“It pleases me that you so say so, eminent sir. Surely, though, you must have seen homes far finer in Videssos the city.”
He noted the title by which she addressed him. She might not remember everything, he thought, but she hasn’t forgotten everything, either. Then his attention came back to what she’d said. “In truth, no,” he said slowly. “The wonder of Videssos the city isn’t any one home in it, but that there are so many homes, so many people, all in the same place.”
“A thoughtful answer,” Tanilis said. “I’ve never seen the city.”
“Nor I.” Mavros’ face lit. “I’d love to go there one day, though it’s hard for me to imagine a city bigger than Opsikion.”
Krispos smiled. No matter how rich and easy Mavros’ life was, he knew some things Tanilis’ son did not. “If Videssos the city were a wolf, it could swallow a mouse like Opsikion without even chewing,” he said.
Mavros whistled, soft and low, and shook his head. “Hard to believe.”
“From everything your father said, it’s true,” Tanilis said. “Vledas went to the city once, when he was not much older than you are now, and never stopped talking about it to the day he died.”
“I don’t remember,” Mavros said wistfully. He would have been a small boy when Vledas died, Krispos realized. He was surprised to think himself luckier in any way than this rich youth, but he’d known his father until he was a man grown.
Had Phostis died while he was young, say in Kubrat, who would have been there to keep him from doing all sorts of stupid things later? Most likely he would have ended up marrying Zoranne and staying a farmer all his life. A good part of a year away from the ceaseless labor that was farming, he no longer thought it the only right and proper way to live.
“You will see Videssos one day, too, son.” Tanilis’ voice was hollow; her eyes did not quite focus on Mavros. Krispos felt the hair on his arms trying to prickle upright. The oracular tone faded as she went on, “But for now, a shorter journey. Shall we go inside and eat?”
The cook, a nervous little man named Evtykhes, stopped fidgeting and sighed with relief as he saw his charges sit down around a small table topped with mother-of-pearl—it shimmered and almost seemed to shift in the glow of the lamps other servants set out.
“Soup?” Evtykhes asked. At Tanilis’ nod, he dashed back to the kitchen. A boy appeared with the steaming bowls so quickly that Krispos suspected the cook was trying to make sure everyone kept sitting.
Back in his village, Krispos would have lifted the soup bowl straight to his lips. In taverns and eateries in the city, he still did. But he had learned to use a spoon at Iakovitzes’. Since Tanilis and Mavros ate with theirs, he imitated them. By the time he got to the bottom of the bowl, the soup was cold. Maybe the nobles didn’t mind that, but he did. His breath went out in a silent sigh.
He was more used to his fork and was reaching for it when he saw Tanilis and Mavros pick up asparagus with their fingers. He imitated them again. Manners were confusing things.
The food kept coming: broiled duck in a glaze of candied berries, mushrooms stuffed with turtle meat, pureed chestnuts, a salad of oranges and apples, and at last a roast kid with a sweet-and-sour sauce and chopped onions. Mavros and Krispos ate ravenously, the one because he was still growing, the other because he’d learned to do so whenever he got the chance as a hedge against the hunger that was sure to follow. Tanilis sampled a little of every course and sent warm praise back to the cook after each one.
“By the good god,” she said, watching her son and Krispos devastate the plate of cheese and strawberries that appeared after the kid, “I could get fat just from being in the same room with the two of you.”
“You’d have to blame Krispos, then,” Mavros said—rather blurrily, as his mouth was full. “If it came from being in the same room with me, it would’ve happened long ago.”
Krispos eyed Tanilis, who was so perfectly and elegantly shaped that she might have been turned on a lathe. The phrase fit in more ways than one, he thought, for she plainly maintained her figure with a craftsman’s disciplined artifice. He told her, “I don’t think Phos—or you—would allow such a mishap.”
She looked down at her wine cup. “A compliment and a truth together—indeed, the good god aids a man who helps himself.”
“Then he aids me now.” Mavros popped the last strawberry into his mouth.
“Son, you are incorrigible,” Tanilis said fondly.
“It does seem that way,” Mavros agreed.
Krispos sipped his own wine: something thick and sweet now, to complement the sharp taste of the cheese. He said, “Phos is the only one who knows why he does as he does. My lady, I hope you will be kind enough to tell me why you’ve been so good to me. I told you at the temple, I’m only a groom, and lucky to be that. I feel I’m taking advantage of you.” And if one day you feel the same way, he did not add, you could cause me untold grief.
Tanilis waited until a servant left with the last plates. She got up and closed the door to the small dining chamber after the man departed. Only then did she answer, her voice low, “Tell me truly, Krispos, have you never wondered if you might one day be more than what you are now? Truly?”
Despite that double admonition, “No” was the first answer that rose to his lips. But before he spoke it aloud, he thought of Pyrrhos calling his name that rainy night in the monastery. A moment later, he remembered how both Pyrrhos and the Kubrati enaree had looked at him during the ceremony when Iakovitzes ransomed the stolen peasants. The word Tanilis had spoken in the temple also echoed in his head.
“I’ve…wondered,” he said at last.
“And that you should wonder is plain to anyone who can…see as I do.” Tanilis used the same sort of hesitation he had.
Mavros looked ready to burst from curiosity. “What did you say to him back in the temple?” he asked her. “I think you know again.”
Instead of answering, she glanced toward Krispos. He hesitated, then gave his head a tiny shake. New-come from the farm though he might be, he knew that word was dangerous. Tanilis’ nod of understanding was equally small. “I do, and you will, too, son,” she said. “But not yet.”
“Thank you so much,” Mavros said. The words were sarcastic; the tone was not. Krispos decided Mavros was too good-natured ever to grow skilled at using the stinging wit Iakovitzes relished.
“Since you did see…what you saw, what do you want from me?” Krispos asked Tanilis.
“To profit from your rise, of course,” she answered. He blinked; he had not expected her to be so direct. She went on, “For me, for my family, what we have now is as much as we ever will have. That, too, I have seen—unless we tie ourselves to one with higher hopes. That one, I think, is you.”
Krispos looked around the room. He thought of the house of which that rich room was a part, of the vast estates surrounding that house. Why, he wondered, would anyone want more than this? He still wanted more than he had, but he did not have much, and that at the whim of his bad-tempered master. If Tanilis would help him get more, he’d play along. If she thought him a hand-puppet to move only at her bidding, she might get a surprise one day.
He knew better than to say that aloud. “What do you want from me?” he repeated. “And how will you help in this…rise…you saw?”
“The first thing I want is that you not grow too confident in your rise,” she warned. “Nothing seen ahead of time is definite. If you think a thing will come to pass without your working toward it, that is the surest way I know to make certain it will never be.”
The night the Kubratoi swept down on his village had taught Krispos once and for all that nothing in life was definite. He nodded. “What else?”
“That you take Mavros back to Videssos the city with you and reckon him your younger brother henceforth,” Tanilis said. “The connections he makes there will serve him and you for the rest of his life.”
“Me? The city? Really?” Mavros threw back his head and yowled wit
h delight.
“He’s welcome to go to Videssos by me,” Krispos said, “but I’m not the one who’d have to choose to take him along. Iakovitzes would.” He glanced over at Tanilis’ son and tried to see him through Iakovitzes’ eyes. “It might not be hard to get my master to ask him to go back with us, but—” He stopped. He would not speak ill of Iakovitzes, not before these people he hardly knew.
“I know of his habits,” Tanilis said. “To his credit, he does not pretend to be other than what he is. Mavros, I think, will be able to take care of himself, and he’s as good with horses—your master’s other passion, are they not?—as anyone his age near Opsikion.”
“That will help,” Krispos agreed. He chuckled—one more handsome youth for Meletios and some of the other grooms to worry about. Growing serious again, he went on, “Besides Mavros, how will you aid me?” He felt he was horse trading with Tanilis, the only trouble being that she promised delivery of most of the horse some years from now. He wanted to make as sure as possible of the part he could see now.
“Gold, counsel, loyalty until your death or mine,” Tanilis said. “If you like, I will take oath by the lord with the great and good mind.”
Krispos thought that over. “If your word is bad, will your oath make it better?”
Tanilis lowered her eyes. Her hair hid her face. Even so, Krispos felt he had passed a test.
Mavros said plaintively, “Will the two of you please quit making deep plans without me? If I’m suddenly to leave for Videssos the city, shouldn’t I know why?”
“You might be safer if you didn’t,” Tanilis said. But she must have seen the justice of her son’s protest, for she pointed at Krispos and whispered the word she had spoken to him inside the temple.
Mavros’ eyes widened. “Him?” he squeaked. Krispos did not blame him for sounding amazed. He did not believe the prediction either, not down deep.
But Tanilis answered, “It may be so.” If all she’d said tonight was true, she would try to help it be so. Was she, then, simply following the path she had seen or trying to force it into existence? Krispos went round that dizzy loop of thought two or three times before he gave it up. Tanilis went on, “None of us should say that word again, not until the proper time comes, if it ever does.”
“You’re right.” Mavros shook his head in wonder and grinned at Krispos. “I always figured I’d need a miracle to get me to Videssos the city, but I didn’t know what one looked like till now.”
Krispos snorted. “I’m no miracle.” But he found himself grinning back. Mavros would make him a lively brother. He turned to Tanilis. “My lady, may I beg an escort from you? Otherwise, in the dark, I’d need a miracle to get back to Opsikion, let alone the city.”
“Stay the night,” she said. “I expected you would; the servants have readied a chamber for you.” She rose and walked over to the dining room’s doors. The small noise of their opening summoned two men. She nodded to one. “Xystos, please lead the eminent sir to his bedchamber.”
“Certainly.” Xystos bowed, first to Tanilis, then to Krispos. “Come with me, eminent sir.”
As Krispos started to follow the servant away, Tanilis said, “Since we are become partners in this enterprise, Krispos, take a partner’s privilege and use my name.”
“Thank you, uh, Tanilis,” Krispos said. Her encouraging smile seemed to stay with him after he turned a corner behind Xystos.
The bedroom was larger than the one Krispos had at Bolkanes’ inn. Xystos bowed again and shut the door behind him. Krispos used the chamber pot. He took off his clothes, blew out the lamp Xystos had left, and lay down on the bed. It was softer than any he’d known before—and this, he thought, was only a guest room.
Even in darkness, he did not fall asleep at once. With his mind’s eye, he kept seeing the smile Tanilis had given him as he left the dining room. Maybe she would slip in here tonight, to seal with her body the strange bargain they had made. Or maybe she would send in a serving girl, just as a kindness to him. Or maybe…
Maybe I’m a fool, he told himself when he woke the next morning, still very much alone in bed. He used the chamber pot again, dressed, and ran fingers through his hair.
He was going to the door when someone tapped on it. “Oh, good, you’re awake,” Mavros said when he opened it a moment later. “If you don’t mind breakfasting on hard rolls and smoked mutton, we can eat while we ride back to town.”
“Good enough.” Krispos thought of how often he’d gone out to work in the fields after breakfasting on nothing. He knew Mavros had never missed a meal. He kept quiet, not just for politeness’ sake but also because he’d long since decided hunger held no inherent virtue—life was better with a full belly.
They washed down the rolls and mutton with a skin of wine. “That’s a very nice animal you’re riding,” Krispos said after a while.
“Isn’t he?” Mavros beamed. “I’m not small, but my weight doesn’t faze him a bit, not even when I’m in mail shirt and helmet.” He took the reins in his left hand so he could draw a knife and make cut-and-thrust motions as if it were a sword. “Maybe one of these days I’ll ride him to war against Makuran or Kubrat—or even Khatrish, if your master’s mission fails. Take that, vile barbarian!” He stabbed a bush by the side of the road.
Krispos smiled at his enthusiasm. “Real fighting’s not as…neat as you make it out to be.”
“You’ve fought, then?” At Krispos’ nod, Mavros’ eyes went big and round. “Tell me about it!”
Krispos tried to beg off, but Mavros kept urging him until he baldly recounted the villagers’ massacre of the Kubrati raiders. “Just our good luck there was only the one little band,” he finished. “If the riders a couple of days later had been wild men instead of Videssian cavalry, I wouldn’t be here now to give you the tale.”
“I’ve heard true warriors don’t speak much of glory,” Mavros said in a rather subdued voice.
“What they call glory, I think, is mostly the relief you feel after you’ve fought and lived through it without getting maimed. If you have.”
“Hmm.” Mavros rode on in silence for some time after that. Before he and Krispos got to Opsikion, though, he was slaying bushes again. Krispos did not try to dissuade him. He suspected Mavros would make a better soldier than he did himself—the young noble seemed inclined to plunge straight ahead without worrying about consequences, a martial trait if ever there was one.
They got to Opsikion a little before midmorning. Being with Mavros got Krispos through the south gate with respectful salutes from the guards. When they came to Bolkanes’ inn, they found Iakovitzes just sitting down to breakfast—unlike most folk, he did not customarily rise at dawn.
He fixed Krispos with a glare. “Nice of you to recall who your master is.” His eyes flicked to Mavros. Krispos watched his expression change. “Or have you been cavorting with this magnificent creature?”
“No,” Krispos said resignedly. “Excellent sir, let me present Mavros to you. He is the son of the noblewoman Tanilis, and is interested in returning to Videssos with us when your mission is done. He’d make a fine groom, excellent sir; he knows horses.”
“Tanilis’ son, eh?” Iakovitzes rose to return Mavros’ bow; he’d evidently learned who Tanilis was. But he went on, “When it comes to grooms for my stables, I don’t care if he’s the Avtokrator’s son, not that Anthimos has one.”
He shot several searching questions at Mavros, who answered them without undue trouble. Then he went outside to look over the youth’s mount. When he came back, he was nodding. “You’ll do, if you’re the one who’s been tending that animal.”
“I am,” Mavros said.
“Good, good. You’ll definitely do. We may even get to leave before fall comes; Lexo may see reason after all. At least I’m beginning to hope so again.” Iakovitzes looked almost cheerful for a moment as he sat down. Then he found something new to complain about. “Oh, a plague! My sausage is cold. Bolkanes!”
As the innkeepe
r hurried up, Mavros whispered to Krispos, “Is your master always like that?”
“Now that you mention it, yes,” Krispos whispered back.
“I wonder if I want to see Videssos the city enough to work for him.” But Mavros was joking. He raised his voice to a normal level. “I’m going to ride home now, but I’ll be in town a lot. If I’m not, just send a messenger for me and I’ll come ready to travel.” Bowing again to Iakovitzes, he left the taproom.
Around a mouthful of fresh, steaming sausage, Iakovitzes said, “So now you’re hobnobbing with young nobles, are you, Krispos? You’re coming up a bit in your choice of friends.”
“If I hadn’t spent these last months with you, excellent sir, I wouldn’t have had any idea how to act around him,” Krispos said. Flattery that was also true, he’d found, worked best.
It worked now. Iakovitzes’ gaze lost the piercing quality it had when he was suspicious about something. “Hrmp,” he said, and went back to his breakfast.
THREE DAYS LATER, MAVROS BROUGHT KRISPOS ANOTHER DINNER invitation. Krispos went out and bought a new tunic, a saffron-yellow one that went well with his olive skin. After he paid for it, he felt odd. It was the first time he’d got a shirt just for the sake of having something new.
Tanilis’ admiring glance that evening made the purchase seem worthwhile. She was worth admiring herself, in a thin dress of white linen that emphasized how small her waist was. More gold shone on her wrists and around her neck.
“You are welcome, as always,” she said, holding out her hand.
Krispos took it. “Thank you, my…Tanilis.” His tongue slipped by accident, but he watched her eyes fall as she heard the last two words together. Maybe his hope of the previous visit had not been so foolish after all.
But if that was so, she gave no hint of it during dinner. Indeed, she said very little. Mavros did most of the talking; he bubbled with excitement at the prospect of heading west for the city. “When will we leave?” he asked. “Do you know? How fare Iakovitzes’ talks with the Khatrisher?”
The Tale of Krispos Page 15