'Why not, your Majesty?' the serving maid said. 'You never know till you try.' She threw off the bedclothes. The smile was all she was wearing.
Even through the haze of wine, memory stabbed at Krispos: Dara had always been in the habit of sleeping without clothes. Drina was larger, softer, simpler—his wife the Empress had always been prickly as a hedgehog. As he seldom did these days, he let himself remember how much he missed her.
Watching Drina flip away the covers like that took him back almost a quarter of a century to the night he and Dara had joined on this very bed. Even after so long, a remembered thrill of fear ran through him—had Anthimos caught them, he would not be here now, or certain vital parts of him would not. And with the fear came the memory of how excited he'd been.
The memory of past excitement—and Drina there waiting for him—were enough to summon up at least the beginning of excitement now. He pulled off his robe and tugged at the red boots. 'We'll see what happens,' he said. 'I make no promises: I've drunk a lot of wine.'
'Whatever happens is all right, your Majesty,' Drina said, laughing. 'Haven't I told you before that you men worry too much about these things?'
'Women have probably been saying that since the start of time,' he said as he lay down beside her. 'My guess is that the next man who believes it will be the first.'
But oddly, knowing she had no great expectations helped him perform better than he'd expected himself. He didn't think she was pretending when she gasped and quivered under him; he could feel her secret place clench around him, again and again. Spurred by that, he, too, gasped and quivered a few seconds later.
'There—you see, your Majesty?' Drina said triumphantly.
'I see,' Krispos said. 'This was already a good day; you've made it better still.'
'I'm glad.' Drina let out a squeak. 'I'd better get up, or else I'll leave stains on the sheet for the washerwomen to giggle at.'
'Do they do that?' Krispos asked. He fell asleep in the middle of her answer.
By the time spring drew near in Etchmiadzin, Phostis knew every little winding street in town. He knew where the stonecutters had their shops, and the harnessmakers, and the bakers. He knew the street on which Laonikos and Siderina were busy dying—knew it and kept away from it.
He got more and more chances to wander where he would without Syagrios. Etchmiadzin's wall was too high to jump from without breaking his neck, its single gate too well guarded for him to think of bolting through it and away. And as the weather got better, Syagrios was more and more closeted with Livanios, planning the upcoming summer's campaign.
Phostis did his best to stay out of Livanios' way. The less he reminded the heresiarch of his presence, the less likely Livanios was to think of him, think of the danger he might represent, and put him out of the way.
Just wandering, however, was beginning to pall. When he'd had Syagrios at his elbow every hour of the day and night, he was sure just getting away from the ruffian for a little while would bring peace to his soul. And so it had ... for a little while. But the taste of freedom, however small, served only to whet his appetite for more. He was no longer a glad explorer of Etchmiadzin's back alleys. He paced them more like a wildcat searching for an opening in its cage.
He hadn't found one yet.
They both sidestepped in the same direction, which meant they almost bumped into each other again. Olyvria started to laugh. 'Get out of my way, you,' she said, miming a push at his chest.
He made as if to stumble backward from it, then bowed extravagantly. 'I humbly crave your pardon, my lady; I had no intention of disturbing your glorious progress,' he cried. 'I pray that you find it in your heart to forgive me!'
'We'll see about that,' she said darkly.
By then they were both laughing. Phostis came back up to her and slipped an arm around her waist. She snuggled against him; her chin fit nicely on the top of his shoulder. He wanted to kiss her, but held back—she was still nervous about it. From her perspective, he supposed she had reason to be.
'What are you doing here?' they both asked in the same breath. That made them laugh again.
'Nothing much,' Phostis answered. 'Keeping away from mischief as best I can. What about you?'
Olyvria was carrying a canvas bag. She pulled a shoe out of it and held it up so close to Phostis' face that his eyes crossed. 'I broke off the heel, see?' she said. 'There's a little old Vaspurakaner cobbler down this street who does wonderful work. Why not? He's been doing it longer than both of us put together have been alive. Anyway, I was taking it to him.'
'May I accompany you on your journey?' he asked grandly.
'I hoped you would,' she answered, and dropped the wounded shoe back into the bag. Arm in arm, they walked down the little lane.
'Oh, this place,' Phostis said when they reached the cobbler's shop. 'Yes, I went by here.' Over the door hung a boot carved from wood. To one side of it the wall bore the word shoon in Videssian, to the other what was presumably the same message in the square, blocky characters the 'princes' of Vaspurakan used to write their language.
Phostis peered through one of the narrow windows set into the front wall, Olyvria into the other. 'I don't see anyone in there,' she said, frowning.
'Let's find out.' Phostis reached for the latch and pulled the door open. A bell rang. The rich smell of leather filled his nose. He motioned for Olyvria to precede him into the cobbler's shop. The door swung shut behind them.
'He's
