"You'll want to ask him more questions, your Majesty?" the gaoler said.
"No, no; you misunderstand. That priest is a condemned traitor. If he wants to carry out the sentence of death on himself in his own way, I am willing to permit it. But if his will falters, he'll meet the headsman on a full stomach."
"Ah," the gaoler said. "The wind sits so, eh? Very well, your Majesty, it shall be as you say."
In his younger days, Krispos would have come back with something harsh, like It had better be. More secure in his power now, he headed upstairs without a backward glance. As long as the gaoler felt no other result than the one he desired was possible, that result was what Krispos would get.
The Halogai who had waited outside the government office building took their places around Krispos and those who had gone down with him into the gaol. "Is the word good. Majesty?" one of the northerners asked.
"Good enough, anyhow," the Avtokrator answered. "I know now Phostis was snatched, not killed, and I have a good notion of where he's been taken. As for getting him back—time will tell about that." And about what sort of person he'll be when I do get him back, he added to himself.
The guardsmen cheered, their deep-voiced shouts making passersby's heads turn to find out what news was so gladsome. Some people exclaimed to see Krispos out and about without his retinue of parasol bearers. Others exclaimed at the Halogai. The men from the north—tall, fair, gloomy, and slow-spoken— never failed to fascinate the Videssians, whose opposites they were in almost every way.
Struck by sudden curiosity, Krispos turned to one of the northerners and said. "Tell me, Trygve, what do you make of the folk of Videssos the city?"
Trygve pursed his lips and gave the matter some serious thought. At last, in his deliberate Videssian, he answered, "Majesty, the wine here is very fine, the women looser than they are in Halogaland. But everyone, I t'ink, here talks too much." Several other guardsmen nodded in solemn agreement. Since Krispos had the same opinion of the city folk, he nodded, too.
Back at the imperial residence, he gave the news from Digenis to Barsymes. The vestiarios' smile, unusually broad, filled his face full of fine wrinkles. He said, "Phos be praised that the young Majesty is thought to be alive. The other palace chamberlains, I know, will be as delighted as I am."
Down a side corridor, Krispos came upon Evripos and Katakolon arguing about something or other. He didn't ask what; when the mood struck them, they could argue over the way a lamp flame flickered. He'd had no brothers himself, only two sisters younger than he, both many years dead now. He supposed he should have been glad his sons kept their fights to words and occasional fists rather than hiring knifemen or poisoners or wizards.
Both youths glanced warily in his direction as he approached. Neither one looked conspicuously guilty, so each of them felt the righteousness of his own cause—though Evripos, these days, was developing the beginning of a pretty good stone face.
Krispos said, "Digenis has cracked at last, thank the good god. By what he said, Phostis is held in some Thanasiot stronghold, but is alive and likely to stay that way."
Now he studied Evripos and Katakolon rather than the other way round. Katakolon said, "That's good news. By the time we're done smashing the Thanasioi next summer, we should have him back again." His expression was open and happy; Krispos didn't think he was acting. He was sure he couldn't have done so well at Katakolon's age ... but then, he hadn't been raised at court, either.
Evripos' features revealed nothing whatever. His eyes were watchful and hooded. Krispos prodded to see what lay behind the mask. "Aren't you glad to be sure your elder brother lives?"
"For blood's sake, aye, but should I rejoice to see my ambition thwarted?" Evripos said. "Would you, in my boots?"
The question cut to the root. Ambition for a better life had driven Krispos from his farm to Videssos; while he was one of Iakovitzes' grooms, ambition had led him to wrestle a Kubrati champion and gained him the notice of the then-Emperor Anthimos' uncle Petronas, who administered Videssos in his nephew's name; ambition led him to let Petronas use him to supplant Anthimos' previous vestiarios; and then, as vestiarios himself, to take ever more power into his own hands, supplanting first Petronas and then Anthimos.
He said, "Son, I know you want the red boots. Well, so does Phostis, and I have but the one set to give. What would you have me do?"
"Give them to me, by Phos," Evripos answered. "I'd wear them better than he would."
"I have no way to be sure of that—nor do you," Krispos said. "For that matter, a day may come when Katakolon here begins to think past the end of his prick. He might prove a better ruler than either of you two. Who can say?"
"Him?" Evripos shook his head. "No, Father, forgive me, but I don't see it."
"Me?" Katakolon seemed as bemused as his brother. "I've never thought much of wearing the crown. I always figured the only way it would come to me was if Phostis and Evripos were dead. I don't want it badly enough to wish for that. And since I'm not likely to be Avtokrator, why shouldn't I enjoy myself?"
As Avtokrator and voluptuary both, Anthimos had been anything but good for the Empire. But as Emperor's brother, Katakolon would be relatively harmless if he devoted himself to pleasure. If he did lack ambition, he might even be safer as a voluptuary. The chronicles had shown Krispos that rulers had a way of turning suspicious of their closest kin: who else was likelier both to accumulate power and to use it against them?
"Maybe it's because I grew up on a farm," Krispos began, and both Evripos and Katakolon rolled their eyes. Nonetheless, the Avtokrator persisted: "Maybe that's why I think waste is a sin Phos won't forgive. We never had much; if we'd wasted anything, we would have starved. The lord with the great and good mind knows I'm glad it isn't so with you boys: being hungry is no fun. But even though you have so much, you should still work to make the most you can of your lives. Pleasure is all very well in its place, but you can do other things when you're not in bed."
Katakolon grinned. "Aye, belike: you can get drunk."
"Another sermon wasted, Father," Evripos said acidly. "How does that fit into your scheme of Worths?"
Without answering, Krispos pushed past his two younger sons and down the corridor. Phostis was unenthusiastic about ruling, Evripos embittered, and Katakolon had other things on his mind. What would Videssos come to when the common fate of mankind took his own hand from the steering oar?
Men had been asking that question, on one scale or another, for as long as there were men. If the head of a family died and his relatives were less able then he, the family might fall on hard times, but the rest of the world went on. When an able Emperor passed from the scene, families past counting might suffer because of it.
"What am I supposed to do?" Krispos asked the statues and paintings and relics that lined that hallway. No answer came back to him. All he could think of was to go on himself, as well as he could for as long as he could.
And after that? After that it would be in his sons' hands, and in the good god's. He remained confident Phos would continue to watch over Videssos. Of his sons he was less certain.
Rain poured down in sheets, ran in wide, watery fishtails off the edges of roofs, and turned the inner ward of the fortress of Etchmiadzin into a thin soup of mud. Phostis closed the wooden shutter to the little slit window in his cell; with it open, things were about as wet inside as they were out in the storm.
But with it closed, the bare square room was dark as night; fitfully flickering lamps did little to cut the gloom. Phostis slept as much as he could. Inside the cell in near darkness, he had little else to do.