The Tale of Krispos

by Harry Turtledove

  “Gold speaks a lot of languages,” Krispos observed.

  “Sometimes you’re too pragmatic for your own good,” Iakovitzes wrote, rolling his eyes at his sovereign’s obtuseness. “There’s no challenge to merely buying it; the pursuit is part of the game. Why do you think I chased you so long and hard when I knew your appetite ran only to women?”

  “So that’s it, eh?” Krispos said. “At the time, I thought you were just being beastly.”

  Iakovitzes clapped a hand over his heart and pantomimed a death scene well enough to earn him a place on a professional mime troupe. Then, miraculously recovered, he bent over his tablet and wrote rapidly: “I think I shall make my way back to Mashiz after all. There, being a representative of the enemy, I am treated with the respect I deserve. My alleged friends prefer slander.” He rolled his eyes.

  Krispos laughed out loud. Iakovitzes’ peculiar combination of touchiness and viperish wit never failed to amuse—except when it infuriated. Sometimes it managed both at once. The Avtokrator quickly sobered. He asked, “On your way back from Makuran, did you have any trouble with the Thanasioi?”

  Iakovitzes shook his head, then amplified on the tablet. “I returned by the southern route, and saw no trace. They seem to be a perversion centered in the northwest, though I gather you’ve had your bouts with them here in the city, too.”

  “Bouts indeed,” Krispos said heavily. “A good windstorm and they might have burned down half this place. Not only that, interrogation by sorcery doesn’t have any luck with them, and they’re so drunk in their beliefs that many take torture more as an honor than a torment.”

  “And they have your son,” Iakovitzes wrote. He spread his hands to show sympathy for Krispos.

  “They have him, aye,” Krispos said, “certainly in body and perhaps in spirit as well.” Iakovitzes raised a questioning eyebrow; his gestures, though wordless, had grown so expressive in the years since he’d lost his tongue as to have almost the quality of speech. Krispos explained, “He was talking with a priest who turned out to be a Thanasiot. For all I know, he’s taken the wretch’s doctrines as his own.”

  “Not good,” Iakovitzes wrote.

  “No. And now this Digenis—the priest—is starving himself in my jail. He thinks he’ll end up with Phos when he quits the world. My guess is that Skotos will punish him forevermore.” The Emperor spat between his feet in despisal of the dark god.

  Iakovitzes wrote, “If you ask me, asceticism is its own punishment, but I’d not heard of its being a capital offense till now.” That observation made Krispos nod. It also filled all three leaves of the tablet. Iakovitzes reversed his stylus, smoothed out the wax with the blunt end, wrote again. “These days I can tell very easily when I’m talking too much—as soon as I have to start erasing, I know I’ve been running on. Would that those who still flap their gums enjoyed such a visible sign of prolixity.”

  “Ah, but if they did, they’d spend their increased silent time thinking up new ways to commit mischief,” Krispos said.

  “You’re likely right,” Iakovitzes answered. He studied Krispos for a few seconds, then reclaimed the tablet. “You’re more cynical than you used to be. Is that all good? I do admit it’s natural enough, for from the throne you’ve likely heard more drivel these last twenty years than any other man alive, but is it good?”

  Krispos thought about that for some little while before he answered. In different forms, the question had arisen several times lately, as when he gave that first Thanasiot prisoner over to torture after Zaidas’ magic failed to extract answers from him. He’d not have done that so readily when he was younger. Was he just another Emperor now, holding to power by whatever means came to hand?

  “We’re none of us what we were awhile ago,” he said, but that was not an answer, and he knew it. By the way Iakovitzes raised an eyebrow, cocked his head, and waited for Krispos to go on, he knew it was no answer, too. Floundering, Krispos tried to give one: “The temples will never venerate me as holy, I daresay, but I hope the chroniclers will be able to report I governed Videssos well. I work hard at it, at any rate. If I’m harsh when I have to be, I also think I’m mild when I can be. My sons are turning into men, and not, I can say, the worst of men. Is it enough?” He heard pleading in his voice, a note he’d not found there in some years: the Avtokrator heard pleas; he did not make them.

  Iakovitzes bent over the writing tablet. When the stylus was done racing back and forth, he passed the tablet to Krispos, who received it with some anxiety. He knew Iakovitzes well enough to be sure his old companion would be blunt with him. He had no trouble reading it, at any rate; constant poring over documents had kept his sight from lengthening with age as much as most men’s.

  “That you can ask the question after so long on the throne speaks well for you,” Iakovitzes wrote. “Too many Avtokrators forget it exists within days of their anointing. As for the reply you gave, well, Videssos has had the occasional holy man on the throne, and most turned out bad, for the world is not a holy place. So long as you remember now and again what an innocent—and attractive—boy you once were, you’ll not turn out too badly.”

  Krispos nodded slowly. “I’ll take that.”

  “You’d better,” Iakovitzes replied after more scribbling. “I flatter only when I hope to entice someone under the sheets with me, and after all our years of acquaintance I’m at last beginning to doubt I’ll ever have much luck with you.”

  “You’re incorrigible,” Krispos said.

  “Now that you mention it, yes,” Iakovitzes wrote. He beamed, taking it for a compliment. Then he covered his mouth with a hand while he yawned; the empty cavern within was an unpleasant sight, and he made a point of not displaying it. He wrote some more. “By your leave, Your Majesty, I’ll take my own leave now, to rest at home after my travels. Do you still take supper just past sunset?”

  “I have enough years on me now to have become a creature of habit,” Krispos answered, nodding. “And with which of your handsome grooms do you intend to rest until suppertime?”

  Iakovitzes assumed a comically innocent look, then bowed his way out of the little dining chamber. Krispos guessed his barb had struck home—or at least given Iakovitzes an idea. Krispos finished his mulled wine, then set the silver goblet down beside Iakovitzes’. The wine hadn’t stayed warm, but the ginger and cinnamon stirred into it nipped his tongue pleasantly.

  Barsymes came in with a tray on which to carry away the goblets. Krispos said, “Iakovitzes will join me for supper this evening. Please let the cooks know he’ll like seafood in as many courses as possible—he says he’s tired of Makuraner mutton.”

  “I shall convey the eminent sir’s request,” Barsymes agreed gravely. “His presence will allow the kitchen staff to display their full range of talents.”

  “Hrmp,” Krispos said in mock indignation. “I can’t help being raised on a poor farm.” While he enjoyed fancy dishes well enough, he more often preferred the simple fare he’d grown up with. More than one cook had complained of having his wings clipped.

  Dusk was settling over the city when Iakovitzes returned, resplendent and glittering in a robe shot through with silver thread. Barsymes escorted him and Krispos to the small dining room where they’d taken wine earlier in the day. A fresh jar awaited them, cooling in a silver bucket of snow. The vestiarios poured a cup for each man. Iakovitzes wrote, “Ah, it’s pale. Perhaps someone listened to me.”

  “Perhaps someone did, eminent sir,” Barsymes said. “And now, if you will excuse me—” He glided away, to return with a bowl. “A salad of lettuce and endives, dressed with vinegar flavored by rue, dates, pepper, honey, and crushed cumin—a garnish said to promote good health—and topped with anchovies and rings of squid.”

  Iakovitzes rose from his chair and gave Barsymes a formal military salute, then kissed him on each beardless cheek. The vestiarios retreated in order less good than was his wont. Krispos hid a smile and attacked the salad, which proved tasty. Iakovitzes cut
his portion into very small bits. He had to wash each one down with wine and put his head back to swallow.

  His smile was blissful. He wrote, “Ah, squid! Were you to offer one of these tentacled lovelies to Rubyab King of Kings, Your Majesty, without doubt he would flee faster than from an invading Videssian army. The Makuraners, when it comes to food, live most insular—or perhaps I should say inlandsular—lives.”

  “The more fools they.” Krispos ate slowly, so as not to get ahead of Iakovitzes. Barsymes cleared away the plates. Krispos said, “Tell me, eminent sir, did you ever find out what was making Rubyab’s mustaches quiver with secret glee?”

  “Do you know, I didn’t, not to be sure of it,” Iakovitzes answered. He looked thoughtful. “Terrible, isn’t it, when a Makuraner outdoes me in deceit? I must be getting old. But I tell you this, Your Majesty: one way or another, it concerns us.”

  “I was sure it would,” Krispos said. “Nothing would make Rubyab happier than buggering Videssos.” He caught Iakovitzes’ eye. “In the metaphorical sense, of course.”

  Iakovitzes gobbled laughter. “Oh, of course, Your Majesty,” he wrote.

  Barsymes returned with a fresh course. “Here we have leeks boiled in water and olive oil,” he declared, “and then stewed in more oil and mullet broth. To accompany them, oysters in a sauce of oil, honey, wine, egg yolks, pepper, and lovage.”

  Iakovitzes tasted the oysters, then wrote in big letters, “I want to marry the cook.”

  “He is a man, eminent sir,” Barsymes said.

  “All the better,” Iakovitzes wrote, which sent the vestiarios into rapid retreat. He presently returned with another new platter along with a fresh jar of wine. This dish held peppered mullet liver paste baked in a fish-shaped mold and then sprinkled with virgin olive oil, as well as squashes baked with mint, coriander, and cumin, and stuffed with pine nuts ground with honey and wine.

  “I shan’t eat for a week,” Krispos declared happily.

  “But Your Majesty, the main courses approach,” Barsymes said in anxious tones.

  Krispos corrected himself: “Two weeks. Bring ’em on.” The tip of his nose was getting numb. How much wine had he drunk, anyhow? The rich flavor of the fish livers nicely complemented the squashes’ sweet stuffing.

  Barsymes bore away the empty mold from which the liver paste had come and the bowl that had held the squashes. Under the table, Krispos felt something on his leg, just above the knee. It turned out to be Iakovitzes’ hand. “By the good god,” the Avtokrator exclaimed, “you never give up, do you?”

  “I’m still breathing,” Iakovitzes wrote. “If I haven’t stopped the one, why should I stop the other?”

  “Something to that,” Krispos admitted. He hadn’t had much luck with the other lately, and he’d surely be too gorged after this banquet was done to try to improve that tonight. Just then Barsymes came back again, this time with a tureen and two bowls. Thinking about what the tureen might hold took Krispos’ mind off other matters, a sure sign of advancing years.

  The vestiarios announced, “Here we have mullets stewed in wine, with leeks, broth, and vinegar, seasoned with oregano, coriander, and crushed pepper. For your added pleasure, the stew also includes scallops and baby prawns.”

  After the first taste, Iakovitzes wrote, “The only thing that could further add to my pleasure would be an infinitely distensible stomach, and you may tell the cooks as much.”

  “I shall, eminent sir,” Barsymes promised. “They will take pleasure in knowing they have pleased you.”

  The next course was lobster meat and spawn chopped fine, mixed with eggs, pepper, and mullet broth, wrapped in grape leaves, and then fried. After that came cuttlefish boiled in wine, honey, celery, and caraway seeds, and stuffed with boiled calves’ brains and crumbled hard-cooked eggs. Only the expectant look on Barsymes’ face kept Krispos from falling asleep then and there. “One entree yet to come,” the vestiarios said. “I assure you, it shall be worth the wait.”

  “My weight’s already gone up considerably,” Krispos said, patting his midsection. He could have used an infinitely distensible stomach himself about then.

  But Barsymes, as usual, proved right. When he set down the last tray and its serving bowl, he said, “I am bidden by the cooks to describe this dish in detail. Any lapses in the description spring from my lapses of memory, not theirs of talent. I begin: to soaked pine nuts and sea urchins, they added in a casserole layers of mallows, beets, leeks, celery, cabbage, and other vegetables I now forget. Also included are stewed chickens, pigs’ brains, blood sausage, chicken gizzards, fried tunny in bits, sea nettles, stewed oysters in pieces, and fresh cheeses. It is spiced with celery seed, lovage, pepper, and asafetida. Over the top was poured milk with beaten egg. It was then stiffened in a hot-water bath, garnished with fresh mussels, and peppered once more. I am only too certain I’ve left out something or another, I beg you not to report my failing to the cooks.”

  “Phos have mercy,” Krispos exclaimed, eyeing the big casserole dish with something far beyond mere respect. “Should we eat of it or worship it?” After Barsymes served Iakovitzes and him, he had his answer. “Both!” he said with his mouth full.

  The feast had stretched far into the night; every so often, Barsymes fed charcoal to a brazier that kept the dining chamber tolerably warm. Iakovitzes held up his tablet. “I hope you have a wheelbarrow in which to roll me home, for I’m certain I can’t walk.”

  “Something shall be arranged, I am certain,” the vestiarios said. “Dessert will be coming shortly. I trust you will do it justice?”

  Iakovitzes and Krispos both groaned. The Avtokrator said, “We’ll deal with it or burst trying. I’d say it’s about even money which.” He’d taken an army into battle many times with better odds than those.

  But the sweet scent of the steam gently rising from the pan Barsymes brought in revived his interest. “Here we have grated apricots cooked in milk until tender, then covered in honey and lightly dusted with ground cinnamon.” The vestiarios bowed to Iakovitzes. “Eminent sir, the cooks apologize for their failure to include seafood in this one dish.”

  “Tell them I forgive their lapse,” Iakovitzes wrote. “I’ve not yet decided whether to sprout fins or tentacles from tonight’s fête.”

  The apricots tasted as good as they smelled. Krispos nonetheless ate them very slowly, being full far past repletion. He was only halfway through his portion when Barsymes hurried into the dining chamber. The Emperor raised an eyebrow; such a lapse was unlike the eunuch.

  Barsymes said, “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but the mage Zaidas would have speech with you. It is, I gather, a matter of some urgency.”

  “Maybe he’s here to tell me Digenis dropped dead at last,” Krispos said hopefully. “Fetch him in, esteemed sir. If he’d come sooner, he could have helped the two of us commit gluttony here, not that we haven’t managed well enough on our own.”

  When Zaidas came to the doorway, he started to prostrate himself. Krispos waved for him not to bother. Nodding his thanks, the wizard greeted Iakovitzes, whom he knew well. “Good to have you back with us, eminent sir. You’ve been away too long.”

  “It certainly seemed too bloody long,” Iakovitzes wrote.

  Barsymes carried in a chair for the mage. “Help yourself to apricots,” Krispos said. “But first tell me what brings you here so late. It must be getting close to the sixth hour of the night. Has Digenis finally gone to the ice?”

  To his surprise, Zaidas answered, “No, Your Majesty, or not that I know of. It has rather to do with your son Phostis.”

  “You found a way to make Digenis talk?” Krispos demanded eagerly.

  “Not that either, Your Majesty,” the mage said. “As you know, till now I’ve had no success even learning the possible source of the magic that conceals the young Majesty from my search. This has not been from want of effort or diligence, I assure you. Till now, I would have described the trouble as want of skill.”

  “Till now?”
Krispos prompted.

  “As you know, Your Majesty, my wife Aulissa is a very determined lady.” Zaidas gave a small, self-deprecating chuckle. “She has, in fact, determination to spare for herself and me both.”

  Iakovitzes reached for the stylus, but forbore. Krispos admired Aulissa’s beauty and her strength of purpose while remaining content she was his mage’s wife, not his own. The two of them had been happy together for many years, though. Now Krispos just said, “Go on, pray.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. In any case, Aulissa, seeing my discontent at failing to penetrate the shield the Thanasiot sorcerers have thrown up to disguise Phostis’ whereabouts, suggested I test that screen at odd times and in odd ways, in the hope of ascertaining its nature while it might be weakest. Having no more likely profitable notions of my own, I fell in with her plan, and this evening I saw it crowned with success.”

  “There’s good news indeed,” Krispos said. “I’m in your debt, and in Aulissa’s. Tell her when you go home that I’ll show I’m grateful with more than words. But for now, by the good god, tell me what you know before I get up and tear it from you.”

  Iakovitzes let out his gobbling laugh. “It’s an idle threat, sorcerous sir,” he wrote. “Neither Krispos nor I could rise for anything right now, in any sense of the word.”

  Zaidas’ smile was nervous. “You must understand, Your Majesty, I’ve not broken the screen, merely peeked behind one lifted corner of it, if I may use ordinary words to describe sorcerous operations. But this I can tell you with some confidence: the magic behind the screen is of the school inspired by the Prophets Four.”

  “Is it?” Krispos said. Iakovitzes’ eyebrows were eloquent of surprise. The Avtokrator added, “So the wind blows from that quarter, does it? It’s not what I expected, I’ll say that. Knowing how the screen was made, can you now pierce it?”

  “That remains to be seen,” Zaidas said, “but I can essay such piercing with more hope than previously was mine.”