Slowly, he nodded to himself. Slowly, he looked up from Rhavas' hand to his face. He nodded again, this time to his client.
"You will—" he began, and then said no more. His grip suddenly tightened on Rhavas' hand, tightened with agonizing force. His eyes, those eyes that saw so much, opened wider than a man's eyes had any business doing. What was in them? Astonishment? Fear? Fear, Rhavas thought, for that crushing grip all at once went icy cold. Eladas took one hand away for a moment to point at the prelate. Accusation? Triumph? Again, Rhavas couldn't be sure. The soothsayer's mouth worked, but no sound came forth.
And then those staring eyes rolled up in Eladas' head. The man let out a last gasp and slumped over. At first, Rhavas thought he had fainted. Then, with a twinge of horror, he realized Eladas wasn't breathing. Now he was the one who seized the soothsayer's wrist. He probed for the point where the pulse pounded most powerfully.
He felt . . . nothing, nothing at all. He shouted hoarsely for the young priest who'd let Eladas in: "Matzoukes! Come quickly!"
A wet stain at the crotch said Eladas' bladder had let go. A stench said his bowels had done likewise. Matzoukes hurried into the study. He took in the scene at a glance. "Phos!" he exclaimed. Of itself, his hand moved in the sun-circle. "What happened here, very holy sir?"
"He's dead," Rhavas said dully. "Dead." Of that there could be no possible doubt. "I asked him a question, and he began to answer it, but he had a . . . a seizure, I suppose you would say. He fell over, and the rest . . . the rest is as you see."
"What did you ask him?" Matzoukes inquired.
Rhavas withered the youngster with a glance. Matzoukes turned very red and bowed his head in shame and discomfiture. Rhavas grew businesslike: "Help me get the body out of here. Did he have family? I think he did. We'll have to let them know. And we will have to make sure that the charity of this temple does not leave them wanting. This was not our fault"—he said that as much to reassure himself as Matzoukes and the dead Eladas, whose eyes still seemed filled with blind reproach—"but we shall make what amends we can."
"Y-yes, very holy sir," Matzoukes quavered. But he was steady enough as he and Rhavas manhandled Eladas' corpse out of the study. Afterward, panting a little out in the hallway, he said, "I do apologize for snooping. I meant no harm by it, and I certainly didn't mean that your question, whatever it was, could have had anything to do with . . . this." He sketched the sun-sign again.
Matching the gesture, Rhavas said, "Don't fret, my son. I took no offense." That was a lie, but a lie kindly meant. Matzoukes let out an audible sigh of relief. Rhavas stared down at Eladas. They hadn't closed the soothsayer's eyes, so he still seemed to stare back. Rhavas wished he could believe the man had suffered an unfortunate apoplexy or something of the sort. He wished he could, but he had no luck—no luck at all.
As far as he could tell, Eladas had heard his question, looked for the answer, found it . . . and died of terror when he realized what it was. Rhavas still didn't know the answer. The prelate only wished he hadn't asked the question.
Every time a courier came up to Zautzes' residence, Rhavas stared across Skopentzana's central square, wondering what news the man had in his head or in the waxed-leather dispatch tube he carried on his belt. And every time a trader came up from the south and set up a display of pottery or bronze vessels or perfume or spices in one of the city markets, Rhavas wondered what gossip he passed on to the traders and townsfolk.
Would Stylianos try to encourage rebellion here? Before long, Rhavas realized that was the wrong question. The right question was, why wouldn't Stylianos? What did he have to lose? Nothing. What did he have to gain? The crown—in other words, everything.
Rumor said Maleinos had won a battle, somewhere down in the south. Then a different rumor swept through Skopentzana, this one claiming that Stylianos had beaten the Avtokrator and sent him scurrying back to Videssos the city. Rhavas had no idea what to believe. Not believing anything seemed easiest.
He gathered the priests in Skopentzana together and spoke to them about the need to keep Maleinos on the throne. One of them said, "Stylianos will make you sorry if he wins."
"No." Rhavas shook his head. "If the rebel defeats the rightful Avtokrator, I will already be sorry, so he will not be able to make me so."
He wasn't the only Videssian to revel in quibbling for its own sake. The priest looked him in the eye and said, "In that case, very holy sir, he will make you sorrier."
"You are a worthy grammarian," Rhavas said sourly. "It is possible that he may make me sorrier. If the good god is kind, however, what is possible will not come to pass. And that is why I have asked all of you here to the temple today: to urge you to do everything you can to keep the usurper from stealing the throne."
None of the priests said he favored Stylianos. Rhavas would have been surprised if any man had, especially with so little reliable news coming out of the south. But Maleinos' support also seemed lukewarm. Fence-sitters, Rhavas thought unhappily. The lesser priests would see who was winning, and choose based on that. Rhavas knew nothing but contempt for such trimming. He would have preferred a man who dared to admit he backed the rebel. At least such a man would show himself principled, and so worthy of respect. His principles might be misguided, but they would be real. The expedient souls . . .
After they left the temple, Rhavas made a note to himself to send men he trusted to the other temples in the town. Hearing what the priests had to say from the pulpit when they thought he wasn't listening might prove worthwhile. They might pledge loyalty under his eye and go back on it as soon as they were out of earshot. With men who cared more about who was winning and who losing than about who right and who wrong, such things were to be expected.
A few days after his meeting with his fellow priests, Himerios called on him. Bowing, the garrison commander said, "Well, you won't have to worry about my loyalty anymore, very holy sir."
"No?" Rhavas asked cautiously, not sure what the officer meant.
"No." Himerios' voice was grave. "His Majesty has summoned the garrison here down to the south, to join his other forces in the fight against Stylianos."
"Ah?" Rhavas said: as neutral a sound as he could make. "And you are obeying his Majesty?"
"I am," Himerios replied. "Ingegerd will stay behind. A civil war's nothing to take a woman into, and Skopentzana's far enough out of the way that the fighting's unlikely to get here. If . . . if things go wrong, very holy sir, I'd count it a kindness if you see that she doesn't suffer on account of my choice—and if you'd look out for her generally."
Rhavas bowed to him. "What I can do, I will. How much that may be, I do not know. If things go wrong, they are likely to go wrong for me as well as for you. In that case, I doubt I will have much influence on events. You might do well to ask some other priest besides me."
Himerios shook his head. "You're an honest man. Priests are men like any others. Some of them, meaning no offense to you, I wouldn't trust to keep an eye on a sack of manure, let alone a woman."
That came too close for comfort to Rhavas' own thoughts about his fellow clerics. He said, "You do me honor by not including me in their number."
"You annoy people for different reasons," Himerios said. "You cling strongly to what you believe. I don't mean to offend you when I say that you cling strongly even where another man would think of changing his views. That can't help but upset those who hold their opinions less firmly."