Krispos the Emperor

Artapan was from Makuran. Phostis wondered what a mage from Videssos' perennial enemy was doing in Livanios' camp. Why couldn't Livanios find a proper Thanasiot mage?

After a few seconds, he stopped wondering. To one raised in the palaces, to one who had, however unwillingly, soaked up a good deal of history, the answer fairly shouted at him: Artapan was there serving the interests of Rubyab King of Kings. And how could Rubyab's interest be better served than by keeping Videssos at war with itself?

Two other questions immediately sprang from that one. The first was whether Livanios knew he was being used. Maybe he didn't, maybe he was Makuran's willing cat's-paw, or maybe he was out to exploit Rubyab's help at the same time Rubyab used him. Phostis had a tough time seeing Livanios as a witless dupe. Choosing between the other two alternatives was harder.

Phostis set them aside. To him, the second question carried greater weight: if the Thanasioi were flourishing thanks to aid from Makuran, what did that say about the truth of their teachings? That one was hard enough to break teeth when you bit into it. Would Thanasios' interpretation of the faith have grown and spread without the foreign—no, no mincing words— without the enemy—help? Was it at bottom a religious movement at all, or rather a political one? If it was just political, why did it have such a strong appeal to so many Videssians?

Without even bothering to get a taper, Phostis went upstairs and into his room. All at once, he didn't care how gloomy it was in there. In fact, he hardly noticed. He sat down on the battered old stool. He had a lot to think about.

Somewhere among the gears and levers behind the wall of the Grand Courtroom, a servitor stood in frustrated uselessness. Much to the fellow's dismay, Krispos had ordered him not to raise the throne on high when the ambassador from Khatrish prostrated himself. 'But it's the custom!' the man had wailed.

'But the reason behind the custom is to overawe foreign envoys,' Krispos had answered. 'It doesn't overawe Tribo—it just makes him laugh.'

'But it's the custom,' the servitor had repeated. To him, reasons were irrelevant. Raising the throne was what he'd always done, so raising the throne was what he had to do forever.

Even now, as Tribo approached the throne and cast himself down on his belly, Krispos wondered if the throne would rise beneath him in spite of orders. Custom died hard in the Empire, when it died at all.

To his relief, he remained at his usual elevation. As the ambassador from Khatrish got to his feet, he asked, 'Mechanism in the throne break down?'

I can't win, Krispos thought. Khatrishers seemed to specialize in complicating the lives of their Videssian neighbors. Krispos did not reply: he stood—or rather sat—on the imperial dignity, though he had the feeling that would do him about as much good as the climbing throne had before.

Sure enough, Tribo let out a knowing sniff when he saw he wouldn't get an answer. He said, 'May it please your Majesty, the Thanasioi are still troubling us.'

'They're still troubling us, too, in case you hadn't noticed,' Krispos said dryly.

'Well, yes, but it's different for you Videssians, you see, your Majesty. You grew the murrain your very own selves, so of course it's still spreading through your flocks. We don't take kindly to having our cows infected, too, though, if you take my meaning.'

A Videssian would have used a comparison from agriculture rather than herding, but Krispos had no trouble following Tribo. 'What would you have me do?' he asked. 'Shut the border between our states and ban shipping, too?'

The Khatrisher envoy flinched, as Krispos had known he would: Khatrish needed trade with Videssos much more than Videssos with Khatrish. 'Let's not be hasty, your Majesty. All I want is to hear you say again that you and your ministers don't have anything to do with spreading the cursed heresy, so I can take the word to my khagan.'

Barsymes and Iakovitzes stood in front of the imperial throne. Krispos could see only their backs and the sides of their faces. He often made a game of trying to figure out from that limited view what they were thinking. He guessed Iakovitzes was amused—he admired effrontery—and Barsymes outraged—the normally self-controlled eunuch was fairly quivering in his place. Krispos needed a moment to realize why: Barsymes reckoned it an insult for him to have to deny anything more than once.

His own notion of what was insulting was more flexible, even after twenty years and more on the throne. If the envoy wanted another guarantee, he could have it. Krispos said, 'You can tell Nobad son of Gumush that we aren't exporting this heresy to Khatrish on purpose. We wish it would go away here, and we're trying to get rid of it. But we aren't in the habit of stirring up sectarian strife, even if it might profit us.'

'I shall send exactly that word to the puissant khagan, your Majesty, and I thank you for the reassurance,' Tribo said. He glanced toward the throne. Under his shaggy beard, a frown twisted his mouth. 'Your Majesty? Did you hear me, your Majesty?'

Krispos still didn't answer. He was listening to what he'd just said, not to the ambassador from Khatrish. Videssos might fight shy of turning its neighbors topsy-turvy with religious war, but would Makuran? Didn't the Thanasiot mage who hid Phostis use spells that smelled of Mashiz? No wonder Rubyab's mustaches had twitched!

Iakovitzes spun where he stood so he faced Krispos. The assembled courtiers murmured at the breach of etiquette. Iakovitzes had a fine nose for intrigue. His upraised hand and urgent expression said he'd just smelled some. Krispos would have bet a counterfeit copper against a year's tax receipts it was the same odor that had just filled his own nostrils.

He realized he had to say something to Tribo. After a few more seconds, he managed, 'Yes, I'm glad you'll reassure your sovereign we are doing everything we can to fight the Thanasiot doctrine, not to spread it. This audience now is ended.'

'But your Majesty—' Tribo began indignantly. Then, with a glare, he bowed to inflexible Videssian custom. When the Avtokrator spoke those words, an envoy had no choice but to prostrate himself once more, back away from the throne until he had gone far enough that he could turn around, and then depart the Grand Courtroom. He left in a manifest snit; evidently he'd had a good deal more on his mind than he got the chance to say.

I'll have to make it up to him, Krispos thought; keeping Khatrish friendly was going to be all the more important in the months ahead. But for now even the urgency of that paled. As soon as Tribo left the Grand Courtroom, Krispos also made his way out, at a pace that set the tongues of the assembled nobles and prelates and ministers wagging.