"What if we don't care to?" growled one of the men, a tough-looking fellow a few years older than Krispos.
"If you go on doing what you're supposed to do, I don't mind," Krispos said. "That helps me, too. But if you try to make things hard for me on purpose, I won't like it—and neither will you." He pointed to a bruise under one eye. "You must have heard why Petronas took me into his service. After Beshev, I think I can handle myself with just about anybody. But I didn't come here to fight. I will if I have to, but I don't want to. I'd sooner work."
Now he waited to see how the stable hands would respond. They muttered among themselves. The tough-looking groom took a step toward him. He set himself. A smaller, gray-bearded man put a hand on the groom's arm. "No, hold on, Onorios," he said. "He sounds fair enough. Let's find out if he means what he says."
Onorios grunted. "All right, Stotzas, since it's you who's asking." He scowled at Krispos. "But what do you want to bet that inside a month's time he doesn't bother setting foot in here? He'll collect the pay you deserve more and he'll stay in the Grand Courtroom soaking up wine with the rest of that lot there."
"I'll take that bet, Onorios," Krispos said sharply. "At the end of a month—or two, or three, if you'd rather—loser buys the winner all he can drink. What do you say?"
"By the good god, you're on." Onorios stuck out his hand. Krispos took it. They squeezed until they both winced. When they let go, each of them opened and closed his fist several times to work the blood back in.
Krispos said, "Stotzas, will you show me around, please?" If the senior groom was willing not to despise him on sight, he would do his best to stay on Stotzas' good side.
Stotzas showed him the Sevastokrator's parade horse. "Pretty, isn't he? Too bad he couldn't catch a tortoise with a ten-yard start." Then his war horse. "Stay away from his hooves—he's trained to lash out. Maybe you should start giving him apples, so he gets to know you." Then the beasts Petronas took hunting, mares, a couple of retired stallions and geldings, up-and-coming colts—so many animals in all that Krispos knew he would not be able to remember every one.
By the time the tour was nearly done, Stotzas and Krispos were at the far end of the stables, well away from the other hands. The graybeard gave Krispos a sidelong look. "Think you can handle it?" he asked, his voice sly.
"I'll try. What more can I say right now? I only wish you could tell me about the people the same way you did about the horses."
Stotzas' shoulders shook. After a moment, Krispos realized the groom was laughing. "Ah, so you're not just a young fool with more muscles than he needs. I hoped you weren't. Aye, the people'll drive you madder than the beasts any day, but if you keep 'em happy and keep 'em tending to their jobs, things'll run smooth enough. If you have that trick, sonny, you'll do right well for yourself."
"I hope I do." Krispos met Stotzas' eyes. "I hope you'll help me, too."
"Won't stand in your road, anyhow," Stotzas said after a brief, thoughtful pause. "Any youngster who admits he don't know everything there is to know is worth taking a chance on, you ask me. And you handled Onorios pretty well. Reckon he'll be buying you wine a month from now instead of the other way round."
"That he will," Krispos promised.
"Well, let's head back," Stotzas said. As they walked down the center aisle of the stable toward the knot of expectantly waiting hands, the senior groom raised his voice a little to ask, "So what do you think we ought to do about that hunter with the sore shins?"
"You've been resting him, you said, and putting cold compresses on his legs?" Krispos waited for Stotzas' nod, then went on, "He doesn't look too bad. If you keep up with what you're doing for a few more days, then start exercising him on soft ground, he should do all right."
Neither of them let on that they'd quietly talked about the horse's problem in front of its stall. Stotzas rubbed his chin, nodded sagely. "Good advice, sir. We'll take it, I expect." He turned to the crowd of stable hands. "He'll do."
Allies made life easier, Krispos thought.
For the next several weeks, Krispos spent most of his waking hours in the stables. He learned more about horsemanship than he'd ever known, and more about the sometimes related art of guiding men, as well. When he collected his bet from Onorios, he made a point of also buying wine for the burly groom. After they drank together, Onorios hurried to do whatever Krispos needed and did it gladly. Stotzas said nothing, but a glint of amusement showed in his eyes once in a while.
Because he was working so hard, Krispos needed a while to notice how his life had changed since he moved to his apartment in the Grand Courtroom. At Iakovitzes', he'd been a servant. Here he had servants of his own. His bed linen was always clean; his clothes seemed to wash themselves as if by magic and reappear, spotless, in his closet.
He also learned that any small valuables he left out might disappear, as if by magic. He was glad he'd hidden Tanilis' gift behind a piece of molding he'd loosened. Every so often, he would move the small cabinet he'd put in front of the loose place and add more money to his store. He lived frugally. He was too busy to do anything else.
He was about to go to sleep one warm summer night when someone tapped on his door. He scratched his head. His acquaintance with the officials and courtiers who lived in the other apartments down this hall was nodding at best; he'd been at the stables too much to get to know them well. "Who is it?" he called.
"Eroulos."
"Oh!" Krispos had not seen Petronas' steward since the day he came to Iakovitzes' house for him. After hastily throwing his tunic back on, he unbarred the door. "Come in!"
"No, you come out with me," Eroulos said. "I am bidden to bring you downstairs to the Sevastokrator. His Imperial Highness is entertaining ... a guest. He would like to have him meet you."
"A guest?"
"You'll see for yourself soon enough. Come along, if you please."
Krispos followed Eroulos down the hall and down the stairs. Petronas' guards gave the steward and him a thorough patting down at the doorway to the Sevastokrator's suite. Krispos let himself be searched without complaint; after all, he had never passed through this entrance before. But he was surprised Eroulos got the same treatment. If Petronas did not trust his own steward, whom did he trust? Maybe no one, Krispos thought.
Finally, nodding, the guards stood aside. One of them opened the door. Eroulos waved Krispos in ahead of him. Krispos had wondered how the Sevastokrator lived. What he saw reminded him of Tanilis' villa: a mix of great wealth and quiet good taste.
An icon of Phos arrested his eye. Respect for both the good god and the artist made him sketch the sun-sign over his heart; he'd never seen Phos portrayed with such perfectly mingled sternness and kindness. Eroulos followed his gaze. "That is the image, they say, after which the Phos in the dome of the High Temple is modeled," the steward remarked.
"I can well believe it," Krispos said. Even after he'd walked by, he had the uneasy feeling the god in the icon was still looking at him.
"Here we are," Eroulos said at length, halting before a door inlaid with lacy vines of gold and ivory. He tapped at it. For a moment, the two voices coming through it did not pause. One was Petronas. The other sounded lighter, younger. Eroulos tapped again. "All right, all right," Petronas growled.