The Tale of Krispos
Page 121
The seal was a sunburst stamped into the sky-blue wax that was an imperial prerogative, which meant the dispatch came from Evripos. Krispos could think of only one reason why his son would send out an urgent message. Filled with foreboding, he broke the seal.
His son’s script still retained some of the copybook clarity that years of quickly scribbling will erode. The words were as legible as they were unwelcome: “Evripos to his father. Greetings. Riots flared here night before last, and have grown worse rather than better since. Forces under my command are doing all they can to restore order. I shall send more news as it becomes available. Phos guard you and this city both. Farewell.”
“Do you know anything of this?” Krispos asked the messenger, waving the parchment in his direction.
“No, Your Majesty, I’m sorry but I don’t,” the man answered. “I’m but the latest of a string of relay riders. I hear tell from the fellow who gave me the tube that there’s some sort of trouble back at the city. Is that so?”
“Aye, that’s so,” Krispos answered grimly. He’d known the Thanasioi might try that ploy to distract him and, prepared for it as well as he could. Whether well as he could was well enough would come clear before long.
Then he thought of something else, something that chilled him: was Phostis on the sea to go to the capital and lead the rioters against loyal troops? If he was, he might throw the city into worse turmoil than even Krispos had expected. Have to warn Evripos about that, the Avtokrator thought.
“Is there a reply, Your Majesty?” the messenger asked.
“Yes, by the good god, there is,” Krispos said. But before he could give it, another dispatch rider rode up on an abused horse and waved a message tube in his face. He didn’t like the fearful look in the newcomer’s eyes. “Rest easy there, you. I’ve never been in the habit of blaming the messenger for the word he brings.”
“Aye, Your Majesty,” the second rider said, but he didn’t sound convinced. He thrust out the message tube as if it held poison.
Krispos took it, then asked, “You know what’s in it?” The messenger nodded. Krispos said, “Speak it to me plain, then. By the lord with the great and good mind, I swear no harm nor blame shall fall on you because of it.”
He’d never seen a man who so obviously wanted to be somewhere, anywhere, else. The dispatch rider licked his lips, looked this way and that, but found no escape. He sucked in a deep breath, then let it all out in five blurted words: “Your Majesty, Garsavra is fallen.”
“What?” Krispos gaped at him, more in disbelief than horror. So did everyone close enough to hear. Lying where the Eriza and Arandos rivers came together, Garsavra was one of the two or three greatest towns in the westlands. The army was already west of it; they’d forded the northern reaches of the Eriza day before yesterday.
Krispos opened the message tube. It confirmed what the dispatch rider had said, and added details. Outriding news of their coming, the Thanasioi had swept down on the town at sunrise. They’d burned and killed and maimed; they’d thrown the local prelate headfirst off the roof of the temple by the central square, then set fire to the building. Few survivors would have their souls burdened by a surplus of material goods for years to come.
Krispos stared at the parchment in his left hand. He wanted to tear it into a thousand pieces. With a deliberate effort of will, he checked himself: some of the information it held might be valuable. As steadily as he could, he told the messenger, “You have my thanks for your courage in bringing this to me. What is your rank?”
“I’m on the books as a file closer, Your Majesty,” the man answered.
“You’re a file leader now,” Krispos told him.
One of the scouts from the vanguard came riding back to the main body. He waited to catch Krispos’ eye, then said, “May it please Your Majesty, we’ve rounded up a Thanasiot riding at us under shield of truce. He says he bears a message for you from Livanios.”
Too much was falling on Krispos too fast. He had the feeling of a tavern juggler who has reached out for one plate he’s tossed away, only to have all the others that were up in the air smash down on his head before he can snatch back his hand. “Bring me this Thanasiot,” he said heavily. “Tell him I’ll honor his truce sign, which is likely more courtesy than he’d give to one of ours. Tell him just that way.”
The scout saluted and rode ahead. He came back a few minutes later with one of Livanios’ irregulars. The Thanasiot carried a white-painted round target on his left arm. He smiled at Krispos’ somber face and said, “I’d wager you have the news already. Am I right, friend?”
“I’m no friend of yours,” Krispos said. “Give me your master’s message.”
The Thanasiot handed him a tube no different from those he’d had from his own couriers save in the seal: the image of a leaping flame stamped into scarlet wax. Krispos broke it and angrily threw the little pieces of wax down onto the ground. The parchment inside was sealed with the identical mark. Krispos cracked it, unrolled the parchment, and scanned the message it contained:
Livanios who treads the gleaming path to the false Avtokrator and servant of Skotos Krispos: Greetings. Know that I write this from the ruins of Garsavra, which city has been purified and cleansed of its sinful materialism by warriors true to the lord with the great and good mind. Know further that all cities of the westlands are liable to the same penalty, which Phos’ soldiers may deliver at any time which suits them.
And know further, miscalled ruler destined for the ice, your corrupt and gold-bloated regime is henceforward and ever after banished from these westlands. If you would preserve even a fragment of your illicit and tyrannical rule, withdraw at once over the Cattle-Crossing, yielding this land to those who shall hold it in triumph, peace, and piety. Repent of your wealth and other sins before Phos’ final judgment descends upon you. Cast aside your greed and surrender yourself to the gleaming path. I am yours in Phos. Farewell.
Krispos slowly and deliberately crumpled the parchment, then turned to the Thanasiot messenger and said, “My reply is one word: no. Take it and be thankful your life goes with it.”
“I don’t fear death—death liberates me from Skotos,” the messenger retorted. “You call down doom on your own head.” He twitched the reins, dug his heels into his horse’s sides, and rode away singing a hymn.
“What did the whoreson want of you?” Sarkis asked. When Krispos told him, his fleshy face darkened with anger. “By the good god, a bragging fool ought to know better than to taunt a force that’s bigger than his, especially when we stand closer to Etchmiadzin than he does.”
“Maybe we stand closer to it,” Krispos said bleakly. “You’ve said all along Livanios is no fool. Surely he’ll have withdrawn after the rape of Garsavra. I don’t want to chase him back to his stronghold; I want to force him to battle outside of it.”
“How do you propose to do that?” Sarkis said. “The cursed Thanasioi move faster than we; they aren’t even burdened by loot, because they burn it instead of carrying it along with them.”
“I know.” Krispos’ scowl was black as winter midnight. “I suppose you were right before, though: We have to try. Livanios can’t be smart all the time—I hope. If we march smartly, we may come to grips with him up on the plateau. Worth a try, anyhow.”
“Aye.” Sarkis nodded vigorously. “Our cavalry at Tavas can hold its own against anything the Thanasioi have around there—and now we know where their main force has been lurking.”
“So we do,” Krispos said. “It’s a bloody big cloud for such a thin silver lining.” He leaned over, spat down onto the ground as if in ritual rejection of Skotos, then began issuing the orders that would shift the army’s line of march from the coast and up into the central highlands. Changing the troops’ destination was the easy part. Making sure they would have food and their animals fodder along the new track was much more involved.
What with everything that came after, he forgot to send Evripos a reply.
PHOSTIS G
UIDED THE FISHING BOAT UP TO THE LITTLE QUAY from which his father would row out to see what he could catch. He threw out a line, scrambled up onto the dock, and made the boat fast.
He was just helping Olyvria up onto the planks when an indignant palace servitor opened the seawall gate and exclaimed, “Here, who do you think you are? This dock’s not for just anyone. It’s reserved for the Avtokrator, Phos bless him, so you can kindly take your smelly little boat somewhere else.”
“It’s all right, Soranos,” Phostis answered. “I don’t think Father will mind.”
He wasn’t in the least put out that Soranos hadn’t recognized him. He was grimy, shaggy, wearing a cheap, ragged long tunic, and sunburned. In fact, he was sunburned in some tender spots under the tunic, too, thanks to frolicking with Olyvria in broad, hot daylight. She was also sunburned; they’d shared misery and fish on the way back to the city.
The servitor put hands on hips. “Oh, your father won’t mind, eh? And who, pray, is your father? Do you know yourself?”
Phostis had been wondering the same thing, but didn’t let on. He said, “My father is Krispos son of Phostis, Avtokrator of the Videssians. I have, you will notice if you look closely, escaped from the Thanasioi.”
Soranos started to give back another sharp answer, but paused and took a long look at Phostis. He was too swarthy to turn pale, but his jaw fell, his eyes widened, and his right hand, seemingly of its own accord, shaped the sun-circle above his heart. He prostrated himself, gabbling, “Young Majesty, it is yourself—I mean, you are yourself! A thousand pardons, I pray, I beg! Phos be praised that he has granted you safe voyage home and blessed you with liberty once again.”
Beside Phostis, Olyvria snickered. He shook his head reproachfully, then told the servitor, “Get up, get up. I forgive you. Now tell me at once what’s going on, why I saw so much smoke in the sky as I was sailing down the Cattle-Crossing.”
“The heretics have rioted again, young Majesty; they’re trying to burn the city down around our heads,” Soranos answered as he rose.
“I feared that’s what it was. Take me to my father at once, then.”
Soranos’ face assumed the exaggerated mask of regret any sensible servant donned when saying no to a member of the imperial family. “Young Majesty, I cannot. He has left the city to campaign against the Thanasioi.”
“Yes, of course he has,” Phostis said, annoyed at himself. Had the imperial army not been on the move, he wouldn’t have been sent to Pityos—or escaped. “Who is in command here in the city, then?”
“The young Majesty Evripos, your brother.”
“Oh.” Phostis bit down on that like a man finding a pebble in his lentil stew. From Krispos’ point of view, the appointment made sense, especially with Phostis himself absent. But he could not imagine anyone who would be less delighted than Evripos at his sudden arrival. No help for it, though. “You’d best take me to him.”
“Certainly, young Majesty. But would you and your, ah, companion—” Olyvria had her hair up under her hat and was in her baggy, mannish outfit, so Soranos could not be sure if she was woman or youth. “—not care first to refresh yourselves and change into, ah, more suitable garments?”
“No.” Phostis made the single word as imperious—and imperial—as he could; not till it had passed his lips did he realize he’d taken his tone from Krispos.
Whatever its source, it worked wonders. Soranos said, “Of course, young Majesty. Follow me, if you would be so kind.”
Phostis followed. No one came close to him, Olyvria, and Soranos as they walked through the palace compound. People who saw them at a distance no doubt thought Soranos was escorting a couple of day laborers to some job or other.
To Phostis, the palace compound was simply home. He took no special notice of the lawns and gardens and buildings among which he strode. To Olyvria, though, they all seemed new and marvelous. Watching her try to look every which way at once, seeing her awe at the Grand Courtroom, the cherry orchard that screened the imperial residence, and the Hall of the Nineteen Couches made him view them with fresh eyes, too.
Evripos was not conducting his fight against the rioters from the palaces. He’d set up a headquarters in the plaza of Palamas. People—some soldiers, some not—hurried in and out with news, orders, what-have-you. A big Haloga gave Phostis a first-rate dubious stare. “What you want here?” he asked in accented Videssian.
“I’d like to see my brother, Herwig,” Phostis answered.
Herwig glowered at him, wondering who his brother might be—and who he was himself, to presume to address an imperial guardsman by name. Then the glower faded to wonderment. “Young Majesty!” the Haloga boomed, loud enough to cause heads to turn in the makeshift pavilion.
Among those heads was Evripos’. “Well, well,” he said when he saw it truly was Phostis. “Look what the dog dragged to the doorstep.”
“Hello, brother,” Phostis said, more cautiously than he’d expected. In the bit more than half a year since he’d set eyes on his younger brother, Evripos had gone from youth to man. His features were sharper than they had been, his beard thicker and not so soft. He wore a man’s expression, too, under a coat of smoke and dirt: tired, harassed, but determined to do what he’d set out to do.
Now he gave Phostis a hostile stare. It wasn’t the stare Phostis was used to, the one that came because he was older. It was because he might be an enemy. Evripos barked, “Did the cursed Thanasioi send you here to stir up more trouble?”
“If they had, would I have tied up the fishing boat I sailed here over at Father’s quay?” Phostis said. “Would I have come looking for you instead of Digenis?”
“Digenis is dead, and we don’t miss him a bit,” Evripos said, voice still harsh. “And who knows what you’d do? One of the things I know about the bloody heretics is that they’re bloody sneaky. For all I know, you could have that doxy there by you just to fool me into thinking you’re not off the pleasures of the flesh.”
Unlike Soranos, Evripos knew a girl when he saw one, no matter what she wore. Phostis said, “Brother, I present to you Olyvria the daughter of Livanios, who helped me escape from the Thanasioi and rejects them as much as I do, which is to say altogether.”
That succeeded in startling Evripos. Then Olyvria startled Phostis: She prostrated herself before his brother, murmuring, “Your Majesty.” She probably should have said young Majesty, but Evripos had been left in command of the city, so she wasn’t really wrong—and she was dead right to err on the side of flattery.
Evripos grunted. Before he could say more than “Get up,” a messenger bleeding from a cut over one eye came up and gasped something Phostis didn’t follow. Evripos said, “It’s not hard unless you make it so. Push one troop down from Middle Street east of where those maniacs are holed up and another west of ’em. Then crush ’em between our men.”
The messenger dashed away. Off to one side in the pavilion, Phostis saw Noetos bent over a map. But Noetos was not running the show. Evripos was. Phostis had watched Krispos exercise command too often to mistake it.
He said, “What can I do to help?”
“To take things away from me, you mean?” Evripos asked suspiciously.
“No. Father gave it to you, and you seem to be doing well by it. I just got here, remember? I haven’t the faintest idea what’s going on. But if I can be of use, tell me how.”
Evripos looked as if such cooperation were the last thing he wanted. Olyvria said, “If you like, we could speak to the mob and tell them why we care for the gleaming path no more.”
“Not the least reason being that Makuran is behind the Thanasioi and supports them with a wizard and the good god only knows what all else,” Phostis added.
“So you know about that, do you? We wondered, Father and I. We were afraid you knew and didn’t care, afraid you’d thrown your lot in with the heretics. You hadn’t seemed exactly eager when we went on campaign against them last year.” Evripos’ sarcasm stung like a whiplash.
Evripos glowered at him. “The Thanasioi have tricks to beat the two-mirror test, as you’ll recall from the delightful time Zaidas had trying to use it last year. And if Zaidas couldn’t make it work, I doubt another mage would be able to, either. And so, brother of mine, I’ll keep you and the heresiarch’s daughter off the platform. I can’t trust you, you see.”
“Can’t trust us how?” Phostis demanded.
“How d’you think? Suppose I let you go talk to the mob and instead of saying, ‘The golden path is a midden full of dung,’ you say, ‘Hurrah for Thanasios! Now go out and burn the High Temple!’? That would spill the chamber pot into the stew, now wouldn’t it?”
Noetos looked up from the map table and said, “Surely the young Majesty would commit no such outrage. He—”
Evripos cut him off with a sharp wave of the hand. “No.” He sounded as imperial—and as much like his father—as Phostis had with the same word. “I will not take the chance. Have we not seen enough chaos in the city these past few days to fight shy of provoking more? I say again, no.” He shifted his feet into a fighter’s stance, as if defying Noetos to make him change his mind.
The general tamely yielded. “It shall be as you say, of course, young Majesty,” he murmured, and went back to his map.
Phostis found himself furious enough to want to hit his brother over the head with the nearest hard object he could find. “You’re a fool,” he growled.
“And you’re a blockhead,” Evripos retorted. “I’m not the one who let Digenis seduce him.”
“How’s this, then?” Phostis said. “Suppose you summon Oxeites the patriarch here to the plaza of Palamas or anyplace else you think would be a good idea, and he can marry me to Olyvria as publicly as possible. That ought to convince people I’m not a Thanasiot—they’d sooner starve than wive…Curse you, Evripos, I mean it. What’s so bloody funny?”