Harry Turtledove - Krispos Rising

"Your moderation does you credit, young man," someone said from behind him when he left the hors d'oeuvres after only a brief stay.

"Your pardon?" Krispos turned, swiftly added, "Holy sir. Most holy sir," he amended; the priest—or rather prelate—who'd spoken to him wore shimmering cloth-of-gold with Phos' sun picked out in blue silk on his left breast.

"Nothing, really," the ecclesiastic said. His sharp, foxy features reminded Krispos of Petronas', though they were less stern and heavy than the Sevastokrator's. He went on, "It's just that at an event like this, where gluttony is the rule, seeing anyone eschew it is a cause for wonderment and celebration."

Hoping he'd guessed right about what "eschew" meant, Krispos answered, "All I planned was to be a glutton a little later." He explained why he'd gone easy on the appetizers.

"Oh, dear." The prelate threw back his head and laughed. "Well, young sir, I appreciate your candor. That, believe me, is even rarer at these events than moderation. I don't believe I've seen you before?" He paused expectantly.

"My name is Krispos, most holy sir. I'm one of Iakovitzes' grooms."

"Pleased to meet you, Krispos. Since I see my blue boots haven't given me away, let me introduce myself, as well: I'm called Gnatios."

Just as only the Avtokrator wore all-red boots, only one priest had the privilege of wearing all-blue ones. Krispos realized with a start that he'd been making small talk with the ecumenical patriarch of the Empire of Videssos. "M-most holy sir," he stammered, bowing. Even as he bent his head, though, he felt a rush of pride—if only the villagers could see him now!

"No formality needed, not when I'm here to enjoy the good food, too," Gnatios said with an easy smile. Then those foxy features suddenly grew very sharp indeed. "Krispos? I've heard your name before after all, I think. Something to do with the abbot Pyrrhos, wasn't it?"

"The abbot was kind enough to find me my place with Iakovitzes, yes, most holy sir," Krispos said.

"That's all?" Gnatios persisted.

"What else could there be?" Krispos knew perfectly well what else; if Gnatios didn't, he was not about to reveal it for him.

"Who knows what else?" The patriarch's chuckle was thin. "Where Pyrrhos is involved, any sort of superstitious excess becomes not only possible but credible. Well, never mind, young man. Just because something is credible, that doesn't necessarily make it true. Not necessarily. A pleasant evening to you."

Gnatios' shaven skull gleamed in the torchlight like one of the gilded domes atop Phos' temple as he went on his way. Krispos took the rest of the wine in his cup at a gulp, then went over to the great basin of snow for another one. He was sweating in spite of the wine's chill. The patriarch, by the nature of his office, was the Avtokrator's man. Had he boasted to Gnatios instead of sensibly keeping his mouth shut... He wondered if he would even have got back to Iakovitzes' house safe and sound.

Little by little, the wine helped calm Krispos. Gnatios didn't seem to have taken seriously whatever tales he'd heard. Then a servant appeared at Krispos' elbow. "Are you Iakovitzes' groom?" he asked.

Krispos' heart jumped into his mouth. "Yes," he answered, readying himself to knock the man down and flee.

"Could you join your master, please?" the fellow said. "We'll be seating folk for dinner soon, and the two of you will be together."

"Oh. Of course." Krispos felt like giggling with relief as he scanned the Hall of the Nineteen Couches for Iakovitzes. He wished the noble were taller; he was hard to spot. Even though he had trouble seeing Iakovitzes, he soon heard him arguing with someone or other. He made his way over to him.

Servants carried away the tables of appetizers. Others brought out dining tables and chairs. Despite guests getting in their way, they moved with practiced efficiency. Faster than Krispos would have thought possible, the hall was ready and the servants began guiding diners to their seats.

"This way, excellent sir, if you please," a servitor murmured to Iakovitzes. He had to repeat himself several times; Iakovitzes was driving home a rhetorical point by jabbing a forefinger into the chest of a man who had been rash enough to disagree with him. The noble finally let himself listen. He and Krispos followed the servant, who said, "You have the honor of sitting at the Sevastokrator's table."

To Krispos, that said how much Petronas thought of the job Iakovitzes had done at Opsikion. Iakovitzes merely grunted, "I've had it before." His eyebrows rose as he neared the head table. "And up till now, I've never had to share it with barbarians, either."

Four Kubratoi, looking outlandish indeed in their shaggy furs, were already at the table. They'd quickly emptied one pitcher of wine and were shouting for another. The servant said, "They are an embassy from the new khagan Malomir and have ambassadors' privileges."

"Bah," was Iakovitzes' reply to that. "The one in the middle there, the big bruiser, you mean to tell me he's an ambassador? He looks more like a hired killer." Krispos had already noticed the man Iakovitzes meant. With his scarred, sullen face, wide shoulders, and enormous hands, he certainly resembled no diplomat Krispos had seen or imagined.

The servant answered, "As a properly accredited member of the party from Kubrat, he cannot be excluded from functions to which his comrades are invited." He lowered his voice. "I will say, however, that his principal area of prowess does appear to be wrestling, not reason."

Iakovitzes' expression was eloquent, but a second glance at the enormous Kubrati made him keep to himself whatever remarks he thought of making.

The servant seated him and Krispos well away from the Kubratoi, only a couple of places from Petronas. Krispos hoped the arrival of food would help quiet Malomir's envoys. It did help, but not much—it made them talk with their mouths full. Trays came and went, bearing soup, prawns, partridges, and lamb. After a while Krispos lost track of the number of courses he'd eaten. He only knew he was replete.

When the last candied apricots were gone, Petronas rose and lifted his goblet. "To the health and long life of his Imperial Majesty the Avtokrator of the Videssians, Anthimos III!" he declared. Everyone drank the toast. Petronas stayed on his feet. "And to the efforts of that clever and accomplished diplomat, the excellent noble Iakovitzes." Everyone drank again, this time with a spattering of polite applause.

Flushed with pleasure at being toasted next after the Emperor, Iakovitzes stood up. "To his Imperial Highness the Sevastokrator Petronas!"

Petronas bowed as the toast was drunk. He caught the eye of one of the Kubrati envoys. "To the long and peaceful reign of the great khagan Malomir, and to your own continued success, Gleb."

Gleb stood. He raised his goblet. "I drink also to the health of your Avtokrator," he said, his Videssian slow but clear, even polished.

"Didn't think he had manners enough for that," Iakovitzes said to Krispos. From the murmurs of pleasure that filled the hall, a good many other people were similarly surprised.

Gleb did not sit down. "Since his Imperial Highness the Sevastokrator Petronas has only now deigned to notice my lord the khagan Malomir and me—" Suddenly the Hall of the Nineteen Couches grew still; Krispos wondered whether Iakovitzes' joy was worth the slight the Kubrati plainly felt, "—I now propose a toast to remind him of the might of Kubrat. Thus I drink to the strength of my comrade here, the famous and ferocious Beshev, who has beaten every Videssian he has faced."

Gleb drank. So did the other Kubratoi. Most of the imperials in the hall kept their goblets in front of them.

"He goes too far!" Iakovitzes did not bother to speak softly. "I know Kubratoi are conceited and boastful, but this surpasses all due measure. He—"