Harry Turtledove - Krispos Rising

"Did you find any?" Krispos asked, intrigued.

"Aye, there's a shop or two that sells 'em preserved by magic, for those who have the urge and the money at the same time. Didn't cost me above twenty times what they usually run, and what sort of thanks did I get? Precious little, I'll tell you."

Carrying the tray to a dining hall not far from the imperial bedchamber, Krispos wondered if Anthimos had even known the fruit was out of season. When would he have occasion to learn? All he needed to do was ask for something to have it appear before him.

The Emperor devoured his bloater with lip-smacking gusto. Now, my dear," he said to Dara, "why don't you go and tend to your embroidery for a while? Krispos and I have some serious business to discuss."

Krispos would have resented such a cavalier dismissal. Whatever Dara felt, she did not let it show. She rose, nodded to Anthimos, and left without a word. She took as much notice of Krispos as of the chair on which he sat.

"What business is there, your Majesty?" Krispos asked, curious and a little worried; none of the Emperor's eunuchs had warned him anything special was in the wind.

But Anthimos answered, "Why, we have to decide what the chances will be for tonight's festivities."

"Oh," Krispos said. Following the Emperor's pointing finger, he saw the ball-filled crystal bowl sitting on a shelf. He got it down, took apart the balls, and set their halves on the table between himself and Anthimos. "Where can I find pen and parchment, your Majesty?"

"Somewhere around here," Anthimos said vaguely. While Krispos poked through drawers in a sideboard, Anthimos continued, "I think the number tonight will be eleven, after the paired single pips on the dice when someone throws Phos' little suns. What goes well with eleven?"

Krispos found writing materials at last. "Eleven dice, your majesty, since the number is taken from gambling?"

"Excellent! I knew you were clever. What else?"

"How about—hmm—eleven mice?"

"So you want to rhyme tonight, do you? Well, why not? I expect the servants can find eleven mice by evening. What else?"

They came up with eleven pounds of ice, eleven grains of rice, eleven lice—"I know the servants can find those," Anthimos said—eleven drams of spice, eleven things nice, and eleven kinds of vice. "Both of those will send the winner to the stews," the Avtokrator declared.

"How about eleven gold pice?" Krispos suggested when their inspiration began to flag. "It's not a perfect rhyme—"

"It is if you write it that way," Anthimos said, so Krispos did.

"Your Majesty, could I get you to think on something else about these chances for a moment?" Krispos asked. At the Emperor's nod, he went on, "You might want to give them out to the entertainers along with your guests. They're not rich; think how overjoyed they'd be to pick one of the good chances."

Anthimos' answering smile was not altogether pleasant. "Yes, and think how downcast they'd be if they didn't. That could be amusing, too. We'll give it a try."

Krispos knew he hadn't got his way for the reason he wanted, but he'd got it. Some of the jugglers and musicians and courtesans would end up better off, and even the ones who came away from the chances disappointed would actually be in no worse state than before, he told himself.

"What's next?" the Avtokrator asked.

"I am given to understand a new Makuraner embassy has come to the city," Krispos said carefully. "If you cared to, I suppose you could meet the high ambassador."

Anthimos yawned. "Another time, perhaps. Petronas will tend to them. That's his proper function, seeing to such tiresome details."

"As you wish, your Majesty." Krispos did not press the issue. He'd done his best to make the meeting sound dull. He knew Petronas wanted to keep his own hands firmly on the Empire's relations with its neighbors.

Instead of meeting with the Makuraner high ambassador, Anthimos went to the Amphitheater. He ate the coarse, greasy food the vendors sold there; he drank rough wine from a cracked clay cup; he awarded five hundred goldpieces to a driver who'd brought his chariot from the back of the pack to first in the last couple of laps. The crowd cheered his generosity. It all worked well enough, Krispos thought; they had a symbol, Anthimos had fun, and Petronas had the government.

And what do I have? Krispos wondered. Part of the answer was plain enough: good food, good lodging, even the ear of the Avtokrator of the Videssians—for such matters as chances at revels, anyhow. All that was marvelously better than the nothing with which he'd arrived at Videssos the city a few years before.

He was discovering, though, that the more he had, the more he wanted. He'd read two or three chronicles of the Empire's past. None of them recorded the name of a single vestiarios.

A few days later, Anthimos went hunting. Krispos stayed behind. Running the imperial residence, even with the Emperor absent, was a full-time job. He was not unduly surprised when Eroulos came by a little before noon. This time Petronas' steward bowed to him. "His Imperial Highness the Sevastokrator would be pleased to take lunch with you, esteemed and eminent sir, your duties permitting."

"Of course." Krispos gave Eroulos a quizzical look. "So you've heard my new title?"

Eroulos sounded surprised that Krispos need ask. "It's my business to hear such things." Petronas had heard it, too. "Ah, the esteemed and eminent vestiarios," he said, bowing back when Krispos went on one knee before him. "Here, have some wine. How fares my nephew?"

"Well enough, Highness," Krispos said. "He showed no great interest in making the acquaintance of the new envoy from Makuran."

"Just as well," Petronas said, scowling. "There will be war soon—if not this year, then the next. Probably next year. I'll have to take the field in person, and to do that, I need you solidly in place with Anthimos so he won't listen to too much nonsense while I'm away from the city in the westlands."

There lay the weakness in Petronas' position, Krispos thought: while he ruled, he was not Videssos' ruler. If Anthimos ever decided to take up the reins of power for himself, or if someone else steered him, the prestige that went with the imperial title might well make officials follow him rather than his uncle.

Krispos said, "I'm glad you place such confidence in me, Highness."

"We've discussed why I do." Petronas suavely changed the subject, "Anthimos' gain is my loss, I'm finding. The stable hands still do their individual work well enough, but there's less overall direction to things without you. I asked Stotzas if he wanted your job, but he turned me down flat."

"He did the same with me when I asked him if he wanted me to mention him to you." Krispos hesitated. "May I suggest someone else?"

"Why not? Whom do you have in mind?"

"How about Mavros? I know he's even younger than I am, but everyone likes him. And he wouldn't be slack; he takes horses seriously. He's more a real horseman than I, as a matter of fact. I got to the point where I knew what I was doing, but he comes by it naturally."

"Hmm." Petronas stroked his beard. At last he said, "You may have something there. He's likelier than anyone I'd thought of, at any rate. I'll see what Eroulos has to say; he's not Mavros' personal friend, as you are. If he thinks the youngster will answer, I may well give him a try. My thanks."

"I'm pleased to help, even if I'm not part of your household any more." Krispos doubted Eroulos would have anything bad to say about Mavros. All the same, he took note of Petronas caution. Knowing Krispos' advice was not disinterested, the Sevastokrator would not move until he heard some that was.

Another bit of business worth remembering, Krispos thought. He wondered if he'd ever have a chance to use it.