doubt his own eyes. The striped square of fabric flared up brightly the moment the candle flame touched it. For that instant, it burned as if it had been soaked in oil; Phostis wondered if Zaidas could drop it fast enough to save his fingers.

But then the burning cloth flickered and almost went out. Not only that, the part that had been consumed seemed restored, so that the cloth looked bigger than it had when it burned brightest. Zaidas stumbled and almost took it out of the candle flame.

He stood steady, though, and repeated the incantation he'd used when he first put the cloth in the flame. To it he added other muttered charms that Phostis heard only indistinctly. The striped cloth began to burn again, hesitantly at first but then with greater vigor. "You have it, sorcerous sir!" Krispos breathed.

Though he spoke softly, he must have distracted Zaidas, for the flame on the cloth shrank and the cloth itself seemed to expand once more. But Zaidas rallied again. More and more of the cloth burned away. Finally, with a puff of smoke like the one from the expiring Thanasiot candle, it was gone. Zaidas stuck the thumb and forefinger of his right hand into his mouth. They shouldn't have been scorched, though—they should have been burned to the bone.

When he took the fingers out, the wizard said in a worn voice, "What magic can do, magic has done. The good god willing, I have struck Artapan a heavy blow this day."

"How shall you know whether the good god was willing?" Krispos asked.

Instead of answering directly, Zaidas swept the filmy silk cloth away from Phostis and Olyvria and said, "You two can detach yourselves from each other now."

They shook their heads at the same time and both started to laugh. That was what made them break apart. Phostis said, "We liked what we were doing."

"I noticed that, yes," Zaidas said, so dryly it might have been Krispos talking.

Krispos repeated, "How will you know whether you smote Artapan?"

"Your Majesty, I am about to find that out, for which purpose I require your eldest son once more."

"Me?" Phostis said. "What do I need to do now?"

"What I tell you." Before explaining what that was, the mage turned to Olyvria and bowed. "My lady, I am grateful for your services against the Makuraner. Your presence is not required for this next conjuration." He made it sound as if her presence was not desired. Though that miffed Phostis, Olyvria nodded and swept down the little hillock. A couple of Halogai trailed after her; the northerners seemed to have accepted her as part of the imperial family.

"Why don't you want her to watch what we're doing?" Phostis asked Zaidas.

"Because I am going to use you to help locate her father Livanios," Zaidas answered. "You were in contact with him; by the law of contagion, you remain in contact. So, for that matter, does she, but no matter how she loves you, I would not use her as the instrument of her father's betrayal."

"A nicety of sentiment the Thanasioi wouldn't give back to us," Krispos said. "But you're right to use it. Carry on, sorcerous sir."

"I shall, never fear," Zaidas answered. "I was just about to explain that Artapan's magic has up to this point shielded the Thanasioi from such direct sorcerous scrutiny. If, however, we have weakened him with the conjuration just completed, this next spell should also succeed."

"Very neat," Krispos said approvingly. "You use the same magic to learn whether the previous one worked and where the heresiarch's main force is. That's economical enough to have sprung from the brain of a treasury logothete."

"I shall construe that as a compliment, and hope it was

meant so," Zaidas said, which squeezed a chuckle out of Krispos.

The conjuration the sorcerer had in mind seemed simple in the extreme. He took some loose, crumbly dirt from the top of the hillock and put it in a large, low bowl. Then he called Phostis over and had him press his hand down onto the dirt. As soon as Phostis drew back a pace, Zaidas began to chant. His left hand moved in quick passes over the bowl.

A few seconds later, hair prickled up on the back of Phostis' neck. The dirt was stirring, shifting, humping itself up into a ridge—no, not a ridge, an arrow, for one end showed an unmistakable point.

"East and a little south," Zaidas said.

"Very, very good," Krispos breathed; as usual, he was quietest when he felt most triumphant. "The mask is down, then—we can see the moves Livanios makes. Have you any idea how far away his force lies?"

"Not precisely, no," the mage answered. "By the speed with which the arrow formed, I should say he is not close. It gives but a rough measure, though."

"A rough measure is all we need for now. You and Phostis will work this magic every morning from now on, to give us the foe's bearing and your rough measure of how far away he is. Will Artapan know his magic has failed him?"

"I'm afraid so, your Majesty," Zaidas said. "Did you see how the cloth representing Makuran tried a couple of times to reconstitute itself? That was my opponent, attempting to resist and undo my spell. But he failed as I thought he would, for the power of life is stronger than that of death."

Krispos walked over to Phostis and clapped him on the back hard enough to stagger him. "And all of it thanks to you, son. I owe you a great deal; you've done me as much good by returning and aiding me as I feared you'd do me harm had you stayed with the Thanasioi. And besides that, I'm glad you're back."

"I'm glad I'm back, too, Father," Phostis said. If Krispos claimed the relationship despite his doubts, Phostis would not quarrel with it. He went on, "And what's this I hear about your missing me so much that you decided to sire a bastard"—He carefully did not say another bastard—"to take my place?" The year before, he couldn't have bantered so with Krispos.

The Avtokrator looked startled, then laughed. "Which of your brothers told you that?"

"Evripos, back at Videssos the city."

"Aye, it's true. I hope he also said I didn't intend to let it compromise the rights you three enjoy, even if it is a son."

"He did," Phostis said, nodding. "But really, Father, at your age—"

"That's all of you who've said that now," Krispos broke in. "To the ice with your teasing. As you'll find out, gray in your beard doesn't stop you from being a man. It may slow you down, but it doesn't stop you." He looked defiant, as if waiting for Phostis to find that funny.

But Phostis didn't feel like provoking him any further. Having just found his way onto good terms with Krispos, he wouldn't risk throwing that away for the sake of a few minutes' amusement. He probably wouldn't have made such a calculation the year before; two or three years earlier, he was sure he wouldn't have.

What does that signify? he wondered. Is it what they mean by growing up? But he already was grown up. He had been for years—hadn't he? Scratching his head, he walked back to the tent he shared with Olyvria.

"Due east now, your Majesty," Zaidas reported. "They're getting close, too; the arrow formed almost as soon as Phostis took his hand from the ensorceled soil."

"All right, sorcerous sir, and thank you," Krispos answered. For the last week he'd been maneuvering to place the imperial army square in the path of the withdrawing Thanasioi. "If the lord with the great and good mind is kind to us, we'll swoop down on them before they even know we're in the neighborhood."

"May it be so," Zaidas said.

"Due east, you say?" Krispos went on musingly. "They'd be somewhere not far from, hmm, Aptos, I'd say. Is that about right?"

"Given where we are now—" The mage frowned in concentration, then nodded. "Somewhere not far from there, yes."

"Uh, Father... ?" Phostis began in a tentative voice.

He hadn't sounded tentative since he'd escaped from the

Thanasioi. Krispos gave him a curious look, wondering why he did now. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Uh," Phostis said again. By the hangdog look on his face, he regretted having spoke up. He needed a very visible rally before he continued. "When I had to go out on that Thanasiot raiding party, Father—remember? I told you of that."

"I remember," Krispos said. He also remembered what a turn news of Phostis' movement had given him, and how much he'd feared the youth really had decided to follow the gleaming path.

"When I was on that raid," Phostis resumed, "to my shame, I had to join in attacking a monastery. I know I wounded one of the holy monks; if I hadn't, he'd have broken my bones with his cudgel. And my torch was one that helped fire the place."

"Why are you telling me this?" Krispos asked. "Oxeites the patriarch is a better one to hear it if you're after the forgiveness of your sin."

"I wasn't thinking of that so much—more of making amends," Phostis said. "By your leave, I'd like to set aside a third of my allowance for the next couple of years and devote it to the monastery."

"You don't need my leave; the gold I give you each month is yours to do with as you will," Krispos said. "But this I will say to you: I'm proud of you for having the idea." He thought for a moment. "So you'd give them eighty goldpieces a year, would you? How would it be if I matched that?"

He watched Phostis' face catch fire. "Thank you. Father! That would be wonderful."

"I'll leave my name off the money," Krispos said. "Let them think it all comes from you."

"Uh." Phostis said for a third time. "I hadn't planned on putting my name on, either."

"Really?" Krispos said. "The most holy Oxeites would tell you an anonymous gift finds twice as much favor with Phos as the other kind, for it must be given for its own sake rather than to gain acclaim. I don't know about that, but I admit it sounds reasonable. I know I'm all the prouder of you, though."

"You know, you tell me that now twice in the space of a couple of minutes, but I'm not sure you ever said it to me before," Phostis said.

Had he spoken with intent to wound, he would have infuriated Krispos. But he had the air of a man just stating a fact. And it was a fact; Krispos' memory confirmed that too well. He hung his head. "You shame me."

"I didn't mean to."

"I know," Krispos said. "That makes it worse."

Sarkis rode up then, rather to Krispos' relief. After saluting, the cavalry general asked, "Now that the heretics are drawing near, shall we send out scouts to learn exactly where they are?"

Instead of answering at once, Krispos turned to Phostis. "Your store of wisdom seems bigger than usual this morning. What would you do?"

"Urk," Phostis said.

Krispos shook a finger at him. "You have to answer without the foolish noises. When the red boots are on your feet, these are the questions you must deal with. You can't waste time, either." He studied the youth, wondering how he'd do.

As if to redeem that startled squawk, Phostis made his voice as deep and serious as he could: "Were the command mine, I'd say no. We're tracking the Thanasioi well by magic, so why let them blunder against our men before the last possible moment? If Zaidas' magic has worked as well as he hopes, Artapan should be nearly blind to us. The more surprise we have, the better."

Sarkis glanced toward Krispos. The Avtokrator spoke six words: "As he said, for his reasons." Phostis looked even more pleased at that indirect praise than he had when Krispos said he was proud of him.

"Aye, it does make sense." Sarkis chuckled. "Your Majesty, you were a pretty fair strategist yourself before you really knew what you were doing. It must run in the blood."

"Well, maybe." Krispos and Phostis said it in the same breath and in the same tone. They looked at each other. The Avtokrator started to laugh. A moment later, so did Phostis. Neither one seemed able to stop.

Now Sarkis studied them as if wondering whether they'd lost their wits. "I didn't think it was that funny," he said plaintively.

"Maybe it's not," Krispos said.

"On the other hand, maybe it is," Phostis said. Thinking back to the grueling and in the end uncertain talk they'd had a few nights before, the Avtokrator found himself nodding. If they could laugh about it, that probably boded well for the future.

"I still say you've gone mad in the morning," Sarkis rumbled. "I'll try one of you or the other this afternoon and see if you make any sense then." He rode off, beak of a nose in the air.

The tent was small and close. The warm night made it seem even closer. So did the stink of hot tallow from the candle stuck in the ground where its flame couldn't reach anything burnable. As she had for the past several nights, Olyvria asked, "What did you go back to talk about with your father?"

"I don't want to tell you," Phostis said. He'd been saying that ever since he'd come back from Krispos' pavilion. It was not an answer calculated to stifle curiosity, but he knew no better to give.

"Why don't you?" Olyvria demanded. "If it had to do with me, I have a right to know."

"It had nothing to do with you." Phostis had repeated that a good many times, too. It was even true. The only trouble was, Olyvria didn't believe him.

Tonight she seemed to have decided to argue like a canon lawyer. "Well, if it has nothing to do with me, then what possible harm could there be to my knowing it?" She grinned smugly, pleased with herself; she'd put him in a logician's classic double bind.

But he refused to be bound. "If it were your business, I wouldn't have wanted the talk to be private."

"That's not right." She glared, angry now.

"I think it is." Phostis didn't want anyone wondering who his father was. He wished he didn't have to wonder himself. One person could keep a secret—Krispos had, after all. Two people might keep a secret. More than two people ... he supposed it was possible, but it didn't seem likely.

"Why won't you tell me?' Olyvria tried a new tack. "You've given me no reason."

"If I tell you why I won't tell you, that would be about the same as telling you," Phostis had to listen to that sentence again in his head before he was sure it had come out the way he wanted it. He went on, "It has nothing to do with you and me."

"What you talked about may not have, but that you won't tell me certainly does." Olyvria needed a moment's hesitation, too. "What could you possibly want to keep to yourself that way?"

"It's none of your concern." Phostis ground out the words one at a time. Olyvria glowered at him. He glowered back; these arguments got him angry, too. His hissed exhale was almost a snarl. He said, "All right, by the good god, I'll tell you what: suppose you go over to the Avtokrator's pavilion and ask him. If he doesn't mind telling you what we talked about, I suppose it's all right with me."

She had spirit. He'd known that from the day he first encountered her, naked and lovely and tempting, under Videssos the city. For a moment he thought she'd do as he'd dared and storm out of the tent. He wondered what Krispos would make of that, how he'd handle it.

But even Olyvria's nerve could fray. She said, "It's not just that he's your father—he's the Avtokrator, too."

"I know," Phostis said dryly. "I've had to deal with that my whole life. You'd best get used to it, too. Phos is the only true judge, of course, but my guess is that he'll be Avtokrator a good many years yet."

Videssian history knew instances of imperial heirs who grew impatient waiting for their fathers to die and helped the process along. It also knew rather more instances of impatient imperial heirs who tried to help the process along, failed, and never, ever got a second chance. Phostis had no interest in raising a sedition against Krispos for, among others, the most practical of good reasons: he was convinced the Avtokrator would smell out the plot and use him for it as a failed rebel deserved. He counted himself lucky that Krispos had forgiven him after his involuntary sojourn among the Thanasioi.

Probing still, Olyvria said, "Is it something that discredits you or your father? Is that why you don't want to talk about it?"

"I won't answer questions like that, either," Phostis said. Not answering was another trick he'd learned from Krispos. If you started responding the questions around the edge of the one you didn't want to discuss, before long the exact shape and size of the answer to that one came clear.

"I think you're being hateful," Olyvria said.

Phostis stared down his nose at her. It wasn't quite as long and impressive as Krispos', but it served well enough. "I'm doing what I think I need to do. You're Livanios' daughter, but no one has tried to tear out of you any of his secrets that you didn't care to give. Seems to me I ought to be allowed a secret or two of my own."

"It just strikes me as foolish, that's all." Olyvria said. "How could telling whatever it is possibly hurt you?"

"Maybe it couldn't," Phostis said, though he wondered how much hay Evripos might make out of knowing how uncertain his paternity was. Then he started to laugh.

"What's funny?" Olyvria's voice turned dangerous. "You're not laughing at me, are you?"

Phostis drew the sun-circle over his heart. "By the good god, I swear I'm not." His obvious sincerity mollified Olyvria. Better still, he'd not taken a false oath. When he thought of Evripos making hay, whose perspective was he borrowing but that of Krispos the ex-peasant? Even if Krispos hadn't sired him, he'd certainly shaped the way he thought, at levels so deep Phostis rarely noticed them.

Olyvria remained mulish. "How can I trust you if you keep secrets from me?"

"If you don't think you can trust me, you should have let me put you ashore at some deserted beach." Now Phostis grew angry. "And if you still don't trust me, I daresay my father will give you a safe conduct to leave camp and go back to Etchmiadzin or wherever else you'd like."

"No, I don't want that." Olyvria studied him curiously. "You're not the same as you were last summer under the temple or even last fall after you—came to Etchmiadzin. Then you weren't sure of what you wanted or how to go about getting it. You're harder now—and don't make lewd jokes. You trust your own judgment more than you did before."

"Do I?" Phostis thought about it. "Perhaps I do. I'd better, don't you think? In the end, it's all I have."

"I hadn't thought you could be so stubborn," Olyvria said. "Now that I know, I'll have to deal with you a little differently." She laughed in small embarrassment. "Maybe I shouldn't have said that. It sounds as if I'm giving away some special womanly secret."

"No, I don't think so," Phostis said; he was happy to steer the conversation away from what he and Krispos had talked about. "Men also have to change the way they treat women as they come to know them better—or so I'm finding out, anyway."

"You don't mean men, you mean you," Olyvria said with a catlike pounce. Phostis spread his hands, conceding the point. He didn't mind yielding on small things if that let him keep hold of the big ones. He slowly nodded—Krispos would have handled this the same way.

Someone rode up to the nearby imperial pavilion in a tearing hurry. A moment later, Krispos started yelling for Sarkis. Not long after that, the Avtokrator and his general both yelled for messengers. And not long after that, the whole camp started stirring, though it had to be well into the third hour of the night.

"What do you suppose that's all about?" Olyvria asked.

Phostis had an idea of what it might be about, but before he could answer, someone called from outside the tent, "Are you two decent in there?"

Olyvria looked offended. Phostis didn't—he recognized the voice. "Aye, decent enough," he called back. "Come on in, Katakolon."

His younger brother pushed aside the entry flap. "If you are decent, you've probably been listening to all the fuss outside." Katakolon's eyes gleamed with excitement.

"So we have," Phostis said. "What is it? Have scouts brought back word that they've run into the Thanasioi?"

"Oh, to the ice with you," Katakolon said indignantly. "I was hoping to bring a surprise, and here you've gone and figured it out."

"Never mind that," Phostis said. "The fuss means we fight tomorrow?"

"Aye," Katakolon answered. "We fight tomorrow."