Harry Turtledove - Krispos Rising

Krispos smiled. He did remember.

The abbot smiled, too, but thinly. "That is one reason, of course, why he constantly seeks new grooms. Truly, I may be doing you no favor, though I pray to Phos that I am."

"Sounds to me like you are," Krispos said.

"I hope so." Pyrrhos made the sun-sign again, which puzzled Krispos. Pyrrhos hesitated, then went on, "In justice, there is one other thing of which I should warn you: Iakovitzes is said sometimes to seek, ah, services from his grooms other than caring for his beasts."

"Oh." That made Krispos hesitate, too. His memory of the way Iakovitzes had touched him was inextricably joined to the mortification he'd known on that Midwinter's Day when the villagers poked fun at him and Idalkos. "I don't have any leanings that way myself," he said carefully. "But if he pushes too hard, I suppose I can always quit—I'd be no worse off then than if I hadn't met you."

"What you say has a measure of truth in it," Pyrrhos said. "Very well, then, if it is your wish, I will take you to meet Iakovitzes."

"Let's go!" Krispos leaped to his feet.

The abbot stayed seated. "Not quite at this instant," he said, his voice dry. "Iakovitzes may occasionally go to bed in the ninth hour of the night, but I assure you he is not in the habit of rising at this time. If we went to his home now, we would be turned away from his door, most likely with dogs."

"I forgot what time it was," Krispos said sheepishly.

"Go back to the common room. Sleep the rest of the night there. When morning comes, we will visit my cousin, I promise you." Pyrrhos yawned. "I may even try for a little more sleep myself, assuming I don't get thrown out of bed again."

"Holy sir?" Krispos asked, but the abbot did not explain.

IV

Iakovitzes' house was large but, from the outside, not otherwise impressive. Only a few windows interrupted the long whitewashed front that faced the street. They were too narrow to let in any thief, no matter how young or skinny.

A second story stood above the first, and overhung it by three or four feet. In summer, that would have created shade; now, with the rain coming down again, it kept Krispos and Pyrrhos from getting any wetter as the abbot seized the horseshoe that served for a knocker and pounded it against Iakovitzes' stout front door.

A servant opened a little grillwork in the center of the door and peered through it. "Abbot Pyrrhos!" he said. Krispos heard him lift the bar. The door opened outward a moment later. "Come in, holy sir, and your friend as well."

Just inside the doorway lay a mat of woven straw. Pyrrhos stopped to wipe his muddy sandals on it before he walked down the hall. Admiring the wit of whoever had come up with such a useful device, Krispos imitated the abbot.

"Have you breakfasted, holy sir?" the servant asked.

"On monastery fare," Pyrrhos said. "That suits me well enough, but I daresay Krispos here would be grateful for a bit more. In any case, it is on his behalf that I have come to visit your master."

"I see. Krispos, you say his name is? Very well. Wait here, if you please. I'll have something sent him from the kitchen and will inform Iakovitzes directly."

"Thank you," Pyrrhos said. Krispos said nothing. He was too busy staring. "Here"—Iakovitzes' waiting room—was the most magnificent place he had ever seen. The floor was a mosaic, a hunting scene with men spearing boars from horseback. Krispos had seen mosaic work once before, in the dome of Phos' temple at Imbros. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined anyone save perhaps the Avtokrator possessing a mosaic of his own.

The waiting room opened onto a courtyard that seemed about the size of the village square Krispos had so recently left. In the center stood a horse, frozen in mid-rear. Krispos needed a moment to realize it was a statue. Around it were patterned rows of hedges and flowers, though most of the blooms had already fallen because the season was so late. A marble fountain plashed just outside the waiting room, as happily as if rain had never been invented.

"Here you are, sir." The view so enthralled Krispos that the young man at his elbow might have spoken two or three times before he noticed. When he turned with a stammered apology, the servant handed him a covered silver tray. "Lobster tail in cream sauce, with parsnips and squash. I hope that suits you, sir."

"What? Oh. Yes. Of course. Thank you." Noticing he was babbling, Krispos shut up. So far as he could remember, no one had ever called him "sir" before. Now this fellow had done it twice in about as many sentences.

When he lifted the lid, the delicious aroma that floated up from the tray drove such maunderings out of his mind. The lobster tasted even better than it smelled, which amazed him all over again. It was sweeter than pork and more delicate than veal, and he could only regret that it disappeared so fast. Iakovitzes' cook knew more about what to do with squash and parsnips than any of the village women had, too.

He had just set down the tray and was licking cream sauce off his mustache when Iakovitzes came into the waiting room. "Hello, Pyrrhos." He held out his hand for the abbot's clasp. "What brings you here so early, and who's this stalwart young chap you have with you?" His eyes walked up and down Krispos.

"You've met him before, cousin," Pyrrhos said.

"Have I? Then I'd best arrange a guardian to oversee my affairs, for my memory is plainly not what it was." Iakovitzes clapped a hand to his forehead in melodramatic despair. He waved Pyrrhos and Krispos to a couch and sat down himself in a chair close to Krispos. He pulled it closer yet. "Explain to me, then, if you would, my evident decline into senility."

Pyrrhos was either long used to Iakovitzes' histrionics or, perhaps more likely, without enough sense of humor to react much to them. "Krispos here was a great deal younger then," the abbot explained. "He was the boy who stood on the platform with you to seal one of your ransoming bargains with Omurtag."

"The more I forget about those beastly trips to Kubrat, the happier I'll be." Iakovitzes paused, stroking his carefully trimmed beard while he studied Krispos again. "By Phos, I do recall!" he said. "You were a pretty boy then, and you're quite the handsome youth now. By that proud nose of yours, I'd almost guess you were a Vaspurakaner, though if you're from the northern border I don't suppose that's likely."

"My father always said his side of the family had Vaspurakaner blood," Krispos said.

Iakovitzes nodded. "It could be so; 'princes' resettled there after some old war—or some old treachery. Whether or not, the look becomes you."

Krispos did not know how to answer that, so he kept quiet. Some of the village girls had praised his looks, but never a man before.

To his relief, Iakovitzes turned back to Pyrrhos. "You were about to tell me, I expect, how and why dear Krispos here comes to be in the city instead of back at his rustic village, and also how and why that pertains to me."

Krispos saw how his sharp eyes bored into the abbot's. He also noted that Iakovitzes was not going to say anything of consequence until he heard Pyrrhos' story. He thought better of him for it; whatever Iakovitzes' taste in pleasures, the man was no fool.

The abbot told the tale as Krispos had given it to him, then carried it forward. His explanation of how he had come to call for Krispos in the monastery was vague. Krispos had thought so the night before. Iakovitzes, however, was in a position to call Pyrrhos on it. "I don't follow you there," he said. "Back up and tell me just how that happened."

Pyrrhos looked harassed. "Only if I have your vow by the lord with the great and good mind to let the story go no further—and yours as well, Krispos." Krispos swore the oath; after a moment, Iakovitzes did, too. "Very well, then," the abbot said heavily. He told of his three dreams of the night before, and of ending up on the floor after the last one.