Krispos the Emperor

VIII

Krispos was wading through changes in a law that dealt with tariffs on tallow imported from the northeastern land of Thatagush when Barsymes tapped at the open door of his study with one knuckle. He looked up. The vestiarios said, "May it please your Majesty, a messenger from the mage Zaidas at the government office building."

"Maybe it will please me, by the good god," Krispos said. "Send him in."

The messenger quickly prostrated himself, then said, "Your Majesty, Zaidas bids me tell you that he has at last succeeded in commencing a sorcerous interrogation of the rebel priest Digenis."

"Has he? Well, to the ice with tallow."

"Your Majesty?"

"Never mind." The less the messenger knew about the dickering with Thatagush, the happier he'd be. Krispos got up and accompanied him out of the study and out of the imperial residence. Haloga guards fell in with him as he went down the broad steps outside. He felt a childish delight in having caught his parasol bearers napping, as if he'd put one over on Barsymes.

He hadn't gone to listen to Digenis since the day of Iakovitzes' return. He'd seen no point to it: he'd already heard all the Thanasiot platitudes he could stomach, and Digenis refused to yield the truths he wanted to learn.

He was shocked at how the priest had wasted away. In his peasant days, he'd seen men and women lean with hunger after a bad harvest, but Digenis was long past leanness: everything between his skeleton and his skin seemed to have disappeared. His eyes shifted when Krispos came into his cell, but did not catch fire as they had before.

"He is very weak, your Majesty; his will at last begins to fail," Zaidas said quietly. "Otherwise I doubt even now I could have found a way to coax answers from him."

"What have you done?" Krispos asked. "I see no apparatus for the two-mirror test."

"No." By his expression, Zaidas would have been glad never to try the two-mirror test again. "This is half magic, half healing art. I laced the water he drinks with a decoction of henbane, having first used sorcery to remove the taste so he would notice nothing out of the ordinary."

"Well done." After a moment, Krispos added, "I do hope the technique for that is not so simple as to be available to any poisoner who happens to take a dislike to his neighbor—or to me.

"No, your Majesty," Zaidas said, smiling. "In any case, the spell, because it goes against nature, is easy to detect by sorcery. Digenis, of course, was not in a position to do so."

"And a good thing, too," Krispos said. "All right, let's see if he'll give forth the truth now. What questions have you put to him thus far?"

"None of major import. As soon as I saw he was at last receptive, I sent for you at once. I suggest you keep your questions as simple as you can. The henbane frees his mind, but also clouds it—both far more strongly than wine."

"As you say, sorcerous sir." Krispos raised his voice. "Digenis! Do you hear me, Digenis?"

"Aye, I hear you." Digenis' voice was not only weak from weeks of self-imposed starvation but also dreamy and far away.

"Where's Phostis—my son? The son of the Avtokrator Krispos," Krispos added, in case the priest did not realize who was talking to him.

Digenis answered, "He walks the golden path to true piety, striding ever farther from the perverse materialistic heresy that afflicts too many soulblind folk throughout the Empire." The priest held his convictions all the way down to his heart, not merely on the surface of his mind. Krispos had already been sure of that.

He tried again: "Where is Phostis physically?"

"The physical is unimportant," Digenis declared. Krispos glanced over at Zaidas, who bared his teeth in an agony of frustration. But Digenis went on, "If all went as was planned, Phostis is now with Livanios."

Krispos had thought as much, but hearing the plan had been kidnap rather than murder lifted fear from his heart. Phostis could easily have been dumped in some rocky ravine with his throat cut; only the wolves and ravens would have been likely to discover him. The Avtokrator said, "What does Livanios hope to do with him? Use him as a weapon against me?"

"Phostis has a hope of assuming true piety," Digenis said. Krispos wondered if he'd confused him by asking two questions at once. After a few heartbeats, the priest resumed, "For a youth, Phostis resists carnality well. To my surprise, he declined the body of Livanios' daughter, which she offered to see if he could be tempted from the gleaming path. He could not. He may yet prove suitable for an imminent union with the good god rather than revolting and corruptible flesh."

"An imminent union?" All faiths used words in special ways. Krispos wanted to be sure he understood what Digenis was talking about. "What's an imminent union?"

"That which I am approaching now," Digenis answered. "The voluntary abandonment of the flesh to free the spirit to fly to Phos."

"You mean starving yourself to death," Krispos said. Somehow Digenis used his emaciated neck for a nod. Slow horror trickled through Krispos as he imagined Phostis wasting away like the Thanasiot priest. No matter that he and the young man quarreled, no matter even that Phostis might not be his by blood: he would not have wished such a fate on him.

Digenis began to whisper a Thanasiot hymn. Seeking to rock him out of the holy smugness he maintained even in the face of approaching death, Krispos said, "Did you know Livanios uses magic of the school of the Prophets Four to hide Phostis' whereabouts?"

"He is cursed with ambition," Digenis answered. "I knew the spoor, I recognized the stench. He prates of the golden path, but Skotos has filled his heart with greed for power."

"You worked with him, knowing he was evil by your reckoning?" That surprised Krispos; he'd expected the renegade priest to have sterner standards for himself. "And you still claim you walk Thanasios' gleaming path? Are you not a hypocrite?"

"No, for Livanios' ambition furthers the advance of the holy Thanasios' doctrines, whereas yours leads only to the further aggrandizement of Skotos," Digenis declared. "Thus evil is transmuted into good and the dark god confounded."

"Thus sincerity turns to expedience," Krispos said. He'd already gained the impression that Livanios cared more for Livanios than for the gleaming path. In a way, that made the heresiarch more dangerous, for he was liable to be more flexible than an out-and-out fanatic. But in another way, it weakened Livanios: fanatics, by the strength of their beliefs, could sometimes make their followers transcend difficulties from which an ordinary thoughtful man would flinch.

Krispos thought for a while, but could not come up with any more questions about Phostis or the rebels in the field. Turning to Zaidas, he said, "Squeeze all you can from him about the riots and the city and those involved. And then—" He paused.

"Yes, what then, your Majesty?" the mage asked. "Shall we let him continue his decline until he stops breathing one day before long?"

"I'd sooner strike off his head and put it up on the Milestone," Krispos said grimly. "But if I did that now, with him looking as he does, all the Thanasioi in the city would have themselves a new martyr. I'd just as soon do without that, if I could. Better to let him die in quiet and disappear: the good god willing, folk will just forget about him."

"You are wise and cruel," Digenis said. "Skotos speaks through your lips."

"If I thought that were so, I'd step down from the throne and cast off my crown this instant," Krispos said. "My task is to rule the Empire as well as I can devise, and pass it on to my heir so he may do likewise. Having Videssos torn apart in religious strife doesn't seem to me to be part of that bargain."

"Yield to the truth and there will be no strife." Digenis began whispering hymns again in his dusty voice.

"This talk has no point," Krispos said. "I'd sooner build than destroy, and you Thanasioi feel the opposite. I don't want the land burned over, nor do I want it vacant of Videssians who slew themselves for piety's sake. Other folk would simply steal what we've spent centuries building. I will not have that, not while I live."

Digenis said, "The lord with the great and good mind willing, Phostis will prove a man of better sense and truer piety."

Krispos thought about that. Suppose he got his son back, but as a full-fledged fanatical Thanasiot? What then? If that's so, he told himself, it's as well I had three boys, not one. If Phostis came back a Thanasiot, he'd live out his days in a monastery, whether he went there of his own free will of not. Krispos promised himself that: he wouldn't turn the Empire over to someone more interesting in wrecking than maintaining it.

Time enough to worry about that if he ever saw Phostis again, though. He turned to Zaidas. "You've done well, sorcerous sir. Knowing what you've learned now, you should have a better chance of pinpointing Phostis' whereabouts."

"I'll bend every effort toward that end," the mage promised.

Nodding, Krispos stepped out of Digenis' cell. The head gaoler came up to him and said, "A question, your Majesty?" Krispos raised an eyebrow and waited. The gaoler said, "That priest in there, he's getting on toward the end. What happens if he decides he doesn't care to starve himself to death and wants to start eating again?"

"I don't think that's likely to happen." If nothing else, Krispos respected Digenis' sense of purpose. "If it does, though, by all means let him eat; this refusal to take food is his affair, not mine. But notify me immediately."

"You'll want to ask him more questions, your Majesty?" the gaoler said.

"No, no; you misunderstand. That priest is a condemned traitor. If he wants to carry out the sentence of death on himself in his own way, I am willing to permit it. But if his will falters, he'll meet the headsman on a full stomach."

"Ah," the gaoler said. "The wind sits so, eh? Very well, your Majesty, it shall be as you say."

In his younger days, Krispos would have come back with something harsh, like It had better be. More secure in his power now, he headed upstairs without a backward glance. As long as the gaoler felt no other result than the one he desired was possible, that result was what Krispos would get.

The Halogai who had waited outside the government office building took their places around Krispos and those who had gone down with him into the gaol. "Is the word good. Majesty?" one of the northerners asked.

"Good enough, anyhow," the Avtokrator answered. "I know now Phostis was snatched, not killed, and I have a good notion of where he's been taken. As for getting him back—time will tell about that." And about what sort of person he'll be when I do get him back, he added to himself.

The guardsmen cheered, their deep-voiced shouts making passersby's heads turn to find out what news was so gladsome. Some people exclaimed to see Krispos out and about without his retinue of parasol bearers. Others exclaimed at the Halogai. The men from the north—tall, fair, gloomy, and slow-spoken— never failed to fascinate the Videssians, whose opposites they were in almost every way.

Struck by sudden curiosity, Krispos turned to one of the northerners and said. "Tell me, Trygve, what do you make of the folk of Videssos the city?"

Trygve pursed his lips and gave the matter some serious thought. At last, in his deliberate Videssian, he answered, "Majesty, the wine here is very fine, the women looser than they are in Halogaland. But everyone, I t'ink, here talks too much." Several other guardsmen nodded in solemn agreement. Since Krispos had the same opinion of the city folk, he nodded, too.

Back at the imperial residence, he gave the news from Digenis to Barsymes. The vestiarios' smile, unusually broad, filled his face full of fine wrinkles. He said, "Phos be praised that the young Majesty is thought to be alive. The other palace chamberlains, I know, will be as delighted as I am."

Down a side corridor, Krispos came upon Evripos and Katakolon arguing about something or other. He didn't ask what; when the mood struck them, they could argue over the way a lamp flame flickered. He'd had no brothers himself, only two sisters younger than he, both many years dead now. He supposed he should have been glad his sons kept their fights to words and occasional fists rather than hiring knifemen or poisoners or wizards.

Both youths glanced warily in his direction as he approached. Neither one looked conspicuously guilty, so each of them felt the righteousness of his own cause—though Evripos, these days, was developing the beginning of a pretty good stone face.

Krispos said, "Digenis has cracked at last, thank the good god. By what he said, Phostis is held in some Thanasiot stronghold, but is alive and likely to stay that way."

Now he studied Evripos and Katakolon rather than the other way round. Katakolon said, "That's good news. By the time we're done smashing the Thanasioi next summer, we should have him back again." His expression was open and happy; Krispos didn't think he was acting. He was sure he couldn't have done so well at Katakolon's age ... but then, he hadn't been raised at court, either.

Evripos' features revealed nothing whatever. His eyes were watchful and hooded. Krispos prodded to see what lay behind the mask. "Aren't you glad to be sure your elder brother lives?"

"For blood's sake, aye, but should I rejoice to see my ambition thwarted?" Evripos said. "Would you, in my boots?"

The question cut to the root. Ambition for a better life had driven Krispos from his farm to Videssos; while he was one of Iakovitzes' grooms, ambition had led him to wrestle a Kubrati champion and gained him the notice of the then-Emperor Anthimos' uncle Petronas, who administered Videssos in his nephew's name; ambition led him to let Petronas use him to supplant Anthimos' previous vestiarios; and then, as vestiarios himself, to take ever more power into his own hands, supplanting first Petronas and then Anthimos.

He said, "Son, I know you want the red boots. Well, so does Phostis, and I have but the one set to give. What would you have me do?"

"Give them to me, by Phos," Evripos answered. "I'd wear them better than he would."

"I have no way to be sure of that—nor do you," Krispos said. "For that matter, a day may come when Katakolon here begins to think past the end of his prick. He might prove a better ruler than either of you two. Who can say?"

"Him?" Evripos shook his head. "No, Father, forgive me, but I don't see it."

"Me?" Katakolon seemed as bemused as his brother. "I've never thought much of wearing the crown. I always figured the only way it would come to me was if Phostis and Evripos were dead. I don't want it badly enough to wish for that. And since I'm not likely to be Avtokrator, why shouldn't I enjoy myself?"

As Avtokrator and voluptuary both, Anthimos had been anything but good for the Empire. But as Emperor's brother, Katakolon would be relatively harmless if he devoted himself to pleasure. If he did lack ambition, he might even be safer as a voluptuary. The chronicles had shown Krispos that rulers had a way of turning suspicious of their closest kin: who else was likelier both to accumulate power and to use it against them?

"Maybe it's because I grew up on a farm," Krispos began, and both Evripos and Katakolon rolled their eyes. Nonetheless, the Avtokrator persisted: "Maybe that's why I think waste is a sin Phos won't forgive. We never had much; if we'd wasted anything, we would have starved. The lord with the great and good mind knows I'm glad it isn't so with you boys: being hungry is no fun. But even though you have so much, you should still work to make the most you can of your lives. Pleasure is all very well in its place, but you can do other things when you're not in bed."

Katakolon grinned. "Aye, belike: you can get drunk."

"Another sermon wasted, Father," Evripos said acidly. "How does that fit into your scheme of Worths?"

Without answering, Krispos pushed past his two younger sons and down the corridor. Phostis was unenthusiastic about ruling, Evripos embittered, and Katakolon had other things on his mind. What would Videssos come to when the common fate of mankind took his own hand from the steering oar?

Men had been asking that question, on one scale or another, for as long as there were men. If the head of a family died and his relatives were less able then he, the family might fall on hard times, but the rest of the world went on. When an able Emperor passed from the scene, families past counting might suffer because of it.

"What am I supposed to do?" Krispos asked the statues and paintings and relics that lined that hallway. No answer came back to him. All he could think of was to go on himself, as well as he could for as long as he could.

And after that? After that it would be in his sons' hands, and in the good god's. He remained confident Phos would continue to watch over Videssos. Of his sons he was less certain.

Rain poured down in sheets, ran in wide, watery fishtails off the edges of roofs, and turned the inner ward of the fortress of Etchmiadzin into a thin soup of mud. Phostis closed the wooden shutter to the little slit window in his cell; with it open, things were about as wet inside as they were out in the storm.

But with it closed, the bare square room was dark as night; fitfully flickering lamps did little to cut the gloom. Phostis slept as much as he could. Inside the cell in near darkness, he had little else to do.

After a few days of the steady rain, he felt as full of sleep as a new wineskin is of wine. He went into the corridor in search of something other than food.

Syagrios was dozing on a chair down the hall. Perhaps he'd had himself magically attuned to Phostis' door, for he came alert as soon as it opened, though Phostis had been quiet with it. The ruffian yawned, stretched, and said, "I was beginning to think you'd died in there, boy. In a little while, I was going to check for a stink."

You might have found one, Phostis thought. Because the Thanasioi reckoned the body Skotos' creation, they neither lavished baths on it nor disguised its odors with sweet scents. Sometimes Phostis didn't notice the resulting stench, as he was part of it. Sometimes it oppressed him dreadfully.

He said, "I'm going downstairs. I've grown too bored even to nap anymore."

"You won't stay bored forever," Syagrios answered. "After the rain comes the clear, and when the clear comes, we go out to fight." He closed a fist and slammed it down on his leg. Syagrios was bored, too, Phostis realized: he hadn't had the chance to go out and hurt anything lately.

A couple of torches had gone out along the corridor, leaving it hardly brighter than Phostis' cell. He lit a taper from the burning torch nearest the stairway and headed down the steep stone spiral. Syagrios followed him. As always, he was sweating by the time he reached the bottom; a misstep on the stairs and he would have got there much faster than he wanted to.

Livanios' soldiers crowded the ground floor of the citadel.

Some of them slept rolled in blankets, their worldly goods either under their heads in leather sacks that served for pillows or somewhere else close by. However much the Thanasioi professed to despise the things of the world, their fighters could still be tempted to take hold of things of the world that were not things of theirs.

Some of the men who were awake threw dice; there coins and other things of the world changed hands in more generally accepted fashion. Phostis had been bemused the first time he saw Thanasiot soldiers gambling. He'd watched the dice many times since and concluded the men were soldiers first and followers of the gleaming path afterward.

Off in a corner, a small knot of men gathered around a game board whereon two of their fellows dueled. Phostis made his way over to them. "If nobody's up for the next game, I challenge the winner," he said.

The players looked up from their pieces. "Hullo, friend," one of them said, a Thanasiot greeting Phostis was still getting used to. "Aye, I'll take you on after I take care of Grypas here."

"Ha!" Grypas returned to the board the prelate he'd captured from his opponent. "Guard your emperor, Astragalos; Phostis here will play me next."

Grypas proved right; after some further skirmishing, Astragalos' emperor, beset on all sides, found no square where he could move without threat of capture. Muttering into his beard, the soldier gave up.

Phostis sat in his place. He and Grypas returned the pieces to their proper squares on the first three rows on each man's side of the nine-by-nine board. Grypas glanced over at Phostis. "I've played you before, friend. I'm going to take winner's privilege and keep first move."

"However you like," Phostis answered. Grypas advanced the foot soldier diagonally ahead of his prelate, freeing up the wide-ranging piece for action. Phostis pushed one of his own foot soldiers forward in reply.

Grypas played like the soldier he was. He hurled men into the fight without much worry about where they would be three moves later. Phostis had learned in a subtler school. He lost a little time fortifying his emperor behind an array of goldpieces and silvers, but then started taking advantage of that safety.

Before long, Grypas was gnawing his mustache in consternation. He tried to fight back by returning to the fray pieces he'd taken from Phostis, but Phostis had not left himself as vulnerable as Astragalos had before. He beat the soldier without much trouble.

As the dejected man got up from the board, Syagrios sat down across it from Phostis. He leered at the junior Avtokrator. "All right, youngster, let's see how tough you are."

"I'll keep first move against you, by the good god," Phostis said. Around them, bets crackled back and forth. Over the long winter, they'd shown they were the two best players in the fortress. Which of them was better than the other swung from day to day.

Phostis stared over the grid at his unkempt opponent. Who would have guessed that a man with the looks of a bandit and habits to match made such a cool, precise player? But the pieces on the board cared nothing for how a man looked or even how he acted when he wasn't at the game. And Syagrios had already showed he had more wit behind that battered face than anyone who judged by it alone would guess.

The ruffian had a special knack for returning captured pieces to the board with telling effect. If he set down a horseman, you could be sure it threatened two pieces at once, both of them worth more than it. If a siege engine went into action, your emperor would be in trouble soon.

His manner at the game betrayed his origins. Whenever Phostis made a move he didn't like, he'd growl, "Oh, you son of a whore!" It had been unnerving at first; by now, Phostis took no more notice of it than of the twitches and tics of some of his opponents back in Videssos the city.

He took far fewer chances against Syagrios than he had against Grypas. In fact, he took no chances at all that he could see: give Syagrios an opening and he'd charge right through. Syagrios treated him with similar caution. The game, as a result, was slow and positional.

Finally, with returned foot soldiers paving the way, Syagrios broke up Phostis' fortress and sent his emperor scurrying for safety. When he was trapped in a corner with no hope of escape, Phostis took him off the board and said, "I surrender."

"You made me sweat there, by the good god." Syagrios thumped his chest with a big fist, then boomed out, "Who else wants a go at me?"

Astragalos said, "Let Phostis take you on again. That'll make a more even match than the rest of us are apt to give you."

Phostis had stood up. He looked around to see if anybody else wanted to play Syagrios. When no one made a move, he sat back down again. Syagrios leered at him. "I ain't gonna give you first move, either, boy."

"I didn't expect you would," Phostis answered, altogether without ironic intent: any man who didn't look out for himself wasn't likely to find anyone to do it for him.

After a game as hard-fought as the first one, he got his revenge. Syagrios leaned over the board and punched him on the meaty part of his arm. "You're a sneaky little bastard, you know that ? To the ice with whose son you are. That ain't horse manure between your ears, you know?"

"Whatever you say." Compliments from Syagrios made Phostis even more nervous than the abuse that usually filled the ruffian's mouth. Phostis stood up again and said, "You can take on the next challenger."

"Why's that?" Syagrios demanded. Quitting while you were winning was bad form.

"If I don't leave about now, you'll have to wipe up the floor under me," Phostis answered, which made Syagrios and several of the other men around the game board laugh. With the fortress of Etchmiadzin packed full of fighters, the humor there was decidedly coarse.

In better weather, Phostis would have wandered out into the inner ward to make water against the wall. There was, however, an oversufficiency of water in the inner ward already. He headed off to the garderobe instead. The chamber, connected as it was to a cesspit under the keep, was so noisome that he avoided it when he could. At the moment, however, he had little choice.

Wooden stalls separated one hole in the long stone bench from another, an unusual concession to delicacy but one Phostis appreciated. Three of the four were occupied when he went in; he stepped into the fourth, which was farthest from the doorway.

As he was easing himself, he heard a couple of people come in behind him. One of them let out an unhappy grunt. "All full," he said. By the slight accent he gave his words, Phostis recognized him as Livanios' pet wizard.

The other was Livanios. "Don't worry, Artapan," he said easily. "You won't burst in the next couple of minutes, and neither shall I."

"Don't use my name," the wizard grumbled.

Livanios laughed at him. "By the good god, if we have spies in the latrine, we're doomed before we start. Here, this fellow's coming out. You go ahead; I'll wait."

Phostis had already set his clothes to rights, but he waited, too, waited until he heard Livanios go into a stall and shut the door. Then he all but jumped out of the one he'd been in and hurried away from the garderobe. He didn't want either Livanios or Artapan to know he'd heard.

Now that he knew the wizard's name, he also recognized the accent that had tantalized him for so long. Artapan was from Makuran. Phostis wondered what a mage from Videssos' perennial enemy was doing in Livanios' camp. Why couldn't Livanios find a proper Thanasiot mage?

After a few seconds, he stopped wondering. To one raised in the palaces, to one who had, however unwillingly, soaked up a good deal of history, the answer fairly shouted at him: Artapan was there serving the interests of Rubyab King of Kings. And how could Rubyab's interest be better served than by keeping Videssos at war with itself?

Two other questions immediately sprang from that one. The first was whether Livanios knew he was being used. Maybe he didn't, maybe he was Makuran's willing cat's-paw, or maybe he was out to exploit Rubyab's help at the same time Rubyab used him. Phostis had a tough time seeing Livanios as a witless dupe. Choosing between the other two alternatives was harder.

Phostis set them aside. To him, the second question carried greater weight: if the Thanasioi were flourishing thanks to aid from Makuran, what did that say about the truth of their teachings? That one was hard enough to break teeth when you bit into it. Would Thanasios' interpretation of the faith have grown and spread without the foreign—no, no mincing words— without the enemy—help? Was it at bottom a religious movement at all, or rather a political one? If it was just political, why did it have such a strong appeal to so many Videssians?

Without even bothering to get a taper, Phostis went upstairs and into his room. All at once, he didn't care how gloomy it was in there. In fact, he hardly noticed. He sat down on the battered old stool. He had a lot to think about.

Somewhere among the gears and levers behind the wall of the Grand Courtroom, a servitor stood in frustrated uselessness. Much to the fellow's dismay, Krispos had ordered him not to raise the throne on high when the ambassador from Khatrish prostrated himself. "But it's the custom!" the man had wailed.

"But the reason behind the custom is to overawe foreign envoys," Krispos had answered. "It doesn't overawe Tribo—it just makes him laugh."

"But it's the custom," the servitor had repeated. To him, reasons were irrelevant. Raising the throne was what he'd always done, so raising the throne was what he had to do forever.

Even now, as Tribo approached the throne and cast himself down on his belly, Krispos wondered if the throne would rise beneath him in spite of orders. Custom died hard in the Empire, when it died at all.

To his relief, he remained at his usual elevation. As the ambassador from Khatrish got to his feet, he asked, "Mechanism in the throne break down?"

I can't win, Krispos thought. Khatrishers seemed to specialize in complicating the lives of their Videssian neighbors. Krispos did not reply: he stood—or rather sat—on the imperial dignity, though he had the feeling that would do him about as much good as the climbing throne had before.

Sure enough, Tribo let out a knowing sniff when he saw he wouldn't get an answer. He said, "May it please your Majesty, the Thanasioi are still troubling us."

"They're still troubling us, too, in case you hadn't noticed," Krispos said dryly.

"Well, yes, but it's different for you Videssians, you see, your Majesty. You grew the murrain your very own selves, so of course it's still spreading through your flocks. We don't take kindly to having our cows infected, too, though, if you take my meaning."

A Videssian would have used a comparison from agriculture rather than herding, but Krispos had no trouble following Tribo. "What would you have me do?" he asked. "Shut the border between our states and ban shipping, too?"

The Khatrisher envoy flinched, as Krispos had known he would: Khatrish needed trade with Videssos much more than Videssos with Khatrish. "Let's not be hasty, your Majesty. All I want is to hear you say again that you and your ministers don't have anything to do with spreading the cursed heresy, so I can take the word to my khagan."

Barsymes and Iakovitzes stood in front of the imperial throne. Krispos could see only their backs and the sides of their faces. He often made a game of trying to figure out from that limited view what they were thinking. He guessed Iakovitzes was amused—he admired effrontery—and Barsymes outraged—the normally self-controlled eunuch was fairly quivering in his place. Krispos needed a moment to realize why: Barsymes reckoned it an insult for him to have to deny anything more than once.

His own notion of what was insulting was more flexible, even after twenty years and more on the throne. If the envoy wanted another guarantee, he could have it. Krispos said, "You can tell Nobad son of Gumush that we aren't exporting this heresy to Khatrish on purpose. We wish it would go away here, and we're trying to get rid of it. But we aren't in the habit of stirring up sectarian strife, even if it might profit us."

"I shall send exactly that word to the puissant khagan, your Majesty, and I thank you for the reassurance," Tribo said. He glanced toward the throne. Under his shaggy beard, a frown twisted his mouth. "Your Majesty? Did you hear me, your Majesty?"

Krispos still didn't answer. He was listening to what he'd just said, not to the ambassador from Khatrish. Videssos might fight shy of turning its neighbors topsy-turvy with religious war, but would Makuran? Didn't the Thanasiot mage who hid Phostis use spells that smelled of Mashiz? No wonder Rubyab's mustaches had twitched!

Iakovitzes spun where he stood so he faced Krispos. The assembled courtiers murmured at the breach of etiquette. Iakovitzes had a fine nose for intrigue. His upraised hand and urgent expression said he'd just smelled some. Krispos would have bet a counterfeit copper against a year's tax receipts it was the same odor that had just filled his own nostrils.

He realized he had to say something to Tribo. After a few more seconds, he managed, "Yes, I'm glad you'll reassure your sovereign we are doing everything we can to fight the Thanasiot doctrine, not to spread it. This audience now is ended."

"But your Majesty—" Tribo began indignantly. Then, with a glare, he bowed to inflexible Videssian custom. When the Avtokrator spoke those words, an envoy had no choice but to prostrate himself once more, back away from the throne until he had gone far enough that he could turn around, and then depart the Grand Courtroom. He left in a manifest snit; evidently he'd had a good deal more on his mind than he got the chance to say.

I'll have to make it up to him, Krispos thought; keeping Khatrish friendly was going to be all the more important in the months ahead. But for now even the urgency of that paled. As soon as Tribo left the Grand Courtroom, Krispos also made his way out, at a pace that set the tongues of the assembled nobles and prelates and ministers wagging.

Politics was a religion of its own in Videssos; before long, many of those officials would figure out what was going on. Something obviously was, or the Avtokrator would not have left so unceremoniously. For the moment, though, they were at a loss as to what.

Iakovitzes half trotted along in Krispos' wake. He knew what was going through the Emperor's mind. Barsymes plainly didn't, but he would sooner have gone before the torturers in their red leather than question Krispos where anyone else could hear him. What he'd have to say in private about cutting short the Khatrisher's audience was liable to be pointed.

Krispos swept across the rain-slicked flags of the path that led through the cherry orchard and to the imperial residence. The cherry trees were still bare-branched, but before too long they'd grow leaves and then the pink and white blossoms that would make the orchard fragrant and lovely for a few brief weeks in spring.

As soon as he was inside, Krispos burst out, "That bastard! That sneaky, underhanded son of a snake, may he shiver in the ice for all eternity to come."

"Surely Tribo did not so offend you with his remark concerning the throne?" Barsymes asked. No, he didn't know why Krispos had left on the run.

"I'm not talking about Tribo, I'm talking about Rubyab the fornicating King of Kings," Krispos said. "Unless I've lost all of my mind, he's using the Thanasioi for his stalking horse. How can Videssos hope to deal with Makuran if we tie ourselves up in knots?"

Barsymes had been in the palaces longer than Krispos; he was anything but a stranger to devious machinations. As soon as this one was pointed out to him, he nodded emphatically. "I have no doubt but that you're right, your Majesty. Who would have looked for such elaborate deceit from Makuran?"

Iakovitzes held up a hand to gain a pause while he wrote something in his tablet. He passed it to Krispos. "We Videssians pride ourselves as the sneakiest folk on earth, but down deep somewhere we ought to remember the Makuraners can match us. They're not barbarians we can outmaneuver in our sleep. They've proved it, to our sorrow, too many times in the past."

"That's true," Krispos said as he handed the tablet to Barsymes. The vestiarios quickly read it, then nodded his agreement. Krispos thought back over the histories and chronicles he'd read. He said, "This seems to me to be something new. Aye, the King of Kings and his folk have fooled us many times, but mainly that's meant fooling us about what Makuran intends, to do. Here, though, Rubyab's seen deep into our soul, seen how to make ourselves our own worst foes. That's more dangerous than any threat Makuran has posed in a long time."

Iakovitzes wrote, "There was a time, oh, about a hundred fifty years ago, when the men from Mashiz came closer to sacking Videssos the city than any Videssian likes to think about. Of course, we'd been meddling in their affairs before then, so I suppose they were out for revenge."

"Yes, I've seen those tales, too," Krispos said, nodding. "The question, though, is what we do about it now." He eyed Iakovitzes. "Suppose I send you back to Mashiz with a formal note of protest to Rubyab King of Kings?"

"Suppose you don't, your Majesty," Iakovitzes wrote, and underlined the words.

"One thing we ought to do is get this tale told as widely as possible." Barsymes said. "If every official and every priest in every town lets the people know Makuran is behind the Thanasioi, they'll be less inclined to go over to the heretics."

"Some of them will, anyhow," Krispos said. "Others will have heard too many pronouncements from the pulpit and from the city square to take special notice of one more. No, don't look downhearted, esteemed sir. It's a good plan, and we'll use it. I just don't want anyone here expecting miracles."

"No matter what the priests and the officials say, what we must have is victory," Iakovitzes wrote. "If we can make the Thanasioi stop hurting us, people will see us as the stronger side and pretend they never had a heretical notion in all their born days. But if we lose, the rebels' power will grow regardless of who's behind them."

"Not so long till spring, either," Krispos said. "May the good god grant us the victory you rightly say we need." He turned to Barsymes. "Summon the most holy patriarch Oxeites to the palaces, if you please. What words can do. they shall do."

"As you say, your Majesty." The vestiarios turned to go.

"Wait." Krispos stopped him in midstride. "Before you draft the note, why don't you fetch all three of us a jar of something sweet and strong? Today, by the good god, we've earned a taste of celebration."

"So we have, your Majesty," Barsymes said with the hint of a smile that was as much as he allowed himself. "I'll attend to that directly."

The jar of wine became two and then three. Krispos knew he would pay for it in the morning. He'd been a young man when he discovered he couldn't come close to roistering with Anthimos. Older now, he had less capacity than in those days, and less practice at carousing, too. But every so often, once or twice a year, he still enjoyed letting himself go.

Barsymes, abstemious in pleasure as in most things, bowed his way out halfway down the second jar, presumably to write the letter ordering Oxeites to appear at the palace. Iakovitzes stayed and drank: he was always game for a debauch, and held his wine better than Krispos. The only sign he gave of its effects was that the words he wrote grew large and sprawling. Syntax and venom remained unchanged.

"Why don't you write like you're drunk?" Krispos asked some time after dinner; by then he'd forgotten what he'd eaten.

Iakovitzes replied, "You drink with your mouth and then try to talk through it; no wonder you've started mumbling. My hand hasn't touched a drop."

As the night hours advanced, one of the chamberlains sent to Iakovitzes' house. A couple of his muscular grooms came to the imperial residence to escort their master home. He patted them both and went off humming a dirty song.

The hallway swayed around Krispos as he walked back from his farewells to Iakovitzes at the entrance: he felt like a beamy ship trying to cope with quickly shifting winds. In such a storm, the imperial bedchamber seemed a safe harbor.

After he closed the door behind him, he needed a few seconds to notice Drina smiling at him from the bed. The night was chilly; she had the covers drawn up to her neck. "Barsymes is up to his old tricks again," Krispos said slowly, "and he thinks I'm up to mine."

"Why not, your Majesty?" the serving maid said. "You never know till you try." She threw off the bedclothes. The smile was all she was wearing.

Even through the haze of wine, memory stabbed at Krispos: Dara had always been in the habit of sleeping without clothes. Drina was larger, softer, simpler—his wife the Empress had always been prickly as a hedgehog. As he seldom did these days, he let himself remember how much he missed her.

Watching Drina flip away the covers like that took him back almost a quarter of a century to the night he and Dara had joined on this very bed. Even after so long, a remembered thrill of fear ran through him—had Anthimos caught them, he would not be here now, or certain vital parts of him would not. And with the fear came the memory of how excited he'd been.

The memory of past excitement—and Drina there waiting for him—were enough to summon up at least the beginning of excitement now. He pulled off his robe and tugged at the red boots. "We'll see what happens," he said. "I make no promises: I've drunk a lot of wine."

"Whatever happens is all right, your Majesty," Drina said, laughing. "Haven't I told you before that you men worry too much about these things?"

"Women have probably been saying that since the start of time," he said as he lay down beside her. "My guess is that the next man who believes it will be the first."

But oddly, knowing she had no great expectations helped him perform better than he'd expected himself. He didn't think she was pretending when she gasped and quivered under him; he could feel her secret place clench around him, again and again. Spurred by that, he, too, gasped and quivered a few seconds later.

"There—you see, your Majesty?" Drina said triumphantly.

"I see," Krispos said. "This was already a good day; you've made it better still."

"I'm glad." Drina let out a squeak. "I'd better get up, or else I'll leave stains on the sheet for the washerwomen to giggle at."

"Do they do that?" Krispos asked. He fell asleep in the middle of her answer.

By the time spring drew near in Etchmiadzin, Phostis knew every little winding street in town. He knew where the stonecutters had their shops, and the harnessmakers, and the bakers. He knew the street on which Laonikos and Siderina were busy dying—knew it and kept away from it.

He got more and more chances to wander where he would without Syagrios. Etchmiadzin's wall was too high to jump from without breaking his neck, its single gate too well guarded for him to think of bolting through it and away. And as the weather got better, Syagrios was more and more closeted with Livanios, planning the upcoming summer's campaign.

Phostis did his best to stay out of Livanios' way. The less he reminded the heresiarch of his presence, the less likely Livanios was to think of him, think of the danger he might represent, and put him out of the way.

Just wandering, however, was beginning to pall. When he'd had Syagrios at his elbow every hour of the day and night, he was sure just getting away from the ruffian for a little while would bring peace to his soul. And so it had ... for a little while. But the taste of freedom, however small, served only to whet his appetite for more. He was no longer a glad explorer of Etchmiadzin's back alleys. He paced them more like a wildcat searching for an opening in its cage.

He hadn't found one yet. Maybe around the next corner, he told himself for the hundredth time. He went round the next corner—and almost walked into Olyvria, who was coming around it the other way.

They both sidestepped in the same direction, which meant they almost bumped into each other again. Olyvria started to laugh. "Get out of my way, you," she said, miming a push at his chest.

He made as if to stumble backward from it, then bowed extravagantly. "I humbly crave your pardon, my lady; I had no intention of disturbing your glorious progress," he cried. "I pray that you find it in your heart to forgive me!"

"We'll see about that," she said darkly.

By then they were both laughing. Phostis came back up to her and slipped an arm around her waist. She snuggled against him; her chin fit nicely on the top of his shoulder. He wanted to kiss her, but held back—she was still nervous about it. From her perspective, he supposed she had reason to be.

"What are you doing here?" they both asked in the same breath. That made them laugh again.

"Nothing much," Phostis answered. "Keeping away from mischief as best I can. What about you?"

Olyvria was carrying a canvas bag. She pulled a shoe out of it and held it up so close to Phostis' face that his eyes crossed. "I broke off the heel, see?" she said. "There's a little old Vaspurakaner cobbler down this street who does wonderful work. Why not? He's been doing it longer than both of us put together have been alive. Anyway, I was taking it to him."

"May I accompany you on your journey?" he asked grandly.

"I hoped you would," she answered, and dropped the wounded shoe back into the bag. Arm in arm, they walked down the little lane.

"Oh, this place," Phostis said when they reached the cobbler's shop. "Yes, I went by here." Over the door hung a boot carved from wood. To one side of it the wall bore the word shoon in Videssian, to the other what was presumably the same message in the square, blocky characters the "princes" of Vaspurakan used to write their language.

Phostis peered through one of the narrow windows set into the front wall, Olyvria into the other. "I don't see anyone in there," she said, frowning.

"Let's find out." Phostis reached for the latch and pulled the door open. A bell rang. The rich smell of leather filled his nose. He motioned for Olyvria to precede him into the cobbler's shop. The door swung shut behind them.

"He's not here." Olyvria said disappointedly. All the candles and lamps were out; even with them burning, Phostis would have found the shop too dim. Awls and punches, little hammers and trimming knives hung in neat rows on pegs behind the cobbler's bench. No one came out from the back room to answer the bell.

"Maybe he was taken ill," Phostis said. Something else ran through his mind: Or maybe he'd rather starve himself to death than work any more. But no, probably not. She'd said he was a Vaspurakaner, not a Thanasiot.

"Here's a scrap of parchment." Olyvria pounced on it. "See if you can find pen and ink. I'll leave him the shoe and a note." She clicked her tongue between her teeth. "I hope he reads Videssian. I'm not sure. Someone could easily have painted that word on the wall for him."

"Here." Phostis discovered a little clay jar of ink and a reed pen below the tools. "He reads something, anyhow, or I don't think he'd have these."

"That's true. Thanks." Olyvria scribbled a couple of lines, put her broken shoe on the bench, and secured the parchment to it with a long rawhide lace. "There. That should be all right. If he can't read Videssian, he ought to know someone who can. I hope he's well."

A donkey went by outside. Its hooves made little wet sucking noises as it lifted them from the mud one after another. It let out a braying squeal of discontent at being ridden in such dreadful conditions. "Ahh, quit your bellyaching," growled the man on its back, who was plainly used to its complaints. The donkey brayed again as it squelched past the cobbler's shop.

But for the donkey, everything was still save far off in the distance, where a dog barked. Olyvria took a small step toward the door. "I suppose I should get back," she said.

"Wait," Phostis said.

She raised a questioning eyebrow. He put his arms around her and bent his face down to hers. Before their lips touched, she pulled back a little and whispered, "Are you sure?" In the murky light, the pupils of her eyes were enormous.

He wondered how she meant that, but it could have only one answer. "Yes, I'm sure."

"Well, then." Now she moved forward to kiss him.

She hesitated once more, just for a heartbeat, when his hand closed on the firm softness of her breast. But then she molded herself against him. They sank down to the rammed-earth floor of the cobbler's shop together, fumbling at each other's garments.

It was the usual clumsy first time, made more frantic than usual by fear that someone—most likely the cobbler—would walk through the door at the most inopportune moment possible. "Hurry!" Olyvria gasped.

Phostis did his best to oblige. Afterward, because he'd rushed so, he wasn't sure he'd fully satisfied her. At the time, he didn't worry about it. His mouth slid from hers to her breasts and down the rounded slope of her belly. Her hand was urgent on him. She lay on her rumpled dress. A fold of it got distractingly between them when he scrambled above her. He leaned on one elbow to yank it out of the way. He kissed her again as he slid inside.

When he was through, he sat back on his haunches, enormously pleased with the entire world. Olyvria hissed, "Get dressed, you lackwit," which brought him back to himself in a hurry. They both dressed quickly, then spent another minute or so dusting off each other's clothes. Olyvria stirred the dirt of the floor around with her foot to cover up the marks they'd left. She looked Phostis over. "Your elbow's dirty." She licked a fingertip with a catlike dab of her tongue and rubbed it clean.

He held the door for her. They both almost bounded out of the cobbler's shop. Once out on the street again, Phostis said, "Now what?"

"I just don't know," Olyvria answered after a small pause. "I have to think." Her voice was quiet, almost toneless, as if she'd left behind all her exuberance, all her mischief, with the broken shoe. "I didn't—quite—expect to do that."

Phostis hadn't seen her at a loss before; he didn't know what to make of it. "I didn't expect to, either." He knew his grin was foolish, but he couldn't help it "I'm glad we did, though."

She glared at him. "Of course you are. Men always are." Then she softened, a little, and let her hand rest on his arm for a moment. "I'm not angry, not really. We have to see what happens later, that's all."

Phostis knew what he would like to have happen later, but also had a good notion that mentioning it straight out would make it less likely. Instead, he spoke obliquely. "The flesh is hard to ignore."

"Isn't it?" Olyvria glanced back at the cobbler's shop. "If we ... well, if we do that again, we'll have to find a better place for it. My heart was in my mouth every second."

"Yes, I know. Mine, too." But they'd joined anyhow. Like Olyvria, Phostis saw he was going to have to do some hard thinking about that. By every Thanasiot standard, they'd just committed a good-sized sin. He didn't feel sinful, though. He felt relaxed and happy and ready to tackle anything the world threw at him.

Olyvria might have plucked that thought right out of his brain. She said, "You don't have to worry if you're with child till the moon spins through its phases."

That sobered him. He didn't have to worry about conceiving, not directly, but if Olyvria's belly started to swell, what would Livanios do? He might force a marriage on them, if that fit into his own schemes. But if it didn't... He might act like any outraged father, and beat Phostis within an inch of his life or even kill him. Or he might give him over to the clergy. The priests of the Thanasioi took a very dim view of carnal pleasures. Their punishments might make him wish Livanios had personally attended to the matter—and, to add humiliation to anguish, would have the vociferous approval of most of the townsfolk.

"Whatever happens, I'll take care of you," he said at last.

"How do you propose to manage that?" she asked with a woman's bitter practicality. "You can't even take care of yourself."

Phostis flinched. He knew she spoke the truth, but having his nose rubbed in it stung. As the Avtokrator's son, he'd never really had to worry about taking care of himself. He was taken care of, simply by virtue—or fault—of his birth. Here in Etchmiadzin, he was also taken care of: as a prisoner. The amount of freedom he'd lost was smaller than it seemed at first glance.

At Krispos' insistence, he'd studied logic. He saw only one possible conclusion. "I'll have to get out. If you like, I'll take you with me."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he should have kept them in there. Having her laugh at him would be bad enough. Having her tell her father would be a thousand times worse.

She didn't laugh. She said, "Don't try to run. You'd just be caught, and then you'd never get another chance."

"But how can I stay here?" he demanded. "Even under the best of circumstances, I'm—" He hesitated, but finished the thought as he'd intended. "—I'm not a Thanasiot, nor likely to become one. I know that now."

"I know what you mean," Olyvria answered unhappily. Phostis noted she had not said she agreed with him. She shook her head. "I'd better go." She hurried away.

He started to call after her, but in the end did not. He kicked at the gluey ground underfoot. In the romances, all your problems were supposed to be over when you made love to the beautiful girl. Olyvria was pretty enough, no doubt about that. But as far as Phostis could see, making love to her had only complicated his life further.

He wondered why the romances were so popular if they were also so far removed from actuality. That notion disturbed him; he thought the popular should match the real. Then he realized that simple paintings in bright colors might be easier to appreciate than more highly detailed ones—and honey was sweeter than the usual mix of flavors life presented.

None of which helped him in his present complexities. Here at last he'd found a woman who, he believed, wanted him only for himself, not because of the rank he held or the advantage she might gain from sleeping with him—and who was she? Not just the woman who had kidnapped him and who was the daughter of the rebel who held him prisoner. That would have been muddle enough by itself. But there was more. For all her fencing with him about it, he knew she took Thanasiot principles seriously—a lot more seriously than Livanios, if Phostis was any judge. And Thanasios, to put it mildly, had not thought well of the flesh.

Phostis still distrusted his own flesh, too. But he was coming to the sometimes reluctant conclusion that it was part of what made him himself, not just an unfortunate adjunct to his spirit that ought to be discarded as quickly as possible.

Almost as vividly as if he were in her arms again, he remembered the feel of Olyvria's warm, sweet body pressed against him. Sometimes he was not so reluctant about that conclusion, too. He knew he wanted her again, when and as he got the chance.

Digenis would not have approved. He knew that, too. Now, though, he hadn't talked with the fiery priest, or come under the spell of his words, for several months. And he'd seen far more of the way the Thanasioi ran their lives than he had when he'd listened to Digenis back in Videssos the city. Much of it he still found admirable—much of it, but a long way from all. Reality had a way of intruding on Digenis' bright word-pictures, no less than on those of the romancers.

If Olyvria was heading back toward the fortress of Etchmiadzin, Phostis decided he ought to stay away awhile longer, so as not to make anyone there draw a connection between them. It was a nice calculation. If he just followed her back, he might arouse suspicion. If he stayed away too long, Syagrios would track him like hound after hare. He didn't want Syagrios to have to do that; it would anger the ruffian, and Phostis cherished the limited freedom he'd so slowly regained.

He had a few coins in his belt pouch, winnings at the battle game. He spent a silver piece on a leg of roasted fowl and a hard roll, then carefully put the coppers from his change back into the pouch. He'd learned about haggling: it was what you did when you were short of money. He'd got good at it. Despite Krispos' firm hand, he'd never been short of money before he ended up in Etchmiadzin.

He was chewing on the roll when Artapan strode by. The wizard, full of his own affairs, didn't notice him. Phostis decided to try to find out where he was going in such a hurry. Ever since he'd realized Artapan was from Makuran, he'd wondered just how the mage fit into Livanios' plans ... or perhaps how Livanios fit into Artapan's plans. Maybe now he could learn.

He'd followed the wizard for half a furlong before he realized he was liable to get in trouble if Artapan did discover him dogging his tracks. He tried to be sneakier, keeping people and, once, a donkey cart between the mage and him, dodging from doorway to doorway.

After another couple of minutes, he concluded he could do just about anything short of walking up, tapping Artapan on the shoulder, and asking him for the time of day. Artapan plainly had something on his mind. He looked neither to the left nor to the right, and marched down the muddy streets of Etchmiadzin as if they were cobblestoned boulevards.

The wizard rapped on the door of a house separated from its neighbors by dank, narrow alleys. After a moment, he went inside. Phostis ducked into one of the alleys. He promptly regretted it: someone was in the habit of dumping slops there. The stink almost made him cough. He jammed a sleeve into his mouth and breathed hard through his nose till the spasm passed.

But he did not leave. A little slit window let him hear what was going on inside. He wouldn't have put a window there, but maybe it had been made before anyone started emptying chamber pots in the alley.

Artapan was saying, "How fare you today, supremely holy Tzepeas?"

The answer came in a dragging whisper: "Soon I shall be free. Skotos and his entrapping world cling hard to me; already most who abandon what is falsely called nourishment for as long as I have are on the journey behind the sun. But still I remain wrapped in the flesh that disfigures the soul."

What do you want with one who has starved himself to the point of death? Phostis almost shouted it at the Makuraner wizard. If he's chosen to do it, let him alone with his choice.

"You want, then, to leave this world?" Artapan's accented voice held wonder. Phostis wondered about that: the Four Prophets had their holy ascetics, too. "What will you find, do you think?"

"Light!" Just for a word, Tzepeas' voice came strong and clear, as if he were a well-fed man rather than a shivering bag of bones. As he continued, it faded again. "I shall be part of Phos' eternal light. Too long have I lingered in this sin-filled place."

"Would you seek help in leaving it?" Artapan had moved while Tzepeas was talking. Now he sounded as if he was right beside the starving Thanasiot.

"I don't know," Tzepeas said. "Is it permitted?"

"Of course," the wizard answered smoothly. "But a moment and you shall meet your good god face to face."

"My good god?" Tzepeas said indignantly. "He is the good god, the lord with the great and good mind. He—" The zealot's voice, which had risen again, suddenly broke off. Phostis heard a couple of very faint thumps, as if a man with no muscles left was trying to struggle against someone far stronger than he.

The thumps soon ceased. Artapan began a soft chant, partly in the Makuraner tongue—which Phostis did not understand— and partly in Videssian. Phostis knew he was missing some of what the mage said, but what he heard was quite enough: unless he'd gone completely mad, he could only conclude Artapan was using Tzepeas' death energy to further his own sorceries.

Phostis' stomach lurched harder than it ever had while sailing on the Videssian Sea. He sickly wondered how many starving Thanasioi hadn't finished the course they set out to travel, but were instead shoved from it by the Makuraner wizard for his own purposes. The one was bad enough; the other struck Phostis as altogether abominable. And who would ever know?

Artapan came out of the house. Phostis flattened himself against the wall. The wizard walked on by. He wasn't quite rubbing his hands with glee, but he gave that impression. Again, he had no time to look around for details as small as Phostis.

Phostis waited until he was sure Artapan was gone, then cautiously emerged from the alley. "What do I do now?" he said out loud. His first thought was to run to Livanios with the story as fast as his legs would carry him. A version of the tale he'd tell formed in his mind: After I'd had your daughter, I found out your pet wizard was going around killing devout Thanasioi before they could die on their own. He shook his head. Like a lot of first thoughts, that one needed some work.

All right, suppose he managed not to mention Olyvria and also managed to convince Livanios he was telling the truth about Artapan. What then? How much good would that do him? If Livanios didn't know what the mage was up to, maybe quite a lot. But what if he did?

In that case, the only thing Phostis saw in his own future was a lot more trouble—something he'd not imagined possible when he woke up after Olyvria drugged him. And he could not tell whether Livanios knew or not.

It came down to the question he'd been asking himself ever since he learned Artapan's name: was Livanios the wizard's puppet, or the other way round? He didn't know the answer to that, either, or how to find out.

From Olyvria, he thought. But even she might well not know for certain. She'd know what her father thought, but that might not be what was so. Videssian history was littered with men who'd thought themselves in charge—until the worlds they'd made crashed down around them. Anthimos had been sure he held a firm grip on the Empire—until Krispos took it away from him.

And so, when Phostis got back to the fortress, he did not go looking for Livanios. Instead, he headed over to the corner where, as usual, several men gathered around a couple of players hunched over the game board.

The soldiers moved away from him, wrinkling their noses. One of them said. "You may have been born a toff, friend, but you smell like you've been wading in shit."

Phostis remembered the stinking alleyway where he'd stood. He should have done a better job of cleaning his shoes after he came out. Then he thought of what Artapan had done in the house by the alleyway. How was he supposed to clean that from his memory?

He looked at the soldier. "Maybe I have," he said.