The Tale of Krispos

by Harry Turtledove

  Krispos nodded. Thinking of nomad horsemen sweeping down from the north could make him shiver even now. And if Videssos’ armies were fully engaged in the far west, raids from Kubrat could reach all the way down to the walls of Videssos the city. The capital had stood Kubrati siege a couple of times. He wondered if the frontier with Kubrat wasn’t more important than the one with Makuran, which would stay peaceful for a while if Petronas didn’t stir it up.

  Was he right? He wasn’t sure himself; as the Sevastokrator had warned him, he’d had no practice making that kind of judgment. Maybe it wouldn’t matter either way; maybe the Kubratoi would let themselves be bought off, as they sometimes did. He hoped so. Things would be simpler that way.

  The higher he’d risen, though, and the closer he’d come to real power, the more complicated things looked.

  ANTHIMOS KEPT AT HIS MAGICAL STUDIES WITH A PERSISTENCE that startled Krispos. While his new sanctum rose from the ruins of the temple, he transcribed texts at the imperial residence. Krispos had to go over to the clerks who scribbled by the Grand Courtroom to find out how they got ink off their fingers. When he fetched back some small pumice stones, Anthimos praised him to the skies.

  “That’s plenty for today,” the Emperor said one hot, muggy summer afternoon, coming out of his study wringing his writing hand. “All work makes a man dull. What do we have laid on for tonight?”

  “The feast features a troupe that performs with large dogs and tiny ponies,” Krispos answered.

  “Does it? Well, that should give the servants something new to clean up.” Anthimos started down the hall. “Which robe have you chosen for me?”

  “The blue silk. It should be coolest in this weather. Excuse me, Your Majesty,” Krispos called to the Emperor’s retreating back, “but I believe you’ve forgotten something.”

  Anthimos stopped. “What’s that?”

  “Your fingers are still stained. You forgot to pumice them. Do you want people to say the Avtokrator of the Videssians is his own secretary? Here, let me fetch you a stone.”

  Anthimos looked down at his right hand. “I did forget to clean off, didn’t I?” Now it was his turn to make Krispos pause. “You needn’t bring me the pumice stone. I can take care of this myself, I think.”

  Intense concentration on his face, the Emperor spread the ink-stained fingers of his writing hand. He waved his left hand above it and raised his voice in a rhythmic chant. Suddenly he cried out and clenched both hands into fists. When he opened them, they were both clean.

  Krispos made the sun-sign over his heart. “You did it!” he exclaimed, then hoped he didn’t sound as surprised as he felt.

  “I certainly did,” Anthimos said smugly. “A small application of the law of contagion, which states that objects once in contact may continue to influence one another. As that pumice had so often scoured my fingers, I simply re-created the cleansing action by magical means.”

  “I didn’t realize you could start working magic before you had all your spells copied out,” Krispos said. “Do you want me to take the pumice stones back to the clerks I got them from?”

  “No, not yet. For one thing”—the Emperor grinned a small-boy grin—“Trokoundos doesn’t know I am working magic. I don’t think I’m supposed to be. For another, cleaning my hands that way was a lot harder than simply scraping off the ink. I wanted to show off for you, but it wore me out. And I don’t want to be worn out, not when there will be so many interesting women at the revels tonight. There will be, won’t there, Krispos?”

  “Of course, Your Majesty. I always try to please you that way.” Once more, Krispos wondered why Anthimos couldn’t give, if not all, at least most of his attention to Dara. If nothing else, he’d have a better chance of begetting a legitimate heir if he spent some time with his own wife. It was not as if she were undesirable, Krispos thought—quite the opposite, in fact.

  Whatever Anthimos’ newfound sorcerous talents, he could not read minds. At the moment, perhaps, that was just as well. The Avtokrator went on, “I can hardly wait to show off my magecraft at a feast. For that, though, I’ll need something rather more impressive than cleaning my hands without pumice. I tried something once, and it didn’t work.”

  “You did?” Now Krispos didn’t care if he sounded appalled. A mage who botched a spell was apt to be in even more immediate need of an heir than an Avtokrator. “What did you do?”

  Anthimos looked sheepish. “I tried giving wings to one of the little tortoises that crawl through the gardens. I thought it would be amusing, flying around inside the hall where I usually have my feasts. But I must have done something wrong, because I ended up with a pigeon with a shell. Promise me you won’t tell Trokoundos?”

  “You’re lucky you didn’t end up shifting the shell to your own foolish face,” Krispos said sternly. Anthimos shifted from foot to foot like a schoolboy taking a scolding he knew he deserved. As had happened so often before, Krispos found he could not stay angry at him. Shaking his head, he went on, “All right, I won’t tell Trokoundos if you promise me you’ll stop mucking about with things you don’t understand.”

  “I won’t,” Anthimos said. He had gone off to look at the robe he would wear to the evening’s festivities before Krispos noticed he hadn’t quite made a promise. Even if he had, Krispos doubted he would have taken it seriously enough to keep. Anthimos just did not believe anything bad could ever happen to him.

  Krispos knew better. If growing up on a farm had done nothing else for him, it had done that.

  Chapter X

  THE BELL BESIDE KRISPOS’ BED TINKLED SOFTLY. HE WOKE UP muttering to himself. When Anthimos held a feast, he was expected to roister along with the Emperor—and the Emperor was better than he at doing without sleep. When Anthimos spent a night with Dara in the imperial residence, Krispos expected to have the chance to catch up on his rest.

  Even as he slipped a robe over his head, he knew he was not being fair. Though he’d got into the habit of keeping a lamp burning all night long to help him dress quickly in case the Avtokrator needed him, Anthimos seldom called him after he’d gone to bed. But tonight, he thought grouchily, only went to show that seldom didn’t mean never.

  He walked out his door and four or five steps down the hall to the imperial bedchamber. That door was closed, but a light showed under it. He opened the door. Anthimos and Dara turned their heads toward him.

  He stopped in his tracks and felt his face go flame-hot. “Y-your pardon, I pray,” he stammered. “I thought the bell summoned me.”

  “Don’t go away, at least not yet. I did call you,” the Emperor said, calm as if he’d been interrupted playing draughts—or at one of his revels. After that first startled glance toward the door, Dara looked down at Anthimos. Her long dark hair, undone now, spilled over her shoulders and veiled her so that Krispos could not see her face. Anthimos brushed some of that shining hair away from his nose and went on, “Fetch me a little olive oil, if you please, Krispos; that’s a good fellow.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Krispos said woodenly. He hurried out of the bedchamber. Behind him, he heard Anthimos say, “Why did you slow down, my dear? That was nice, what you were doing.”

  He found a jar of oil faster than he really wanted to. In truth, he did not want to go back to the bedchamber at all. Seeming a eunuch around Dara had been simple at first, but less easy after that night when she first let him see her as a person rather than an Empress. Now…now he would have trouble not imagining his body in place of Anthimos’ under hers.

  As he went back down the hall, he wondered what she thought. Maybe she was used to this, as Anthimos was. In that case, she would also be used to taking no notice of what servants imagined. Probably just as well, he thought.

  He paused in the doorway. “Took you long enough,” Anthimos said. “Don’t just stand there, bring the oil over to me. How do you expect me to get it when you’re half a mile away?”

  Krispos reluctantly approached. Dara’s head was lowered; her hai
r hid her face from him again. He did not want to speak or force her to notice his presence any more than she had to. Without a word, he held out the jar to the Avtokrator.

  Anthimos dipped his fingers into it. “You can set it on the night table now, Krispos, in case we want more later on.” Krispos nodded, did as he was told, and got out, but not before he heard the tiny smooth sound of Anthimos’ slickened fingers sliding over Dara’s skin.

  He threw himself back into bed with what he knew was altogether unnecessary violence, and lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling. The flickering shadows the lamp cast there all looked lewd. Eventually it began to rain. The soft patter of raindrops on roof tiles lulled him to sleep at last.

  He jerked in dismay when the bell woke him the next morning; returning to the Emperor’s chamber was the last thing he felt like doing. What he felt like doing, however, mattered not in the least to Anthimos. The bell rang again, louder and more insistently. Krispos pulled on a clean robe and went to do his master’s bidding.

  But for the jar of olive oil on the table by the bed, the previous night might not have happened. As far as Anthimos was concerned, it plainly hadn’t. “Good day,” he said. “Rain, I see. Do you think it’s just a shower, or is the fall wet season coming early this year?”

  “It’ll hurt the harvest if it is,” Krispos answered, relieved to be able to talk dispassionately. “Do you prefer the purple robe today, Your Majesty, or the leek green?”

  “The green, I think.” Anthimos got out of bed and gave an exaggerated shiver. “Brr! Fall certainly seems to be in the air. Good thing for the heating ducts this building boasts, or I’d have to start thinking about sleeping in clothes.” He glanced over at Dara, who was still under the covers. “That would be no fun at all, would it, my dear?”

  “Whatever you say.” The Empress reached out a slim arm and tugged on the bellpull for a maidservant.

  Anthimos sniffed. He let Krispos dress him and help him on with his boots. “I’m for breakfast,” he announced. He looked over at Dara again and frowned. “Aren’t you coming, slugabed?”

  “Presently.” The Empress’ serving girl had come in, but she showed no sign of being ready to get up. “Why don’t you start without me?”

  “Oh, very well. Krispos, ask the cook if he has any squab in the larder. If he does, I’ll have a couple, roasted, with a jar of that sweet golden Vaspurakaner wine that goes so well with them.”

  “I’ll inquire, Your Majesty.”

  The cook had squab. He grinned at Krispos. “With all the statues and towers in the city to draw pigeons, not likely I wouldn’t. Roasted, you said his Majesty wants ’em? Roasted they’ll be.”

  Krispos fetched Anthimos the little birds, along with bread, honey, and the wine he’d asked for. The Avtokrator ate with good appetite, then rose and said, “I’m off to be sorcerous.” Dara and her maidservant came into the dining room just as he was going out. His voice echoed through the central hallway: “Tyrovitzes! Longinos! Fetch umbrellas, and smartly. I don’t propose to swim to my little workshop.”

  The eunuchs’ sandals slapped on the marble floor as they hurried to obey. Krispos asked Dara, “What would you care for this morning, Your Majesty?”

  “I’m not very hungry,” she answered. “Some of this bread and honey should do well enough for me.”

  She only picked at it. “Can I get you anything else, Your Majesty?” the serving maid asked. “You’re not a bird, to stay alive on crumbs.”

  Dara looked at the crust she was holding, then set it down. “Maybe a muskmelon would suit me better, Verina—stewed, I think, not raw.”

  “I’ll get one for you, Majesty.” Verina stood up, impudently wrinkled her nose. “I’ll spend the time it’s stewing gossiping with the cook. Phestos knows everything that goes on here three days before it happens.”

  “Nice to think someone does.” Dara listened to Verina’s steps fading down the hall, then said quietly, “Krispos, I want you to know I did not expect An—his Majesty to summon you last night. If you were embarrassed, I can only say I’m sorry. I was, too.”

  “Oh.” Krispos thought about that for a while, thought about how much he might safely say to even a contrite Empress. Finally he continued, “It was a little awkward, being treated as if I were only a—a convenience.”

  “That’s well said.” Dara’s voice stayed low, but her eyes blazed. She clenched her hands together. “That’s just how Anthimos treats everyone around him—as a convenience, a toy for his amusement, to be put back on the shelf to sit until he feels like playing with it again. And by the lord with the great and good mind, Krispos, I am no toy and I am sick to death of being used as one.”

  “Oh,” Krispos said again, in a different tone. When angry, Dara was indeed no toy; she reminded him of Tanilis, but a Tanilis young and unskilled. Nor did the memory of her anger sustain her once it was gone, as Tanilis’ did. Tanilis never would have let the Emperor keep her in the background like this.

  “It was bad enough with Skombros, those tiny eyes staring and staring from that fat face,” Dara said, “but after a while I got used to him and even pitied him, for what could he do but stare?”

  Krispos nodded; he remembered having the same thought, watching the former vestiarios at that first revel he’d been to.

  Dara went on, “But better he should have done without the oil, Krispos, or gotten it himself, than to have you bring it, you who have no need of such spectacles, who are whole and in every way as a man should be—” She broke off abruptly and stared down at her hands.

  “I knew before last night that Your Majesty was beautiful,” Krispos said softly. “Nothing I saw then makes me want to change my mind.” He heard footfalls in the hall and raised his voice. “Here comes that melon. I hope you like it better than the bread and honey.”

  The Empress shot him a grateful look. “I think I will, thank you.” Verina came in, uncovering the bowl in which the stewed muskmelon lay. “And thank you, Verina. That smells lovely.”

  “I hope it pleases you.” The maidservant beamed as she watched her mistress eat the whole melon. “All a matter of finding out what you want, isn’t it, Your Majesty?”

  “So it is, Verina. So it is,” Dara said. She did not look at Krispos; she knew how tiny and fragile a bubble privacy was in the palaces. For his part, Krispos understood for a new reason why vestiarioi were traditionally eunuchs.

  “STAND ASIDE THERE, YOU LUMBERING BLOND BARBARIANS, OR I’ll turn the lot of you into yellow eels!”

  Krispos watched with amusement as the Halogai scrambled out of Trokoundos’ way. Despite the mage’s big, booming voice, the northerners were far more imposing men than he, all at least a head taller and twice as thick through the shoulders. But they did not care to find out whether he meant his words literally.

  Trokoundos stamped up the broad steps. Water flew from puddles on them at every step. “You move, too,” he snarled at Krispos.

  “Wipe your boots on this rug here first,” Krispos said. Glowering, Trokoundos obeyed. He trod so hard that Krispos suspected he wished he weren’t stepping on mere carpet. “What’s the trouble?” Krispos asked. “Shouldn’t you be closeted with the Emperor?”

  “He’s given me the sack, that’s what the trouble is,” the mage said. “I just spent seventeen goldpieces on new gear, too, and I expect to get paid back. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Of course, if you can show me receipts for what you bought,” Krispos said.

  Trokoundos rolled his eyes. “It would take a stronger wizard than I even dreamed of being to get money from anyone in the government without receipts—think I don’t know that? Here you are.” He pulled several folded pieces of parchment from the leather wallet he wore at his belt.

  Krispos felt his lips move as he added up the sums. He checked himself, then said, “Seventeen it is. Come along with me; I’ll pay you right now.”

  “Good,” Trokoundos growled. “Then I’ll never have to come back here agai
n, so I won’t run the risk of bumping into his damnfoolness of a Majesty and telling him just exactly what I think of him.”

  Hearing a loud, unfamiliar voice coming down the hall, Barsymes peered out of a dining room to see who it was. Hearing what the loud, unfamiliar voice had to say about his lord and master, the eunuch squeaked and pulled his head back in.

  Krispos opened a strongbox and counted out coins. Trokoundos snatched them from his hand. “Now I’m not out anything but my patience and my digestion,” he said, putting them into his wallet one by one.

  “May I ask what went wrong?” Krispos said. “From what his Majesty’s been saying, he’s felt he’s made good progress.”

  “Oh, he has. He’s a promising beginner, maybe even better than promising. He can be very quick when he wants to be, and he has a good head for remembering what he learns. But he wants everything at once.”

  That sounded like Anthimos, Krispos thought. He asked, “How so?”

  “Now that he has some of the basics down, he wants to leap straight into major conjurations—blasting fires, demons, who knows what will cross his mind next? Whatever it is, it’s sure to be something big enough and difficult enough to be dangerous if anything goes wrong. I told him as much. That’s when he sacked me.”

  “Couldn’t you have guided him through some of the things he wanted to do, repaired any mistakes he might have made?”

  “No, for two reasons. For one, I wouldn’t let any other apprentice ask that of me, and his Imperial Majesty Anthimos III is no Avtokrator of magic, just another ’prentice.” Krispos dipped his head to Trokoundos, respecting him very much for that. The mage went on, “For another, I’m not sure I could repair some of the things he wants to try if he botches them as badly as a ’prentice can. To be frank with you, esteemed and eminent sir, I don’t really care to find out, either.”