The Tale of Krispos (41 page)

Krispos stared at his retreating back. He sounded very sure of himself. What was he going to do, hire a band of bravoes to storm the imperial residence? Bravoes who tangled with the Emperor’s Halogai would end up catmeat. And whatever Krispos ate, Anthimos ate, too. Unless Petronas wanted to be rid of his nephew along with Krispos, poison was unlikely, and he showed no sign of wanting to be rid of his nephew, not so long as he got his way.

What did that leave? Not much, Krispos thought, if I lie low until Petronas heads west. The Sevastokrator could hire assassins from afar, but Krispos did not greatly fear a lone assassin; he was a good enough man of his hands to hope to survive such an attack. Maybe Petronas was only trying to make him afraid and subservient once more—or maybe his anger would cool, away in the westlands. No, Krispos feared that was wishful thinking. Petronas was not the sort to forget an affront.

A few days later, troops under the Sevastokrator’s command marched and rode down to the docks. Anthimos came to the docks, too, and made a fiercely martial speech. The soldiers cheered. Gnatios the patriarch prayed for the army’s success. The soldiers cheered again. Then they lined up to be loaded onto ferries for the short journey over the Cattle-Crossing, the narrow strait that separated Videssos the city from the Empire’s western provinces.

Krispos watched the tubby ferryboats waddle across the water to the westlands; watched them go aground; watched as, tiny in the distance, the warriors began to clamber down onto the beaches across from the city; saw the bright spring sunlight sparkling off someone’s armor. That would be a general, he thought, maybe even Petronas himself. No matter how the Sevastokrator threatened, he was far less frightening on the other side of the Cattle-Crossing.

Anthimos must have been thinking the same thing. “Well,” he said, turning at last to go back to the palaces, “the city is mine for a while, by Phos, with no one to tell me what I must or must not do.”

“There’s still me, Your Majesty,” Krispos said.

“Ah, but you do it in a pleasant tone of voice, and so I can ignore you if I care to,” the Emperor said. “My uncle, now, I never could ignore, no matter how hard I tried.” Krispos nodded, but wondered if Petronas would agree—the Sevastokrator seemed convinced his nephew ignored him all the time.

But having the wolf away from his door prompted Krispos to carouse with the best of them at the revel Anthimos put on that night “to celebrate the army’s victory in advance,” as the Avtokrator said. He was drinking wine from a large golden fruit bowl decorated with erotic reliefs when a Haloga guardsman came in and tapped him on the shoulder. “Somebody out there wants to see you,” the northerner said.

Krispos stared at him. “Somebody out where?” he asked owlishly.

The Haloga stared back. “Out there,” he said after a long pause. Krispos realized the guardsman was even drunker than he was.

“I’ll come,” Krispos said. He had almost got to the door when his sodden brain realized he was in no condition to fight off a toddler, let alone an assassin. He was about to turn around when the Haloga grabbed him by the arm and propelled him down the stairs—not, apparently, with malicious intent, but because the northerner needed help standing up himself.

“Krispos!” someone called from the darkness.

“Mavros!” He got free of the Haloga and stumbled toward his foster brother. “What are you doing here? I thought you were on the other side of the Cattle-Crossing with Petronas and the ret of his restinue—rest of his retinue,” he corrected himself carefully.

“I was, and I will be again soon—I can’t afford to be missed. I’ve got a little rowboat tied up at a quay not far from here. I had to come back across to warn you: Petronas has hired a mage. I came into his tent to ask him which horse he’d want tomorrow, and he and the wizard were talking about quietly getting rid of someone. They named no names while I was there, but I think it’s you!”

Chapter
XI

C
ERTAINTY WASHED THROUGH KRISPOS LIKE THE TIDE. “YOU’RE
right. You have to be.” Even drunk—perhaps more clearly because he was drunk—he could see that this was just how Petronas would deal with someone who had become inconvenient to him. It was neat and clean, with the Sevastokrator far away from any embarrassing questions, assuming they were ever asked.

“What are you going to do?” Mavros said.

The question snapped Krispos out of his rapt admiration for Petronas’ cleverness. He tried to flog his slow wits forward. “Find a wizard of my own, I suppose,” he said at last.

“That sounds well enough,” Mavros agreed. “Whatever you do, do it quickly—I don’t think Petronas will wait long, and the mage he was talking with seemed a proper ready-for-aught. Now I have to get back before I’m missed. The Lord with the great and good mind be with you.” He stepped up, embraced Krispos, then hurried away.

Krispos watched him disappear into darkness and listened to his footfalls fade till they were gone. He thought how fortunate he was to have such a reliable friend in the Sevastokrator’s household. Then he remembered what he had to do. “Wizard,” he said aloud, as if to remind himself. Staggering slightly, he started out of the palace quarter.

He was almost to the plaza of Palamas before he consciously wondered where he was going. He only knew one sorcerer at all well, though. He was glad he hadn’t been the one who’d antagonized Trokoundos. Otherwise, he thought, Anthimos’ former tutor in magecraft would have been more likely to join Petronas’ wizard than to help fend him off.

Trokoundos lived on a fashionable street not far from the palace quarter. Krispos pounded on his door, not caring that it was well past midnight. He kept pounding until Trokoundos opened it a crack. The mage held a lamp in one hand and a most unmystical short sword in the other. He lowered it when he recognized Krispos. “By Phos, esteemed and eminent sir, have you gone mad?”

“No,” Krispos said. Trokoundos drew back from the wine fumes he exuded. He went on, “I’m in peril of my life. I need a wizard. I thought of you.”

Trokoundos laughed. “Are you in such peril that it won’t wait till morning?”

“Yes,” Krispos said.

Trokoundos held the lamp high and peered at him. “You’d better come in,” he said. As Krispos walked inside, the wizard turned his head and called, “I’m sorry, Phostina, but I’m afraid I have business.” A woman’s voice said something querulous. “Yes, I’ll be as quiet as I can,” Trokoundus promised. To Krispos, he explained, “My wife. Sit here, if you care to, and tell me of this peril of yours.”

Krispos did. By the time he finished, Trokoundos was nodding and rubbing his chin in calculation. “You’ve made a powerful enemy, esteemed and eminent sir. Presumably he will have in his employment a powerful and dangerous mage. You know no more than you are to be assailed?”

“No,” Krispos said, “and I’m lucky to know that.”

“So you are, so you are, but it will make my task more difficult, for I will be unable to ward against any specific spells, but will have to try to protect you from all magics. Such a stretching will naturally weaken my own efforts, but I will do what I may. Honor will not let me do less, not after your gracious warning of his Majesty’s wrath. Come along to my study, if you please.”

The chamber where Trokoundos worked his magics was one part library, one part jeweler’s stall, one part herbarium, and one part zoo. It smelled close and moist and rather fetid; Krispos’ stomach flipflopped. Holding down his gorge with grim determination, he sat across from Trokoundos while the wizard consulted his books.

Trokoundos slammed a codex shut, rolled up a scroll, tied it with a ribbon, and put it back in its pigeonhole. “Since I do not know what form the attack upon you will take, I will use all three kingdoms—animal, vegetable, and mineral—in your defense.” He went over to a large covered bowl and lifted the lid. “Here is a snail fed on oregano, a sovereign against poisonings and other noxiousnesses of all sorts. Eat it, if you would.”

Krispos gulped. “I’d sooner have it broiled, with butter and garlic.”

“No doubt, but prepared thus its virtue aims only at the tongue. Do as I say now: crack the shell and peel it, as if it were a hard-cooked egg, then swallow the creature down.”

Trying not to think about what he was doing, Krispos obeyed. The snail was cold and wet on his tongue. He gulped convulsively before he could notice what it tasted like. Gagging, he wondered whether it would still protect him if he threw it up again.

“Very good,” Trokoundos said, ignoring his distress. “Now then, the juice of the narcissus or asphodel will also aid you. Here is some, mixed with honey to make it palatable.” Krispos got it down. After the snail, it was palatable. Trokoundos went on, “I will also wrap a dried asphodel in clean linen and give it to you. Carry it next to your skin; it will repel demons and other evil spirits.”

“May the good god grant it be so,” Krispos said. When Trokoundos gave him the plant, he tucked it under his tunic.

“Mineral, mineral, mineral,” Trokoundos muttered. He snapped his fingers. “The very thing!” He rummaged among the stones on a table by his desk, held up a dark-brown one. “Here I have chalcedony, which, if pierced by an emery stone and hung round the neck, is proof against all fantastical illusions and protects the body against one’s adversaries and their evil machinations. This is known as the counsel of chalcedony. Now where did that emery go?” He rummaged some more, until he finally found the hard stone he sought.

He clamped the chalcedony to the table and began to bore through it with the pointed end of the emery stone. As he worked, he chanted a wordless little song. “The power we seek lies within the chalcedony itself,” the mage explained. “My chant is but to hasten the process that would otherwise be boring in two senses of the word. Ahh, here we are!” He worked a bit longer to enlarge the hole he had made, then held out the chalcedony to Krispos. “Have you a chain on which to wear it?”

“Yes.” Krispos drew the chain on which he kept the goldpiece Omurtag had given him up over his head.

Trokoundos stared at the coin as it gleamed in the lamplight. “My, my,” he said slowly. “What company my little stone will keep.” He seemed about to ask Krispos about the goldpiece, then shook his head. “No time for my curiosity now. May the stone, the plant, and the snail keep you safe, that’s all.”

“Thank you.” Krispos put the stone onto the chain, closed the catch, and slid the chain back onto his neck. “Now then, what do I owe you for your services?”

“Not a copper, seeing as I’d likely not be here to render those services had you not warned me the city would be unhealthy for a few weeks. No, I insist—this won’t bankrupt me, I assure you.”

“Thank you,” Krispos repeated, bowing. “I had better get back to the imperial residence.” He turned to go, then had another thought. “Not that I fail to trust your charms, but can I do anything to make them work even better?” He hoped the question would not offend Trokoundos.

Evidently it didn’t, for the mage answered promptly. “Pray. The Lord with the great and good mind opposes all wicked efforts, and may well hear your sincere words and grant you his protection. Having a priest pray for you may also do some good; as Phos’ holy men are sworn against evil, the good god naturally holds them in high regard.”

“I’ll do both those things,” Krispos promised. As soon as he could he thought with wine-fueled intensity, he’d see Gnatios and ask for his prayers; who could be holier than the ecumenical patriarch?

“Good. I will pray for you as well,” Trokoundos said. He yawned enormously. Whether that was a real yawn or a hint, Krispos knew it was time to go. He thanked the wizard one last time and took his leave. Dawn had already begun to pink the eastern sky. Krispos murmured two prayers to Phos, one for his own safety and the other that Anthimos would sleep late.

“Y
OU WERE A BUSY LAD LAST NIGHT,” ANTHIMOS SAID ROGUISHLY
as Krispos held up a robe for his approval. The Emperor had slept late, but not late enough. Krispos’ head ached. Anthimos went on, “You weren’t in your chamber when I got back. Did you go off with one of the wenches? Was she good?”

Without looking her way, Krispos sensed Dara listening closely for his reply. “Not a wench, Your Majesty,” he said. “An old friend came to pay me a bet he owed, and afterward he and I went off and did a little more drinking.”

“You should have told me before you left,” the Emperor said. “Come to that, you could have brought your friend in. Who knows? He might have livened things up.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Sorry, Your Majesty.” Krispos robed Anthimos, then went to the closet to get his master’s red boots.

As he turned, he got a brief glimpse of Dara. He hoped that “he and I” had eased her mind. It had the advantage of being at least partly true; if she checked, she was sure to find someone who had seen him with Mavros. He hoped she would. If she thought he was betraying her, she had only to speak to Anthimos to destroy him. He did not like being so vulnerable to her. Maybe he should have worried more about that
before
he got into bed with her, he thought. Now was far too late.

Anthimos went off to the Amphitheater as soon as he had finished breakfast. Krispos stayed behind at the imperial residence for a little while, then headed for the patriarch’s mansion. Gnatios was domiciled in the northern part of Videssos the city, in the shadow of the High Temple.

“You are…?” a lesser priest haughtily asked at the door, looking down his nose at Krispos.

“I am the vestiarios to his Imperial Majesty Anthimos III, Avtokrator of the Videssians. I would have speech with the ecumenical patriarch, at once.” He folded his arms and waited. He hoped he sounded arrogant rather than anxious; only Petronas and his mage knew when they would unleash their assault. He might need Gnatios’ prayers right away.

He must have hit the proper tone—the priest deflated. “Yes, uh, esteemed, uh, eminent sir—”

“Esteemed
and
eminent,” Krispos snapped.

“Yes, yes, of course; my apologies. The most holy sir is in his study. Come this way, please.” Chattering nervously and bowing every few steps, the priest led him through the mansion. The artworks on the walls and set into niches were as fine as those in the imperial residence, but Krispos hardly noticed them. He followed close on his guide’s heels, wishing the fellow would move faster.

Gnatios looked up frowning from the codex on his desk. “Curse it, Badourios, I told you I did not wish to be disturbed this morning.” Then he saw who was behind the lesser priest and rose smoothly from his chair. “Of course I am always glad to make an exception for you, Krispos. Sit here, if you care to. Will you take wine?”

“No thank you, most holy sir,” Krispos said, having mercy on his hangover. “May I ask for privacy, though?”

“You have only to reach behind you and close that stout door there,” Gnatios said. Krispos did as he suggested. The patriarch leaned forward over the desk between them. “You’ve roused my curiosity, esteemed and eminent sir. Now, privately, what do you require?”

“Your prayers, most holy sir, for I have discovered that I am in danger of magical attack.” As he started to explain to Gnatios, he realized that coming here was a mistake, a large mistake. His stomach knotted from something other than his hangover. Not only did the patriarch belong to Petronas’ faction, he was the Sevastokrator’s cousin. Krispos could not even tell him who had brought news of his danger for that might put Mavros at risk. Thus he knew his story limped as it came out.

Gnatios gave no sign of noticing. “Of course I shall pray for you, esteemed and eminent sir,” he said fulsomely. “If you will give me the name of the man who so bravely brought word of this plot against you, I will pray for him as well. His courage should not go unrewarded.”

The words were right. The tone was sincere—a little too sincere. Suddenly Krispos was certain that if he let Mavros’ name slip out, the patriarch would get it to Petronas as fast as he could.

And so he answered, “Most holy sir, I fear I don’t know her—uh, his—name. He came to me because, he said, he could not bear to see his master treat me unjustly. I don’t even know who her—
his
—master is.” With luck, those pretended slips would keep Gnatios from guessing how much Krispos knew and how he knew it.

“You will be in my thoughts and prayers for some time to come,” the patriarch said.

Yes, but how?
Krispos wondered. “Thank you, holy sir. You’re very kind,” he said. He bowed his way out, pondering what to do next. Ducking into a wineshop a few doors down the street from the patriarchal mansion let him ponder sitting down. He suspected Gnatios’ prayers would not be for his continued good health. Who, then, could intercede with Phos for him?

While he sat and thought about that, a priest rushed past the wineshop. So close to the High Temple, blue robes were as common as fleas, but the fellow looked familiar. After a moment, Krispos recognized him: Badourios, Gnatios’ doorkeeper. Where was he going in such a hurry? After tossing a couple of coppers on the table for the rather stale cake he’d eaten, Krispos slipped after him to find out.