Rhavas answered as best he could. Ingegerd seemed content to let him do the talking, maybe because he had more rank than she did, maybe because Videssian was his birthspeech and not hers, or maybe just because—like a lot of Halogai—she thought Videssians liked to talk for the fun of it.
The locals exclaimed in horror when they heard how Skopentzana had fallen. "Some folk who got here ahead of you said the same," one of the militiamen said gloomily, "but we didn't want to believe 'em. Now I guess we have to."
"We've got farmers and their kin in here, too," another added. "Don't like to think we've got to keep a special eye on 'em."
You probably don't, Rhavas thought. Up in Skopentzana, the refugees and the militia had become foes from the start. If that hadn't happened in Tzamandos, the militiamen didn't need to fear that the farmers would prefer the barbarians to them.
He spoke as little as he could of the earthquake. Especially now, he didn't know what to say. To fend off the locals' questions, he asked questions of his own. "It shook us hard," a militiaman answered. "Shook some buildings down, killed some people. But we didn't have bad fires the way we could have, and the walls stayed up, Phos be praised." He drew the sun-circle above his breast.
So did Rhavas, though his head still whirled. How much had Phos had to do with the earthquake? Any more than with any other part of Rhavas' curses? If Phos hadn't given those curses the power to bite, who had? The prelate shied from that like a horse shying from a snake.
No sooner had he thought of horses than one of the locals asked, "How did you come by the Khamorth ponies, very holy sir?"
It was only natural that he should ask. Perhaps the biggest surprise was that the militiamen had had so many other questions ahead of that one. Rhavas coughed. He had no good answer. Then Ingegerd spoke up: "The prelate killed the barbarians to whom they belonged. They are ours now, as spoil of war."
Her slow, sonorous speech only made the words seem more impressive. The militiamen eyed Rhavas in a new way. A priest—a not particularly impressive-looking priest—who'd slain four Khamorth? Rhavas thanked the good god she hadn't said how he killed them. That would have taken more in the way of explanation than he had in him.
"Where is an inn that will tend to the garrison commander's wife?" he asked. "I can beg shelter at a temple, of course, but she may not."
"We're pretty full up, but we'll see what we can do," a militiaman said. "Since she came with you, though, I expect we'll manage."
"I thank you for your kindness," Ingegerd said. Her voice, or perhaps her way of speaking, had something in it that commanded attention. The militiamen almost came to blows deciding which inn would be best for her. At last they decided only the one run by Evtherios would do. One of them appointed himself guide, and self-importantly led the way.
Rhavas came along. He asked her, "Now that you have come here, will you stay? It might be safer if you did."
She shook her head. "No. I will seek my husband. And as for safety, I see none anywhere. With Skopentzana fallen, who can doubt that the like mischance might befall Tzamandos, or indeed any town?"
"As I promised Himerios, I will help you if you can." Rhavas hesitated, then added, "Unless you would sooner have seen the last of me. I can understand how that might be so, and you need not say otherwise for politeness' sake."
Ingegerd shook her head again, this time with a smile on her face. "I would not keep silent for politeness' sake; anyone who knows me will know this is so." Rhavas believed her; whatever she was, she was no hypocrite. Hypocrisy was a Videssian vice, not one from which a Haloga was likely to suffer. She went on, "Nothing untoward happened, nor do I look for anything untoward to happen if we travel together."
"Then we will go on when we can," Rhavas said. Right then, he had no idea whether he looked for the same thing. He also suspected that what he thought of as untoward right now might differ from Ingegerd's notions of the same thing. He did not ask. He did not want to know.
"Here we are," the local militiaman said proudly. "Evtherios' inn—the finest in Tzamandos."
No doubt it was. It actually boasted two stories, the lower one of stone, the upper of timber. In Skopentzana, it would have been ordinary. In Videssos the city, it would have been a shocking hovel—Rhavas didn't think any buildings there still had thatched roofs. For a third-rate northern town, though, it wasn't bad.
"Uh . . ." The militiaman hesitated. "You do have money?"
"I do," Ingegerd answered calmly. The man looked relieved. So, no doubt, did Rhavas. He had little of his own. He was not a priest who cared nothing for gold; he scarcely could have been, coming from the family that had given him birth. But when he got the shock of learning the Khamorth were in Skopentzana, he'd thought of escape first and everything else afterward. That might well have saved his life, but was liable to cause some embarrassment now.
"Very holy sir, if you'll come with me, there's a temple around the corner," the militiaman said. "If you and the lady are traveling together, you'll want to stay close by each other."
Rhavas gave him a sharp look. Was he implying . . . ? But no, he wasn't. He plainly accepted the situation for what it was—for what part of Rhavas (and a very specific part, too) wished it weren't. The prelate fought to hide that wish even from himself. He nodded to the local. "My thanks."
The priest who presided over the temple surely wouldn't have said it was the finest even in Tzamandos. The fellow's name was Tribonianos, and he didn't seem to have much to say about anything. He blinked a good deal, and smelled of stale wine. Had Rhavas come to inspect his temple and not to take shelter in it, he would have had some harsh words for the priest. He did have them, but made himself hold them in. It wasn't easy—unlike a lot of Videssians, he usually said what he thought.
"You're a lucky man, very holy sir, to come out of the downfall of Skopentzana alive," Tribonianos said.
"Maybe," Rhavas answered. Standing in front of the fire in the priest's hearth felt wonderful. He almost bathed in the wonderful warmth. But he found he couldn't leave it at the one word. "Had we been truly fortunate, Skopentzana never would have fallen. The foolish feud between militiamen and peasant refugees spelled her doom."
"We?" Tribonianos echoed. "You got out with others, then?"
"With another," Rhavas replied reluctantly. "With the wife of the city's garrison commander, he having been summoned some time since to join in the civil war now wounding the Empire."
He'd hoped that long phrase would distract the other priest from the meat of the sentence. No such luck, though. "You came away from Skopentzana . . . with a woman?" Tribonianos said, raising bushy eyebrows. However unwillingly, Rhavas had to nod. The local priest leered at him. "Then you are a lucky man, very holy sir."
"By the good god, nothing untoward passed between us." Rhavas let some anger come into his voice.
Part of it was anger at himself, for wishing something untoward had passed with Ingegerd. But Tribonianos did not need to know that, and what Rhavas said was true, even if incomplete. He went on, "I would take oath of this at the altar in the High Temple in Videssos the city."
Tribonianos had never been to the capital. He probably couldn't even imagine what it was like. But the High Temple's fame reached all through the Empire of Videssos and beyond. The priest muttered, "Of course, very holy sir," and Rhavas couldn't have proved he meant it sarcastically.
Hot porridge with bits of smoked pork in it was also wonderful, partly because it was hot and partly just because it was food. Rhavas felt emptier than he ever had in his life before. He'd done more, and done it on less, than he'd ever had to do. Even a second helping wasn't enough to make up for all he'd gone through on the way down to Tzamandos—but it helped. So did the wine he drank with the porridge.