“My father always said his side of the family had Vaspurakaner blood,” Krispos said.
Iakovitzes nodded. “It could be so; ‘princes’ resettled there after some old war—or some old treachery. Whether or not, the look becomes you.”
Krispos did not know how to answer that, so he kept quiet. Some of the village girls had praised his looks, but never a man before.
To his relief, Iakovitzes turned back to Pyrrhos. “You were about to tell me, I expect, how and why dear Krispos here comes to be in the city instead of back at his rustic village, and also how and why that pertains to me.”
Krispos saw how his sharp eyes bored into the abbot’s. He also noted that Iakovitzes was not going to say anything of consequence until he heard Pyrrhos’ story. He thought better of him for it; whatever Iakovitzes’ taste in pleasures, the man was no fool.
The abbot told the tale as Krispos had given it to him, then carried it forward. His explanation of how he had come to call for Krispos in the monastery was vague. Krispos had thought so the night before. Iakovitzes, however, was in a position to call Pyrrhos on it. “I don’t follow you there,” he said. “Back up and tell me just how that happened.”
Pyrrhos looked harassed. “Only if I have your vow by the lord with the great and good mind to let the story go no further—and yours as well, Krispos.” Krispos swore the oath; after a moment, Iakovitzes did, too. “Very well, then,” the abbot said heavily. He told of his three dreams of the night before, and of ending up on the floor after the last one.
Silence filled the waiting room when he was done. Iakovitzes broke it, asking, “And you think this means—what?”
“I wish I knew,” Pyrrhos burst out. He sounded as exasperated as he looked. “That it is a sending, I think no one could deny. But whether it is for good or evil, from Phos or Skotos or neither, I would not begin to guess. I can only say that in some way quite unapparent to me, Krispos here is more remarkable than he seems.”
“He seems remarkable enough, though perhaps not in the way you mean,” Iakovitzes said with a smile. “So you brought him to me, eh, cousin, to fulfill your dream’s commandment to treat him like a son? I suppose I should be flattered—unless you think your dream does bode ill and are not letting on.”
“No. No priest of Phos could do such a thing without yielding his soul to the certainty of Skotos’ ice,” Pyrrhos said.
Iakovitzes steepled his fingertips. “I suppose not.” He turned his smile, charming and cynical at the same time, on Krispos. “So, young man, now that you are here—for good or ill—what would you?”
“I came to Videssos the city for work,” Krispos said slowly. “The abbot tells me you’re hiring grooms. I’ve lived on a farm all my life but for the last couple of weeks. You won’t find many city-raised folk better with beasts than I am.”
“There is probably a good deal of truth in that.” Iakovitzes raised an eyebrow. “Did my cousin the most holy abbot”—he spoke with such fulsome sincerity that the praise sounded like sarcasm—“also, ah, warn you that I sometimes seek more from my grooms than skill with animals alone?”
“Yes,” Krispos said flatly, then kept still.
Finally, Iakovitzes prompted him: “And so?”
“Sir, if that’s what you want from me, I expect you’ll be able to find it elsewhere with less trouble. I do thank you for the breakfast, and for your time. Thank you as well, holy sir,” Krispos added for Pyrrhos’ benefit as he stood to go.
“Don’t be hasty.” Iakovitzes jumped to his feet, too. “I do need grooms, as a matter of fact. Suppose I take you on with no requirement past caring for the beasts, with room and board and—hmm—a goldpiece a week.”
“You pay the others two,” Pyrrhos said.
“Dear cousin, I thought you priests reckoned silence a virtue,” Iakovitzes said. It was the sweetest snarl Krispos had heard. Iakovitzes turned back to him. “Very well, then, two goldpieces a week, though you lacked the wit to ask for them yourself.”
“Just the beasts?” Krispos said.
“Just the beasts”—Iakovitzes sighed—“though you must not hold it against me if from time to time I try to find out whether you’ve changed your mind.”
“Will you hold it against me if I keep saying no?”
Iakovitzes sighed again. “I suppose not.”
“Then we’ve got ourselves a bargain.” Krispos stuck out his hand. It almost swallowed Iakovitzes’, though the smaller man’s grip was surprisingly strong.
“Gomaris!” Iakovitzes shouted. The man who had let in Krispos and Pyrrhos appeared a moment later, panting a little. “Gomaris, Krispos will be one of the grooms from now on. Why don’t you find him some clothes better than those rags he has on and then get him settled in with the rest of the lads?”
“Of course. Come along, Krispos, and welcome to the household.” Gomaris waited till he was halfway down the hall, then added softly, “Whatever else it is around here, it’s rarely dull.”
“That,” said Krispos, “I believe.”
“HERE COMES THE FARM BOY.”
Krispos heard the whisper as he came into the stable. By the way Barses and Meletios sniggered at each other, he had been meant to hear. He scowled. They were both younger than he, but they were also from the city, and from families of more than a little wealth. So were most of Iakovitzes’ grooms. They seemed to enjoy making Krispos’ life miserable.
Barses took a shovel off the wall and thrust it at Krispos. “Here you are, farm boy. Since you’ve lived with manure all your life, you can clean out the stalls today. You’re used to smelling like the hind end of a horse.” His handsome face split in a wide, mocking grin.
“It’s not my turn to shovel out today,” Krispos said shortly.
“Oh, but we think you should do it anyway,” Barses said. “Don’t we, Meletios?” The other groom nodded. He was even handsomer than Barses; almost pretty, in fact.
“No,” Krispos said.
Barses’ eyes went wide in feigned surprise. “The farm boy grows insolent. I think we’ll have to teach him a lesson.”
“So we will,” Meletios said. Smiling in anticipation, he stepped toward Krispos. “I wonder how fast farm boys learn. I’ve heard they’re not too bright.”
Krispos’ frown deepened. He’d known for a week that the hazing he’d been sweating out would turn physical sooner or later. He’d thought he was ready—but two against one wasn’t how he’d wanted it to happen. He held up a hand. “Wait!” he said in a high, alarmed voice. “I’ll clean ’em. Give me the shovel.”
Barses held it out. His face showed an interesting mix of amusement, triumph, and contempt. “You’d best do a good job, too, farm boy, or we’ll make you lick up whatever you—”
Krispos snatched the shovel from his hands, whirled, and rammed the handle into the pit of Meletios’ stomach. The groom closed up on himself like a bellows, gasping uselessly for air.
Krispos threw the shovel aside. “Come on!” he snarled at Barses. “Or aren’t you as good with your hands as you are with your mouth?”
“You’ll see, farm boy!” Barses sprang at him. He was strong and fearless and knew something of what he was doing, but he’d never been through anything like the course in nasty fighting Krispos had taken from Idalkos. In less than two minutes he was down in the straw beside Meletios, groaning and trying to hold his knee, his groin, his ribs, and a couple of dislocated fingers, all at the same time.
Krispos stood over the other two grooms, breathing hard. One of his eyes was half closed and a collarbone had gotten a fearful whack, but he’d dished out a lot more than he’d taken. He picked up the shovel and tossed it between Meletios and Barses. “You can shovel out for yourselves.”
Meletios grabbed the shovel and started to swing it at Krispos’ ankles. Krispos stamped on his hand. Meletios shrieked and let go. Krispos kicked him in the ribs with force nicely calculated to yield maximum hurt and minimum permanent damage. “Come to think of it, Meletios, you do t
he shoveling today. You just earned it.”
Even through his pain, Meletios let out an indignant squawk and cast a look of appeal toward Barses.
The other groom was just sitting up. He shook his head, then grimaced as he regretted the motion. “I’m not going to argue with him, Meletios, and if you have any sense, you won’t, either.” He managed a lopsided grin. “Nobody with any sense is going to argue with Krispos, not after today.”
THE HARASSMENT DID NOT DISAPPEAR. WITH A DOZEN GROOMS ranging from their mid-teens up to Krispos’ age, and all living in one another’s pockets, that would hardly have been possible. But after Krispos dealt with Barses and Meletios, he was accepted as one of the group and got to hand it out as well as take it.
Not only that, he got himself listened to, where before the other grooms had paid no attention to what he thought. Thus when they were hashing over the best way to treat a horse with a mild but stubborn fever, one of them turned to Krispos and asked, “What would you have done about this in that backwoods place you came from?”
“The green forage is all very well,” he said after a little thought, “and the wet, sloppy food and gruel, but we always said there was nothing like beer to speed things along.”
“Beer?” The grooms whooped.
Barses asked, “For us or the animal?”
Krispos laughed, too, but said, “For the animal. A bucket or three ought to do the job.”
“He means it,” Meletios said in surprise. He turned thoughtful. He was all business where horses were concerned. Iakovitzes tolerated no groom who was not, whatever other charms he might have. In a musing tone, Meletios went on, “What say we try it? I don’t see how it could do any harm.”
So a couple of buckets of beer went into the horse’s trough every morning, and if the grooms bought a bit more than the sick animal really needed, why, only they knew about that. And after a few days, the horse’s condition did improve: his breathing slowed, his eyes brightened, and his skin and mouth lost the dry look and feel they’d had while he was ill.
“Well done,” Barses said when the horse was clearly on the mend. “Next time I take a fever, you know what to do with me, though I’d sooner have wine, I think.” Krispos threw a clod of dirt at him.
Iakovitzes had watched the treatment with as much interest as any of the grooms. When it succeeded, he handed Krispos a goldpiece. “And come sup with me this evening, if you care to,” he said, his sharp voice as smooth as he could make it.
“Thank you very much, sir,” Krispos said.
Meletios sulked for the rest of the day. Krispos finally asked him what was wrong. He glared. “If I told you I was jealous, you’d probably beat on me again.”
“Jealous?” Krispos needed a few seconds to catch on. “Oh! Don’t worry about that. I only fancy girls.”
“So you say,” Meletios answered darkly. “But Iakovitzes fancies you.”
Krispos snorted and went back to work. Around sunset, he walked over to Iakovitzes’ main house. This was the first meal he’d eaten there since his breakfast of lobster tail; the grooms had their own dining hall. Like as not, he thought, Meletios was fretting over nothing; if some big banquet was planned, Krispos might not even be at the same table as his master.
As soon as Gomaris led him to a chamber large enough only for two, Krispos knew Meletios had been right and he himself wrong. A small lamp on the table left most of the room in twilight. “Hello, Krispos,” Iakovitzes said, rising to greet him. “Here, have some wine.”
He poured with his own hand. Krispos was used to the rough vintages the villagers had made for themselves. What Iakovitzes gave him slid down his throat like a smooth whisper. He would have thought it mere grape juice but for the warmth it left in his middle.
“Another cup?” Iakovitzes asked solicitously. “I’d like the chance to toast you for your cleverness in dosing Stormbreeze. The beast seems in fine fettle again, thanks to you.”
Iakovitzes raised his cup in salute. Krispos knew drinking too much with his master was not a good idea, but had no polite way to do anything else. The wine was so good, he scarcely felt guilty about soaking it up.
Gomaris fetched in supper, a platter of halibut grilled with garlic and leeks. The herbs’ sharp flavors reminded Krispos of his home, but the only fish he’d had there was an occasional trout or carp taken from a stream, hardly worth mentioning beside a delicacy like this. “Delicious,” he mumbled in one of the few moments when his mouth was not full.
“Glad you enjoy it,” Iakovitzes said. “We have a proverb hereabouts: ‘If you come to Videssos the city, eat fish.’ At least this fish is to your liking.”
After the fish came smoked partridges, one little bird apiece, and, after the partridges, plums and figs candied in honey. The grooms ate well enough, but not fare like this. Krispos knew he was stuffing himself. He found he did not care; after all, Iakovitzes had invited him here to eat.
His master rose to fill his cup again, then sent him a reproachful look when he saw its contents hardly touched. “Dear boy, you’re not drinking. Does the vintage fail to suit you?”
“No, it’s very good,” Krispos said. “It’s just that”—he groped for an excuse—“I don’t want to get all sozzled and act the fool.”
“A commendable attitude, but you needn’t worry. I recognize that part of the pleasure of wine is not worrying so much over what one does. And pleasures, Krispos, do not come to us so often in this life that they are to be lightly despised.” Remembering the troubles that had made him leave his village, Krispos found some truth in Iakovitzes’ words. Iakovitzes went on, “For instance, I am sure, though you do not complain of it, that you must be worn from your toil with the horses. Let me soothe you if I can.”
Before Krispos could reply, Iakovitzes hurried round behind his chair and began to massage his shoulders. He knew what he was about; Krispos felt the tension flowing out of him.
He also felt, though, the quivering eagerness Iakovitzes could not keep from his hands. He knew what that meant; he had known when he was nine years old. Not without some reluctance, he twisted in his seat so he faced Iakovitzes. “I said when you took me on that I didn’t care for these games.”
Iakovitzes kept his aplomb. “And I told you that wouldn’t stop me from being interested. Were you like some I’ve known, I could offer you gold. Somehow, though, with you I don’t think that would do much good. Or am I wrong?” he finished hopefully.
“You’re not wrong,” Krispos said at once.
“Too bad, too bad.” The dim lamplight caught a spark of malice in Iakovitzes’ eye. “Shall I turn you out on the street, then, for your obstinacy?”
“Whatever you like, of course.” Krispos kept his voice as steady as he could. He refused to give his master such a hold on him.
Iakovitzes sighed. “That would be ungrateful of me, wouldn’t it, after what you did for Stormbreeze? Have it as you wish, Krispos. But it’s not as if I were offering you anything vile. Many enjoy it.”
“I’m sure that’s true, sir.” Krispos thought of Meletios. “I just don’t happen to be one of those folk.”
“Too bad,” Iakovitzes said. “Here, have some more wine anyhow. We might as well finish the jar.”
“Why not?” Krispos drank another cup; it was too good to decline. Then he yawned and said, “It must be late. I’d best get back to my own chamber if I’m going to be worth anything in the morning.”
“I suppose so,” Iakovitzes said indifferently—one hour was as good as another to him. When he tried to kiss Krispos good night, Krispos thought he made his sidestep seem completely natural until he saw his master raise an ironic eyebrow.
After that, Krispos retreated in some haste. To his surprise, he found Barses and a couple of the other grooms waiting up for him. “Well?” Barses said.
“Well, what?” Krispos set himself. If Barses wanted revenge for their fight, he might get it. Three against one, in fact, just about guaranteed he would.
But
that was not what Barses had in mind. “Well, you and Iakovitzes, of course. Did you? No shame to you if you did—the only reason I want to know is that I have a bet.”
“Which way?”
“I won’t tell you that. If you say it’s none of my business, the bet waits until Iakovitzes makes things clear one way or the other. He will, you know.”
Krispos was sure of that. The wine he’d drunk weakened whatever urge he had to keep the evening a secret. “No, we didn’t,” he said. “I like girls too well to be interested in the sports he enjoys.”
Barses grinned and clapped him on the back, then turned to one of the other grooms with his palm up. “Pay me that goldpiece, Agrabast. I told you he wouldn’t.” Agrabast gave him the coin. “Next question,” Barses said. “Did he toss you out for turning him down?”
“No. He thought about it, but he didn’t.”
“Good thing I didn’t let you double the bet for that, Barses,” Agrabast said. “Iakovitzes loves his beasts about as well as he loves his prick. He wouldn’t throw away anybody who’d shown he knew something about horseleeching.”
“I figured that out,” Barses said. “I was hoping you hadn’t.”
“Well, to the ice with you,” Agrabast retorted.
“To the ice with all of you, if you don’t get out of my way and let me have some sleep.” Krispos started to push past the other grooms, then stopped and added, “Meletios can stop worrying now.”
Everyone laughed. When the chuckles died down, though, Barses said, “You are from the country, Krispos; maybe we look at things a little different from you. I meant what I said before—there’d be no shame in saying yes to Iakovitzes, and Meletios isn’t the only one of us who has.”
“I never said he was,” Krispos answered. “But as far as I can see, he’s the only one who’s put some worry into it. So now he can stop.”
The Tale of Krispos Page 11