"There—you see, your Majesty?" Drina said triumphantly.
"I see," Krispos said. "This was already a good day; you've made it better still."
"I'm glad." Drina let out a squeak. "I'd better get up, or else I'll leave stains on the sheet for the washerwomen to giggle at."
"Do they do that?" Krispos asked. He fell asleep in the middle of her answer.
By the time spring drew near in Etchmiadzin, Phostis knew every little winding street in town. He knew where the stonecutters had their shops, and the harnessmakers, and the bakers. He knew the street on which Laonikos and Siderina were busy dying—knew it and kept away from it.
He got more and more chances to wander where he would without Syagrios. Etchmiadzin's wall was too high to jump from without breaking his neck, its single gate too well guarded for him to think of bolting through it and away. And as the weather got better, Syagrios was more and more closeted with Livanios, planning the upcoming summer's campaign.
Phostis did his best to stay out of Livanios' way. The less he reminded the heresiarch of his presence, the less likely Livanios was to think of him, think of the danger he might represent, and put him out of the way.
Just wandering, however, was beginning to pall. When he'd had Syagrios at his elbow every hour of the day and night, he was sure just getting away from the ruffian for a little while would bring peace to his soul. And so it had ... for a little while. But the taste of freedom, however small, served only to whet his appetite for more. He was no longer a glad explorer of Etchmiadzin's back alleys. He paced them more like a wildcat searching for an opening in its cage.
He hadn't found one yet. Maybe around the next corner, he told himself for the hundredth time. He went round the next corner—and almost walked into Olyvria, who was coming around it the other way.
They both sidestepped in the same direction, which meant they almost bumped into each other again. Olyvria started to laugh. "Get out of my way, you," she said, miming a push at his chest.
He made as if to stumble backward from it, then bowed extravagantly. "I humbly crave your pardon, my lady; I had no intention of disturbing your glorious progress," he cried. "I pray that you find it in your heart to forgive me!"
"We'll see about that," she said darkly.
By then they were both laughing. Phostis came back up to her and slipped an arm around her waist. She snuggled against him; her chin fit nicely on the top of his shoulder. He wanted to kiss her, but held back—she was still nervous about it. From her perspective, he supposed she had reason to be.
"What are you doing here?" they both asked in the same breath. That made them laugh again.
"Nothing much," Phostis answered. "Keeping away from mischief as best I can. What about you?"
Olyvria was carrying a canvas bag. She pulled a shoe out of it and held it up so close to Phostis' face that his eyes crossed. "I broke off the heel, see?" she said. "There's a little old Vaspurakaner cobbler down this street who does wonderful work. Why not? He's been doing it longer than both of us put together have been alive. Anyway, I was taking it to him."
"May I accompany you on your journey?" he asked grandly.
"I hoped you would," she answered, and dropped the wounded shoe back into the bag. Arm in arm, they walked down the little lane.
"Oh, this place," Phostis said when they reached the cobbler's shop. "Yes, I went by here." Over the door hung a boot carved from wood. To one side of it the wall bore the word shoon in Videssian, to the other what was presumably the same message in the square, blocky characters the "princes" of Vaspurakan used to write their language.
Phostis peered through one of the narrow windows set into the front wall, Olyvria into the other. "I don't see anyone in there," she said, frowning.
"Let's find out." Phostis reached for the latch and pulled the door open. A bell rang. The rich smell of leather filled his nose. He motioned for Olyvria to precede him into the cobbler's shop. The door swung shut behind them.
"He's not here." Olyvria said disappointedly. All the candles and lamps were out; even with them burning, Phostis would have found the shop too dim. Awls and punches, little hammers and trimming knives hung in neat rows on pegs behind the cobbler's bench. No one came out from the back room to answer the bell.
"Maybe he was taken ill," Phostis said. Something else ran through his mind: Or maybe he'd rather starve himself to death than work any more. But no, probably not. She'd said he was a Vaspurakaner, not a Thanasiot.
"Here's a scrap of parchment." Olyvria pounced on it. "See if you can find pen and ink. I'll leave him the shoe and a note." She clicked her tongue between her teeth. "I hope he reads Videssian. I'm not sure. Someone could easily have painted that word on the wall for him."
"Here." Phostis discovered a little clay jar of ink and a reed pen below the tools. "He reads something, anyhow, or I don't think he'd have these."
"That's true. Thanks." Olyvria scribbled a couple of lines, put her broken shoe on the bench, and secured the parchment to it with a long rawhide lace. "There. That should be all right. If he can't read Videssian, he ought to know someone who can. I hope he's well."
A donkey went by outside. Its hooves made little wet sucking noises as it lifted them from the mud one after another. It let out a braying squeal of discontent at being ridden in such dreadful conditions. "Ahh, quit your bellyaching," growled the man on its back, who was plainly used to its complaints. The donkey brayed again as it squelched past the cobbler's shop.
But for the donkey, everything was still save far off in the distance, where a dog barked. Olyvria took a small step toward the door. "I suppose I should get back," she said.
"Wait," Phostis said.
She raised a questioning eyebrow. He put his arms around her and bent his face down to hers. Before their lips touched, she pulled back a little and whispered, "Are you sure?" In the murky light, the pupils of her eyes were enormous.
He wondered how she meant that, but it could have only one answer. "Yes, I'm sure."
"Well, then." Now she moved forward to kiss him.
She hesitated once more, just for a heartbeat, when his hand closed on the firm softness of her breast. But then she molded herself against him. They sank down to the rammed-earth floor of the cobbler's shop together, fumbling at each other's garments.
It was the usual clumsy first time, made more frantic than usual by fear that someone—most likely the cobbler—would walk through the door at the most inopportune moment possible. "Hurry!" Olyvria gasped.
Phostis did his best to oblige. Afterward, because he'd rushed so, he wasn't sure he'd fully satisfied her. At the time, he didn't worry about it. His mouth slid from hers to her breasts and down the rounded slope of her belly. Her hand was urgent on him. She lay on her rumpled dress. A fold of it got distractingly between them when he scrambled above her. He leaned on one elbow to yank it out of the way. He kissed her again as he slid inside.
When he was through, he sat back on his haunches, enormously pleased with the entire world. Olyvria hissed, "Get dressed, you lackwit," which brought him back to himself in a hurry. They both dressed quickly, then spent another minute or so dusting off each other's clothes. Olyvria stirred the dirt of the floor around with her foot to cover up the marks they'd left. She looked Phostis over. "Your elbow's dirty." She licked a fingertip with a catlike dab of her tongue and rubbed it clean.
He held the door for her. They both almost bounded out of the cobbler's shop. Once out on the street again, Phostis said, "Now what?"
"I just don't know," Olyvria answered after a small pause. "I have to think." Her voice was quiet, almost toneless, as if she'd left behind all her exuberance, all her mischief, with the broken shoe. "I didn't—quite—expect to do that."