He cheered up when a rider did come from out of the west. The fellow wore the full panoply of a Makuraner boiler boy; either he'd worried about running into Tegin's men or about running into Maniakes'. His armor clattered about him as he prostrated himself before the Avtokrator of the Videssians.
«Majesty,» he said, rising with noisy grace, «know that the forces led by Abivard the new sun of Makuran have encountered those foolishly loyal to Sharbaraz Pimp of Pimps in the Land of the Thousand Cities. Know further that Abivard's forces have the victory.»
«Good news!» Maniakes exclaimed. «I'm always glad to hear good news.»
The messenger nodded. His chain-mail veil rattled. Above that veil, all Maniakes could see of the man himself were his eyes. They snapped with excitement. «We have Sharbaraz on the run now, Majesty,» he said. «A good part of his army came over to ours, which made him flee back to Mashiz.»
«That's better than good news,» Maniakes said. «Press hard and he's yours. Once his forces start crumbling, they'll go like mud brick in the rain.»
«Even so, or so we hope,» the messenger said. «When I was detached to come east to you, the field force was making ready to follow Sharbaraz's fugitives to the capital.»
«Press hard,» Maniakes repeated. «If you don't, you give Sharbaraz a chance to recover.» From behind the messenger's veil came an unmistakable chuckle. «What's funny?» the Avtokrator asked. «Majesty, you speak my language well,» the messenger answered. Maniakes knew he was politely stretching a point, but let him do it. The fellow went on, «No one, though, would ever take you for a Makuraner, not by the way you say the name of the man Abivard will overthrow.»
Maniakes proved his command of the Makuraner tongue left something to be desired by needing a moment to sort through that and figure out what the messenger meant. «Did I say Sarbaraz again?» he demanded, and the man nodded. Maniakes snapped his fingers in chagrin. «Oh, a pestilence! I've spent a lot of time learning how to pronounce that strange sound you use. His name is… is… Sarbaraz.» He started to raise a hand in triumph, then realized he'd failed again. Really angry now, he concentrated hard. «Sar… Sar… Sharbaraz! There.»
«Well done!» the messenger said. «Most of you hissing, squeaking Videssians never do manage to get that one right, try as you will.»
«You can tell a Makuraner by the way he speaks Videssian, too,» Maniakes said, to which the messenger nodded. Maniakes went on, «You haven't—or Abivard hasn't—by any chance got word of where Tzikas is lurking these days?»
«The traitor? No, indeed, Majesty. I wish I did know, though I'd tell Abivard before I told you. He's offering a good-sized reward for word of him and a bigger one for his head.» «So am I,» Maniakes said.
«Are you?» The Makuraner's eyes widened. «How much?» His people claimed to scorn Videssians as a race of merchants and shopkeepers. Maniakes' experience was that the men of Makuran were no more immune to the lure of gold and silver than anyone else. And when Maniakes told him how much he might earn for finding Tzikas, he whistled softly. «If I hear anything, I'll tell you and not Abivard.»
«Tell whichever of us has the best chance of catching the renegade,» Maniakes said. «If he is caught thanks to you, get word to me and I'll make good the difference between Abivard's reward and mine, I promise. Tell all your friends, too, and tell them to tell their friends.»
«I'll do that,» the messenger promised.
«Good,» Maniakes said. «If I had to guess, I'd say he's somewhere not far from here, but I know that could be wildly wrong.» He explained what he'd learned from Vetranios and Phosteinos.
«He is more likely to be here than he is in the Land of the Thousand Cities or in Mashiz, I think,» the messenger said. «Here, at least, he can open his mouth without betraying himself every time he does it.»
«When Tzikas opens his mouth, he betrays other people, not himself,» Maniakes said, which made the messenger laugh. «You think I'm joking,» the Avtokrator told him. He was, but only to a degree. And the Makuraner's comments made him thoughtful. If Tzikas wanted to disappear in the westlands, he could. Maniakes had found it impossible to imagine a Tzikas who wanted to disappear. He admitted to himself he might have been wrong.
He gave the messenger a goldpiece, warned him about Tegin's small force of men still loyal to Sharbaraz, and sent him back to Abivard with congratulations. That done, he went outside the city governor's residence instead of getting on to the next order of business in Serrhes.
Everything looked normal. A few peasants from the surrounding countryside were selling sheep and pigs and ducks. Some other peasants, having made their sales, were buying pots and hatchets and other things they couldn't get on their farms. One of them was showing a harlot some money. The two went off together. If the peasant's wife ever found out about that, Maniakes could think of at least one thing the fellow wasn't likely to get on the farm.
So many people: tall, short, bald, hairy, young, old. And, if Tzikas had decided to disappear instead of trying to get his revenge, he might have been about one out of three of the men. The thought was disquieting, freighted as it was with a heavy burden of anticlimax.
Maniakes had needed to hold off the Kubratoi and Makuraners. He'd done that. He'd needed to find a way to get the Makuraners out of the westlands. Thanks to some unwitting help from Sharbaraz, he'd done that, too. And now, either Abivard would beat Sharbaraz or the other way round in the Makuraner civil war he'd helped create. Whichever happened, he'd know, and handle what came next accordingly.
Sharp, decisive answers—like anyone, he was fond of those. He already had ambiguity in his life: he'd never found out, and doubted he ever would find out, what had happened to his brother Tatoules. He knew what was most likely to have happened to him, but that wasn't the same.
Getting rid of Tzikas would be a sharp, decisive answer. Even knowing what had happened to Tzikas, regardless of whether he'd had anything to do with it, would be a sharp, decisive answer. Never learning for certain whether Tzikas was alive or dead, or where he was or what he was doing if he was alive… Maniakes didn't care for that notion at all.
He understood only too well how dangerous ambiguity could be when connected to Tzikas. He might be riding down a street in Videssos the city ten years from now, having seen or heard nothing of the renegade in all that time, having nearly forgotten him, only to be pierced by an arrow from a patient enemy who had not forgotten him. Or he might spend those ten years worrying about Tzikas every day when the wretch was long since dead.
«No way to know,» he muttered. A writer of romances would not have approved. Everything in romances always came out neat and tidy. Avtokrators in romances were never foolish—unless they were wicked rulers being overthrown by someone who would do the job right. Maniakes snorted. He'd done exactly that, but, somehow, it hadn't kept him from remaining a human being.
«No matter how much I want the son of a whore dead, I may never live to see it.» That was another matter, and made him as discontented as the first. If Tzikas chose obscurity, he could cheat the headsman. Would obscurity be punishment enough? It might have to be, no matter how little Maniakes cared for the notion.
He kicked at the dirt, angry at himself and Tzikas both. This should have been the greatest triumph of his career, the greatest triumph any Avtokrator had enjoyed since the civil wars the Empire had suffered a century and a half before cost it most of its eastern provinces. Instead of being able to enjoy the triumph, he was still spending far too much of his time and energy fretting over the loose end Tzikas had become.
He knew one certain cure for that. As fast as he could, he went back to the city governor's residence. «The Empress, your Majesty?» a servant said. «I believe she's upstairs in the sewing room.»
Lysia wasn't sewing when Maniakes got up there. She and some of the serving women of the household were spinning flax into thread and, by the laughter that came from the sewing room as Maniakes walked down the hall toward it, using the work as an excuse for chat and gossip.
«Is something wrong?» Lysia asked when she saw him. She set the spindle down on the projecting shelf of her belly. The serving women exclaimed in alarm: he wasn't supposed to be there at this time of day.
«No,» he answered, which was on the whole true, his worries notwithstanding. He amplified that: «And even if it were, I know how to make it better.»
He walked over to her and helped her rise from the stool on which she sat: the baby wouldn't wait much longer. Then, standing slightly to one side of her so he wouldn't have to lean so far over that great belly, he did a careful and thorough job of kissing her.
A couple of the serving women giggled. Several more murmured back and forth to one another. He noticed
