The Gate of Fire (63 page)

Dwyrin blinked in surprised. The man's voice carried the burr of the northern seas, and he'd even managed to pronounce his name correctly. The youth straightened and ran a hand though his hair. "Aye, sir." He tried to stand, but a fierce headache intervened and he had to lean against the wooden frame of the bunk.

The man stepped into the room and turned a little to the side so that he could stand comfortably. It was not a large room. Dwyrin could make out his features for the first time. He was thin faced, with a narrow nose and dark brown hair. A pair of mustaches jutted from his lip, the ends waxed to sharp points. It was hard to make out his eyes in the poor light, but they seemed a strange violet color.

"Nicholas of Roskilde, centurion on detached duty," the man said, and extended a hand in greeting. Dwyrin took it, gripping the other man's wrist. The fellow was strong—his forearms were thick and muscled like a wrestler—but he felt no need to try to crush Dwyrin's grip in his. "You've been assigned to my cohort."

"I have?" Dwyrin was surprised. The last time that he had trudged across the complex of government buildings to the offices, there had been nothing for him. Of course, when he tried to remember what he had done the day before or the day before that, it was all a sort of pine-rosin tinted haze. These Greeks brewed some fierce wine. Dwyrin rubbed his face and grimaced to find it spiky with stubble. He had only begun to grow a beard and now it felt like a rat's nest stuck to his face. "Where are we going?"

The man nodded to himself and looked around the little room. It was part of a warren of cubicles in the basement of the "old" palace that housed soldiers in transit through the Eastern capital. The room was small and mean and almost filled by four bunks of splintery pine boards and musty straw pallets. "Come on," the man said briskly. "Get your gear and let's get on the road. We've got a boat to catch."

Dwyrin blinked again and rummaged under his bunk, pulling out two leather bags of gear that held his mess tin, his short Spanish-style sword, a saw, some wheat cakes, salted bacon, and other accoutrements. He slung them on a stout wooden pole that doubled as a tent post and hoisted that onto his shoulder. The man was already striding down the hallway, his head bent to one side to avoid striking his forehead on the low arches.

Dwyrin hurried after him.
Well,
he thought,
at least I'm going somewhere!

"Lord Prince?"

Theodore turned, his face still damp with sweat from his morning ride. The arches of the Imperial stables rose over his head, framing small square windows that let down bars of dusty yellow light. He rubbed his chin, feeling the stiffness of his beard. He would need a bath soon. His guardsmen loitered close, checking their horses' hooves and rattling about with their saddles and tack. "What ails you, Colos? You look like you've eaten a raw quince."

The man, short and balding, with thin arms and a long, narrow nose, shook his head. Theodore had met him before, many times. Colos was the scroll-pusher in charge of works within the city. Heraclius had always accorded him considerable respect, listening attentively to the man and his endless descriptions of wall repairs, sewer cleanings, aqueduct extensions, and so on. Theodore squared his shoulders and worked up a pleasant expression. Colos looked about and frowned at the number of groomsmen, guards, and other layabouts in evidence.

"Lord Prince, may I speak with you a moment, outside?"

"Surely." Theodore motioned to the stable boys to take his horse. It was bright outside, with the sun shining down out of a sky empty of clouds. The air had been nippy when Theodore had left the city in the predawn darkness, but now it promised to be an exceptional day. The bureaucrat turned left as they left the stables, and they passed through an arched passage. Beyond lay a small garden, filled with vines and spindly looking trees with white flowers.

"What goes?" Theodore turned, leaning against a wall.

Colos squinted in the sunlight, fidgeting. Now that they had some privacy, he seemed even more loathe to speak. The Prince cocked his head, eyeing the man.
Something must be afoot
, he thought with interest.
This fellow is about to wet his pants
...

"Ah... there is a delicate matter, Lord Prince. It... ah... it involves your immediate family."

Theodore frowned, his eyebrows crawling together. A dangerous light entered his eyes. "Which members of my family?"

Colos flinched, but he continued. Now that he had managed to force out the first words, the rest came much easier. "Lord Prince, some matters concerning the Emperor had sought his attention. Of course, since he is ill, he has little time for the business of state! Yet these things must needs be done... I took the matters in my own hands and went to see the Emperor's secretary."

Theodore nodded. Heraclius was barely cognizant of his surroundings for more than an hour or two a day. It made the simple business of government very difficult. Still, the matter had not caught Theodore's particular attention before.

"Again, I was told that the Emperor would see me later." Colos' voice rose a little as he spoke. "I pleaded with the clerks to, at least, let me leave the edicts, petitions, and proposals for his consideration at a later date. At first they refused me, but then she came out."

Theodore looked up from where he had been picking at some dirt under one of his nails. "She?"

"Yes." Colos nodded, his mouth twisted a little on one side. "The Empress and her maids came out of the inner audience chamber. She asked what I desired, and I told her. She said... she took the papers from me, saying she would see that the Emperor saw to them. I did not know what else to do, so I acceded to her demand."

The Prince pushed away from the wall, his face stiff. He stared at Colos, and the man stared back. "What happened, then?" Theodore's voice was soft. He realized with a sudden cold certainty that the enjoyable time he had spent riding with his friends in the hills of Thrace, or hunting in the forests of his estates in Bithnia, had been sorely wasted. "Were these items seen to?"

"They were, Lord Prince." Colos' expression changed, becoming, if possible, even more sour looking. "Documents were signed with the Emperor's seal and edicts approved, military dispositions were made and taxes levied. All very neat and tidy and properly done."

Theodore regarded the man, seeing him in a new light. Such words would not come out of Colos' mouth unless the man were sure of himself. Sure that he was supported by the other ministers and bureaucrats within the palace. Sure that the Prince would understand what he was implying. "So... despite this proper procedure, you do not feel that the papers and edicts and writs were, in fact, properly issued? You think, you
suspect
, that perhaps the Emperor did not pay overmuch attention to them? That, perhaps, some other person, familiar with the doings of these offices, might have taken it upon themselves to act in the Emperor's stead?"

Despite the menace inherent in the Prince's words, Colos nodded simply. "Lord Prince," he said, "the best-governed household is one where the father is honored. If the father is away, then the eldest son must bear the burden of providing proper guidance and direction to all."

Theodore nodded, though he felt a faint pang for the riding and hunting that would be lost to him. "I understand," he said, smiling. "I will see that proper direction is provided to the Emperor's household while he is ill." The Prince's face was cut by a feral grin.
This could be better than hawking!

Summer had finally come to Constantinople, and the chill of winter had passed. Today, as Nicholas and Dwyrin tramped through the streets of the city, there was a clear blue sky overhead. The morning haze that had clung to the docks and low-lying brick buildings had burned away in the bright sun. Even the bitter wood smoke of the Avar encampments beyond the walls was gone. The great Prince Theodore had sortied with the Imperial Army a month ago, after the soldiers had recovered from the week-long revel that had accompanied their return to the capital, and the Avars had scattered. The great Khan's morale had been broken by his failure to carry the walls and by the destruction of the Persian fleet. The latest word that Nicholas had heard in the senior centurion's mess was that the Avars were already abandoning Thrace and falling back behind the mountains of Moesia. Within the year he expected that Macedonia and Moesia Inferior would be recovered as well.

Nicholas whistled a lilting tune as he walked, long legs eating up the distance between the old palace and the military harbor. He would be glad to leave the narrow, twisting streets of the city and the unrelenting noise and crowds. The youth dogged along at his side, his shorter legs scrambling to keep up. Nicholas looked down, measuring the unshaven face with its fuzz of red whiskers and the nonregulation hair that was a tangle behind the boy's head. Nicholas had been rather surprised when he had looked over the roster of his command and found that it contained a thaumaturge detached from a frontier unit. His experience in working for the Office of Barbarians had always been marked by a penurious atmosphere.

Now, seeing the boy and the bleary eyes and the shuffle that marked a particularly tremendous hangover, he wondered whether he hadn't gotten shorted again. Of course, the locals were fond of very strong wine, spiked with pine rosin to "give it flavor," as he had once been told.

"So, lad, where have you been? What experience have you?"

Dwyrin looked up blearily and opened his mouth, then closed it again. They walked a distance before the Hibernian could muster enough brainpower to put one word after another. In his current fog, it took a lot of effort to put one foot in front of the other.

"I was with the army in Persia, Centurion. I was at Tauris and Kerenos and Ctesiphon."

Nicholas whistled in appreciation. The boy had seen some action then. Perhaps he had gotten a good draw after all. Not that this job needed it really. "How long have you been in the thaumaturges, MacDonald? Which circle have you attained?"

Dwyrin smiled grimly. He got that question a lot, more so since Zoë and Odenathus had abandoned him at Antioch. "Just about a year, sir. I'm still first circle."

Nicholas raised an eyebrow and shrugged. Back to getting the short stick. Still, an inexperienced hell-caster was better than none, right?

"Sir?"

Nicholas nodded for the boy to go on.

"Where are we going?"

"In a minute, lad. Once we're on the boat and have met the rest of our little crew I'll fill you in."

Ravens flew past overhead, cawing in delight at the warm air. A procession of priests passed them on the raised sidewalk, the voices raised in a chant to the eternal sun. Golden disks were stitched to their long robes, and the lead man carried a solar emblem on a tall pole. Nicholas stepped aside to let them pass, even though it meant that he had to squish through the offal in the middle of the street. Dwyrin hopped after him. The street canted sharply downward, plunging off the hill that held the Hippodrome. A boulevard led down to the harbors on the southwestern side of the city.

Dwyrin was winded by the time they crossed the Racing District and reached the huge brooding gate that opened through the sea walls. A broad road disgorged from the Bovine gate and led down into the controlled chaos of the military harbor. His pack seemed to have become much heavier since he had arrived in the city. His head was still throbbing, too.
No more wine for me
, he pledged, raising an image of the shrine of Macha in his village before him.
Particularly this nasty resinated stuff they serve here
. The free-flowing wine, meat, and bread of the Imperial Triumph had left their mark on him. The excellent muscle tone that he had gained under Blanco and Zoë's tutelage and on a thousand miles of Asian road was suffering.

They passed out of the shadow of the towering brick seawalls and walked down a wooden pier broader than the main street of Dwyrin's home village. A forest of ship's masts rose around them, and the air rang with the cry of quartermasters and sailors and the cawing of seagulls. Flocks of the dirty white birds filled the air, casting endlessly moving shadows on the men laboring in the harbor. Nicholas counted piers, finally turning at the sixth one. The wooden quay was choked with piles of crates under nets and rows of barrels. Dwyrin stuck close to the taller man as they wove through the press. Lines of soldiers squatted or sat on the dock, their kit bundled at their feet. Most of them seemed to be Imperials with short-cropped dark hair and proud noses. They watched the two barbarians pass without comment.

Nicholas continued on, past the hulking shapes of troop transports, and finally reached the end of the dock. A low-sided ship with peeling paint, a dingy cabin, and faded markings was moored there. Nicholas bounded up the ramp, the springy wood flexing under his boots. "Ho, the boat!" His voice rolled out over the craft and roused a sailor who was napping under a striped sunshade hung over the stern deck. The man, a dark-skinned fellow with a beard of tightly curled ringlets, opened one eye and waved, his hand languid in the air. Dwyrin took the gangway at a more sedate pace and put down his bags with a hearty sigh. The smell of the sea, sharp with the smell of rotting fish on the shore and cast-up garbage thrown from passing ships, was beginning to cut through the haze in his head.

Nicholas waved to the sailor as he went forward and banged on the door to the fore cabin. There was no answer, so he gave it a kick and it bounced open, making a tremendous rattle. He turned, looking back up the deck. The Hibernian boy was picking up his bags again. "We can leave when you please, Master Tirus!"

Nicholas flashed the sailor a broad smile. Even the feel of a ship at rest, barely shifting in its mooring, made him feel at home. So much better than the grim, tight streets of the city! "Come on, lad, we've much to discuss."

Dwyrin sighed deeply and slung the tent pole on his shoulder again. The centurion's obvious good humor and nervous energy were giving him a new headache.