Harry Turtledove - Krispos Rising

Everyone laughed. When the chuckles died down, though, Barses said, "You are from the country, Krispos; maybe we look at things a little different from you. I meant what I said before—there'd be no shame in saying yes to Iakovitzes, and Meletios isn't the only one of us who has."

"I never said he was," Krispos answered. "But as far as I can see, he's the only one who's put some worry into it. So now he can stop."

"That's fair enough, I suppose," Barses said judiciously.

"Whether it is or whether it's not, out of my way before I fall asleep where I'm standing." Krispos made as if to advance on the other grooms. Laughing again, they moved aside to let him by.

All winter long, Iakovitzes cast longing looks Krispos' way. All winter long, Krispos pretended he did not see them. He tended his master's horses. Iakovitzes usually took along a groom when he went to a feast, Krispos as often as anyone else. And when he feasted other nobles in turn, all the grooms attended so he could show them off.

At first, Krispos viewed the Empire's nobility with the same awe he had given Videssos the city when he was just arrived. His awe for the nobles soon wore off. He found they were men like any others, some clever, some plain, some downright stupid. As Barses said of one, "It's a good thing for him he inherited his money, because he'd never figure out how to make any on his own."

By contrast, the more Krispos explored the city, the more marvelous he found it. Every alleyway had something new: an apothecary's stall, perhaps, or a temple to Phos so small only a double handful of worshipers could use it.

Even streets he knew well gave him new people to see: swarthy Makuraners in caftans and felt pillbox hats, big blond Halogai gaping at Videssos just as he had, stocky Kubratoi in furs. Krispos kept his distance from them; he could not help wondering if any had been among the riders who'd kidnapped him and his family or plundered the village north of the mountains.

And there were the Videssians themselves, the people of the city: brash, bumptious, loud, cynical, nothing like the farm folk among whom he'd grown up.

"To the ice with you, you blithering, bungling booby!" a shopkeeper shouted at an artisan one afternoon. "This pane of glass I ordered is half a foot too short!"

"Up yours, too, friend." The glassblower pulled out a scrap of parchment. "That's what I thought: seventeen by twenty-two. That's what you ordered, that's what I made. You can't measure, don't blame me." He was yelling, too. A crowd began to gather. People poked their heads out of windows to see what was going on.

The shopkeeper snatched the parchment out of his hand. "I didn't write this!"

"It didn't write itself, friend."

The glassblower tried to snatch it back. The shopkeeper jerked it away. They stood nose to nose, screaming at each other and waving their fists. "Shouldn't we get between them before they pull knives?" Krispos said to the man beside him.

"And wreck the show? Are you crazy?" By the fellow's tone, he thought Krispos was. After a moment, he grudgingly went on, "They won't go at it. They'll just yell till it's out of their systems, then go on about their business. You wait and see."

The local proved right. Krispos would have admitted it, but the man hadn't stayed to see the results of his prediction. After things calmed down, Krispos left, too, shaking his head. His home village hadn't been like this at all.

He was almost to Iakovitzes' house when he saw a pretty girl. She smiled when he caught her eye, strode up to him bold as brass. His home village hadn't been like that, either.

Then she said, "A piece of silver and I'm yours for the afternoon; three and I'm yours for the whole night, too." She ran her hand along his arm. Her nails and lips were painted the same shade of red.

"Sorry," Krispos answered. "I don't feel like paying for it."

She looked him up and down, then gave a regretful shrug. "No, I don't expect you'd need to very often. Too bad. I would've enjoyed it more with someone who didn't have to buy. But when she saw he meant his no, she walked on down the street, swinging her hips. Like most people in the city, she didn't waste time where she had no hope of profit.

Krispos turned his head and watched her till she rounded a corner. He decided not to go back to Iakovitzes' right away after all. It was too late for lunch, too early for supper or serious drinking. That meant a certain pert little barmaid he knew ought to be able to slip away for—for just long enough, he thought, grinning.

Snow gave way to sleet, which in turn yielded to rain. By the standards Krispos used to judge, Videssos the city had a mild winter. Even so, he was glad to see spring return. Iakovitzes' horses were, too. They cropped the tender new grass till their dung came thin and green. Shoveling it made Krispos less delighted with the season.

One fine morning when such shoveling was someone else's concern, he started out on an errand of his own—not the little barmaid, with whom he had broken up, but a more than reasonable substitute. He opened Iakovitzes' front door, then drew back in surprise. What looked like a parade was coming up to the house.

The city folk loved parades, so this one, not surprisingly, had a fair-size crowd around it. Krispos needed a moment to see that at its heart were bearers with—he counted quickly—eleven silk parasols. The Avtokrator of Videssos rated only one more.

As Krispos realized who Iakovitzes' visitor had to be, a gorgeously robed servitor detached himself from the head of the procession. He declared, "Forth comes his illustrious Highness the Sevastokrator Petronas to call upon your master Iakovitzes. Be so good, fellow, as to announce him."

Properly, that was Gomaris' job. Krispos fled without worrying about such niceties. If the Emperor's uncle wanted something done, niceties did not matter.

By luck, Iakovitzes was up and about and had even finished breakfast. He frowned when Krispos burst into the waiting room where he was having a second cup of wine. When Krispos gasped out the news, he frowned again, in a very different way.

"Oh, plague! This place looks like a sty. Well, it can't be helped, not if Petronas wants to show up before anyone's awake." Iakovitzes gulped his wine and fixed Krispos with a glare. "What are you doing just standing around? Go tell his illustrious Highness I'm delighted to receive him—and any other sweet lies you can think up on the way."

Krispos dashed back to the door, expecting to relay the polite message to the Sevastokrator's man. Instead, he almost ran head-on into Petronas himself. Petronas' robe, of crimson shot with gold and silver thread, made his servant's shabby by comparison.

"Careful, there; don't hurt yourself," the Sevastokrator said, chuckling, as Krispos almost fell over himself trying to stop, bow, and go to his right knee all at once.

"H-highness," Krispos stammered. "My master is d-delighted to receive you."

"Not this early, he isn't." Petronas' voice was dry.

From his perch on one knee, Krispos glanced up at the most powerful man in the Empire of Videssos. The images he'd seen back in his village hadn't suggested that the Sevastokrator owned a sense of humor. They also made him out to be a few years younger than he was; Krispos guessed he was past fifty rather than nearing it. But his true features conveyed the same sense of confident competence as had his portraits.

Now he reached out to tap Krispos on the shoulder. "Come on, young fellow, take me to him. What's your name, anyhow?"

"Krispos, Highness," Krispos said as he got to his feet. "This way, if you please."

Petronas fell into step with him. "Krispos, while I'm engaged with your master, can you see to it that my retinue gets some wine, and maybe cheese or bread, as well? Just standing there and waiting for me to finish is boring duty for them."