Prelate and eparch looked at each other. Both men shrugged at the same time. Zautzes was never shy about talking, and the wine had done nothing to make him quieter. Where Rhavas kept quiet, he spoke up: "We'll just have to wait and see where the barbarians go and what they do. Then we'll be able to judge how best to deal with them."
That sounded good. The courier nodded, impressed by Zautzes' wisdom. Rhavas' orderly, logical mind noted that the eparch could just as well have said, I don't know. That would have meant exactly the same thing. Rhavas was willing to admit it wouldn't have sounded nearly so impressive.
The courier emptied his winecup, set it down on the table next to his stool, and yawned enormously. How long and how far had he ridden to bring his bad news to Skopentzana? Zautzes called for a servant. No one came. The eparch looked astonished. Rhavas said, "It is Midwinter's Day, most honorable sir. You're lucky you got anyone to come back and give us wine. Your men are probably out reveling again."
"Bah!" Zautzes said, and then, to the courier, "Here, come along. I'll give you a bed for the night." A long night it would be, too.
"May the good god shine his light on you for your kindness," the courier said, sounding like a well-raised young man. He lurched to his feet. Half leaning on Zautzes, he left the eparch's study.
When Zautzes came back a few minutes later, he looked thoroughly grim. The wine he'd drunk might have made him mouthy, but it hadn't fuddled him. "What are we going to do, very holy sir?" he asked. "All the nomads have to do is follow the course of the Anazarbos. If nothing stops them, the river will lead them straight here."
"What could stop them?" Rhavas asked. "You watched the garrison leave, the same as I did. Nothing but villages and scattered farmers between the border and Skopentzana."
That made Zautzes look grimmer yet. "We have to keep them out," he said. "We have to. Can you imagine what they'd do if they got loose in the city?"
"I suppose I can imagine some of the things they'd do," Rhavas said judiciously. "I would really rather not discover how good my imagination is."
"A point," the eparch admitted. "Yes, unfortunately a distinct point. What I wonder most right now is, how am I supposed to enjoy the rest of Midwinter's Day? Anything can happen, they say, yes, but that doesn't usually include getting overrun by nomads who never bathe and who'd herd—and slaughter—people in place of cattle and sheep if they got half a chance. The Khamorth aren't my idea of fun, I fear."
"Nor mine." Rhavas looked west, as if he could see through all the miles of space between Skopentzana and the wandering clans of plainsmen. Not enough miles between them, not now. His formidable brow furrowed in thought. "We can't turn them back with soldiers, can we?"
"Not unless you've got some soldiers stashed in your basement along with the turnips and the beans and the barley," Zautzes said.
Rhavas didn't dignify that with a direct answer. Instead, he went on with his own train of thought: "Can we turn them back with magecraft, then?"
Zautzes' big, bulging eyes narrowed. "Well, I'm not the one to ask, very holy sir—you should talk with a real live wizard instead. But I have to tell you something: I've heard ideas I like a whole lot less. How strong can the nomads' shamans be?"
"Not strong at all," Rhavas said firmly. "They reverence demons and devils, and come close to worshiping Skotos outright. Sorcerers who favor Phos must prevail against them them."
"All right, then." The eparch spoke as if everything were all settled. "We'll go out and give them what for. We've got plenty of sorcerers in this town. Let them earn their keep for something better than finding a little old lady's lost bracelet." He made it sound very simple.
Since Rhavas had never done any campaigning, it seemed simple to him, too. "Most honorable sir, this is a fine plan," he said.
"Glad you think so." Complacence at his own cleverness filled Zautzes' voice, even though the idea had been Rhavas'. Zautzes pointed at the prelate. "You should go with them, you know. Wizards are only men—sinners like anybody else. You, though, very holy sir, you really are a link between this sordid world and the good god."
"Me?" Rhavas said in surprise. Zautzes nodded. Rhavas thought it over. He'd never tried to travel in the northern part of the Empire of Videssos during winter, either. People did; he knew that. The courier now drifting toward sleep in Zautzes' guest room was living proof of it. Rhavas dipped his head in assent. "I'll do it. It's the least I can do for the Empire."
"Good man!" Zautzes exclaimed—by which he no doubt meant that Rhavas was doing what he wanted. He went on, "It will be something out of the ordinary for you."
Whatever else it would be, it would surely be that. Rhavas wondered what he'd just got himself into. Before long, he would find out. He took his leave of Zautzes and walked out of the eparch's residence. The sun, by then, had long since disappeared after its brief midday visit. The stars and the northern lights ruled the sky again, as they did for all but a little stretch of time at this season of the year.
The people of Skopentzana didn't seem to care. Midwinter's Day was Midwinter's Day. They intended to celebrate it. Not even the news of the irruption of the Khamorth could slow the revels. The nomads might have broken into the Empire, but they were nowhere near Skopentzana.
Yet, Rhavas thought. They're nowhere near here yet.
People said the Khamorth were born in the saddle and spent their whole lives aboard their steppe ponies. People said they walked with a bowlegged waddle because they used their legs more for clutching the barrel of a horse than for getting around on the ground. People said all sorts of things about them, some of which might have been true and a lot of which were bound to be nonsense.
Rhavas wondered what people would have said about the expedition setting forth from Skopentzana on a bitterly cold winter's day. People could have said that he was one of the better horsemen in the expedition. That would have been true—and it also would have alarmed anyone who knew what sort of rider Rhavas was.
Most of Skopentzana's wizards, though, did make him look as if he'd been born in the saddle himself. Several of them were on horseback for the first time in their lives, having been in the habit of riding donkeys or mules when they rode at all. They kept complaining about how far off the ground they were.
"Don't worry," one of Zautzes' guards said cheerfully—he was a man who could ride. "If you fall into a snowdrift, you'll see it's nice and soft."
Even that wasn't quite true. The snow had a hard crust on it, one thick enough in spots for a man to walk on it without leaving tracks. Falling on that would be no bargain. Rhavas kept the hood of his robe up over his ears and his tonsured scalp. None of this was any bargain, not so far as he could see.
Ptarmigan took off with a whir of white wings. He'd never noticed them till they flew. In summer, the birds were mostly brown. In spring and fall, their plumage was brown and white. Now, in the wintertime, they were white but for eyes and wingtips. Hares and ferrets and foxes went through the same color changes.
How do they know? Rhavas wondered. They had no calendars. They didn't pray and then roister on Midwinter's Day. But their changes were as reliable as the seasons themselves. The prelate shrugged, there in the saddle. He had no idea how the animals guessed the turning of the year.
"What is it, very holy sir?" A wizard named Koubatzes rode close by Rhavas. He had the highest reputation of any mage in Skopentzana. Many wizards went out of their way to impress those who saw them, wearing gaudy robes and long, elaborately curled beards and letting their hair grow long. Koubatzes didn't bother with any of that. He put Rhavas in mind of a clerk or a secretary. He was thin, middle-aged, and nondescript. His gray-streaked beard was closely trimmed; his robe, if of finer wool than most clerks could afford, was of an ordinary cut and dyed an unremarkable dark green.