Embarrassment suddenly heated Rhavas' cheeks and his ears and the shaven crown of his head. Why, here I am, guilty of the very sin I've thundered against from the pulpit, he thought. He promised himself penitential prayers before an image of the good god. Even as he made the promise, though, he wondered whether carrying it out would suffice to uproot the sin he'd found inside his own bosom. He hoped and doubted at the same time.
Stiffly, he said, "If the most honorable Zautzes learns anything I should know, I hope he will do me the courtesy of calling on me at my residence."
"I'm sure he will, very holy sir," one of the sentries said.
Rhavas was also sure of it. The civil administration and the temples stood shoulder to shoulder in ruling the Empire. And even if they hadn't . . . Even if they hadn't, Zautzes would have been a fool not to consult the man who was not only prelate of Skopentzana but also the Avtokrator's cousin. Rhavas had no great love for Zautzes; the man was a lecher, and also overfond of wine, at least by the prelate's austere standards. But no one could ever accuse the eparch of being a fool.
Turning, Rhavas went back toward the temple. This time, he strolled instead of striding. As if he were a traveler from afar, he stopped dead and admired each statue in turn. He lingered longest at the great bronze of Stavrakios. He remembered doing the same thing when he first came to Skopentzana all those years earlier. He really had been a traveler from afar then. No more.
This time, his dawdling had method in it. The square couldn't have been more than a bowshot wide. Even so, Rhavas hadn't completely crossed it before someone shouted out his name from the direction of the eparch's residence. He turned, as if in surprise.
There stood Zautzes himself, waving and doing everything this side of jumping up and down to catch his notice. Gravely, Rhavas waved back. Zautzes hurried toward him. The eparch always put Rhavas in mind of a frog. He was short and squat. He had a wide face, a broad mouth, a receding chin, and eyes that threatened to bulge out of his head.
Frogs, however, did not commonly wear fur-edged silk robes shot through with gold and silver threads. Nor did frogs wear boots trimmed with red. Those boots symbolized Zautzes' own connection with the Avtokrator. Only the ruler himself was allowed a pair all of red.
The two leaders of Skopentzana bowed to each other. "Very holy sir," Zautzes said, his voice a gravelly bass.
"Most honorable sir." Rhavas' voice was only slightly higher, but much smoother.
"You will know a courier has come to me with news. You will also know he came with, ah, a certain amount of urgency." Zautzes even blinked like a frog. The motion was slow and deliberate and involved his whole face.
"I had gathered something to that effect, yes." Rhavas was not about to let the eparch win a battle of understatements. "Of course, if it's none of my business I'll just go back to the temple and find out about it from my cook or the cleaning woman."
That made Zautzes blink again, even more extravagantly than before. "Well, very holy sir, it does have somewhat to do with you. Yes, somewhat, by Phaos." The eparch was from these parts, and pronounced the good god's name in the old-fashioned, two-syllable way. In the capital, they'd clipped it down to one. Zautzes gathered himself. "D'you know Stylianos, the grand domestikos?"
"I met him a few times when he came into Videssos the city, but he was usually on campaign even then," Rhavas answered. "I can't say I know him well, though. Why do you ask? Has something happened to him? I hope not."
He meant that. Stylianos was a good general, probably the best grand domestikos the Empire had had in at least a hundred years. His forays onto the Pardrayan plains had warned the Khamorth nomads that their raids into imperial territory would not be tolerated. Few Videssian commanders had ever hit back effectively at the plainsmen. Stylianos made a welcome exception.
But Rhavas didn't care for the way Zautzes stared at him: as if he were a fly to be snapped up with a flick of the tongue. The eparch said, "Something's happened to him, all right, very holy sir. He's proclaimed himself Avtokrator of the Videssians, and he's moving against the city." To Videssians from one end of the Empire to the other, the great imperial capital was the city.
"Phos!" Rhavas muttered, and sketched the sun-circle over his heart. "Maleinos will not take that lying down, most honorable sir. He will fight to hold the throne, and fight with everything that's in him. You asked if I knew Stylianos, and I don't, not well. But I know my cousin. I know what he will do." Bitterness filled his voice: "He raised Stylianos up to be grand domestikos. Is this the thanks he gets?"
"So it would seem," Zautzes said, an answer whose breathtaking cynicism left even the sardonic Rhavas at a loss. Into the prelate's silence, Zautzes went on, "It's been a while since the Empire's last civil war. I'm afraid we've got a new one on our hands."
"I'm afraid you're right," Rhavas said. "For that alone, Stylianos will be damned to Skotos' eternal ice." Now Zautzes was the one who didn't respond right away. Rhavas raised an eyebrow. In a very soft voice, he asked, "Or do you disagree, most honorable sir? Maleinos raised you up, too, you know."
"I want peace in the Empire," Zautzes said. "Whoever can give me that, I'm for."
That was an answer that was not an answer. Rhavas' tone grew sharper: "If the would-be usurper comes to Skopentzana, will this city welcome him or close its gates against him?"
"You would do better to ask Himerios than me." Zautzes sounded sullen, resenting being put on the spot.
Rhavas grunted. The garrison Himerios commanded was intended to protect Skopentzana from Haloga pirate ships rowing up the Anazarbos. It wasn't very big; the blond barbarians hadn't been troublesome lately. And Himerios had always seemed content enough with little to do and scant resources with which to do it. Now . . .
Now Rhavas and Zautzes might not be the most important, most powerful men in Skopentzana after all. That role might belong to the garrison commander. Rhavas nodded briskly to the eparch. "No doubt you're right, most honorable sir. I had better do that."
Zautzes looked no happier. Rhavas had a hard time blaming him. The eparch had to go on running Skopentzana as if nothing were wrong. He had to collect the head tax and the hearth tax as usual. He had to see that justice was done, that the city's walls and public buildings were repaired . . . and that whoever won the civil war wouldn't think he'd backed the other side.
With a curt bow, Rhavas turned away. He didn't want Zautzes to see how worried he was. Most prelates throughout the Empire would be making the same calculations as the local eparchs. Rhavas didn't have that burden—or was it a luxury? Stylianos would assume he was loyal to his cousin, the Avtokrator, and the rebel would be right.
Out of the corner of his eye, Rhavas saw Zautzes waddle back toward his residence. That gave the prelate the privacy he needed to swear under his breath. Maleinos had proved himself a reasonably good Avtokrator, and a reasonably able one as well. Rhavas wouldn't have worried about most rebels; he would have been confident his cousin could put them down in short order.
Stylianos? Stylianos was a different story.
A man with the broad shoulders, heat-reddened face, and battered hands of a blacksmith came up to Rhavas. "Is something wrong, very holy sir?" he asked. "You look like you just watched an oxcart run over your pup."
Rhavas looked at him—looked through him. The blacksmith's face got redder yet. It isn't his fault, the prelate reminded himself, trying to be charitable. Charity didn't come easy, not now. "I'm afraid, my good man, that it's nowhere near so trivial as that."