The Tale of Krispos (36 page)

Gnatios said, “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but may I ask what your sudden interest in sorcery has to do with this elderly temple here?”

“You see what it is, then, or was? Good.” Anthimos beamed. “Not all sorcery is easy or safe—you know that as well as I. What I propose to do, Gnatios, is knock the building down and replace it with a proper magical study. The site is ideal, you will agree, being isolated from the rest of the palaces.”

“You want to tear the temple down?” the patriarch echoed.

“That’s right. No one’s used it for what must be decades. You should see the spiderwebs inside. Some of them could catch birds, I expect. It wouldn’t be sacrilege or anything, really it wouldn’t.” The Emperor smiled his most engaging smile at Gnatios.

The ecumenical patriarch was more than twice his sovereign’s age, and a good deal more than twice as serious as Anthimos. Nevertheless, the Emperor charmed him almost as if he were already using magic. Gnatios was shaking his head, but he answered, “Pyrrhos and his narrow-minded followers will rail at me, but technically, Your Majesty, I suppose you are correct. Very well, I agree; you may demolish this unused temple to employ the area for your own purposes.”

“Perhaps, Your Majesty, you could have another temple built somewhere else in the city to make up for tearing down this one,” Krispos put in.

“An excellent notion,” Gnatios said. “Will you pledge to do that, Your Majesty?”

“Oh, certainly,” Anthimos said. “Krispos, see to it that the logothetes at the treasury know to set aside funds for a new temple. We’ll knock down this old ruin one day next week, then. Gnatios, I want you to be here.”

Gnatios ran a hand over his shaven head. “As you wish, Your Majesty, but why am I required?”

“Why, to say a prayer while the temple gets demolished, of course.” Anthimos flashed his charming smile again.

This time, it did not work. Gnatios slowly shook his head. “Your Majesty, I fear I cannot. There is in the liturgy a prayer for the construction of a temple, but we have not inherited from our forefathers a prayer over the demolition of a temple.”

“Then invent one,” Anthimos said. “You are a great scholar, Gnatios. Surely you can find words that will please the good god.”

“How can he be pleased that one of his temples is destroyed?” the patriarch said. “Because the temple is old and has long stood vacant, he may tolerate it, but I dare not ask him to do more than that.”

“Because this one is being torn down, he’ll soon have a new one that won’t be empty,” Krispos said.

Gnatios gave him an unfriendly look. “I will joyfully pray at the erection of the new. I would do so in any event. But at the loss of a temple—no, I cannot pray over that.”

“Maybe Pyrrhos would,” Krispos said.

“No. Here we would agree…or would we?” Gnatios was as much politician as prelate. That undid him now. More to himself than to Krispos or Anthimos, he went on, “Who knows what Pyrrhos might do to gain imperial favor for his fanaticism?” After another pause, he said sourly, “Oh, very well, Your Majesty, you shall have your prayer from me.”

“Splendid,” Anthimos said. “I knew I could rely on you, Gnatios.”

The patriarch set his jaw and nodded. Happily clapping him on the shoulder, Anthimos started back to the imperial residence. Gnatios and Krispos trailed along behind the Emperor. Gnatios said softly, “I wish you would have kept your mouth shut, vestiarios.”

“I serve my master,” Krispos said. “If I can help him get what he wants, I will.”

“He and I will both look like fools because of this ceremony he’s asked for,” Gnatios said. “Is that your idea of good service?”

Krispos thought Gnatios worried more about Gnatios than about Anthimos, but all he said was, “His Majesty doesn’t seem worried.” Gnatios sniffed and stamped on ahead of him, blue boots scuffing flagstones.

A week later, a small crowd of priests and officials gathered for the function the Emperor had demanded. Petronas was not there; he was closeted with the Makuraner envoys. He had real work to do, Krispos thought.

Anthimos walked up and said, “Krispos, this chap with me is Trokoundos, the mage who will be instructing me. Trokoundos, this is my vestiarios, Krispos. If Trokoundos needs funds to secure apparatus or mystical goods, Krispos, make sure he has what he asks for.”

“Very well, Your Majesty.” Krispos eyed Trokoundos with suspicion.
Someone else who wants a grip on the Emperor,
he thought indignantly. The anger that surged through him brought him up short; all at once, he understood how Petronas felt about his nephew.

Trokoundos looked straight back at Krispos, his eyes heavy-lidded and clever. “I will see you often, for I have much to teach his Majesty,” he said. His voice was deep and rich. It did not suit his frame—he was only of medium height and on the thin side. He shaved his head like a priest, but wore a robe of a most unpriestly orange.

“A pleasure to meet you, mage.” Krispos’ cool voice gave his words the lie.

“And you, eu—” Trokoundos stopped short. He’d started the same rude rejoinder Krispos had used against Skombros, only to notice, too late, that it did not apply. “And you, vestiarios,” he amended lamely.

Krispos smiled. He was glad to find the mage human enough to miss things. “My title is esteemed and eminent sir,” he said, rubbing Trokoundos’ nose in the mistake.

“Ah, here comes Gnatios,” Anthimos said happily. Krispos and Trokoundos both turned to watch the patriarch approach.

Gnatios stopped in front of the Avtokrator and prostrated himself with grim dignity. “I have composed the prayer you required of me, Your Majesty,” he said as he rose.

“By all means say it, then, so the workmen may begin,” the Emperor said.

Gnatios faced the temple to be torn down. He spat on the ground in rejection of Skotos, then raised his hands to the sky. “Glory to Phos the long-suffering at all times,” he declared, “now, forever, and through eons upon eons. So may it be.”

“So may it be,” the assembled dignitaries echoed. Their voices were less hearty than they might have been; Krispos was not the only one who glanced over to see how the Emperor would respond to a prayer that as much as said Phos had to be patient to put up with his whims.

The implied criticism sailed past him. He bowed to Gnatios. “Thank you, most holy sir. Just what the occasion demanded.” Then he called, “Go to it, lads,” to the band of workmen standing by the temple.

The workers attacked the dilapidated old building with picks and crowbars. The ceremony over, court officers and prelates began drifting away. Krispos started to follow Anthimos back to the imperial residence when Trokoundos put a hand on his arm. He pulled free. “What do you want?” he asked roughly.

“I need enough money to purchase several hundred sheets of parchment,” the mage answered.

“What do you need with several hundred sheets of parchment?”

“I have no need of them,” Trokoundos said. “His Majesty does. If he would be a mage, he first must need copy out in his own hand the spells he will thereafter employ.” He set hands on hips, plainly expecting Krispos to say no—and ready to go to Anthimos with the tale.

But Krispos said, “Of course. I’ll have the money sent to you straightaway.”

“You will?” Trokoundos blinked. His belligerent air vanished.

“In fact,” Krispos went on, “if you want to come to the residence with me, I’ll give you the gold right now; I’ll take it from the household chest.”

“You will?” Trokoundos said again. Those heavy-lidded eyes widened. “Thank you very much. That’s most gracious of you.”

“I serve his Majesty,” Krispos said, as he had to Gnatios. “How much do you think you’ll need?” However much it was, he would cheerfully pay it. If Trokoundos was going to set Anthimos to transcribing several hundred pages’ worth of magical spells, he thought, the Avtokrator would not stay interested in sorcery for long. And that suited Krispos just fine.

“G
NATIOS IS NOT HAPPY WITH YOU,” PETRONAS SAID A COUPLE
of days later, when Krispos found a chance to tell him how the ceremony had gone.

“Why, Highness?” Krispos asked. “I didn’t think it was a matter of any importance, especially since Anthimos is going to build another temple to take the place of the one that got knocked down.”

“Put that way, you’re right.” Despite reassuring words, Petronas still studied Krispos through narrowed eyes. “My cousin the patriarch, though, is, shall we say, unused to being faced down in front of the Emperor and having to do something he did not care to do in consequence.”

“I wasn’t trying to embarrass him,” Krispos protested.

“You succeeded nevertheless,” Petronas said. “Well, let it go. I’ll soothe Gnatios’ ruffled feathers for him. I didn’t think you were quite so good at getting folk—especially a strong-willed fellow like my cousin—to go along with you.”

“Oh,” Krispos said. “You wanted me to be vestiarios because you thought I’d be able to help get Anthimos to do what you wanted. Why are you angry if I can do the same thing with someone else for his Majesty?”

“I’m not angry. Merely…thoughtful,” the Sevastokrator said.

Krispos sighed, but consoled himself by remembering that Petronas never had trusted him much. He didn’t think this latest brush would hurt his standing with Anthimos’ uncle.

Petronas went on, “What’s this I hear about some wizard sucking up to the Emperor?”

“Oh, that. I think I took care of that.” Krispos explained how he’d given Trokoundos exactly what he wanted.

The Sevastokrator laughed out loud. “You’d kill a cat by drowning it in cream. That’s better than I would have done; I’d have just sent the beggar packing, which would have made Anthimos sulk. And I don’t need him sulking right now.”

“The talks with the Makuraners aren’t going well?” Krispos asked.

“They’re not the problem,” Petronas said. “The Makuraners like talk as much as we Videssians, and that’s saying something. I just need to keep them talking a while longer, till I’m ready to fight. But I don’t like the rumbles I hear out of Kubrat. Malomir’s stayed quiet ever since old Omurtag died. If he decided to start raiding us now, then the war with Makuran might have to wait, and I don’t want it to wait. I’ve waited too long already.” He pounded a fist down on the padded arm of his chair.

Krispos nodded. Thinking of nomad horsemen sweeping down from the north could make him shiver even now. And if Videssos’ armies were fully engaged in the far west, raids from Kubrat could reach all the way down to the walls of Videssos the city. The capital had stood Kubrati siege a couple of times. He wondered if the frontier with Kubrat wasn’t more important than the one with Makuran, which would stay peaceful for a while if Petronas didn’t stir it up.

Was he right? He wasn’t sure himself; as the Sevastokrator had warned him, he’d had no practice making that kind of judgment. Maybe it wouldn’t matter either way; maybe the Kubratoi would let themselves be bought off, as they sometimes did. He hoped so. Things would be simpler that way.

The higher he’d risen, though, and the closer he’d come to real power, the more complicated things looked.

A
NTHIMOS KEPT AT HIS MAGICAL STUDIES WITH A PERSISTENCE
that startled Krispos. While his new sanctum rose from the ruins of the temple, he transcribed texts at the imperial residence. Krispos had to go over to the clerks who scribbled by the Grand Courtroom to find out how they got ink off their fingers. When he fetched back some small pumice stones, Anthimos praised him to the skies.

“That’s plenty for today,” the Emperor said one hot, muggy summer afternoon, coming out of his study wringing his writing hand. “All work makes a man dull. What do we have laid on for tonight?”

“The feast features a troupe that performs with large dogs and tiny ponies,” Krispos answered.

“Does it? Well, that should give the servants something new to clean up.” Anthimos started down the hall. “Which robe have you chosen for me?”

“The blue silk. It should be coolest in this weather. Excuse me, Your Majesty,” Krispos called to the Emperor’s retreating back, “but I believe you’ve forgotten something.”

Anthimos stopped. “What’s that?”

“Your fingers are still stained. You forgot to pumice them. Do you want people to say the Avtokrator of the Videssians is his own secretary? Here, let me fetch you a stone.”

Anthimos looked down at his right hand. “I did forget to clean off, didn’t I?” Now it was his turn to make Krispos pause. “You needn’t bring me the pumice stone. I can take care of this myself, I think.”

Intense concentration on his face, the Emperor spread the ink-stained fingers of his writing hand. He waved his left hand above it and raised his voice in a rhythmic chant. Suddenly he cried out and clenched both hands into fists. When he opened them, they were both clean.

Krispos made the sun-sign over his heart. “You did it!” he exclaimed, then hoped he didn’t sound as surprised as he felt.

“I certainly did,” Anthimos said smugly. “A small application of the law of contagion, which states that objects once in contact may continue to influence one another. As that pumice had so often scoured my fingers, I simply re-created the cleansing action by magical means.”

“I didn’t realize you could start working magic before you had all your spells copied out,” Krispos said. “Do you want me to take the pumice stones back to the clerks I got them from?”

“No, not yet. For one thing”—the Emperor grinned a small-boy grin—“Trokoundos doesn’t know I
am
working magic. I don’t think I’m supposed to be. For another, cleaning my hands that way was a lot harder than simply scraping off the ink. I wanted to show off for you, but it wore me out. And I don’t want to be worn out, not when there will be so many interesting women at the revels tonight. There will be, won’t there, Krispos?”

“Of course, Your Majesty. I always try to please you that way.” Once more, Krispos wondered why Anthimos couldn’t give, if not all, at least most of his attention to Dara. If nothing else, he’d have a better chance of begetting a legitimate heir if he spent some time with his own wife. It was not as if she were undesirable, Krispos thought—quite the opposite, in fact.