knives hung in neat rows on pegs behind the cobbler's bench. No one came out from the back room to answer the bell.
'Maybe he was taken ill,' Phostis said. Something else ran through his mind:
'Here's a scrap of parchment.' Olyvria pounced on it. 'See if you can find pen and ink. I'll leave him the shoe and a note.' She clicked her tongue between her teeth. 'I hope he reads Videssian. I'm not sure. Someone could easily have painted that word on the wall for him.'
'Here.' Phostis discovered a little clay jar of ink and a reed pen below the tools. 'He reads something, anyhow, or I don't think he'd have these.'
'That's true. Thanks.' Olyvria scribbled a couple of lines, put her broken shoe on the bench, and secured the parchment to it with a long rawhide lace. 'There. That should be all right. If he can't read Videssian, he ought to know someone who can. I hope he's well.'
A donkey went by outside. Its hooves made little wet sucking noises as it lifted them from the mud one after another. It let out a braying squeal of discontent at being ridden in such dreadful conditions. 'Ahh, quit your bellyaching,' growled the man on its back, who was plainly used to its complaints. The donkey brayed again as it squelched past the cobbler's shop.
But for the donkey, everything was still save far off in the distance, where a dog barked. Olyvria took a small step toward the door. 'I suppose I should get back,' she said.
'Wait,' Phostis said.
She raised a questioning eyebrow. He put his arms around her and bent his face down to hers. Before their lips touched, she pulled back a little and whispered, 'Are you sure?' In the murky light, the pupils of her eyes were enormous.
He wondered how she meant that, but it could have only one answer. 'Yes, I'm sure.'
'Well, then.' Now she moved forward to kiss him.
She hesitated once more, just for a heartbeat, when his hand closed on the firm softness of her breast. But then she molded herself against him. They sank down to the rammed-earth floor of the cobbler's shop together, fumbling at each other's garments.
It was the usual clumsy first time, made more frantic than usual by fear that someone—most likely the cobbler—would walk through the door at the most inopportune moment possible. 'Hurry!' Olyvria gasped.
Phostis did his best to oblige. Afterward, because he'd rushed so, he wasn't sure he'd fully satisfied her. At the time, he didn't worry about it. His mouth slid from hers to her breasts and down the rounded slope of her belly. Her hand was urgent on him. She lay on her rumpled dress. A fold of it got distractingly between them when he scrambled above her. He leaned on one elbow to yank it out of the way. He kissed her again as he slid inside.
When he was through, he sat back on his haunches, enormously pleased with the entire world. Olyvria hissed, 'Get dressed, you lackwit,' which brought him back to himself in a hurry. They both dressed quickly, then spent another minute or so dusting off each other's clothes. Olyvria stirred the dirt of the floor around with her foot to cover up the marks they'd left. She looked Phostis over. 'Your elbow's dirty.' She licked a fingertip with a catlike dab of her tongue and rubbed it clean.
He held the door for her. They both almost bounded out of the cobbler's shop. Once out on the street again, Phostis said, 'Now what?'
'I just don't know,' Olyvria answered after a small pause. 'I have to think.' Her voice was quiet, almost toneless, as if she'd left behind all her exuberance, all her mischief, with the broken shoe. 'I didn't—quite—expect to do that.'
Phostis hadn't seen her at a loss before; he didn't know what to make of it. 'I didn't expect to, either.' He knew his grin was foolish, but he couldn't help it 'I'm glad we did, though.'
She glared at him. 'Of course you are. Men always are.' Then she softened, a little, and let her hand rest on his arm for a moment. 'I'm not angry, not really. We have to see what happens later, that's all.'
Phostis knew what he would like to have happen later, but also had a good notion that mentioning it straight out would make it less likely. Instead, he spoke obliquely. 'The flesh is hard to ignore.'
'Isn't it?' Olyvria glanced back at the cobbler's shop. 'If we ... well, if we do that again, we'll have to find a better place for it. My heart was in my mouth every second.'
'Yes, I know. Mine, too.' But they'd joined anyhow. Like Olyvria, Phostis saw he was going to have to do some hard thinking about that. By every Thanasiot standard, they'd just committed a good-sized sin. He didn't feel sinful, though. He felt relaxed and happy and ready to tackle anything the world threw at him.
Olyvria might have plucked that thought right out of his brain. She said, 'You don't have to worry if you're with child till the moon spins through its phases.'
That sobered him. He didn't have to worry about conceiving, not directly, but if Olyvria's belly started to swell, what would Livanios do? He might force a marriage on them, if that fit into his own schemes. But if it didn't... He might act like any outraged father, and beat Phostis within an inch of his life or even kill him. Or he might give him over to the clergy. The priests of the Thanasioi took a very dim view of carnal pleasures. Their punishments might make him wish Livanios had personally attended to the matter—and, to add humiliation to anguish, would have the vociferous approval of most of the townsfolk.
'Whatever happens, I'll take care of you,' he said at last.
'How do you propose to manage that?' she asked with a woman's bitter practicality. 'You can't even take care of yourself.'
Phostis flinched. He knew she spoke the truth, but having his nose rubbed in it stung. As the Avtokrator's son, he'd never really had to worry about taking care of himself. He was taken care of, simply by virtue—or fault—of his birth. Here in Etchmiadzin, he was also taken care of: as a prisoner. The amount of freedom he'd lost was smaller than it seemed at first glance.
At Krispos' insistence, he'd studied logic. He saw only one possible conclusion. 'I'll have to get out. If you like, I'll take you with me.'
