His hands shook as he raised the cup to his lips. When the wine hit his stomach, he wondered if it would stay down. He gulped a couple of times and told his inside to behave themselves. To his relief, they did. He crunched cabbage and spooned up the greasy, spicy soup. Little by little, his headache receded.
"Better," he said when he got to the bottom of the soup bowl. "Not good, but better."
"I know what you mean," Lardys said in tones almost as mournful as his own. The man's laugh had a distinctly hollow ring. "See if I ever curse anybody again for the rest of my days."
Rhavas stared. The fellow actually thought that his curse had killed Kameniates? Rhavas started to laugh, too. Once he started, he had trouble stopping. By the time he managed to bring the spasm—almost the seizure—under control, everyone in the place was looking at him.
"You all right, holy sir?" Lardys asked doubtfully.
"I . . . suppose so," Rhavas answered, still wheezing. A couple of tears trickled from the corners of his eyes. "Oh, dear. I'm sorry. If I didn't laugh, I would weep."
"The most holy Kameniates deserves our tears," an old man said, sketching the sun-sign. "Who now will lead the temples in this troubled time?"
That was as good a question as any the innkeeper had asked. If Rhavas hadn't quarreled with his cousin, his name likely would have headed the list of three candidates Maleinos presented to the small synod that would choose Kameniates' successor. They would know exactly which of the three the Avtokrator expected them to choose, too.
I was a fool, Rhavas thought. If he were the ecumenical patriarch himself, he could have presented his views on the faith from a position of strength. As things were, he would have to throw them in the faces of the ecclesiastical hierarchy.
He shook his head. One of the reasons old Neboulos sent him to Skopentzana all those years ago was to teach him to get along with people. That hadn't worked out so well as the old patriarch would have wished.
No help for it now. He was what he was, and he believed what he believed. He believed he would prevail despite everything. Oddly, he felt more convinced of it than ever, despite all the things that hadn't gone the way he would have liked.
"What do you know of the prelates and clerics, holy sir?" the old man asked him. "Who do you suppose will succeed the most holy sir?"
"An interesting question," Rhavas answered. "I've been out of the city for a while, though, and I don't know the important men in the temples as well as I should."
"I know who it would be if the barbarians hadn't jumped on us," Lardys said. "Doesn't the Avtokrator have a cousin or a nephew who's a priest up in one of those places? Agderos, I think it is. To the ice with me if I remember what the fellow's name is."
"Skopentzana. It was Skopentzana," Rhavas said. Agderos was even farther north: a small port on the Northern Sea. Not much point to having a big port up there, not when the ocean itself froze most winters.
"Was it, holy sir? I didn't think so, but I won't argue with you," the taverner said. "Wherever it was, that nephew would be the chap with the inside track. But he's probably dead now, what with everything up there being such a mess."
"Yes, he probably is," Rhavas said.
But maybe not. Maybe Maleinos would decide blood was not only thicker than water but also thicker than bad doctrine. I ought to try to see him and find out, Rhavas thought. Maybe I can persuade him I'm milder than he thinks I am. Maybe I can persuade him I'm milder than I really am, too. The worst Maleinos could tell him was no. And if he heard no, how was he worse off?
XI
"No," Maleinos said, looking Rhavas in the eye.
"But—" Rhavas began. They sat in the small audience chamber where Rhavas had made the mistake of talking about calling for a synod. Their wine—or at least Rhavas' wine—was noticeably less fine today.
"No," his cousin repeated. "You've already gone and made yourself into a scandal. I don't want scandal on the patriarchal throne. I can't afford it, not when I'm going to take the field against the rebel in a few days. And so I'll pick someone safe. Do you—did you—know Sozomenos?"
"I knew him, yes, your Majesty," Rhavas replied. "He is a most holy, most pious man." He spoke nothing but the truth there. Sozomenos was a man of the sort Kveldoulphios the martyr must have been: one whose holiness would be remembered and honored for centuries after he died. What amazed Rhavas was that he hadn't died long since. "He must be . . . close to ninety now, yes?"
"Somewhere around there." Maleinos shrugged. "So what? His wits are still sound. No one can possibly question that. And he's a safe choice. No one can possibly question that, either." He glowered at Rhavas. "On the other hand, anybody—especially Stylianos—could question you. I don't aim to give him the chance."
Rhavas had never been wounded on the battlefield. He imagined that had to feel something like this. He bore it as bravely as he could, inclining his head and saying, "You are the Avtokrator."
"I aim to stay the Avtokrator, too, by the good god." No matter what Maleinos had said in a casual chat, at bottom he still followed Phos. "Once I hang Stylianos' ugly head on the Milestone . . . Well, if Sozomenos walks the Bridge of the Separator after that, maybe I can think things over again. Maybe. If you can learn to keep your mouth shut in the meantime." Maleinos looked Rhavas straight in the face again.
There it was: the bargain. Keep quiet now, become ecumenical patriarch later. But what would happen then? Slowly, Rhavas said, "You would expect me to keep my mouth shut—about that—after you put me on the patriarchal throne, too."
"Hasn't the Empire seen enough trouble the past few years to last for the next fifty?" Maleinos returned. "Why do we need more?"
"Because of the truth?" Rhavas suggested.
Maleinos shook his head. The sunlight coming in through the window played on the lines and shadows around his eyes, making him look older than his years. Thinking about it, Rhavas decided Maleinos' eyes made him look older than his years anyhow, even if the rest of his face seemed young. Wearing the red boots ground a man down before his time, and Maleinos' eyes were where it showed. The Avtokrator said, "If it is the truth, someone else is bound to find it one of these days. Why hurry to shove it down people's throats?"
"Because it is the truth," Rhavas replied. His cousin was a political animal, one who worried about what would work, what was expedient, what was practical. Rhavas wasn't, never could be, never would be. Here again he discovered his inability to compromise even when compromise would have done him a lot of good.
Being a political animal, Maleinos saw the same thing, and likely saw it before Rhavas did. Sighing, the Avtokrator shook his head once more. "No, I'm sorry—I don't think it will do. You are a man who will eat fire even if you have to kindle it yourself. I can't have that kind of man presiding over the High Temple. It's more trouble than it's worth." There was that word again.
"Even with Kameniates dead, the synod will go forward," Rhavas said stubbornly. "I had the right to demand it. Sozomenos himself would not deny that."
"Let it go forward." Maleinos sounded altogether indifferent. "It will fall down on you like a brick building in an earthquake. It will serve you right, too." He paused, eyeing Rhavas. "There have been some funny reports out of the north. I don't suppose you . . ." He shook his head. "No. I'm just saying that because I'm not happy with you."