"The talks with the Makuraners aren't going well?" Krispos asked.
"They're not the problem," Petronas said. "The Makuraners like talk as much as we Videssians, and that's saying something. I just need to keep them talking a while longer, till I'm ready to fight. But I don't like the rumbles I hear out of Kubrat. Malomir's stayed quiet ever since old Omurtag died. If he decided to start raiding us now, then the war with Makuran might have to wait, and I don't want it to wait. I've waited too long already. " He pounded a fist down on the padded arm of his chair.
Krispos nodded. Thinking of nomad horsemen sweeping down from the north could make him shiver even now. And if Videssos' armies were fully engaged in the far west, raids from Kubrat could reach all the way down to the walls of Videssos the city. The capital had stood Kubrati siege a couple of times. He wondered if the frontier with Kubrat wasn't more important than the one with Makuran, which would stay peaceful for a while if Petronas didn't stir it up.
Was he right? He wasn't sure himself; as the Sevastokrator had warned him, he'd had no practice making that kind of judgment. Maybe it wouldn't matter either way; maybe the Kubratoi would let themselves be bought off, as they sometimes did. He hoped so. Things would be simpler that way.
The higher he'd risen, though, and the closer he'd come to real power, the more complicated things looked.
Anthimos kept at his magical studies with a persistence that startled Krispos. While his new sanctum rose from the ruins of the temple, he transcribed texts at the imperial residence. Krispos had to go over to the clerks who scribbled by the Grand Courtroom to find out how they got ink off their fingers. When he fetched back some small pumice stones, Anthimos praised him to the skies.
"That's plenty for today," the Emperor said one hot, muggy summer afternoon, coming out of his study wringing his writing hand. "All work makes a man dull. What do we have laid on for tonight?"
"The feast features a troupe that performs with large dogs and tiny ponies," Krispos answered.
"Does it? Well, that should give the servants something new to clean up." Anthimos started down the hall. "Which robe have you chosen for me?"
"The blue silk. It should be coolest in this weather. Excuse me, your Majesty," Krispos called to the Emperor's retreating back, "but I believe you've forgotten something."
Anthimos stopped. "What's that?"
"Your fingers are still stained. You forgot to pumice them, you want people to say the Avtokrator of the Videssians is his own secretary? Here, let me fetch you a stone."
Anthimos looked down at his right hand. "I did forget to clean off, didn't I?" Now it was his turn to make Krispos pause. "You needn't bring me the pumice stone. I can take care of this myself, I think."
Intense concentration on his face, the Emperor spread the ink-stained fingers of his writing hand. He waved his left hand above it and raised his voice in a rhythmic chant. Suddenly he cried out and clenched both hands into fists. When he opened them, they were both clean.
Krispos made the sun-sign over his heart. "You did it!" he exclaimed, then hoped he didn't sound as surprised as he felt.
"I certainly did," Anthimos said smugly. "A small application of the law of contagion, which states that objects once in contact may continue to influence one another. As that pumice had so often scoured my fingers, I simply re-created the cleansing action by magical means."
"I didn't realize you could start working magic before you had all your spells copied out," Krispos said. "Do you want me to take the pumice stones back to the clerks I got them from?"
"No, not yet. For one thing—" The Emperor grinned a small-boy grin, "—Trokoundos doesn't know I am working magic. I don't think I'm supposed to be. For another, cleaning my hands that way was a lot harder than simply scraping off the ink. I wanted to show off for you, but it wore me out. And I don't want to be worn out, not when there will be so many interesting women at the revels tonight. There will be, won't there, Krispos?"
"Of course, your Majesty. I always try to please you that way." Once more, Krispos wondered why Anthimos couldn't give, if not all, at least most of his attention to Dara. If nothing else, he'd have a better chance of begetting a legitimate heir if he spent some time with his own wife. It was not as if she were undesirable, Krispos thought—quite the opposite, in fact.
Whatever Anthimos' newfound sorcerous talents, he could not read minds. At the moment, perhaps, that was just as well. The Avtokrator went on, "I can hardly wait to show off my magecraft at a feast. For that, though, I'll need something rather more impressive than cleaning my hands without pumice. I tried something once, and it didn't work."
"You did?" Now Krispos didn't care if he sounded appalled. A mage who botched a spell was apt to be in even more immediate need of an heir than an Avtokrator. "What did you do?"
Anthimos looked sheepish. "I tried giving wings to one of the little tortoises that crawl through the gardens. I thought it would be amusing, flying around inside the hall where I usually have my feasts. But I must have done something wrong, because I ended up with a pigeon with a shell. Promise me you won't tell Trokoundos?"
"You're lucky you didn't end up shifting the shell to your own foolish face," Krispos said sternly. Anthimos shifted from foot to foot like a schoolboy taking a scolding he knew he deserved. As had happened so often before, Krispos found he could not stay angry at him. Shaking his head, he went on, "All right, I won't tell Trokoundos if you promise me you'll stop mucking about with things you don't understand."
"I won't," Anthimos said. He had gone off to look at the robe he would wear to the evening's festivities before Krispos noticed he hadn't quite made a promise. Even if he had, Krispos doubted he would have taken it seriously enough to keep. Anthimos just did not believe anything bad could ever happen to him.
Krispos knew better. If growing up on a farm had done nothing else for him, it had done that.
X
The bell beside Krispos' bed tinkled softly. He woke up muttering to himself. When Anthimos held a feast, he was expected to roister along with the Emperor—and the Emperor was better than he at doing without sleep. When Anthimos spent a night with Dara in the imperial residence, Krispos expected to have the chance to catch up on his rest.
Even as he slipped a robe over his head, he knew he was not being fair. Though he'd got into the habit of keeping a lamp burning all night long to help him dress quickly in case the Avtokrator needed him, Anthimos seldom called him after he'd gone to bed. But tonight, he thought grouchily, only went to show that seldom didn't mean never.
He walked out his door and four or five steps down the hall to the imperial bedchamber. That door was closed, but a light showed under it. He opened the door. Anthimos and Dara turned their heads toward him.
He stopped in his tracks and felt his face go flame-hot. "Y-your pardon, I pray," he stammered. "I thought the bell summoned me."
"Don't go away, at least not yet. I did call you," the Emperor said, calm as if he'd been interrupted playing draughts—or at one of his revels. After that first startled glance toward the door, Dara looked down at Anthimos. Her long dark hair, undone now, spilled over her shoulders and veiled her so that Krispos could not see her face. Anthimos brushed some of that shining hair away from his nose and went on, "Fetch me a little olive oil, if you please, Krispos; that's a good fellow."
"Yes, your Majesty," Krispos said woodenly. He hurried out of the bedchamber. Behind him, he heard Anthimos say, "Why did you slow down, my dear? That was nice, what you were doing."