Harry Turtledove - Krispos the Emperor

Before long, almost all the feasters snaked along in a dance line, clapping their hands and shouting in time to the tune. Phostis sat in his place even when Vatatzes tugged at the sleeve of his robe. Finally, with a shrug, Vatatzes gave up and joined the dance. He prescribed for me the medicine that works for him, Phostis thought. He didn't want to be joyous, though. Discontent suited him.

When he got to his feet, the dancers cheered. But he did not join their line. He walked through the open bronze doors of the Hall of the Nineteen Couches, down the low, broad marble stairs. He looked up at the sky, gauging the time by how high the waning gibbous moon had risen. Somewhere in the fifth hour of the night, he judged—not far from midnight.

He lowered his eyes. The imperial residence was separated from the rest of the buildings of the palace compound and Ncreened off by a grove of cherry trees, to give the Avtokrator and his family at least the illusion of privacy. Through the trees, Phostis saw one window brightly lit by candles or lamps. He nodded to himself. Yes, Krispos was at work there. With peasant persistence, his father kept on fighting against the immensity of the Empire he ruled.

As Phostis watched, the window went dark. Even Krispos occasionally yielded to sleep, though Phostis was sure he would have evaded it if he could.

Somebody stuck his head out through one of the Hall's many big windows. "Come on back, your Majesty." he called, voice blurry with wine. "It's just starting to get bouncy in here."

"Go on without me," Phostis said. He wished he'd never gathered the feasters together. The ease with which they enjoyed themselves only made his own unhappiness seem worse by comparison.

He absently swatted at a mosquito; there weren't as many out here, away from the lights. With the last lamps extin-guished in the imperial residence, it fell into invisibility behind the cherry grove. He started walking slowly in that direction; he didn't want to get there until he was sure his father had gone to bed.

Haloga guardsmen stood outside the doorway. The big blond northerners raised their axes in salute as they recognized Phostis. Had he been a miscreant, the axes would have gone up. too, but not as a gesture of respect.

As always, one of the palace eunuchs waited just inside the entrance. "Good evening, young Majesty," he said, bowing politely to Phostis.

"Good evening, Mystakon," Phostis answered. Of all the eunuch chamberlains, Mystakon was closest to his own age and hence the one he thought most likely to understand and sympathize with him. It hadn't occurred to him to wonder how Mystakon felt, going through what should have been ripe young manhood already withered on the vine, so to speak. "Is my father asleep?"

"He is in bed, yes," Mystakon answered with the peculiarly toneless voice eunuchs could affect to communicate subtle double meanings.

Phostis, however, noticed no subtleties tonight. All he felt was a surge of relief at having got through another day without having to confront his father—or having his father confront him. "I will go to bed, too, prominent sir," he said, using Mys-takon's special title in the eunuch hierarchy.

"Everything is in readiness for you, young Majesty," Mystakon said, a tautology: Phostis would have been shocked were his chamber not ready whenever he needed it. "If you would be so kind as to accompany me—"

Phostis let the chamberlain guide him down the hallways he could have navigated blindfolded. In the torchlight, the souvenirs of long centuries of imperial triumph seemed somehow faded, indistinct. The conical helmet that had once belonged to a King of Kings of Makuran was just a lump of iron, the painting of Videssian troops pouring over the walls of Mashiz was a daub that could have depicted any squabble. Phostis shook his head. Was he merely tired, or was the light playing tricks on his eyes?

His bedchamber lay as far from Krispos' as it could, in a tucked-away corner of the imperial residence. It had stood empty for years, maybe centuries, until he chose it as a refuge from his father not long after his beard began to sprout.

The door to the chamber stood ajar. Butter-yellow light trickling through the opening said a lamp had been kindled. "Do you require anything further, young Majesty?" Mystakon asked. "Some wine, perhaps, or some bread and cheese? Or I could inquire if any mutton is left from that which was served to your father."

"No, don't bother," Phostis said, more sharply than he'd intended. He tried to soften his voice. "I'm content, thank you. I just want to get some rest."

"As you say, young Majesty." Mystakon glided away. Like many eunuchs, he was soft and plump. He walked in soft slippers, silently and with little mincing steps. With his robes swirling around him as he moved, he reminded Phostis of a beamy merchant ship under full sail.

Phostis closed and barred the door behind him. He took off his robe and got out of his sandals. They were all-red, like his father's—about the only imperial prerogative he shared with Krispos, he thought bitterly. He threw himself down on the bed and blew out the lamp. The bedchamber plunged into blackness, and Phostis into sleep.

He dreamed. He'd always been given to vivid dreams, and this one was more so than most. In it he found himself pacing, naked and fat, through a small enclosure. Food was everywhere-—mutton, bread and cheese, jar upon jar of wine.

His father peered at him from over the top of a wooden fence. Phostis watched Krispos nod in sober satisfaction ... and reach for a hunting bow.

Next thing he knew, he was awake, his heart pounding, his body bathed with cold sweat. For a moment, he thought the darkness that filled his sight meant death. Then full awareness returned. He sketched Phos' sun-circle above his chest in thanks as he realized his nightmare was not truth.

That helped calm him, until he thought of his place at court. He shivered. Maybe the dream held some reality after all.

Zaidas went down on his knees before Krispos. then to his belly, letting his forehead knock against the bright tesserae of the mosaic floor in full proskynesis. "Up. up," Krispos said impatiently. "You know I have no great use for ceremonial."

The wizard rose as smoothly as he had prostrated himself. "Yes, your Majesty, but you know the respect a mage will show to ritual. Without ritual, our art would fall to nothing."

"So you've said, many times these past many years," Krispos answered. "Now the ritual is over. Sit, relax; let us talk." He waved Zaidas to a chair in the chamber where he'd been working the night before.

Barsymes came in with a jar of wine and two crystal goblets. The vestiarios poured for Emperor and mage, then bowed himself out. Zaidas savored his wine's bouquet for a moment before he sipped. He smiled. "That's a fine vintage, your Majesty."

Krispos drank, too. "Aye, it is pleasant. I fear I'll never make a proper connoisseur, though. It's all so much better than what I grew up drinking that I have trouble telling what's just good from the best."

Zaidas took another, longer, pull at his goblet. "What we have here, your Majestry, is among the best, let me assure you." The mage was a tall, slim man, about a dozen years younger than Krispos—the first white threads were appearing in the dark fabric of his beard. Krispos remembered him as a skinny, excitable youth, already full of talent. It had not shrunk with his maturity.

Barsymes returned, now with a tureen and two bowls. "Porridge with salted anchovies to break your fast, your Majesty, excellent sir."

The porridge was of wheat, silky smooth, and rich with cream. The anchovies added piquancy. Krispos knew that if he asked his cook for plain, lumpy barley porridge, the man would quit in disgust. As with the wine, he knew this was better, but sometimes he craved the tastes with which he'd grown up.