KRISPOS GOT MORE AND MORE USED TO WORKING AROUND Anthimos rather than through him. Petronas had managed for years. But Petronas had been Sevastokrator, of the imperial family and with prestige almost imperial—sometimes more imperial than Anthimos’. Because he was only vestiarios, Krispos had to work harder to convince people to see things his way.
Having Dara with him when he saw Agapetos had helped persuade the general to go along. Sometimes, though, Krispos needed to beard officials in their own lairs. Much as he wanted to, he could not bring the Empress along.
“You have my sincere apologies, esteemed and eminent sir, but without his Imperial Majesty’s seal or signature I cannot implement this new law on codicils to bequests,” declared a certain Iavdas, one of the aides to the logothete of the treasury.
Krispos stared. “But you’re the one who asked for it. I have your memorandum here.” He waved the parchment at Iavdas. “It’s a good law, a fair law. It should go into effect.”
“I quite agree, but for it to do so, seal or signature must be affixed. That, too, is the law, and I dare not disobey it.”
“His Majesty isn’t signing or sealing much these days,” Krispos said slowly. The more he urged Anthimos to do, the less the Emperor did, a defense of principle that would have been admirable had the principle defended been more noble than Anthimos’ right to absolute laziness. “I assure you, though, that I do have the authority to tell you to go ahead with this.”
“Unfortunately, I must disagree.” Like most treasury officials Krispos had met, Iavdas owned a relentlessly literal mind. He went on, “I must follow the letter of the law, not the spirit, for spirit, by its nature, is subject to diverse interpretations. Without formal imperial approval, I cannot proceed.”
Krispos almost told him to go to the ice. He bit back his anger. How could he get Iavdas to do what even Iavdas admitted needed doing? “Suppose we don’t call this a new law?” he said after some thought. “Suppose we just call it an amendment to a law that’s already there. Would my say-so be enough then?”
Iavdas’ eyes got a faraway look. “I suppose it would be technically accurate to term this a correction of an ambiguity in the existing law. It was not framed so, but it could be reworked to appear as a revised chapter of the present code on codicils. And for a mere revision, no, seal and signature are not required.” He beamed at Krispos. “Thank you, esteemed and eminent sir. An ingenious solution to a complex problem, and one that evades not only the defects in current legislation but also those posed by the Avtokrator’s obstinacy.”
“Er—yes.” Krispos beat a hasty retreat. Talking with high functionaries reminded him of the limits of his own education. He could read and write, add and subtract, but he still felt at sea when people larded their talk with big words for no better reason than to hear them roll off their lips. Why, he wondered, couldn’t they say what they meant and have done? He did understand that Iavdas liked his plan. That would do.
But, as he complained to Dara when she called him to her bedchamber some time past midnight, “We shouldn’t have to go through this rigmarole every time we need to get something done. I can’t always come up with ways of getting around Anthimos, and because I can’t, things don’t happen. If only Anthimos would—” He broke off. Lying in Anthimos’ bed with Anthimos’ Empress, he did not want to talk about the Avtokrator. Sometimes, though, like tonight, he got too frustrated with Anthimos to stop himself.
Dara put the palm of her hand on his bare chest, felt his heartbeat slow toward normal after their coupling. Smiling, she said, “If he hadn’t neglected me, we wouldn’t have happened. Still, I know what you mean. Just as you did, I hoped he’d rule for himself once his uncle was gone. Now—
“Now he’s so annoyed with me for trying to get him to rule that he won’t even see to the little he did before.” You were the one who made me keep pushing at him, too, he thought. He kept that to himself. Dara had been doing her best for her husband and the Empire. Had Anthimos responded, all would have been well.
“Never mind Anthimos now,” Dara whispered, perhaps feeling some of the same awkwardness he had. She held him to her. “Do you think we can try again if we hurry?”
Krispos did his best to oblige. One did not say no, not to the Empress. Then he got out of bed and into his clothes. Which turns me from lover back to vestiarios, he thought with a touch of irritation. He slipped from the imperial bedchamber, shutting the doors behind him. He started to go back to his own room, then changed his mind and decided to have a snack first. He walked down the hall to the larder.
He was coming back, munching on a roll sticky with honey, when he saw a disembodied head floating toward him. His mouth dropped opened; a bit of roll fell out and landed on the floor with a wet smack. He needed a moment to gain enough control of himself to do anything more than stand, stare, and gurgle. In that moment of terror, before he could scream and flee, he recognized the head. It was Anthimos’.
The head recognized him, too. Winking, it spoke. Krispos frowned, tried to read its silent lips. “You’d eat better than that if you were with me,” he thought it said.
“I s-suppose I would, Your Majesty,” he got out. If Anthimos could work magic this potent while at a revel, he was turning into a very impressive sorcerer indeed, Krispos thought. Aloud, he added, “You almost scared me to death.”
The Emperor’s head grinned. As he looked at it, he realized it was not physically there; he could see through it. That made it a trifle easier to take—he did not have to imagine an acephalous Anthimos lying on a couch among his cronies. He tried to smile back.
Grinning still, the Avtokrator—or as much of him as was present—moved past Krispos. The head came to the door of the imperial bedchamber. Krispos expected it to drift through the wood. Had it come a few minutes earlier—he shivered. He knew what it would have seen.
But instead of sailing ghostlike through the closed doors, the Emperor’s projected head fetched up against them with a bump that was immaterial but nonetheless seemed to hurt, judging by the expression the slightly misty face wore and the words it was mouthing.
Krispos fought to keep his own face straight; Anthimos might be turning into a powerful mage, but he was still a careless one. “Would you like me to open it for you, Your Majesty?” he asked politely.
“Piss off,” Anthimos’ head snarled. An instant later, it vanished.
Krispos leaned against the wall and let out a long, slow sigh. He suddenly realized his right hand was sticky—he’d squeezed that honeyed bun to pieces without even remembering he had it. He threw away what was left and went back to the larder for some water to wash his fingers. He did not take another bun. He’d lost his appetite.
ONE OF THE HALOGAI STANDING GUARD OUTSIDE THE IMPERIAL residence turned and spotted Krispos in the hallway. “Someone out here to see you,” he called.
“Thanks, Narvikka. I’ll be there in a minute.” Krispos put away the armful of newly washed robes he was carrying, then went out onto the steps with the guardsmen. He blinked several times, trying to get his eyes used to the bright afternoon sunshine outside.
He did not recognize the worn-looking man who sat waiting for him on a worn-looking horse. “I’m Krispos,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
The worn-looking man touched a finger to the brim of his straw traveler’s hat. “My name’s Bassos, esteemed and eminent sir. I’m an imperial courier. I’m afraid I have bad news for you.”
“Go ahead. Give it to me.” Krispos held his voice steady, wondering what had gone wrong now. His imagination painted plenty of possibilities: earthquake, pestilence, famine, rebellion, even invasion from Makuran in spite of the peace he thought he’d patched together.
But Bassos had meant bad news for him, not for the Empire. “Esteemed and eminent sir, the gold you sent up to your sister and brother-in-law…” The courier licked his lips, trying to figure out how to go on. At last he did, baldly: “Well, sir, we couldn’t deliver that gold, on account of there wasn’t much le
ft of the village there after these new stinking barbarians we’re mixed up with went through it. I’m sorry, esteemed and eminent sir.”
Krispos heard himself say “Thank you” as if from very far away. Bassos pressed a leather pouch into his hands and made him count the goldpieces inside and sign a receipt. The Emperor’s vestiarios was too prominent to be cheated. The courier remounted and rode away. Krispos stood on the steps looking after him. Evdokia, Domokos, two little girls he had never seen…He never would see them now.
Narvikka walked over to him, setting a large hand on his shoulder. “Their time came as it was fated to come, so grieve not for them,” the Haloga said. “If the gods willed it, they took foes with them to serve them forever in the world to come. May it be so.”
“May it be so,” Krispos agreed. He had never had any use for the northerners’ wild gods and fatalistic view of the world, but suddenly he very much wanted his family to have servants in the afterlife, servants they had slain with their own hands. That would be only just, and if justice was hard to come by in this world, he could hope for it in the next.
But was their time fated? Had Domokos been less proud…had Petronas not made his too-clever bargain with Harvas…had Anthimos listened and sent troops north in good time—had Anthimos listened even once, curse him…
Thinking of the Emperor’s failing filled Krispos with pure and frightening rage. His fists clenched. Only then did he notice he was holding the gold-filled leather pouch. He gave it to Narvikka, saying “Take it. I never want to see these coins again.”
“I take it, I share them with the rest of the lads here.” The Haloga nodded at the rest of his squad of guardsmen, who were watching him and Krispos. “Each of us, he takes a piece of your ill luck for himself.”
“However you like,” Krispos said mechanically. Much as he wanted not to, part of him responded to the Haloga’s gesture. He found himself saying “My thanks. That’s kind of you, to do such a thing for me.”
Narvikka’s massive shoulders moved up and down inside his mail shirt. “We would do it for each other, we will do it for a friend.” As if Krispos were a child, the big northerner turned him round and gave him a light shove toward the imperial residence. “Is wine inside. You drink to remember them or to forget, whichever suits.”
“My thanks,” Krispos said again. Given a sense of purpose, his feet made for the larder without much conscious thought.
Before he got there, Barsymes came out of one of the other rooms that opened onto the corridor and saw him. The eunuch stared; later, remembering that look, Krispos wondered what expression his face had borne. Barsymes seemed to wrestle with courtesy, then spoke, “Your pardon, Krispos, but is something amiss?”
“You might say so,” Krispos answered harshly. “Back at the village where I grew up, my sister, her husband, my nieces—Harvas Black-Robe’s Halogai hit the place.” He stopped, unable to go on.
To his amazement, he saw Barsymes’ eyes fill with tears. “I grieve with you,” the chamberlain said. “The loss of young kin is always hard. We eunuchs, perhaps, know that better than most; as we have no hope of progeny for ourselves, our siblings’ children become doubly dear to us.”
“I understand.” As he never had before, Krispos wondered how eunuchs carried on through all the years after they were mutilated. A warrior should envy the courage that required, he thought, but most would only grow angry at being compared to a half-man.
Thinking of Barsymes’ plight helped him grapple with his own. The eunuch said, “If you wish to leave off your duties the rest of the day, my colleagues and I will assume them. Under the circumstances, the Avtokrator cannot object—”
“Under the circumstances, I don’t give a fart whether the Emperor objects,” Krispos snapped. He watched Barsymes gape. “Never mind. I’m sorry. You don’t know all the circumstances. Thank you for your offer. By your leave, I’ll take advantage of it.”
Barsymes bowed. “Of course,” he said, but his face was still shocked and disapproving.
“I am sorry,” Krispos repeated. “I shouldn’t have lashed out at you. None of this is your fault.”
“Very well,” Barsymes said stiffly. Krispos kept apologizing until he saw the chamberlain truly relent. Barsymes awkwardly patted him on the shoulder and suggested, “Perhaps you should take a cup of wine, to help ease the shock to your spirit.”
When Haloga and eunuch gave the same advice, Krispos thought, it had to be good. He drank one cup quickly, a second more slowly, then started to pour a third. He stopped. He had intended to drink to forget, but remembering suddenly seemed the better choice. He corked the jar and put it back on the shelf.
Outside, shadows were getting longer. The wine mounted from Krispos’ stomach to his head. He yawned. If I’m not going to attend their Majesties, I may as well sleep, he thought. Phos willing, all this will seem farther away when I wake up.
He walked to his chamber. The wine and the muggy summer heat of Videssos the city left him covered with sweat. Too warm to sleep in clothes, he decided. He pulled his robe off over his head, though it did its best to stick to him.
He still wore the chain that held the chalcedony amulet Trokoundos had given him and his lucky goldpiece. He took off the chain, held the goldpiece in his hand, and looked at it a long time. The past couple of years, he’d thought little of what the coin might mean; in spite of being—perhaps because of being—so close to the imperial power, he hadn’t contemplated taking it for himself.
Yet if Anthimos knew no rule save caprice, what then? Had the Emperor done his job as he should, Evdokia, Domokos, and their children would be fine today. Fury filled Krispos again—had Anthimos only paid attention to him, all would have been well. But the Avtokrator not only refused to rule, he refused to let anyone do it for him. That courted disaster, and had brought it to Krispos’ family.
And so, the coin. Krispos wished he knew what message was locked inside it along with the gold. He did know he was no assassin. If the only way he could take the throne was by murdering Anthimos, he thought, Anthimos would stay Avtokrator till he died of old age. To say nothing of the fact that the Halogai would chop to dogmeat anyone who assailed the Emperor, the pragmatic side of his mind added.
Staring at the goldpiece told him nothing. He put the chain back around his neck and flopped heavily onto the soft bed that had once been Skombros’. After a while, he slept.
THE SILVER BELL WOKE HIM THE NEXT MORNING. HE DID NOT think much about it. It was part of his routine. He dressed, put on sandals, and went into the imperial bedchamber. Only when he saw Anthimos smiling from the bed he shared with Dara did memories of the day before come crashing back.
Krispos had to turn away for a moment, to make sure his features would be composed when he turned back to the Emperor. “Your Majesty,” he said, voice expressionless.
Dara spoke before her husband. “I was saddened last night to hear of your loss, Krispos.”
He could tell her sympathy was real, and warmed a little to it. Bowing, he said, “Thank you, Your Majesty. You’re gracious to think of me.” They had played the game of passing messages back and forth under Anthimos’ nose before. She nodded very slightly, to show she understood.
The Emperor nodded, too. “I’m sorry, also, Krispos. Most unfortunate. A pity you didn’t have your—brother-in-law, was it?—come south to the city before the raiders struck.”
“I tried to get him to come, Your Majesty. He didn’t wish to.” After two polite, quiet sentences, Krispos found his voice rising toward a shout. “It’s an even bigger pity you didn’t see fit to guard the frontier properly. Then he could have lived his life as he wanted to, without having to fear raiders out of the north.”
Anthimos’ eyebrows shot up. “See here, sirrah, don’t take that tone with me.”
“By the good god, it’s about time someone did!” Krispos yelled. He didn’t remember losing his temper, but it was lost sure enough, lost past finding. “About time someone took a boot to y
our backside, too, for always putting your prick and your belly ahead of your empire.”
“You be still this instant!” Anthimos shouted, loud as Krispos. Careless of his nakedness, the Avtokrator sprang out of bed and went nose to nose with his vestiarios. He shook a finger in Krispos’ face. “Shut up, I tell you!”
“You’re not man enough to make me,” Krispos said, breathing heavily. “For a copper, I’d break you over my knee.”
“Go ahead,” Anthimos said. “Touch me, just once. Touch the Emperor. We’ll see how long the torturers can keep you alive after you do. Weeks, I’d wager.”
Krispos spat between Anthimos’ feet, as if in rejection of Skotos. “You shield yourself behind your office whenever you choose to. Why don’t you use it?”
Anthimos went white. “Remember Petronas,” he said in a ghastly whisper. “By the good god, you may end up envying him if you don’t curb your tongue.”
“I remember Petronas well enough,” Krispos shot back. “I daresay the Empire would have been better off if he’d managed to cast you down from your throne. He—”
The Avtokrator’s hands writhed in furious passes. Suddenly Krispos found he could not speak; he had no voice, nor would his lips form words. “Are you quite through?” Anthimos asked. Krispos felt that he could nod. He refused to. Anthimos’ smile was as vicious as any with which Petronas had ever favored Krispos. “I suggest you admit you are finished—or do you care to find out how you’d relish being without breath as well as speech?”
Krispos had no doubt the Emperor meant what he said, nor that he could do what he threatened. He nodded.
“Is that yes, you are through?” Anthimos asked. Krispos nodded again. The Emperor moved his left hand, muttering something under his breath. He said, “Your speech is restored. I suggest, however—no, I order—that you do not use it in my presence now. Get out.”
Krispos turned to leave, shaking from a mixture of rage and fright he’d never felt before. He hadn’t thought he could ever grow truly angry at Anthimos; the Emperor’s good nature had always left him proof against full-blown fury. But even less had he imagined Anthimos as a figure of fear. A figure of fun, certainly, but never fear. Not till now. The Emperor had never shown he’d learned enough wizardry to be frightening till now.
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