discuss these matters, then.' He looked Krispos full in the face. His large, dark eyes were limpid, innocent, trusting as a child. They reminded Krispos of the eyes of Ibas, the horse trader who doctored the teeth of the beasts he sold.
Chihor-Vshnasp dickered like a horse trader, too. That made life difficult for Krispos, who wanted to abandon Petronas' war on Makuran; because of what he'd known growing up on both sides of the northern frontier and because of the unknown quantity Harvas Black-Robe's mercenaries represented, he thought the danger there more pressing than the one in the west.
But Krispos also feared just walking away from Petronas' war. Some disgruntled general would surely rise in rebellion if he tried. The high officers in the Videssian army had all resworn their oaths to Anthimos after Petronas fell, but if one rose, Krispos wondered whether the rest would resist him or join his re-volt. He did not want to have to find out.
And so, remembering how Iakovitzes had gone round and round with Lexo the Khatrisher, he sparred with Chihor-Vshnasp. At last they settled. Videssos kept the small towns of Artaz and Hanzith, and the valley in which they lay. Vaspurakaners from the regions round the other towns Petronas had taken were to be allowed to move freely into Videssian territory, but Makuran would reoccupy those areas.
After Krispos swore by Phos and Chihor-Vshnasp by his people's Four Prophets to present to their sovereigns the terms on which they'd agreed, the Makuraner smiled a slightly triumphant smile and said, 'Few from Fis and Thelaw and Bardaa will go over to you, you know. We saw that in the fighting last year—they loathe Videssos more for being heretic than Makuran for being heathen, and so did little to aid you.'
'I know. I read the dispatches, too,' Krispos said calmly.
Chihor-Vshnasp pursed his lips. 'Interesting. You bargained long and hard for the sake of a concession you admit to be meaningless.'
'It isn't meaningless,' Krispos said, 'not when I can present it to his Majesty and the court as a victory.'
'So.' Chihor-Vshnasp hissed again. 'I have word, then, to take to his puissant Majesty Nakhorgan, King of Kings, pious, beneficent, to whom the God and his Prophets Four have granted many years and wide domains: that his brother in might Anthimos remains ably served by his advisors, even if the names change.'
'You flatter me.' Krispos tried not to show the pleasure he felt.
'Of course I do.' Chihor-Vshnasp was in his mid-forties, not his late twenties. The look he gave Krispos was another act of flattery, for it seemed to imply that the two of them were equal in experience. Then he smiled. 'That you notice says I have good reason to.'
Krispos bowed in his chair toward the Makuraner envoy. He lifted his cup of wine. 'Shall we drink to our success?'
Chihor-Vshnasp raised his cup, too. 'By all means.'
'By the good god!' Mavros exclaimed, staring wide-eyed at a troupe of young, comely acrobats who formed a pyramid with some most unconventional joinings. 'I've never seen anything like
'His Majesty's revels are like no others,' Krispos agreed. He'd invited his foster brother to the feast—Mavros was part of Anthimos' household these days. All of Petronas' men, all of Petronas' vast properties were forfeit to the Avtokrator when the Sevastokrator fell, just as Skombros' had been before. Anthimos had his own head groom, but Mavros' new post as that man's aide carried no small weight of responsibility.
And now, without warning, his eyes lit with a gleam Krispos had seen there before, but never so brightly. He turned and hurried off. 'Where are you going?' Krispos called after him. He did not answer, but disappeared into the night. Krispos wondered if watching the acrobats had stirred him so much he had to go find some companionship. If that was what Mavros wanted, Krispos thought, he was foolish to leave. The women right here were more attractive than any he was likely to find elsewhere in the city—and Anthimos did not bid any likely to say no to come to his feasts. Krispos shrugged. He knew he didn't think things through all the time, however hard he tried. No reason Mavros should, either.
A man came out with a pandoura, struck a ringing chord, and began to sing a bawdy wedding song. Another fellow accompanied him with a set of pipes. The loud, cheerful music worked the same magic in the palace complex as in any peasant village throughout the Empire. It pulled people off couches and away from plates piled high with sea urchins and tuna, asparagus and cakes. It made them want to dance. As at any village wedding throughout the Empire, they formed rings and capered round and round, drowning out the singer as they roared along with his song.
The Halogai might have shouted outside. If they did, no one ever heard them. The first Krispos knew of Mavros' return was when a woman facing the entrance screamed. Others, some men among them, screamed, to. Pandoura and pipes played on for another few notes, then raggedly fell silent.
'Hello, your Majesty,' Mavros said, spotting Anthimos in one of the suddenly halted rings. 'I thought it was a shame for your friend here to be missing all the fun.' He clucked to the horse he was riding—one of Anthimos' favorites—and touched its flanks with his heels. Hooves clattering on the smooth stone floor, the horse advanced through the revelers toward the tables piled high with food.
'Don't just stand there, Krispos,' Mavros called. 'Feed this good fellow a strawberry or six.'
Krispos felt like throwing something at Mavros for involving him in this mad jape. Reluctantly he stepped toward the tables. Refusing, he thought, would only look worse. He picked up the bowl of strawberries. Amid vast silence, the snuffling of the horse as it ate was the only sound.
Then Anthimos laughed. All at once, everyone else was laughing, too: whatever the Emperor thought funny could not be an outrage. 'Why didn't you bring a mare in season?' Anthimos called. 'Then he could share all the pleasures we do.'
'Maybe next time, your Majesty,' Mavros said, his face perfectly straight.
'Yes, well, all right,' Anthimos said. 'Pity there's no entertainment that really could amuse him.'
'Oh, I wouldn't say that, your Majesty,' Mavros answered blithely. 'After all, he has us to watch—and if we aren't funny, what is?'
Anthimos laughed again. As far as he was concerned, Mavros' headlong style of wit was a great success. Thinking about it, though, Krispos wondered if his foster brother hadn't been telling the exact and literal truth.
