'Thought so,' Petronas repeated. 'Bring him along one of these times when we're at a function together, if you could. I'd like to meet him. Besides which—' The Sevastokrator's smile was cynical, '—his mother's rich enough that I don't want to get her annoyed with me, and chatting him up can only help me with her.'
Petronas went off to greet other guests. Iakovitzes' gaze followed him. 'He doesn't miss much,' the noble mused, more to himself than to Krispos. 'I wonder which of my people told him about Mavros.' Whoever it was, Krispos did not envy him if his master found him out.
Still muttering to himself, Iakovitzes headed for the wine. He plucked a silver goblet from the bed of hoarded snow in which it rested, drained it and reached for another. Krispos took a goblet, too. He sipped from it as he walked over to a table piled high with appetizers. A couple of slices of boiled eggplant and some pickled anchovies took the edge off his appetite. He was careful not to eat too much; he wanted to be able to do justice to the supper that lay ahead.
'Your moderation does you credit, young man,' someone said from behind him when he left the hors d'oeuvres after only a brief stay.
'Your pardon?' Krispos turned, swiftly added, 'Holy sir. Most holy sir,' he amended; the priest—or rather prelate—who'd spoken to him wore shimmering cloth-of-gold with Phos' sun picked out in blue silk on his left breast.
'Nothing, really,' the ecclesiastic said. His sharp, foxy features reminded Krispos of Petronas', though they were less stern and heavy than the Sevastokrator's. He went on, 'It's just that at an event like this, where gluttony is the rule, seeing anyone eschew it is a cause for wonderment and celebration.'
Hoping he'd guessed right about what 'eschew' meant, Krispos answered, 'All I planned was to be a glutton a little later.' He explained why he'd gone easy on the appetizers.
'Oh, dear.' The prelate threw back his head and laughed. 'Well, young sir, I appreciate your candor. That, believe me, is even rarer at these events than moderation. I don't believe I've seen you before?' He paused expectantly.
'My name is Krispos, most holy sir. I'm one of Iakovitzes' grooms.'
'Pleased to meet you, Krispos. Since I see my blue boots haven't given me away, let me introduce myself, as well: I'm called Gnatios.'
Just as only the Avtokrator wore all-red boots, only one priest had the privilege of wearing all-blue ones. Krispos realized with a start that he'd been making small talk with the ecumenical patriarch of the Empire of Videssos. 'M-most holy sir,' he stammered, bowing. Even as he bent his head, though, he felt a rush of pride—if only the villagers could see him now!
'No formality needed, not when I'm here to enjoy the good food, too,' Gnatios said with an easy smile. Then those foxy features suddenly grew very sharp indeed. 'Krispos? I've heard your name before after all, I think. Something to do with the abbot Pyrrhos, wasn't it?'
'The abbot was kind enough to find me my place with Iakovitzes, yes, most holy sir,' Krispos said.
'That's all?' Gnatios persisted.
'What else could there be?' Krispos knew perfectly well what else; if Gnatios didn't, he was not about to reveal it for him.
'Who knows what else?' The patriarch's chuckle was thin. 'Where Pyrrhos is involved, any sort of superstitious excess becomes not only possible but credible. Well, never mind, young man. Just because something is credible, that doesn't necessarily make it true. Not necessarily. A pleasant evening to you.'
Gnatios' shaven skull gleamed in the torchlight like one of the gilded domes atop Phos' temple as he went on his way. Krispos took the rest of the wine in his cup at a gulp, then went over to the great basin of snow for another one. He was sweating in spite of the wine's chill. The patriarch, by the nature of his office, was the Avtokrator's man. Had he boasted to Gnatios instead of sensibly keeping his mouth shut... He wondered if he would even have got back to Iakovitzes' house safe and sound.
Little by little, the wine helped calm Krispos. Gnatios didn't seem to have taken seriously whatever tales he'd heard. Then a servant appeared at Krispos' elbow. 'Are you Iakovitzes' groom?' he asked.
Krispos' heart jumped into his mouth. 'Yes,' he answered, readying himself to knock the man down and flee.
'Could you join your master, please?' the fellow said. 'We'll be seating folk for dinner soon, and the two of you will be together.'
'Oh. Of course.' Krispos felt like giggling with relief as he scanned the Hall of the Nineteen Couches for Iakovitzes. He wished the noble were taller; he was hard to spot. Even though he had trouble seeing Iakovitzes, he soon heard him arguing with someone or other. He made his way over to him.
Servants carried away the tables of appetizers. Others brought out dining tables and chairs. Despite guests getting in their way, they moved with practiced efficiency. Faster than Krispos would have thought possible, the hall was ready and the servants began guiding diners to their seats.
'This way, excellent sir, if you please,' a servitor murmured to Iakovitzes. He had to repeat himself several times; Iakovitzes was driving home a rhetorical point by jabbing a forefinger into the chest of a man who had been rash enough to disagree with him. The noble finally let himself listen. He and Krispos followed the servant, who said, 'You have the honor of sitting at the Sevastokrator's table.'
To Krispos, that said how much Petronas thought of the job Iakovitzes had done at Opsikion. Iakovitzes merely grunted, 'I've had it before.' His eyebrows rose as he neared the head table. 'And up till now, I've never had to share it with barbarians, either.'
Four Kubratoi, looking outlandish indeed in their shaggy furs, were already at the table. They'd quickly emptied one pitcher of wine and were shouting for another. The servant said, 'They are an embassy from the new khagan Malomir and have ambassadors' privileges.'
'Bah,' was Iakovitzes' reply to that. 'The one in the middle there, the big bruiser, you mean to tell me he's an ambassador? He looks more like a hired killer.' Krispos had already noticed the man Iakovitzes meant. With his scarred, sullen face, wide shoulders, and enormous hands, he certainly resembled no diplomat Krispos had seen or imagined.
The servant answered, 'As a properly accredited member of the party from Kubrat, he cannot be excluded
