'It's all right, Soranos,' Phostis answered. 'I don't think Father will mind.'
He wasn't in the least put out that Soranos hadn't recognized him. He was grimy, shaggy, wearing a cheap, ragged long tunic, and sunburned. In fact, he was sunburned in some tender spots under the tunic, too, thanks to frolicking with
Olyvria in broad, hot daylight. She was also sunburned; they'd shared misery and fish on the way back to the city.
The servitor put hands on hips. 'Oh, your father won't mind, eh? And who, pray, is your father? Do you know yourself?'
Phostis had been wondering the same thing, but didn't let on. He said, 'My father is Krispos son of Phostis, Avtokrator of the Videssians. I have, you will notice if you look closely, escaped from the Thanasioi.'
Soranos started to give back another sharp answer, but paused and took a long look at Phostis. He was too swarthy to turn pale, but his jaw fell, his eyes widened, and his right hand, seemingly of its own accord, shaped the sun-circle above his heart. He prostrated himself, gabbling 'Young Majesty, it is yourself—I mean, you are yourself! A thousand pardons, I pray, I beg! Phos be praised that he has granted you safe voyage home and blessed you with liberty once again.'
Beside Phostis, Olyvria snickered. He shook his head reproachfully, then told the servitor, 'Get up, get up. I forgive you. Now tell me at once what's going on, why I saw so much smoke in the sky as I was sailing down the Cattle-Crossing.'
'The heretics have rioted again, young Majesty; they're trying to burn the city down around our heads,' Soranos answered as he rose.
'I feared that's what it was. Take me to my father at once, then.'
Soranos' face assumed the exaggerated mask of regret any sensible servant donned when saying no to a member of the imperial family. 'Young Majesty, I cannot. He has left the city to campaign against the Thanasioi.'
'Yes, of course he has,' Phostis said, annoyed at himself. Had the imperial army not been on the move, he wouldn't have been sent to Pityos—or escaped. 'Who is in command here in the city, then?'
'The young Majesty Evripos, your brother.'
'Oh.' Phostis bit down on that like a man finding a pebble in his lentil stew. From Krispos' point of view, the appointment made sense, especially with Phostis himself absent. But he could not imagine anyone who would be less delighted than Evripos at his sudden arrival. No help for it, though. 'You'd best take me to him.'
'Certainly, young Majesty. But would you and your, ah, companion—' Olyvria had her hair up under her hat and was in her baggy, mannish outfit, so Soranos could not be sure if she was woman or youth. '—not care first to refresh yourselves and change into, ah, more suitable garments?'
'No.' Phostis made the single word as imperious—and imperial—as he could; not till it had passed his lips did he realize he'd taken his tone from Krispos.
Whatever its source, it worked wonders. Soranos said, 'Of course, young Majesty. Follow me, if you would be so kind.'
Phostis followed. No one came close to him, Olyvria, and Soranos as they walked through the palace compound. People who saw them at a distance no doubt thought Soranos was escorting a couple of day laborers to some job or other.
To Phostis, the palace compound was simply home. He took no special notice of the lawns and gardens and buildings among which he strode. To Olyvria, though, they all seemed new and marvelous. Watching her try to look every which way at once, seeing her awe at the Grand Courtroom, the cherry orchard that screened the imperial residence, and the Hall of the Nineteen Couches made him view them with fresh eyes, too.
Evripos was not conducting his fight against the rioters from the palaces. He'd set up a headquarters in the plaza of Palamas. People—some soldiers, some not—hurried in and out with news, orders, what-have-you. A big Haloga gave Phostis a first-rate dubious stare. 'What you want here?' he asked in accented Videssian.
'I'd like to see my brother, Herwig,' Phostis answered.
Herwig glowered at him, wondering who his brother might be—and who he was himself, to presume to address an imperial guardsman by name. Then the glower faded to wonderment. 'Young Majesty!' the Haloga boomed, loud enough to cause heads to turn in the makeshift pavilion.
Among those heads was Evripos'. 'Well, well,' he said when he saw it truly was Phostis. 'Look what the dog dragged to the doorstep.'
'Hello, brother,' Phostis said, more cautiously than he'd expected. In the bit more than half a year since he'd set eyes on his younger brother, Evripos had gone from youth to man. His features were sharper than they had been, his beard thicker and not so soft. He wore a man's expression, too, under a coat of
smoke and dirt: tired, harassed, but determined to do what he'd set out to do.
Now he gave Phostis a hostile stare. It wasn't the stare Phostis was used to. the one that came because he was older. It was because he might be an enemy. Evripos barked, 'Did the cursed Thanasioi send you here to stir up more trouble?'
'If they had, would I have tied up the fishing boat I sailed here over at Father's quay?' Phostis said. 'Would I have come looking for you instead of Digenis?'
'Digenis is dead, and we don't miss him a bit,' Evripos said, voice still harsh. 'And who knows what you'd do? One of the things I know about the bloody heretics is that they're bloody sneaky. For all I know, you could have that doxy there by you just to fool me into thinking you're not off the pleasures of the flesh.'
Unlike Soranos, Evripos knew a girl when he saw one, no matter what she wore. Phostis said, 'Brother, I present to you Olyvria the daughter of Livanios, who helped me escape from the Thanasioi and rejects them as much as I do, which is to say altogether.'
That succeeded in startling Evripos. Then Olyvria startled Phostis: She prostrated herself before his brother, murmuring, 'Your Majesty.' She probably should have said
