maybe he's decided to have them make land at Tavas or Nakoleia after all.'
'Livanios' Makuraner mage should have been able to divine where they'd put in,' Phostis said.
'Naah.' Syagrios made a slashing gesture of contempt with his hand. 'Livanios took him on because his sorcery fuddles Videssian wizards, but it works the other way round, too, worse luck—some days he's lucky to find his way out of bed, that one is.' He paused to give Phostis a meditative stare. 'How did you know he's from Makuran?'
'By his accent,' Phostis answered, as innocently as he could. 'And when I recognized that, I remembered I'd seen Makuraner envoys at court who wore caftans like his.'
'Oh. All right.' Syagrios relaxed. Phostis breathed easier, too; if he'd let Artapan's name fall from his lips, he'd have thrown himself straight into the soup pot.
The sentries lounging in front of the gates of Pityos were Thanasioi, longer on ferocity than discipline. When Syagrios greeted them in the name of the gleaming path, grins creased their grim faces in unexpected directions. They waved him and his companions into the city.
Pityos was smaller than Nakoleia; as Phostis had thought Nakoleia little better than a village, he'd expected to feel cramped in Pityos as well. But after some months in Etchmiadzin, much of that time mewed up inside the fortress, he found Pityos spacious enough to suit him.
Syagrios rented an upstairs room in a tavern near the harbor so he could keep lookout and spy imperial ships before they started spewing out their men. Olyvria stayed quiet all through the spirited haggle that got the room; Phostis couldn't tell whether the taverner thought her a beardless youth or knew she was a woman but didn't care.
The chamber got crowded when a potboy fetched in a third straw pallet, but remained roomier than Phostis' cubicle had been with him there by himself. He unslung his bedroll and, with a sigh of relief, let it fall to the mattress he'd chosen.
Syagrios leaned out the window to examine the harbor at close range. He shook his head. 'Bugger me with a pinecone if I know where they are. They ought to be here, unless I miss my guess altogether.' By a slight swagger, he managed to indicate how unlikely that was.
Olyvria picked up the chamber pot, which had been shoved into a corner when the new set of bedding arrived. She looked down into it, made a face, then walked over to the window as if to throw its contents out onto the street—and any unwary passersby below. Instead, when she came up behind Syagrios, she raised the chamber pot high and smashed it over his head.
The pot was of heavy earthenware; no doubt she'd hoped he would sag silently and easily into unconsciousness. But Syagrios was made of stern stuff. He staggered and groaned out, blood running down his face, turned shakily on Olyvria.
Phostis felt his heart beat—once, twice—while he gaped dumbfounded on what she'd done. Then he unfroze. He grabbed Syagrios by the shoulder and hit the ruffian in the face as hard as he could with his left fist. Syagrios lurched backward. He tried to bring up his hands to protect himself or even to grapple with Phostis, but he moved as if in the slowness of a dream. Phostis hit him again, and again. His eyes rolled up in his head; he collapsed to the floor.
Olyvria seized the knife on his belt and held it above his neck. Phostis grabbed her wrist. 'Have you gone mad?' she cried.
'No. We'll take his weapons and we'll tie him up,' he answered. 'But I owe him enough for this—' He touched his healing shoulder. '—that I don't care to slit his throat.'
She made a face but didn't argue, instead turning the dagger on the linen mattress covers to cut strips of cloth for bonds. Syagrios grunted and stirred when Phostis rolled him over to tie his hands behind his back. Phostis hit him again, and also tied cloth strips over his mouth for a gag. Then he tied the ruffian's ankles together as tightly as he could.
'Give me the dagger,' he said suddenly.
Olyvria pressed it into his hand. 'Change your mind?'
'No.' Phostis slit the money pouch Syagrios wore on his belt. Half a dozen goldpieces and a handful of silver spilled out. He scooped up the coins and stuffed them into his own belt pouch. 'Now let's get out of here.'
'All right,' Olyvria said. 'Whatever you intend to do, you'd best be quick about it. The good god only knows how long he'll lie quiet there, and he won't be pleased with us for what we've done.'
That, Phostis was sure, was an understatement. 'Come on,' he said. They hurried out of the chamber. When they came down into the all-but-deserted taproom, the taverner raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. Phostis walked over to him, took out a goldpiece, and set it on the bar. 'You didn't see us come out. You were in the back room. You've never seen us.'
The taverner's hand covered the coin. 'Did somebody say something?' he asked, looking past Phostis. 'This place is so empty, I'm starting to hear phantoms.'
'I hope it's enough,' Phostis said as he and Olyvria walked rapidly down to the harbor.
'So do I,' Olyvria said. 'Best if we don't have to find out. I hope you have something along those lines in mind.'
'I do.' Phostis took deep, happy gulps of seaside air. The salt tang and the aroma of stale fish reminded him at a level almost below consciousness of the way things smelled around the palaces. For the first time in months, he felt at home.
A fisherman leapt from the little boat he'd just tied to a pier. His catch was similarly minimal, a couple of buckets of mackerel and other, less interesting, fare. 'Good day,' Phostis called to him.
The fisherman was closer to sixty than fifty, and looked deathly tired. 'Maybe you think so,' he said. 'It is a day. It is done. It is enough.'
Phostis said, 'I will give you two goldpieces for that boat, and another to forget you ever sold it to me.' The boat could not have been worth more than a goldpiece and a half. Phostis didn't care. He had the money and he needed to be out of Pityos as fast as he could. He pressed ahead: 'Does that make it a better day, if not a good
