The Tale of Krispos (53 page)

Dara considered, nodded. “It’s a good name.” She touched Krispos’ arm. “But you do see the need for haste, not so? The sooner we’re wed, the better; others can count months as well as we can. A babe a few weeks early will set no tongues wagging. Much more, though, especially if the child is big and robust—”

“Aye, you’re right,” Krispos said. “I’ll speak to Gnatios. If he doesn’t like being hurried, too bad. It’s just deserts for surprising me and making me speak unprepared when he was crowning me. By the good god, I know he was hoping I’d flub.”

“Just deserts for that piece of effrontery would be some time in the prisons under the government office buildings on Middle Street,” Dara said. “I’ve thought so ever since you first told me of it.”

“It may come to that, if he says me nay here,” Krispos answered. “I know he’d sooner see Petronas come out of the monastery and take the throne than have me on it. Being Anthimos’ cousin means he’s Anthimos’ uncle’s cousin, too.”

“He’s not your cousin, that’s for certain,” Dara said grimly. “You ought to have your own man as patriarch, Krispos. One who’s against you can cause you endless grief.”

“I know. If Gnatios does tell me no, it’ll give me the excuse I need to get rid of him. Trouble is, if I do, I’d likely have to replace him with Pyrrhos the abbot.”

“He’d be loyal,” Dara said.

“So he would.” Krispos spoke without enthusiasm. Pyrrhos was earnest and able. He was also pious, fanatically so. He was a far better friend to Krispos than Gnatios ever would be, and far less comfortable to live with.

Dara said, “Now I hope Gnatios does stand up on his hind legs against you, if you truly mean to slap him down for it.”

All at once, Krispos was tired of worrying about Gnatios and what he might do. Instead he thought of the child Dara would have—
his
child, he told himself firmly. He stepped forward to take her in his arms again. She squeaked in surprise as he bent his head to kiss her, but her lips were eager against his. The kiss went on and on.

When at last they separated, Krispos said, “Shall we go to the bedchamber?”

“What, in the afternoon? We’d scandalize the servants.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Krispos said. After Anthimos’ antic reign, nothing save perhaps celibacy could scandalize the palace servants, though he did not say so aloud. “Besides, I have my reasons.”

“Name two,” Dara said, mischief in her voice.

“All right. For one, if you are pregnant, you’re apt to lose interest for a while, so I’d best get while the getting’s good, as they say. And for another, I’ve always wanted to make love with you with the sun shining in on us. That’s one thing we never dared do before.”

She smiled. “A nice mix of the practical and the romantic. Well, why not?”

They walked down the hall hand in hand. If maidservants or eunuch chamberlains gave them odd looks, neither one noticed.

B
ARSYMES BOWED TO KRISPOS. “THE PATRIARCH IS HERE, YOUR
Majesty,” the eunuch vestiarios announced in his not-quite-tenor, not-quite-alto voice. He did not sound impressed. Few things impressed Barsymes.

“Thank you, esteemed sir,” Krispos answered; palace eunuchs had their own honorifics, different from those of the nobility. “Show him in.”

Gnatios prostrated himself as he entered the chamber where Krispos had been wrestling with tax documents. “Your Majesty,” he murmured.

“Rise, most holy sir, rise by all means,” Krispos said expansively. “Please be seated; make yourself comfortable. Shall I send for wine and cakes?” He waited for Gnatios’ nod, then waved to Barsymes to fetch the refreshments.

When the patriarch had eaten and drunk, Krispos proceeded to business. “Most holy sir, I regret summoning you so soon after I promised you would have your two weeks, but I must seek your ruling on whether Dara and I may lawfully wed.”

He had expected Gnatios to splutter and protest, but the patriarch beamed at him. “What a pleasant coincidence, Your Majesty. I was going to send you a message later in the day, for I have indeed reached my decision.”

“And?” Krispos said. If Gnatios thought this affable front would make a rejection more palatable, Krispos thought, he was going to get a rude awakening.

But the ecumenical patriarch’s smile only grew broader. “I am delighted to be able to inform you, Your Majesty, that I find no canonical impediments to your proposed union with the Empress. You may perhaps hear gossip at the haste of the match, but that has nothing to do with its permissibility under ecclesiastical law.”

“Really?” Krispos said in glad surprise. “Well, I’m delighted to hear you say so, most holy sir.” He got up and poured more wine for the two of them with his own hands.

“I am pleased to be able to serve you with honor in this matter, Your Majesty,” Gnatios answered. He lifted his cup. “Your very good health.”

“And yours.” Avtokrator and patriarch drank together. Then Krispos said, “From what you’ve just told me, I don’t suppose you’d mind celebrating the wedding yourself.” If Gnatios was just going along for the sake of going along, Krispos thought, he ought to balk or at least hesitate.

But he replied at once, “It would be my privilege, Your Majesty. Merely name the day. From your urgency, I suppose you will want it to come as soon as possible.”

“Yes,” Krispos said, still a bit taken aback at this wholehearted cooperation. “Will you be able to make everything ready in—hmm—ten days’ time?”

The patriarch’s lips moved. “A couple of days after the full moon? I am your servant.” He inclined his head to the Emperor.

“Splendid,” Krispos said. When he rose this time, it was a sign Gnatios’ audience was done. The patriarch did not miss the signal. He bowed himself out. Barsymes took charge of him and escorted him from the imperial residence.

Krispos gave his attention back to the cadasters. He smiled a little as he took up his stylus to scrawl a note on a waxed tablet. That had been easier than he’d figured it would be, he thought with a twinge of contempt for Gnatios. The patriarch seemed willing to pay whatever price he had to in order to keep his position. A firm line with him would get Krispos anything he required.

Nice to have one worry settled, he thought, and went on to the next tax register.

“D
ON’T WORRY, YOUR MAJESTY. WE HAVE PLENTY OF TIME YET
,” Mavros said.

Krispos looked at his foster brother with mixed gratitude and exasperation. “Nice to hear someone say so, by the good god. All of Dara’s seamstresses are having kittens, wailing that they’ll never be able to have her dress ready on the day. And if they’re having kittens, the mintmaster is having bears—big bears, with teeth. He says I can send him to Prista if I like, but that still won’t get me enough goldpieces with my face on them to use for largess.”

“Prista, he?” Amusement danced in Mavros’ eyes. “Then he probably means it.” The lonely outpost on the northern shore of the Videssian Sea housed the Empire’s most incorrigible exiles. Few people went there willingly.

“I don’t care if he means it,” Krispos snapped. “I need to have that gold to pass out to the people. We grabbed power too quickly the night I was crowned. This is my next good chance. If I don’t do it now, the city folk will think I’m mean, and I’ll have no end of trouble from them.”

“I daresay you’re right,” Mavros said, “but does it all have to be
your
gold? Aye, that would be nice, but you hold the treasury as well as the mint. So long as the coin is good, no one who gets it will care whose face it bears.”

“Something to that,” Krispos said after a moment’s thought. “The mintmaster will be pleased. Tanilis would be, too, to hear you; you’re your mother’s son after all.”

“I’ll take that for a compliment,” Mavros said.

“You’d better. I meant it for one.” Krispos had nothing but admiration for Mavros’ mother. Tanilis was one of the wealthiest nobles of the eastern town of Opsikion, and seer and mage, as well. She’d foretold Krispos’ rise, helped him with money and good advice, and fostered Mavros to him. Though she was a decade older than Krispos, they’d also been lovers for half a year, until he had to return to Videssos the city—Mavros did not know about that. She was still the standard by which Krispos measured women, including Dara—Dara did not know about
that.

Barsymes politely tapped at the open door of the chamber where Krispos and Mavros were talking. “Your Majesty, eminent sir, your presence is required for another rehearsal of assembling for the wedding procession.” In matters of ceremony, the vestiarios ordered the Avtokrator about.

“We’ll be with you shortly, Barsymes,” Krispos promised. Barsymes withdrew, a couple of paces’ length. He did not go away. Krispos turned back to Mavros. “I think I’ll use the wedding to declare you Sevastos.”

“You will? Me?” Mavros was in his mid-twenties, a few years younger than Krispos, and had a more openly excitable temperament. Now he could not keep his surprised delight from showing. “When did you decide to do that?”

“I’ve been thinking about it ever since this crown landed on my head. You act as my chief minister, so you should have the title that says what you do. And the wedding will be a good public occasion to give it to you.”

Mavros bowed. “One of these days,” he said slyly, “you ought to tell your face what you’re thinking, so it’ll know, too.”

“Oh, go howl,” Krispos said. “Naming you Sevastos will also make you rich, even apart from what you stand to inherit. It’ll also set you up as my heir if I die without one.” As he said that, he wondered again whether Dara’s child was his. He suspected—he feared—he would keep on wondering until the baby came, and perhaps for years afterward as well.

“I see that, since you’re Emperor, you don’t have to listen to people anymore,” Mavros said. Realizing he hadn’t been listening and had missed something, Krispos felt himself flush. With the air of someone doing an unworthy subject a great favor, Mavros repeated himself. “I said that if you die without an heir, it will likely mean you’ve lost a civil war, in which case I’ll be a head shorter myself and in no great position to assume the throne.”

In his breezy way, Mavros had probably hit truth there, Krispos thought. He said, “If you don’t want the honor, I could bestow it on Iakovitzes.”

They both laughed. Mavros said, “I’ll take it, then, just to save you from that. With his gift for getting people furious at him, you’d lose any civil war where he was on your side, because no one else would be.” Then, as if afraid Krispos might take him seriously, he added, “He is in the wedding party, isn’t he?”

“Of course he is,” Krispos answered. “Do you think I want the rough side of his tongue for leaving him out? He gave it to me often enough in the days when I was one of his grooms—and to you, too, I’d bet.”

“Who, me?” Mavros assumed a not altogether convincing expression of innocence.

Before Krispos could reply, Barsymes stepped back into view. Implacably courteous, he said, “Your Majesty, the rehearsal will commence at any moment. Your presence—and yours, eminent sir”—he turned to Mavros—“would be appreciated.”

“Coming,” Krispos said obediently. He and Mavros followed the vestiarios down the hall.

B
ARSYMES BUSTLED UP AND DOWN THE LINE, CLUCKING LIKE
a hen not sure all her chicks were where they belonged. His long face was set in doleful lines made more than commonly visible by his beardless cheeks. “Please, excellent sirs, eminent sirs, Your Majesty, try to remember all we’ve practiced,” he pleaded.

“If the army had its drill down as well as we do, Videssos would rule the bloody world,” Iakovitzes said, rolling his eyes. The noble stroked his graying beard. “Come on, let’s get this nonsense done with, shall we?”

Barsymes took a deep breath and continued as if no one had spoken. “Smooth and steady and stately will most properly awe the people of Videssos the city.”

“Phos coming down from behind the sun with Skotos all tied up in colored string wouldn’t properly awe the people of Videssos the city,” Mavros said, “so what hope have we?”

“Take no notice of any of my comrades,” Krispos told Barsymes, who looked about ready to burst from nerves. “We are in your capable hands.”

The vestiarios sniffed, but eased a little. Then he went from mother hen to drillmaster in one fell swoop. “We begin—now,” he declared. “Forward to the plaza of Palamas.” He marched east from the imperial residence, past lawns and gardens and groves, past the Grand Courtroom, past the Hall of the Nineteen Couches, past the other grand buildings of the palace quarter.

Dara and her companions, Krispos knew, were traversing the quarter by another route. If everything went as planned, his party and hers would meet at the edge of the plaza. It had happened in rehearsals. Barsymes acted convinced it would happen again. To Krispos, his confidence seemed based on sorcery, but so far as he knew, no one had used any.

Magic or not, when his party turned a last corner before the plaza of Palamas, he saw Dara and the noblewomen with her round an outbuilding and come straight toward him. Once they got a few steps closer, he also saw the relief on her face; evidently she’d worried, too, about whether their rendezvous would go as planned.