The Tale of Krispos (141 page)

“Good,” Syagrios said, and then nothing more until he and Phostis were down in the kitchens. If he’d hoped to pique Phostis’ interest, he succeeded. The younger man would have gone through his morning porridge twice as fast had he not kept pestering Syagrios with questions. The ruffian, who drank more breakfast than he ate, was gleefully noncommunicative until Olyvria came in and joined the two of them at table. Seeing her made Phostis stop asking so many questions, but didn’t make him eat any faster.

“Have you told him?” Olyvria asked Syagrios.

“No, he hasn’t told me,” Phostis said indignantly; were curiosity an itch, he would have been scratching with both hands.

Syagrios gave him an evil leer before he answered Olyvria. “Not a word. I figured I’d let him stew in his own juice a while longer.”

“I think I’m done to a turn now,” Phostis said. “What in the name of the lord with the great and good mind is going on? What
are
you supposed to tell me, Syagrios?” He knew he was being too eager, but couldn’t help himself.

“All right, boy, you want to know that bad, you oughta know,” Syagrios said. But instead of telling Phostis whatever it was he wasn’t saying, he got up and, with slow deliberation, poured himself another mug of wine. Phostis looked a mute appeal to Olyvria, but she didn’t say anything, either. Syagrios came swaggering back, sat down again, and noisily swigged from the mug. Only when he was through did he come to the point. “Your father, lad, is getting cute.”

Phostis had heard his father described in many ways. Till that moment,
cute
had never been one of them. Cautiously, he asked, “What’s he done?”

“That’s just it—we don’t quite know.” By Syagrios’ scowl, he thought he had every right to know everything Krispos did. He went on, “He’s sent a force out of the Videssian Sea, same as he did last fall when we snagged you. This time, though, we don’t know ahead of time which town he’s gonna land at.”

“Ah.” Phostis hoped he sounded wise. But he wasn’t all that wise, for he had to ask another question. “What has that to do with me?”

“Suppose you’re an imperial soldier,” Syagrios said. “That makes you pretty fornicating dumb to start with, right? All right, now suppose you land in a town and you’re getting ready to do whatever they tell you to do and here comes the Avtokrator’s son, saying to the ice with your officers and come on and join the gleaming path. What you gonna do then?”

“I…see,” Phostis said slowly. And he did, too; had he been as enamored of the gleaming path as Syagrios thought he was, he could have done his father a lot of harm. But he also saw a problem. “You said you didn’t know where these troops are going to land?”

“Naah, we don’t.” No doubt about it: Syagrios was indignant about that. He continued, “But we think—and it’s only a think, worse luck—like I say, we think he’s gonna try and send ’em in at Pityos. It’s what Livanios would do if he wore the red boots. He likes to strike for the heart, Livanios does.”

Phostis nodded; the ruffian’s reasoning made sense to him, too. He said, “So you’ll send me to Pityos, then? Will I go alone?”

Syagrios and Olyvria both laughed at that. She said, “No, Phostis. While we’re sure enough you follow the gleaming path to send you out, we’re not sure enough to send you alone. We have to be sure you will say what you’re supposed to. So I shall accompany you to Pityos…and so will Syagrios.”

“All right,” he answered mildly. He had no idea how things would go once he got to Pityos; he wasn’t even sure whether Olyvria was on his side or her father’s. He’d find out in due course, he supposed. Either way, he intended to try to escape. Etchmiadzin was in the heart of Thanasiot country—even if he got out of town, he’d be hunted down before he could go far.

But Pityos, now, Pityos lay by the sea. He was no great sailor, but he could manage a small boat. The good god willing, he wouldn’t have to. If imperial soldiers were heading into the port, all he’d have to do was go over to them rather than persuade them to come over to the gleaming path. It seemed too easy to be true.

“When will we leave?” he asked, careful now to sound casual. “I’ll need a little while to think about what I’m going to say. I don’t suppose I’ll be talking much to the officers?”

“Not bloody likely,” Syagrios agreed, rumbling laughter. “You’re after the odds and sods, the poor buggers who make a living—and a bad one—from soldiering. With any luck, they’ll rise up and slaughter the proud bastards who give ’em orders. Most of those midwife’s mistakes have it coming, anyways.” While he might not have been a proper Thanasiot as far as theology went, Syagrios had unbounded contempt for anyone in authority.

Olyvria actually answered Phostis’ question: “We want to leave tomorrow. It’s several days’ ride down to the coast; you can work on what you’ll say as we go.”

“However you like.” Phostis laughed. “The lord with the great and good mind knows I haven’t much to pack.”

“Nor should you, if you follow the gleaming path,” Olyvria said.

Phostis had to work hard not to stare at her. Now she sounded the way she had when she’d first fetched him to Etchmiadzin. What had become of the passion she’d shown? Was she dissembling now because Syagrios sat next to her? Or had she seduced Phostis to win him to the gleaming path when more honest methods failed?

He simply could not tell. In a certain sense, it didn’t matter. When he got to Pityos, he was going to try to escape, no matter what. If she stood in his way then, he’d do it alone. But he knew some trust would go out of him forever if the girl he loved turned out only to have been using him for her own purposes.

He hoped she’d sneak up to his cubicle that night, both because he wanted her and so he could ask her the questions he couldn’t speak with Syagrios listening. But she kept to herself. When morning came, Phostis packed a spare tunic he’d come by, belted on the sword he’d left in the little room ever since he came back from the raid on Aptos, and went downstairs.

Syagrios was already down in the kitchens eating. He flipped Phostis a wide-brimmed hat of woven straw like the one that sat at a jaunty angle on his own head. When Olyvria came down, she was wearing one like it, too, and mannish tunic and trousers suitable for riding.

“Good,” Syagrios said, nodding approval when he saw her. “We’ll take enough food here to keep us going till we get to Pityos, then stuff it into our saddlebags and be on our way. The bread’ll go stale, but who cares?”

Phostis took several loaves, some cheese, some onions, and a length of hard, dry pork sausage flavored with fennel. He paused before some round pastries dusted with powdered sugar. “What’s in these?” he asked.

“Take a few; they’re good,” Olyvria said. “They’re made from chopped dates and nuts and honey. We must have a new cook out of Vaspurakan, because that’s where they come from.”

“True enough,” Syagrios agreed. “You ever hear a Videssian who wants them, he’ll call ’em ‘princes’ balls.’” He guffawed. Phostis smiled. Olyvria did her best to pretend she hadn’t heard.

Phostis fed his foul-tempered horse one of the pastries in the hope of sweetening its disposition. The beast tried to bite his hand. He jerked it back just in time. Syagrios laughed again. Had Phostis been in any other company, he would have named his horse for the ruffian.

The ride into Pityos was a pleasant five days. The upland plateaus still wore their bright green coat of spring grass and shrubs; another month or two would go by before the vicious summer sun began baking everything brown. Fritillaries and hairstreaks flitted from one clump of red or yellow restharrow to another, and then on to white-flowered fenugreek. Swallows and skylarks swooped after the insects.

About halfway through the first day’s ride, Syagrios dismounted to go off behind a bush some little distance from the road. Without turning her head toward Phostis, Olyvria said quietly, “It will be all right.”

“Will it?” he answered. He wanted to believe her, but he’d grown chary of trusting anyone. If she meant what she’d said, she’d have the chance to prove it.

Before she could reply, back came Syagrios, buttoning the top button of his fly, rebuckling his belt, and whistling a marching song with more foul verses than clean ones. He grunted as he swung himself up into the saddle. “Off we go again,” he declared.

The last day and a half of the journey were through the coastal lowlands. Peasants labored in the fields, plowing, planting, and pruning grape vines. Summer felt near in the lowlands, for the weather there was already hot and sticky. Phostis’ shoulder twinged more than it had in the drier climate of the plateau.

As soon as Pityos came into view, the travelers all squinted and shaded their eyes to peer ahead. Phostis wondered how he’d feel to see a forest of masts in the harbor. But unless his eyes were tricking him, though the town seemed to boast fishing boats aplenty, none of them were the big imperial merchantmen that hauled troops and horses.

Syagrios grunted suspiciously. “Your old man is up to something sneaky,” he told Phostis, as if it were the latter’s fault. “Maybe the ships are lying out to sea so they can come in at nightfall and take folk by surprise, or maybe he’s decided to have them make land at Tavas or Nakoleia after all.”

“Livanios’ Makuraner mage should have been able to divine where they’d put in,” Phostis said.

“Naah.” Syagrios made a slashing gesture of contempt with his hand. “Livanios took him on because his sorcery fuddles Videssian wizards, but it works the other way round, too, worse luck—some days he’s lucky to find his way out of bed, that one is.” He paused to give Phostis a meditative stare. “How did you know he’s from Makuran?”

“By his accent,” Phostis answered, as innocently as he could. “And when I recognized that, I remembered I’d seen Makuraner envoys at court who wore caftans like his.”

“Oh. All right.” Syagrios relaxed. Phostis breathed easier, too; if he’d let Artapan’s name fall from his lips, he’d have thrown himself straight into the soup pot.

The sentries lounging in front of the gates of Pityos were Thanasioi, longer on ferocity than discipline. When Syagrios greeted them in the name of the gleaming path, grins creased their grim faces in unexpected directions. They waved him and his companions into the city.

Pityos was smaller than Nakoleia; as Phostis had thought Nakoleia little better than a village, he’d expected to feel cramped in Pityos as well. But after some months in Etchmiadzin, much of that time mewed up inside the fortress, he found Pityos spacious enough to suit him.

Syagrios rented an upstairs room in a tavern near the harbor so he could keep lookout and spy imperial ships before they started spewing out their men. Olyvria stayed quiet all through the spirited haggle that got the room; Phostis couldn’t tell whether the taverner thought her a beardless youth or knew she was a woman but didn’t care.

The chamber got crowded when a potboy fetched in a third straw pallet, but remained roomier than Phostis’ cubicle had been with him there by himself. He unslung his bedroll and, with a sigh of relief, let it fall to the mattress he’d chosen.

Syagrios leaned out the window to examine the harbor at close range. He shook his head. “Bugger me with a pinecone if I know where they are. They ought to be here, unless I miss my guess altogether.” By a slight swagger, he managed to indicate how unlikely that was.

Olyvria picked up the chamber pot, which had been shoved into a corner when the new set of bedding arrived. She looked down into it, made a face, then walked over to the window as if to throw its contents out onto the street—and any unwary passersby below. Instead, when she came up behind Syagrios, she raised the chamber pot high and smashed it over his head.

The pot was of heavy earthenware; no doubt she’d hoped he would sag silently and easily into unconsciousness. But Syagrios was made of stern stuff. He staggered and groaned out, blood running down his face, turned shakily on Olyvria.

Phostis felt his heart beat—once, twice—while he gaped dumbfounded on what she’d done. Then he unfroze. He grabbed Syagrios by the shoulder and hit the ruffian in the face as hard as he could with his left fist. Syagrios lurched backward. He tried to bring up his hands to protect himself or even to grapple with Phostis, but he moved as if in the slowness of a dream. Phostis hit him again, and again. His eyes rolled up in his head; he collapsed to the floor.

Olyvria seized the knife on his belt and held it above his neck. Phostis grabbed her wrist. “Have you gone mad?” she cried.

“No. We’ll take his weapons and we’ll tie him up,” he answered. “But I owe him enough for this”—he touched his healing shoulder—“that I don’t care to slit his throat.”

She made a face but didn’t argue, instead turning the dagger on the linen mattress covers to cut strips of cloth for bonds. Syagrios grunted and stirred when Phostis rolled him over to tie his hands behind his back. Phostis hit him again, and also tied cloth strips over his mouth for a gag. Then he tied the ruffian’s ankles together as tightly as he could.

“Give me the dagger,” he said suddenly.

Olyvria pressed it into his hand. “Change your mind?”

“No.” Phostis slit the money pouch Syagrios wore on his belt. Half a dozen goldpieces and a handful of silver spilled out. He scooped up the coins and stuffed them into his own belt pouch. “Now let’s get out of here.”

“All right,” Olyvria said. “Whatever you intend to do, you’d best be quick about it. The good god only knows how long he’ll lie quiet there, and he won’t be pleased with us for what we’ve done.”

That, Phostis was sure, was an understatement. “Come on,” he said. They hurried out of the chamber. When they came down into the all-but-deserted taproom, the taverner raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. Phostis walked over to him, took out a goldpiece, and set it on the bar. “You didn’t see us come out. You were in the back room. You’ve never seen us.”

The taverner’s hand covered the coin. “Did somebody say something?” he asked, looking past Phostis. “This place is so empty, I’m starting to hear phantoms.”

“I hope it’s enough,” Phostis said as he and Olyvria walked rapidly down to the harbor.